The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel by Lorna Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

many twosomes, they enjoyed a remarkable knack for maintaining equilibrium. When one despaired, say, over being dead, the other extolled the silver lining of not having to put up with telemarketers. And when the other grew angry about street noise, for instance, the first might gently remind about the pleasures afforded by being able to stroll a museum.
    They came up with a system of rituals and boundaries. Donald never eavesdropped on Eve’s telephone conversations; she picked up a tattered book of his early essays at the Strand. He stifled complaint when she pulled out the odd mystery; she agreed to take dictation of his unfinished works. They were something like an old married couple, without the fights over sex and money.
    There were, however, a couple of problems with their arrangement. Anything she wanted to keep private, Eve could think about only when she was out of the apartment. When she found herself unable to stop mulling something delicate while at home, she’d pick up a book or magazine and read it aloud, silencing herinner monologue. Living this way was a bit like keeping two overlarge pancakes separated on a grill, and it didn’t always work. The whole situation would have exhausted her utterly except that Donald spent so much time “away.” Perhaps he slept or perhaps he traveled, but either way he was “gone” much of the time.
    Another snag was that Eve could never invite anyone over. Not that she’d had occasion to yet. But her dearest wish was to have a gang of New York friends, like her mother had. And when she finally did, well, she could hardly host a cocktail party or dinner. If she explained about Donald, her guests would think she was crazy. If they actually “met” him, they’d call the police or an exorcist or something. As long as she lived in this apartment, Eve knew, she would be in some sense isolated from the city she had come so far to be part of. But until she had a good bit more money saved up, she wouldn’t be able to move out.
    “What is that?!”
Donald yelled suddenly. Startled, Eve almost fell off her bar stool. Her drink swirled dangerously close to the edge of the glass.
    “What’s what?” she asked, her heart beating fast.
    “The thing you’ve brought into this apartment.”
    For a moment, Eve had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered. “You mean the puppy?” She looked around but the dog was hiding.
    “ ‘You mean the puppy?’ ” Donald repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “I mean whatever thing it is that’s introduced another set of—albeit rudimentary—brainwaves to this space. They’ve completely thrown me off. I’ve had a killer time getting through.”
    “I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d present a problem.” Eve explained about the hockey boys and their untimely exit. “She needs a home. Please don’t be difficult about this.” Donald paused, and Eve thought her bid for sympathy had worked.
    “It’s not enough that I departed the world at a youngage.…” He began what promised to be a classic tirade, which would inevitably include references to rejections from various literary magazines and non-wins of prizes. Several minutes later he concluded, “… but then I opened my home to you as well. And now this.”
    Eve wanted to remind him that it was a real estate broker who’d “opened his home,” and that without her, he’d never finish his stupid stories. But she was feeling generous after her successful afternoon, so she opted for conciliation. “No doubt about it, you’ve faced more than your share of injustices. So why don’t we do a little dictation now? About ‘The Handbag That Swallowed Midtown’ or whatever.”
    “I am not fooled. And I am not mollified. But luckily for you, I am eager to get back to my work.” Donald’s narcissism made him an easy mark for a gambit like this. “We’ll get back to the mutt later. But for now, let me prepare myself and we’ll begin.” Several moments of