one saying, 'Why not?' and the other, 'Why bother?
— Sydney J. Harris
A Ghost of My Own
Do you ever wonder about older, attractive women who have never married? I think about them all the time because that’s me—I’m one of that tribe.
I’m constantly checking my temperature to see if I’m normal.
I pal around with two other like-minded souls—but wait, who am I kidding? —The truth is, I don’t know anyone like me.
Who else at forty would take up with an imaginary lover only to discover he’s a ghost?
It all started when I saw an ad in the personal column of the Trib:
Former athlete with creaky knees—prone to migraine heartaches. Interested? Call Hank 212-920-3300.
All right, I thought, I’ll bite. It seemed so anti-romantic I was hooked. I dialed the number and was immediately connected to Hank.
“I did it on a lark,” he confessed, “ although my knees are creaky and I am a sentimental slob.”
I kind of liked that—I saw us sitting together watching old movies, sniffling away—a box of Kleenex between us.
“Come on over,” he said, “have a drink and catch the sunset.”
I was about to say no, until he mentioned the sunset. I’m a sucker for clouds and weather—hell, my favourite song is Stormy Weather.
I guess I’m an incurable romantic–which might explain why I never got hitched—the two just don’t seem to go together, in my humble opinion.
I reserve the right to be wrong.
I drove over to the Gramercy Park Hotel situated near Hotel 17 where Woody Allan filmed his movie, Manhattan Murder Mystery.
I loved the bohemian ambiance of the hotel the moment I entered it.
I took the elevator to the Penthouse and found my way from there.
He left the door ajar as he said he would, since he was in and out all day.
“Just drop in, grab some champagne and make yourself comfortable,” he said.
Sounded intriguing—just the thing to liven up a slow Saturday afternoon.
I was not prepared for the plush rose-colored rug, the mahogany wood ceiling or the breathtaking Stanford White fireplace and mantle.
Hank lived in the lap of luxury.
I was not prepared for him either when he walked out of the library wearing a white cable-knit sweater and holding a copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
“Jessica—just the way I pictured you!” he smiled.
“Hank?”
“The same,” he smiled. “Did I disappoint?”
“You must be joking. Your personal ad didn’t do you justice.”
“Oh no, it’s quite accurate, I assure you. Would you care for a glass of Dom?”
Sweep me off my feet—I dare you. I mused, while outwardly feigning nonchalance.
“Champagne would be nice.”
He expertly poured us both a glass and waved me to the love seat opposite the chesterfield where he sat, one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting on the sofa, back, looking for all the world like a glossy magazine ad for menswear.
“I’m afraid the sun has set, but perhaps we could enjoy the view later from the roof club and garden.”
“Sounds delightful,” I said, the bubbly instantly rushing to my head.
It was delicious sensation and I didn’t want it to end.
An hour later, we were sitting enjoying the warm night air, high above Manhattan.
The roof garden bar exuded the same charm as that of a gentleman’s club. It was intoxicating and made even more enjoyable by his reserved charm.
He was attentive, but not over-bearing—in fact; he was one of those men who seem to delight in being with women.
I felt perfectly safe with him—sheltered even.
All too soon, however, the evening came to an end.
“We must do this again,” he said, signalling an end to our date.
“Of course, I enjoyed myself immensely, Hank—thank you, for being such a gentleman.”
“Ah, I suppose you’re referring to my failure to negotiate contact,” he chortled.
“Why, I guess I am,” I laughed.
“Yes, well that’s the unfortunate part—you see, I’m a ghost.”
I giggled nervously and took a sip of my champagne—the bubbles went up my nose—I began to sneeze.
I reached out a hand to grasp his arm to steady myself, and my hand went right through his forearm.
“Oh my God,” was all I could say.
He smiled, but looked sad at the same time. “I wished I met you when I was alive.”
“This can’t be happening,” I said, more to reassure myself than argue with him.
“You sound like me—that’s what I said for the longest time—but we tend to adjust to things after a while.”
“I’ve go to go,” I got up and stumbled my way to the elevators and back to my car.
I was numb. I tried to think, to reason—to logically see things in their proper perspective, but couldn’t.
Maybe I’ve been drugged, I thought.
It was a possibility and I heard of the use of so-called date rape drugs, but the only problem was, it didn’t fit the situation. Hank had been a perfect gentleman.
I concluded I was in shock.
I left my car and took a cab home.
I fell into bed without undressing and awoke the following morning to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Maria, my cleaning maid, must have come and seen me asleep in my clothes and thoughtfully made me coffee.
Then the fact hit me—It’s Sunday morning—her day off.
I leapt out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Hank was standing in the middle of the floor, one of my aprons tied round his waist and holding a spatula like a crossing guard holding up a stop sign.
“Oh, there you are! As Goethe says, whatever doesn’t kill us, quickens us—I knew you’d be all right. By the way, are you aware you snore?”
“I do not snore” I flared, and then realized I was standing in my kitchen talking to a ghost.
“Oh!” I cried as the kitchen tilted and the diamond-shaped black and white floor tiles rushed up to greet me.
“None of that,” Hank said, breaking my fall and standing me upright on my feet again. He was standing opposite me, still poised with his spatula.
“How did you do that?” I asked, more from curiosity than anything else, because Hank hadn’t budged an inch.
“It just happens—I’m a guardian.”
“I better sit down.”
“Good idea.” A chair conveniently slid underneath me.
“May I continue?” He pointed to the bacon in the pan, sizzling merrily on the stove.
“Please do,” I said, a trifle sarcastically, because I wasn’t sure exactly how to conduct myself with a gentleman cooking me breakfast in my own home.
He sat beside me, making small talk while I ate. “Mmm. That coffee smells delicious,” he said.
“Why don’t you have some?”
“Can’t—it’d go right through me.”
“But you sipped champagne last night,” I argued.
“Mostly bubbles—I can drink scotch though—after all, it’s spirits.”
“Ha ha,” I said glumly.
“Why so morose, Love?” he asked sympathetically.
“Just my luck, I suppose. I finally meet a man I like and he turns out to be a ghost.”
“But we’re quite compatible in other ways. You like to see the world—we could travel together—I’ve been everywhere. I’m better than a tour guide.”
I began to feel sorry for myself and started to sniffle—an annoying habit, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
I could see Hank growing anxious. His hands were twitching as if he wanted to reach out and hug me, but of course, he couldn’t.
I finally stopped on my own.
“So, where do we go from here?” I wailed.
“We carry on, I suppose, just as we are now.”
“But what’s the use, Hank—where is this heading?”
“Oh, I don’t know Love. Why don’t you just think of me as a garden gnome or a house fairy? I’m very good at protecting and I’m excellent company.”
“It’d be an improvement over what I have now, I suppose.” I eyed Poly, my lazy overfed Tabby, lolling on my sofa.
“There now, you see," he encouraged, "—that’s the attitude.”
“But couldn’t you somehow materialize—make your ectoplasm a little more dense, instead of being...” I searched for the appropriate word.
“Less rarefied?” he suggested.
“That’s right,” I sniffled. “Maybe we could sail away like Bogey and Bacall—go to Key Largo, or somewhere.”
He put on his best Bogart accent, “ But that wouldn’t work, schweetheart—you see, I’m a ghost.”
I was frustrated. “Well, how’s it going to work?”
“As a platonic arrangement—a marriage of minds.”
“Sounds boring,” I pouted.
“No, on the contrary Love—I’ll listen to you, admire you, and laugh at your jokes. Most women have less with their husbands.”
Well, that’s how it started, this great love affair between Hank and me.
I know in my head, ghosts aren’t real, so Hank isn’t real. He’s my imaginary lover—but he is my lover.
He may be ectoplasmically challenged, but he’s good to me. He’s my protector and friend.
We spend nights sipping champagne and watching sunsets together.
Next year, he promises to accompany me on a boat trip to Key Largo, creaky knees and all.
So, don’t worry about older, attractive women who have never married—they might have a Hank in their life.