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"
What
?
"
I
asked
.
"
What
,
Elaine
?
"
Thinking
,
She
's
going
to
tell
,
me
I
ought
to
quit
writing
about
it
.
That
I
ought
to
tear
up
the
pages
I
've
written
so
far
and
just
quit
on
it
.
What
she
said
was
"
Do
n't
let
this
stop
you
.
"
I
gawped
at
her
.
"
Close
your
mouth
,
Paul
--
you
'll
catch
a
fly
.
"
"
Sorry
.
It
's
just
that
...
well
...
"
"
You
thought
I
was
going
to
tell
you
just
the
opposite
,
did
n't
you
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
She
took
my
hands
in
hers
(
gently
,
so
gently
--
her
long
and
beautiful
fingers
,
her
bunched
and
ugly
knuckles
)
and
leaned
forward
,
fixing
my
blue
eyes
with
her
hazel
ones
,
the
left
slightly
dimmed
by
the
mist
of
a
coalescing
cataract
.
"
I
may
be
too
old
and
brittle
to
live
,
"
she
said
,
"
but
I
'm
not
too
old
to
think
.
What
's
a
few
sleepless
nights
at
our
age
?
What
's
seeing
a
ghost
on
the
TV
,
for
that
matter
?
Are
you
going
to
tell
me
it
's
the
only
one
you
've
ever
seen
?
"
I
thought
about
Warden
Moores
,
and
Harry
Terwilliger
,
and
Brutus
Howell
;
I
thought
about
MY
mother
,
and
about
Jan
,
my
wife
,
who
died
in
Alabama
.
I
knew
about
ghosts
,
all
right
.
