Animus – a ghost story by Alysse Aallyn

Animus ONE – DEAD & BURIED

Andrew looked up from the Food section of the Sunday Times. “Did he jump out of his coffin and give everybody the finger?”

“No.” I sat down on a Brazilian leather cube impersonating a chair. “He left me a lot of money.”

That made Arnold sit up straight. Finally I had produced something worthy to compete with three- melon risotto. “How much?”

“A lot.” Two beats. “All of it.”

I hadn’t seen Arnold this excited in a long time. “This is the uncle we never once went to visit, even though he only lived in New Rochelle?”

“He’s the one.”

“And there are a lot of other relatives…” I saw the penny drop. “Is this the same guy who used to feel you up when you were little?”

“He’s the one.”

Arnold whistled. “Wow!” he said, “Break out the champagne! Let’s drink to old fashioned Calvinist
guilt!”

But I couldn’t drink. “There’s an unpaid

housekeeper who says she’ll sue.” I tried dismissing that

ugly scene from my mind. But ugly scenes don’t go so
easily.

“Screw her,” he laughed, “Doubtless the old man did. To the one who got away!” he snorkled. “With…” drum-roll on the glass coffee table… “all the money!”

“I could split it with her,” I said thoughtfully. “Except that I need it all.” And if I divorced Arnold, I’d have to split it with him.

His eyes narrowed over my unusual decisiveness. “Sounds like you’ve made a plan.”

“I have. I’m pregnant and I’m moving.”

He rose to pursue me to the kitchen. I was the pursued one now.

“Rich? Pregnant? Moving?” He banged his palm against his chest. “It’s a lot to handle for one afternoon. Where are you going, oh helpmeet?”

“Upstate. The country.” There was no champagne. Of course not. There had been nothing to celebrate for so, so long. I poured us each an apple juice. “You could come with.” Two beats. “But you’d have to give up your girlfriend.”

Surprise! I saw him try to toss it off and keep on dancing. “What’s that? Getting jealous are we? Symptomatic of your condition?”

“Gayle.” I leaned forward, giving back the name. “She sent me such a charming letter.” In which she stated her utter non-comprehension of why the moody bitch wouldn’t just step aside and let the poor, kind,
considerate man go free. Ugh. Apple juice is disgustingly sweet. I’ve never understood how adults can covet the provinces of children. Poor little sugar addicts, they are ruined before they start. I tried adding powdered tea from a mix. Still bad. The no-liquor lifestyle is a tough sell.

He was sputtering like a damp firecracker. But it was not Arnold’s turn to speak.

“Screwing students is the beginning of the end for a teacher. You’re lucky she notified me and not the superintendent.”

Unfortunately I could always read Arnold’s mind. He really needs to get some more interesting thoughts. I saw him deciding he’d better stop aimless denial until confronted with the evidence against him.

“Why upstate?” he bartered, testing me. “Why not, say, Europe?”

“Because,” I answered, “I like to get something for my money.” That alone made me my uncle’s worthy heir. Glittering silver dollars lit the darkened rooms of memory. I persisted — for I’m nothing if not persistent — “Haven’t you heard of the curse of the lottery winner? They spend it all and then some. I want a property I can buy outright – debt-free.” Wouldn’t it be heaven owing nobody nothing?

He toddled toward the window on his be- jeaned insect legs. He looks much better in big-boy pants. Was he trying to imagine life without me? Or without New York? So I sealed the deal with a siren song. “You could finish your screenplay…”