A Bridge of Years Read Free Page B

the
marina. He said he was up along the Post Road last year, cruising by,
when he saw a light in the house—which he knew was unoccupied
'cause he'd been in on the search for Ben Collier. So he stopped for
a look. Turned out a couple of teenagers had broken a basement
window. They had a storm lantern up in the kitchen and a case of
Kokanee and a ghetto blaster—just having a good old party. He took
them in and confiscated maybe an eighth-ounce of dope from the oldest
boy, Barry Lindell. Sent 'em all home to their parents. Next day
George goes back to the house to check out the damage—the kicker
is, it turns out there wasn't any damage. It was like they'd never
been there. No matches on the floor, no empties, everything
spit-polished."
    Tom
said, "The window where they broke in?" "It wasn't
broken anymore." "Bullshit," Tom said.
    Archer
held up his hands. "Sure. But George swears on it. Says the
window wasn't even reputtied, he would have recognized that. It
wasn't fixed — it
just wasn't
broken."
    The
waitress delivered the sandwich. Tom picked it up and took a
thoughtful bite. "This is an obsessively tidy ghost
we're talking about."
    "The
phantom handyman."
    "I
can't say I'm frightened."
    "I
don't guess you have any reason to be. Still—" "I'll keep
my eyes open."
    "And
let me know how it goes," Archer said. "I mean, if that's
okay with you." He slid his business card across the table. "My
home number's on the back."
    "You're
that curious?"
    Archer
checked out the next table to make sure nobody was listening. "I'm
that fucking bored."
    "Yearning
for the old days? A sunny afternoon, a rock in your hand, the smell
of a wild convertible?"
    Archer
grinned. The grin said, Hell, yes, I am that
kid, and I don't much mind admitting it.
    This
man enjoys life, Tom thought.
    Heartening
to believe that was still possible.

    Before
he drove out to the house Tom stopped at the Harbor Mall to pick up
supplies. At the A&P he assembled a week's worth of staples and a
selection of what Barbara used to call bachelor food: frozen entrees,
potato chips, cans of Coke in plastic saddles. At the Radio Shack he
picked up a plug-in phone, and at Sears he paid $300 for a portable
color TV.
    Thus
equipped for elementary survival, he drove to the house up along the
Post Road.
    The
sun was setting when he arrived. Did the house look haunted? No, Tom
thought. The house looked suburban. Cedar
siding a little faded, the boxy structure a little lost in these
piney woods, but not dangerous. Haunted, if at all, strictly by Mr.
Clean. Or perhaps the Tidy Bowl Man.
    The
key turned smoothly in the lock.
    Stepping
over the threshold, he had the brief but disquieting sensation
that this was after all somebody else's house . . . that he had
arrived, like Officer Bukowski's juvenile delinquents, without
credentials. Well, to hell with that. He
flicked every light switch he could reach until the room was
blisteringly bright. He plugged in the refrigerator—it began to hum
at once—and dropped the Cokes inside. He plugged in the TV set and
tuned the rabbit ears to a Tacoma station, a little fuzzy but
watchable. He cranked the volume up. Noise and light.
    He
preheated the ancient white enamel stove, watching the elements for a
time to make sure everything worked. (Everything did.) The black
Bakelite knobs were as slick as ebony; his own fingerprints seemed
like an insult to their polished surface. He slipped a TV dinner into
the oven and closed the door. Welcome home.
    A
new life, he
thought.
    That
was why he had come here—or at least that was what he'd told his
friends. Looking around this clean, illuminated space, it was
possible—almost possible—to believe that.
    He
took the TV dinner into the living room and poked at the tepid fried
chicken with a plastic fork while MacNeil (or Lehrer, he had never
quite sorted that out) conducted a round-table discussion of this
year's China crisis. When he was finished he tidied away the foil
plate into a plastic