Ghost writer, p.12
Ghost Writer, page 12
“And then another time when you forgot Kathy’s birthday.”
Jonathan smiled a bit. “Yeah, that was a killer.”
“And the time you forgot to pick Meg up from the baby-sitter’s—”
Jonathan threw up his hands. “Okay, I get it. We had a lot of fights.”
“Fascinatin’ readin’,” Clyde chuckled. “A real page-turner.”
“Very funny,” Jonathan said and sighed heavily.
“And that’s about it.”
Jonathan frowned and looked up at Clyde. “That’s all? Just a bunch of fights?”
“Well, there was a lot in there ’bout your career as an editor and all, but it certainly emphasized that you two don’t exactly have a fairy-tale marriage.”
Jonathan winced at that statement. If only they knew. Then his stomach churned. He wondered if they really did know.
“So—it stopped where in my life?”
“Mmm, from what I could tell, anywhere from a year to a few months ago.” Clyde tapped his fingers against his glass.
Jonathan stood and stretched, walking over to the edge of the porch. The stars were now lit on top of a darkening blue sky. The white moon’s reflection bobbed up and down in the waters of the lake.
“Well, I guess when it’s all lined up one after another for someone to read, it seems like a divorce waiting to happen. But when it’s your life, you hardly seem to notice until—” Jonathan stopped himself and buttoned the top button of his knit shirt to hold in the little warmth he still had. “They just don’t seem that blatant, that’s all.”
Clyde joined him at the railing. “I lied earlier when I said I didn’t know you and Kathy were having troubles.” He looked at Jonathan. “I love you and your family. You know that. You’ve been my family ever since my wife died. Quite frankly, I’ve been worried about you.”
Jonathan didn’t so much as glance at Clyde. “What in the world would make you worry about me?” he asked dryly.
“Well, for one thing, you’ve been drinkin’ a lot lately.”
“I’m not a drunk.”
“No, but you’re also not facin’ your problems with a steady head on your shoulders.”
“Look, I’m under a lot of pressure at work right now, and Kathy doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got to put in extra hours—” He stopped and stepped away from the rail. “Why am I telling you all this? So you can write another seven chapters about how my life is right now?”
Clyde shook his head and didn’t turn around. “You want to believe I’m writin’ that stuff, you go right ahead, Jonny. I can’t say anything that would convince you otherwise.”
Jonathan suddenly felt very alone. Clyde had been the one solid rock in his life, and now he couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t trust anyone, for that matter. At the same time, he felt sad that Clyde wouldn’t even turn around to face him. He noticed for the first time how old Clyde looked. The back of his hair was completely white. He had started to hunch. Even his hands were a little shaky.
Jonathan opened the screen door, walked through the house, and went out the front door to where his car was parked. Something told him Clyde was not the person he should be accusing, but he wasn’t about to let his guard down. Not yet. He had one more person to confront . . . someone he hadn’t seen or spoken to in over a year, but someone who knew about him and Kathy. Someone who probably knew too much.
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The wooden doors of the study opened, and Pastor Gregory slid an old silk robe over his pajamas as he entered. He dropped the large glasses that rested on his forehead down onto his nose.
“Jonathan Harper.”
“Hello, Pastor Gregory,” Jonathan said, shaking the hand that was offered to him. “I’m sorry to come so late.”
“Our home is always open, day or night.”
Jonathan sat down in the leather chair and waited for Pastor Gregory to situate himself on the other side of his desk. “Your girls are sure growing fast, aren’t they? Meg especially.”
“Yes,” Jonathan said in a rather short tone, hoping to move past the chitchat.
“I have to say, I’m quite surprised to see you.”
Jonathan rubbed his hands together. “I have a few things I need to talk to you about.”
“Please, don’t hesitate.”
“I noticed all your books. You like to read.”
“Yes. I’m an avid reader. I must admit I envy your job, getting to read all day long.”
Jonathan smiled a little. “Yes, well, I wish I could say all the reading was good.” Jonathan cracked his knuckles. “Do you do much writing?”
“Oh, I’ve tried my hand at it a few times. Every pastor wants to leave a legacy, as I’m sure you know.” He shrugged. “I’m sure I’m an editor’s nightmare.”
Jonathan bit his lip at that statement. The question was if he was this editor’s nightmare. Jonathan stood, unable to remain pleasant and personable. His skin itched with curiosity. “Pastor Gregory, I’ll cut right to the chase here. My wife apparently talked to you about our marriage.”
Pastor Gregory carefully formed his words. “Yes, that is true.”
“I didn’t know about that.”
“Well, she was very concerned about you. She felt you two were growing apart.”
“Yes, she mentioned that was why she talked to you.” Jonathan paused and studied the man’s face. He seemed so innocent, an older pastor who’d spent his years devoted to ministry and people. The gray hair on his head and deep lines in his face accounted for all the tragedy and suffering he’d allowed himself to feel along with his congregation. Now he simply sat quietly behind his desk, his hands folded neatly against his chest, with a questioning look across his gentle face. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“You’re angry she confided in me?”
Jonathan, not expecting a question so direct, cleared his throat with a predictable, nervous cough. “Um, that’s part of it.”
“Everything anyone says to me in a counseling session is confidential, Jonathan, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, sir, what I’m worried about is . . .” Jonathan looked him in the eyes.
“Is what?”
“When did she come and see you?” Jonathan felt an immediate necessity to shift gears. If this man wasn’t the author, he would feel horribly foolish trying to explain what was happening, and the less people who knew about the manuscript, the better.
“About six months ago, when it was obvious you had lost interest in church and God.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Sir, I’m not here to talk about my spiritual life.”
“Maybe you should be.”
Jonathan laughed out of sheer frustration. “So I’m the bad guy, is that it? I don’t come to church and suddenly all the marriage issues are my fault!”
The pastor seemed only distantly disturbed by Jonathan’s explosion. He adjusted a nearby book on his desk. “No one said that.”
Jonathan opened the shutters to a window, but since it was dark outside and light inside, he had only his reflection to look at. He quickly shut them. “Look, Pastor Gregory, if there’s something you want to tell me, say it to my face.”
“What do you mean?” he asked in a tone that seemed genuinely concerned.
“I mean, there have been some things happening in my life . . . some . . . some things, and I want to know if you’re involved.” Jonathan gripped the back of the leather chair. “If you’ve got something to say about me and my life, I want you to say it now!”
The pastor was silent. He wasn’t fearful or shocked. He was peaceful. His eyes radiated a strange compassion that made Jonathan feel all the more uncomfortable. “No, I don’t believe there’s anything I need to say to you. It seems as though your convictions have reared their ugly head, so to speak.” He smiled a bit at that statement.
Jonathan thought his fingers might just squeeze right through the leather. “What?” he asked with irritation.
“You’re frustrated with your life. You’re angry. You’re confused and even a little regretful, I sense. But there’s nothing I can say that you don’t already know.” The pastor stood and walked to the side of his desk, tying his robe tight around his belly. “I’m sorry if Kathy confiding in me has upset you. But I don’t think she felt she had anyone else to talk to.”
“Yeah, so I’m the jerk who can’t communicate. The wayward husband with emotional issues.”
The pastor only stood silently.
“What?” Jonathan felt his blood boiling. “That’s right, isn’t it? It’s my fault that we’ve grown apart. It’s my fault we don’t talk anymore. Every fight is the result of something I did. I can’t ever do anything right.”
The pastor again said nothing.
“You don’t have to say it,” Jonathan fumed. “I know that’s what you’re thinking. You’re standing there watching me lose my temper, quite certain that I’m failing at running my household and failing at loving my wife.”
The pastor took a deep breath, a breath that seemed to clear the air, though only for a moment.
“Well, maybe what Kathy didn’t tell you is she has turned cold as ice! Maybe what she failed to mention is that her fuse is so short it barely lights! I apologize for my screw-ups, but that’s never good enough. I’m not good enough. Did she tell you that? Did she?”
The pastor’s lips squeezed together in pity.
“Oh, please . . . please, for pete’s sake, don’t look at me like that. Don’t pity me. I understand what’s going on here. I understand everything, and let me tell you that I have tried . . . I have tried to reach her! I have tried to understand, but she has not given me that same grace! And now we’re distant and cold and fragile, and it’s everything I can do to keep my household from exploding, not to mention the fact that I’m in love with anoth—”
Jonathan held his breath and felt as if he might pass out. Surely he didn’t just say . . . did he? Did he just say he was in love with . . .
The pastor hung his head, stepped around his desk, and sat back down. Jonathan was frozen in the middle of the room, unable to speak another word. Unable to move. The pastor cleared his throat, then looked Jonathan deeply in the eyes.
“You know what people who interrogate criminals are taught?”
Jonathan couldn’t so much as shake his head as he tried to process the question.
“The television depicts interrogations as this big, bad cop standing over a frightened criminal, bullying him into confessing. But in reality, interrogators are mostly silent when they are trying to get someone to confess. Do you know why? It’s because they’ve found that if they just let people talk, eventually they will convict themselves.”
Jonathan swallowed.
“It’s the funny thing about the tongue. It just never seems to know when to stop,” the pastor said delicately. “If you let someone talk long enough, they’ll always reveal the truth.”
Jonathan watched as the pastor rose again and walked to the doors he’d shut. Before he opened them, he said, “Jonathan, I’m not sure why you came to see me here tonight. But I sense you are searching for something. And my advice to you, though you haven’t asked for it, is that if you listen more than you talk, eventually you’ll be able to hear your answer.”
The pastor opened the doors and walked silently down a dark hallway, leaving Jonathan to let himself out of the house. Though his feet felt like lead, he managed to make his way out of the study and toward the front door. As he turned the doorknob, he felt someone behind him. As he turned around, he saw the pastor again.
“Everything said here tonight will be kept confidential, Jonathan. It’s a policy of mine I strictly enforce. If you need to talk again—”
“No,” Jonathan snapped. “No.”
He walked out the front door. The cold breeze took his breath away, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he walked to the car. He wondered if his answer to this mystery in his life was as simple as listening to everyone talk.
chapter 11
I went to see Clyde and Reverend Gregory.”
Kathy drew the blanket she’d wrapped around herself up toward her face. The night air of the house was cold. Two single lamps dimly lit the living room.
“What’d you find out?”
Jonathan fell into the chair opposite the couch. His body ached with fatigue. “I found out I should listen more than I speak.” Kathy stayed silent in her curiosity. Jonathan smiled a little. “Obviously you’ve already learned that lesson.”
Kathy smiled and warmed her hands against a steaming cup of coffee. “Want some?”
Jonathan shook his head and leaned back. “Kathy, I’m sorry this is happening. I’m doing everything I can to find out what’s going on here. But I’m hitting dead ends. No one fits the profile and everyone seems suspicious.”
Kathy sat up and dropped her feet to the ground. “Sounds like a bestselling novel.”
Jonathan agreed with a tired laugh. He looked at his wife, her hair swept up on top of her head, her face freshly washed. She looked beautiful suddenly. He wished a fire were going and he could grab her and they could sit in front of it and talk until the early-morning hours. “Kathy, I don’t know what to say. I’m scared to death.”
Kathy rose, walked to her husband, and knelt at his feet. “Of what?”
“Of what?” He lightly stroked her hair. “You have to ask? My whole life is being played out in the pages of some eerie manuscript, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
Kathy grabbed his hand. Jonathan looked down at her. “You know me, Kathy. I don’t like to talk about my personal life. I mean, it took me years to even tell you about Jason’s death. And even then, I didn’t tell you what happened.” Jonathan’s hand tore through his own hair. “It doesn’t make sense. There are holes in the story, but they don’t follow a pattern. At least not one I’ve picked up on.”
Kathy wrapped her hands around his knees and laid her head in his lap. “Did Clyde tell you what was in the pages he received? About me? Us?”
Jonathan’s nostrils flared from the deep, anxious breaths he took. “Whoever is doing this, I swear I will find them and they will pay. No one does this to me and my family.”
Kathy lifted her head up.
“I’ve got to think.” He stood and stepped around Kathy. “There has to be something. One thing this person has neglected to hide. One track they haven’t covered. I’ve just got to find it.” Jonathan’s body begged for a strong drink, but all the alcohol in the house had been done away with a long time ago.
“I don’t want you involved, Kathy. I want you to talk to the children, though, especially Leesol and Meg. I want you to tell them, under no circumstances will they go with anyone other than you and me, no matter who they say they are. Can you do that? Make them understand that, Kathy. Please.”
Kathy nodded, then stood, neatly folded the blanket, and placed it on the back of the couch. She walked toward Jonathan, stood next to him, and without any words, lightly kissed him on the cheek. Jonathan felt confused. His confession to Reverend Gregory came surging back through his head as the feeling of Kathy’s soft lips lingered on his cheek.
“I’ll pray for us tonight, Jonathan,” she said and ascended the stairs and out of sight.
Jonathan turned and placed his head against the mantel of the fireplace. He might pray for help, too, if he wasn’t so sure God himself might not be writing down his life and sending him pages through the mail. He laughed at the absurdity.
Whoever it was, they knew more about him than anyone, which, in the late hours of the night, Jonathan felt was ironic—since most of the time he didn’t even know that much about himself.
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The morning came early. Jonathan awoke and asked for a large mug of coffee to at least get him to work. Kathy put the exact right amount of cream and sugar in it, something only a wife could know. The girls kissed him and followed him out the door.
On the way to work, Jonathan made a mental list of the events that had occurred so far, hoping to find something that would clue him in to who this writer was. The first set of pages had arrived in a manila envelope, mailed to his boyhood home. Why, then, were the other pages delivered to Clyde’s house, apparently by hand?
He noted that as important, then moved on to the story itself. The first part, the story of his brother’s death and the childhood events of his life after that, were perhaps the most chilling of all the passages in the manuscript. Absolutely no one other than his dead parents knew what happened. How could anyone else know? And who would his parents tell? They were private people and would never air their dirty laundry.
Jonathan thought it particularly odd that the story had jumped from a boy’s painful childhood to his college days, where he met his wife and began what the manuscript called “a love affair.” He pondered that phrase for a bit. Maybe it once was. But the words “love” and “affair” had too many ambiguous meanings in his life right now—and were attached to one too many people.
Although he regretted having burned the next set of pages that arrived, he felt he had a pretty good understanding of what was in there. Basically someone had attempted to summarize nearly twenty years of marriage by highlighting a few negative incidents in his life. Though Clyde had mentioned the story also followed his career quite extensively, he guessed that most of it was personal. The balance of the two really didn’t matter. Whoever it was knew his career and family well.
The elevator doors opened to a busy Monday morning. Fax machines and computers were already up and running. Though it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, the office buzzed with life. Jonathan scooted through a busy hallway and toward Edie’s desk.
