Dinner for Two

Dinner for Two

Minnie Ayers certainly didn’t look the part. I'd expected some dark-eyed, mysterious sorceress with flowing robes and long, brightly painted nails. Instead, she was punctual, direct, and dressed in her nine-to-five secretary's dress. As she stepped gingerly about my third-floor flat on Potts Street, she reminded me of Nancy Drew in a mystery novel – aged twenty years and burnished of all the affects of childhood.

“Something happened here,” she said, raising her gaze to the ceiling, beneath which a dark wooden support beam ran horizontally from wall to wall. “Something terrible."

“Does it involve her?” I asked. I knew very little of the ghost haunting my flat, but of one thing I was certain – she was a woman.

“This is the spot where she died. It began just up there,” and she pointed toward a series of scuff marks along the beam, six feet from my flat’s huge, square, mullioned window. Then Minnie lowered her eyes to mine. “She fell off a ladder and struck her head. And it was all because of him.”

Four months later, at six o’clock sharp, there was a knock at my door.

During my tenancy here, I’d learned to recognize three different knocks. First was Mr. Haines, the maintenance man. He came by at least twice a month to fix the finicky fridge in my kitchen. Second was Mr. Allotto, a Chinese immigrant who requested my help in understanding bills or letters that he received in his post. And Mrs. Bothenheimer, a widow who kept getting my own mail. But this was somebody else – someone new. The raps upon the wood were resolute, but they finished with a softer sound that reminded me, quite oddly, of smooth, sensuous velvet. My visitor was female. Surely not Cynthia, since, from what Mrs. Ayers had explained, my ghost could never pass beyond the threshold.

I opened the door, and my jaw dropped.

Emily!

What was she doing here on such a cold Wednesday evening? Outside, snow fell and wind howled through the city streets. Yet she’d managed to arrive here dressed fashionably against the harsh winter weather, complete in her hounds tooth coat, her vividly red scarf and matching cap.

But her normally gentle eyes were severe, a side of her I’d not seen. It rendered me speechless and a little nervous. Surely this wasn’t some kind of Dear John visit?

Oh my God, what about Cynthia?

The realities of my situation came into focus, and fear coursed through me. The sensation was physical. It began in my feet, with an annoying tingle, then climbed through my abdomen and eventually penetrated my chest – much like how a thin column of mercury shoots up a thermometer, until, left unchecked, explodes through the top – my head in this case.

“It’s you,” I said, my voice flat as I struggled to subdue my inner turmoil.

“Yes,” she said, and her eyes widened momentarily in a kind of sarcasm at being greeted thus. She was, after all, the Love of my life, but there was still one important matter of which she was unaware.

She clutched two bags of groceries in her arms. While I stood there, still as a statue, she shifted them in her arms with a crinkling sound. A bunch of celery jutted from one bag, the tip of each stalk adorned with delicate green leaves. A corked bottle of wine, most probably a Chianti – we loved Chianti – poked from the other.

“Some help here?” she said, and I snapped back to the present.

“Oh, excuse me, my Dear! How rude of me!”

I immediately took both bags, pecked her briefly on the lips, and proceeded the ten feet to my kitchen counter. She followed me halfway there, until the door slammed shut behind her, causing us both to jump. I spun around, looking quickly for any signs of trouble. Seeing none, I hurried back and helped Emily off with her winter wraps. I hung them inside the closet nearest the door, in the vain hope that Cynthia wouldn’t notice my visitor if her coat and hat were hidden from view.

“I’m surprised, but so happy to see you,” I said, and I took her into my arms, where we shared a long, warm hug. As we continued our embrace, I glanced about, my gaze shooting to every corner of the common living area of my flat. No signs of trouble. Yet...

“I guess you’re wondering why I took a taxi halfway across town with this stuff,” she said, as I looked on expectantly. “You’ve been working too hard, Martin. Look at how thin and pale you’ve become. Despite what you claim, I know you’re not eating right. So, tonight I’m cooking you a good, hearty dinner. You can reheat the leftovers on the stove for the rest of the week. I presume you have a stove?”

I’d never described the layout of my flat to her, and this was her first time here. I’d avoided this moment for five long months. How clever I’d been, always scheduling our dates in her part of town. Her neighborhood was much livelier and safer than my own – chock full as it was with dive bars and a few second-rate sandwich joints.

During the entirety of our relationship, I’d searched for another flat, trying to get as far away from Cynthia as possible, but nothing ever turned up. I could barely pay the rent here, let alone a nicer place closer to Emily.

Emily skirted around me and stood inside my small kitchen, with its mini three burner stove, sink, and enough counter space for one person to prepare a sandwich. The refrigerator chose that moment to groan to life, its compressor clanking a few times, then buzzing, until finally settling into an uneasy hum that rose and fell slightly in pitch.

“Perfect,” she said, as she began emptying both bags. She was being kind. I’d been honest in describing my economics, and I adored her for loving me despite my limits. This flat was nothing like hers, but she was never one to flaunt her family’s wealth. She handed me the bottle of wine – my cue to find the corkscrew, open it, and pour each of us a glass while she cooked what I knew would be an excellent meal despite my scarcity of pots, pans, and cooking utensils.

While she started on dinner, I worked on pulling the cork, my sense of foreboding palpable. I heard a series of creaks from the main window, but, when I spun toward it, I realized it was just a gust of wind from the storm.

“So, tell me about your day,” I said, to get her talking so I could keep a careful watch on our surroundings. A minute later, a book at one end of a bookshelf began to quietly and smoothly slide forward. I had just pulled the cork with that satisfying pop sound when I caught sight of it. Two seconds later, a paperback tumbled to the floor in a rattle of pages.

Emily turned briefly toward the sound while I rushed to the shelves.

“Oh, books are always falling off this thing! The shelves are old and warped, and books tend to slide off.”

I cringed when I saw its title – Betrayed, A Novel – and placed the book back into its slot on the shelf. Just as I turned back toward the kitchen, I saw that one of the cabinet doors – one directly above Emily’s head – was open.

“So, then I just told Mister Fabersham that if he wanted the waiting room to be repainted, he’d have to hold off on hiring a second assistant to cover the remodeling costs. Do you think that was crass of me, to tell him that?”

Just inside the open cabinet, a small bag of flour began to inch its way off the shelf, threatening to send a half pound of fine white powder down upon Emily.

“Nooo!” I blurted, as I rushed forward and caught the bag just as it teetered and began to tip over.

Emily stopped what she was doing and eyed me curiously. She noted my upwardly extended arm and my grip on the bag of flour.

“I’m glad you agree with me, but, really – do you feel that strongly about it?”

“Oh yes. Yes, Emily, I certainly do. It’s high time that Fabersham recognized your experience and talent, and I’m glad you spoke up as you did!”

She continued to eye me before cutting more vegetables, and I began to turn slowly ‘round in circles, watching like a hawk for the next calamity to commence…

The odd happenings had begun a week after I’d moved into my flat. Cabinet doors were suddenly open when I always shut them. Same with my desk drawers. Next, my radio’s sound volume began to oscillate up and down, over and over, as I listened. I’d wondered if there was some sort of technical difficulty at the broadcast site, but the oscillations ceased when I walked over to the unit to inspect it more closely.

While the initial happenings repeated, new oddities kept piling up – a bite missing from a sandwich that I’d just prepared. My whiskey glass half drained though I’d not yet taken a sip.

One month into my lease, I emerged from a hot, steamy shower to find a large heart drawn in the condensation on my bathroom mirror. When I’d finished dressing and stood at the front door, poised for the trek to work, I announced “that’ll be enough of this nonsense!” Only to have two books immediately tumble from a bookshelf.

The pranks continued unabated, some days more than others, so I began to work longer hours, too nervous to return home and admit I was either hallucinating (and going mad) or that my flat was haunted by some sort of mischievous spirit. Occasionally, I woke up in the middle of the night and sensed someone lying in bed with me. Twice, I smelled the faint scent of rose perfume.

I spent many hours of my free time trying to find another place to live, but it was spring in the city, and every square foot of available flat space had been gobbled up in the competitive rent market. By week five, I was losing weight, since I’d been eating less to avoid finding bites removed from things on my plate.

Then, one night in July, as the open window let in a balmy breeze, I awoke to the sensation of being kissed. On the lips. I was already in love with Emily, and I agonized over whether I should tell her. Was the ghostly kiss a betrayal on my part? The next day, I happened upon a radio show in which several spiritualists were being interviewed. They spoke of trying to contact the souls of deceased loved ones, or being asked to foretell the future, and, on occasion, to help solve a haunting, usually in this or that cavernous old house that a younger family had purchased and claimed was inhabited by spooks. As I listened, I jotted down the name of one of the spiritualists – a Mrs. Minnie Ayers.

Two days later, Minnie arrived at my flat. Beyond knowing how the ghost had died, she told me many other things about her.

“Cynthia was a young woman, jilted long ago by her lover. She was arguing with him as she stood atop a ladder, stringing up Christmas decorations. Just after he told her they were finished and stormed out the door – that’s when she lost her balance…”

A glass of water on the sideboard suddenly tipped over, spilling across the wood and sending thin, glittering threads of water over the edge. I remarked how it looked like so many tears of sadness trailing down.

“You’re in tune with her sadness, Mister Paulson,” she continued. “Did you lose someone close to you?”

I told her briefly of how my own sister had been jilted a week before her wedding. How she’d attempted suicide, and how dreadfully sad it was to know that a young jilted woman had died here, in my own parlor.

“I see,” Minnie went on. “That quite explains her intense emotional attachment to you. And could very well explain the hearts left drawn about your flat, and the sensation of waking at night from being kissed. But there is a darker side to her fondness for you. Jealousy… She… Cynthia... is very jealous. She lost her previous boyfriend, and she now sees you as her last remaining hope at love…”

So I knew I’d have to completely conceal my relationship from Cynthia. It’s why I always rang Emily from a hallway phone, several floors down and out of earshot of anyone in my own flat. And why I’d never invited her here, in full view of Cynthia’s jealous gaze…

We sat at my small dinette table, our plates filled with a delicious smelling beef Stroganoff. Two candles flickered at the center of the table as we clinked our wine glasses and toasted to each other. But as we both drew the wine into our mouths, we immediately spat out the foul-tasting liquid! We had already enjoyed a glass while Emily worked at the stove, but now the wine was horribly bitter. As though it had been spiked with something like, like… quinine. That’s when I spied the open bottle of tonic water standing atop my now-strangely-open liquor cabinet.

As Emily gagged and wiped her mouth, rage surged and poured through me. I jumped up from my chair, threw down my napkin, and shouted, “Cynthia! Damn you! Do you have to ruin my life, because some idiot of a man once ruined yours?”

Emily looked up at me in an expression of utter shock and horror.

“This is all her doing!” I said, as I pointed a trembling finger at the open bottle of tonic water. “She’s been here all along! I knew she’d try to ruin us. She’ll ruin everything!”

Emily stood and reached out, gently taking my one forearm in hand. “Martin, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Why don’t we just sit down and try eating some –”

At that moment, one of the candles rose from the table and moved toward Emily, its flame nearing her face. I swatted it away, cracking the white taper in half, as Emily backed away in fright. She was trembling, visibly.

“Martin, what’s going on here? Th-that candle – it just moved… on its own!”

“Now hear this!” I shouted, as I cupped my hands around my mouth and turned to the left and right. “I’m completely in love with Emily! I plan on asking her to marry me! I’m sorry or what happened to you, Cynthia, but I’m in love with her, not you!”

Then all hell broke loose.

The flying books, the whirling plates that smashed into the walls, the toppled bookshelf – my flat had become a dangerous place. A minute later, I stood with Emily just outside my flat, the door shut, and me pulling on the knob with all my strength, to prevent Cynthia herself from tugging it open and hurling something out at us.

By now, two neighboring tenants had opened their doors and poked their heads out. Emily grasped my right arm and shouted, “Martin, let’s just get out of here!”

I finally let go of the knob as we fell back, then fled down the hallway toward the lift. As we receded, the door crashed open, and a barrage of books, glassware, and a steaming hot pot of beef Stroganoff flew out. My neighbors, in fear of being scalded or struck with a heavy object, immediately closed their doors, no doubt to summon the police.

In the end, I wrote off my flat and all its contents. My landlord evicted me for vandalism, after Cynthia had bashed holes through the plaster, torn down curtains, and made a complete mess of the place. By paying for all the repair costs in cash, just two days after our fateful dinner, Emily convinced my landlord Mr. Higgs not to take me to court, so the police weren’t involved. She explained that I’d become quite unstable due to being overworked, and that the best thing for my fragile recovery would be to pay the costs, including his lost rent during the repairs, and let sleeping dogs lie.

As Emily had witnessed the shocking, paranormal occurrences with her own eyes, she held nothing against me, and I had provided a full and detailed explanation of my history at the flat, and my growing fear of the jealous ghost that lived within its walls. God bless Emily for still loving me!

A couple years after we’d married and moved to the outskirts of town, I drove by my old flat and saw that the building had been demolished to make way for a new high-rise. Perhaps, with the whole place now gone and forgotten, Cynthia had found freedom from her own bitter prison, and passed over into whatever better place might await her…

Epilogue

Dr. Nathaniel Paget, a well-known psychoanalyst, placed one last volume on the shelf up here in flat 14A of the recently completed Atherton high-rise building. He turned, walked across the gleaming hardwood parlor floor, and sat down to relax, his move-in now complete. As he reached for a crystal tumbler of single-malt, a thump startled him. There, across the room, one of his text books had somehow fallen to the floor. Annoyed, he stood and went to place it back on the shelf. Its title – Traumatic Breakups, a Guidebook – sailed right over his head…