The Ghost in Love by Jonathan Carroll Read Free Book Online

old books that were once wet. Reaching into one of his many bulging pockets, he took out a brown plastic spool that had once held sewing thread but was now empty. Ever so carefully he placed it on the edge of their table and then stood back, crossed his hands in front of him, and waited. The spool was clearly an offering, a gift with strings attached. I give you this and you give me what I need.
    Very coolly, Ben pulled a slice of pizza from their pie and handed it up to the man.
    â€œNo, please, don’t do that! Now he’ll just keep coming back in here!” the cook sputtered, waving the big wooden pizza paddle up and down in his hands in protest.
    The bum took the slice and studied it awhile. German watched with fascination but not a bit of discomfort or dismay. She was intrigued to see how both the tramp and her man would act this one out.
    Holding the food with two hands and standing still, eyes closed now, the tramp began to eat in slow, deliberate bites. The cook was fuming with frustration behind the counter. He wanted to call the police but didn’t want to make a scene. He wanted this smelly creep to leave his place. But now it looked as if the man was going to stay and eat.
    Pizza slice cradled in his knobby hands, the bum moved over to the table where the other couple sat. Stopping nearby, he stared at them as he ate. Ling had trouble suppressing a smile. If this human ruin only knew from whom he was about to beg food . . .
    But, to Ling’s surprise, the angel said in a quiet, sweet voice, “You have to leave now, Mr. Parrish. Take your food and go.”
    That
surprised the bum. On hearing his name pronounced, he squinted distrustfully. He had not been addressed that way for years. And certainly not with a “Mr.” affixed to it. The look in his eyes saidhe recognized the name as something that had once belonged to him but was lost long ago like so much else in his life. He zeroed in on the bald man who was now eating again and watching him.
    Perplexed, Parrish took a chomp of pizza and whined loudly through the mouthful of food, “My feet hurt and my heart is broken!” Tomato sauce oozed off his lip and down the front of his sign. He didn’t notice.
    â€œYes, I understand, but you must leave now, Stewart. Go on, there’s the door.”
    Through the dun-colored, forever-swirling mental clouds of his eleven years’ living-on-the-street madness, Stewart Parrish was ill at ease when anyone spoke kindly, quietly, or in multiple sentences to him. He was accustomed to a few harsh words, grunts, or most commonly a curse. The bald man’s knowing his name and the tender voice disturbed him. Like so much else in Parrish’s splintered life, it made no sense. Through cruel experience he had learned always to beware of things that made no sense.
    Shoving the rest of the pizza into his mouth, he wiped both oily hands on his coat and then, with surprising speed and grace, whipped out a knife he carried hidden in his breast pocket. He had used it often. Back when he was in prison, Parrish had learned how to hone almost anything to a razor’s edge on the concrete floor of his cell. That is what he had done with this treasure. It was the kind of ubiquitous stainless steel bread knife used in school cafeterias, public institutions, and cheap restaurants. However,
this
blade was now sharp enough to cut the air in half.
    God creates mankind, but man creates his own individual madness. Because it is so varied and multihued, different from person to person, it’s often impossible for angels or ghosts or any being fromthe other side to keep track of or decipher. More simply put, the Angel of Death had no premonition of what was coming next.
    German Landis screamed when the tramp pulled out the knife. The angel heard her scream, glanced up, and instinctively ducked just enough as Parrish stabbed him.
    The cook vaulted over the counter. Swinging the wooden paddle with all