Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [158]
“You know,” I said. “If it were not for you, I would have given up weeks ago.”
“I’m glad I can be a comfort for you.”
“You’re more than a comfort, Jane. Without you to shore me up, I would have been overwhelmed by the morbidity of this enterprise. I can only hope my presence here has meant something to you.”
“I think . . .” She bit her lip and fixed her gaze on the hearth.
“Please! Tell me!”
She sighed and, without lifting her eyes from the hearth, said in a small voice, “I think you know my heart. I think you have always known it.”
I took her hand and the warmth of the fire, her warmth, went all through me—it was as though our physical contact had created a bubble of time and space apart from the world. I wanted to say more, but was at a loss for words, not knowing what there was to say. Our stations in life were at such a great remove one from the other, it was unlikely we could ever have a lasting connection.
She withdrew her hand from mine and, as though she knew my thoughts, said, “It might be best not to invest too hastily in our relationship . . . or too deeply. I care for you, Samuel, but the situation is difficult. I have divided loyalties, you see. And you, well . . . you have your own difficulties to overcome.”
Despite the irresolution of that night, or rather because, irresolute or not, that singular moment had moved our relationship forward, I set about my work with renewed energy. Predicated upon our conversation, I began singing “Champagne Charlie” whenever Christine materialized. As Jane had said, her mood became genial and there were times when she did not revert to her bloody, chemise-clad state prior to vanishing. Initially those were the only changes I observed, but before long I noticed that when I sang a particular verse, allowing for the apparent delay between my singing and her reaction to the song, she grew more aggressive in her behavior, coming close to me, staring intently (although her stares were not always directed toward me), and betraying signs of anxiety. The verse went as follows:
The way I gained my title is by a hobby which I’ve got
Of never letting others pay no matter how long the shot.
Whoever drinks with me are treated all the same,
From Dukes and Lords and Cabmen down,
I make them drink champagne.
By the time I finished the chorus (“Oh, Champagne Charlie is my name . . . etc.”), she would have returned to normal, but for the span of perhaps half a minute her eyes widened, her bosom rose and fell as though her breathing had quickened, and on one occasion she laid her hand on my forearm. I was stunned, stricken. Rather than jumping back, I held perfectly still, imprisoned by that slight weight upon my shirtsleeve. I was startled to find that her hand had any weight whatsoever, and she too may have been startled, for she snatched her hand away and disappeared. I retreated to the elevator and thence to my room and tried to understand what had happened. Her touch had been light, yet no lighter than the casual caress of a real woman, and there had been no spectral association, no chill. Upon regaining my composure, I ascended once again to the sixth floor. Christine was nowhere to be seen and did not return for the better part of a day, but from that point on she contrived to brush against me whenever possible—I imagined that these intimacies were reminiscent of her vital days and gave her pleasure. For my part, I experienced a mild anxiety, less than I might have when a strange cat unexpectedly rubbed against my leg, and thus I permitted the touches to continue.
I made an exhaustive report to Richmond on my findings, noting that of all the spirits who passed through the chamber, Christine was the only one who appeared in more than one guise. I postulated that because she was last to die within the