The Perfect Ghost Read Online Free

last drops out of him. I’d use the same outdated recorder you used, carry backup batteries, but I’d think of the recorder as a prop rather than a necessity, as a badge of the profession, use it even though I didn’t need it, not with my memory, and I’d behave the way you behaved, relaxed and forthright. You and Malcolm would have gone out on the town, shared a drink, but I didn’t think I could manage that; I’d drop the glass or something. Oh, I wished I could do the interviews by phone. I come across better on the phone. I can talk on the phone. People can’t see me, can’t peer into my eyes.
    I know, I know, you’d say I’m not overly clumsy, maybe you’d say I’m not clumsy at all. You’d say, get a grip. But I have this image of myself and it isn’t the same as the woman reflected in the mirror. The mirror girl has flat gray eyes in a pale oval of a face, an unlined face, almost a child’s face. She’s no great beauty, but her soft brown hair is nice enough, chestnut-colored, really. She’s young and painfully thin, but not unattractive. When I consider myself, in my mind’s eye, it isn’t the mirror-woman I see; I see the waif in Salvation Army cast-offs, the girl with dishwater eyes, lank hair, and bad teeth, the chunky, gawky adolescent. That’s the true me.
    I watched Malcolm’s films late into the night, Teddy. You’ve seen the early action thrillers, the ultra-successful Brooklyn Pierce greats, as often as I have, but the responsibility of painting the small existential comedies, the likes of Still Moon and Rip Tide, for people who haven’t seen them, loomed like a giant hurdle. Then there were the modern noirs, filled with sin and redemption. Most of the people who buy the book will have watched the thrillers, the Academy Award winners, over and over, so making them fresh for Malcolm’s fans will be a massive challenge, too.
    I never imagined I’d get to meet him: Garrett Malcolm, actor, director, producer, screenwriter. I felt like I knew him from his films, his voice, the word-pictures you sent back, and the photographs.
    I recalled the laughter on your tapes and his deep, soft voice. “Director” conjured images of a demagogue who yelled his head off, but Malcolm’s films were different, so why wouldn’t he be different, too? He must have an amazing mind. And what a colorful life; no wonder the publisher paid so well. And I was going to meet him, share the same room with him, sit and talk with him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
    Remember that baggy blue sweater you left here? I stuffed it into the bulging duffel. Since I’d never wear it to an interview, it wouldn’t matter how wrinkled it got. Your scent still clung to its woolly fibers; I could pat it the way that lady patted her fur on the train, like it was a lover, a boon companion. I could wear it to bed. If I felt a panic attack coming on, I could press it to my nose and breathe.

 
     
    CHAPTER
    four
     
    Teddy, just as I was bumping my duffel down the stairs, who should appear, like an unholy spirit haunting the vestibule, but Caroline? I’d padded my timetable for every conceivable delay: tardy cab, Storrow Drive traffic, sudden snow, unexpected detour, but I hadn’t anticipated Caroline. How could I?
    Diva that she is, I’d have pictured her in head-to-toe black, but she wore the kind of jeans that cost hundreds of dollars instead, plus knee-high suede boots and a shearling coat with a hood that framed her face. She carried a brown Bloomingdale’s bag and poked impatiently at the doorbell as I flattened myself against the wall.
    I could have retreated, rushed upstairs, and locked myself in. The cab would wait five minutes, honk a wistful note, and depart. The bus would leave without me; the opportunity would pass me by; life would pass me by. My breath rasped in my throat as I forced myself away from the sheltering wall and thumped the suitcase resolutely down the remainder of the stairs. Caroline