Ghost writer, p.25
Ghost Writer, page 25
He stood still for a moment, listening for any sound out of the ordinary. Across his back fence he could hear his neighbors laughing and watching TV. In the distance the roar of the local highway sounded monotonous and soothing. The L shape of the house allowed him to see his bedroom from where he stood in the backyard. Kathy hadn’t pulled the shades yet, and he could see her on the bed, reading something and glancing at the clock a few times.
He realized as he stood out in the open air of his backyard that for the first time in a long time he felt safe. He remembered as a young boy, a couple of years after his brother’s death, he lay in a soft patch of grass long after the sun had gone to bed and the moon had risen with its light, looking up at the stars and feeling the presence of God looking down on him. He remembered that though he hadn’t prayed a single word, he knew God heard his every thought and felt his innermost pain. No one had taught him specifically about God, but he knew of Him. His aunt Eleanor had taken him to church once or twice. But those were childish imaginations, to think God cared enough to look, or existed in the time and space he occupied.
Jonathan’s back rested against the brick and he closed his eyes. He thought it impossible for God to come down and write a story about his life. But whoever was writing about his life knew so much that it seemed as though he were omnipresent. Someone listened to every word he spoke in his house, at his office, in restaurants, and anywhere else. It wasn’t God, but it might as well have been.
Jonathan didn’t speak a word to God that evening. He had nothing to say to someone he barely knew. He was ashamed of his life and of the story that was being told about it. But as he stood in the cold moonlight of the fall night, he allowed his soul to be naked. He didn’t hide anything. How could he anymore? Everything was in the open. Someone knew everything about him and apparently could predict his every move as well.
He looked up in the trees and wondered if the shadows of the bare limbs hid a stranger. If they did, then they would see a broken man, scared and downtrodden, fleeing into the night as a safe haven for his soul.
Soon the cold temperature stifled his breathing and tingled his skin. Without a coat he knew he would have to go in soon. His eyes wandered back up to his bedroom, where Kathy appeared to be praying. He wondered what she was praying for—if she was praying for him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment a prayer danced on the tip of his own tongue, but it soon faded, and the guilt and despair that plagued his heart now shut his mouth and closed his mind.
The north wind picked up and this time swayed the tops of the trees, loosening a few stray leaves. They floated lightly to the ground, spotlighted by the moon as if performing on a stage. The tiny voices of two playful brothers echoed in his mind. He could see them splashing in the river together, trying to catch fish with their bare hands. If only his brother hadn’t died, maybe life would be . . .
He walked back through the door to the garage, climbed four cement steps into his house, reached for the light switch, and hoped that a God he wasn’t sure existed would help him, if only for Kathy’s sake.
chapter 19
Jonathan! Jonathan! Get up! Jonathan!”
Jonathan rolled over and lifted his tired and heavy head out of his feather pillow. He managed to open his eyes enough to see Kathy peering over him, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard.
“What?” He sat up quickly.
Her eyes were wide. “It’s nine o’clock!”
Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut and opened them back up, trying to wake up and assess what was happening. “It’s nine?”
“Yes! Yes! Honey, I thought you were up. I’m sorry, I—”
Jonathan swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Sorry for—”
Kathy had walked briskly to their closet and emerged with a white shirt, tie, and slacks. “Do you need a blazer this morning?”
“What . . . ?” Jonathan stood and felt dizzy. He steadied himself against his bedside table.
Kathy threw the clothes on the bed, paused, and looked at him for a moment before saying, “Honey . . . the meeting? Don’t you have a meeting this morning at nine?”
Jonathan almost fell over as his heart stopped mid-beat. Did he? Did he have a meeting? He couldn’t remember, but Nellie had mentioned one, hadn’t she? Had she?
His hands raced down the front of his pajama top, unbuttoning it as fast as he could. “Do I have a meeting?” he asked Kathy as she handed him his dress shirt and began knotting his tie.
“It’s on your desk calendar in your study.” She buttoned the lower buttons on his shirt while he did the top ones. He threw the tie over his head and grabbed his pants.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday.” She handed him his socks. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. I had to take Leesol and Meg to school early and I thought you were up when I left. I’m so sorry.”
Jonathan ran to his closet and grabbed a belt. Kathy lifted his shoes off the floor and set them on the bed. “Brush your teeth and forget shaving. I’ll go fix you a mug of coffee.”
With his vision still blurry from a hard night’s sleep, Jonathan made his way to the bathroom, tripping over his pant leg twice, and grabbed Kathy’s toothbrush and toothpaste because it was sitting out on the counter. As he splashed water on his face with one hand and brushed his teeth with the other, he fought through the fogginess of his mind to try to remember if he really had a meeting.
His hair was sticking straight up on the left side of his head, an indication that he hadn’t moved all night. He had apparently made the mistake of taking one too many over-the-counter sleeping pills. He felt like he might go back to sleep as he stood at the sink.
He ran back to the bed and slipped his shoes on, forgetting to tie them, and ran down the stairs as fast as he could, passing Sophie on the left and stumbling over the dolls she had managed to scatter all over the stairs.
Kathy was at the bottom of the stairs with his coat and a spill-proof mug of coffee. She helped him put his coat on, he buttoned the top button, and then she handed him his briefcase and keys that were on the dining room table. She opened the front door for him and asked, “Do you want a scarf?”
Jonathan shook his head, buttoned another button on his coat as the cold air snapped him awake, and realized he had parked his car in the garage. Kathy realized it, too, and said, “I’ll get the garage door.”
Jonathan hurried down the sidewalk, watchful for any patches of ice, and waited impatiently for the garage door to crawl open, as if it were as groggy as he’d been. After making an awful rattling noise that ordinarily would need his immediate attention, the door reached the top. Jonathan finally ran into the garage, started his car, and threw it into reverse.
Kathy waved and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” again as Jonathan backed into the street without even looking for traffic and sped off in the direction of the highway.
It would normally take him twenty minutes to get to work, but since traffic was lighter at nine and he was driving eighty-five miles an hour, it took him fifteen. His eyes were on the car clock more than the road, and he nearly had a wreck three times before he got off on Patterson Street and took a left onto Hudson. He parked his car at 9:21 and managed to turn his car off, grab his briefcase, and get out of the car all in one motion. He then entered the building lobby and ran for the elevator that was shutting.
It closed without regard to him, but before he could knock a hole through the wall punching the Up button, another elevator opened its doors with a delightfully annoying ding.
Jonathan shoved past the traffic exiting and hit his floor and the Close Door button at the same time. The elevator crept up ten floors and then opened. Jonathan stumbled out and ran as fast as he could toward Conference Room B, their typical meeting place. He swung the door open, breathing heavily, to an empty room. Maybe they were in Conference Room C. He tore his coat off as he ran down the north hall, but when he arrived at that one, it was empty as well.
Jonathan caught his breath for a moment and then thought with horror that maybe they were meeting in Nellie’s office. Meetings in Nellie’s office always meant they were of utmost importance and personal. Missing a meeting in Nellie’s office was like a personal insult to her.
As he took off toward Nellie’s office, Jonathan tripped over his coat and plunged to the ground, his chin scraping the carpet and burning like someone had struck a match across it. He scrambled up and flew past Carl Osburg, who tried to stop him to tell him something. Jonathan dismissed him with a harried wave of his hand and kept running until he got to Nellie’s office.
The door was shut and Jonathan closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He brushed his hair down toward his scalp, tossed his coat nonchalantly over his arm, and opened the door.
“Sorry I’m late—”
Nellie looked up, looked around the otherwise empty office as Jonathan did the same thing, and tilted her head to the side questioningly. “Late?”
Jonathan cleared his throat and realized suddenly that he didn’t have a meeting. He felt relief and embarrassment all at once. He tried to think of how to recover since Nellie already thought he had been irresponsible lately anyway.
He straightened out his coat on his arm. “Oh, Nellie, I’m sorry. I must’ve been looking at an old calendar or something. I . . .” He laughed lightly. “I thought we had an appointment. Sorry to bother you.”
Jonathan was backing out of her office when she said, “Wait. I want to talk to you.” Her tone sounded grave and concerned. Jonathan closed his eyes and turned back around with a smile on his face.
“Yes?”
Nellie pointed to a plush leather chair near her desk and Jonathan took his cue to sit down. He set his briefcase next to him.
“I’ve been thinking about your two book proposals for the meeting. I have to say I’m quite excited about Clyde’s novel. What’s the genre?”
Nellie’s continual clicking of her pen was starting to grate on Jonathan’s already shot nerves. “It’s a drama . . . sort of thriller . . . serial killer mystery.”
Nellie’s pen hit the desk. “A serial killer?”
Jonathan gave a short smile. “Yes. I couldn’t believe it myself. But it’s good so far.”
Nellie messed with her French twist, a mannerism that always indicated either disapproval or apprehension. “Clyde doesn’t write that kind of novel. He’s spent twenty years writing westerns. There’s probably a reason for that.”
Jonathan nodded in agreement. “I thought the same thing, but he has a passion for this thing. He says he’s got to write it. It’s something he said he had to ‘get out’ before he dies.”
Nellie laughed a little. “Well, let’s hope our friend Clyde Baxter isn’t a serial killer and this is a deathbed confession of some sort.”
Jonathan couldn’t even pretend to smile at that.
“Jonathan . . . that was a joke.” Nellie’s pen began clicking again.
“Yes. Sorry. I’m just . . . thinking.”
“What about your other proposal. A no-name?”
Jonathan had hoped this wouldn’t come up. He wanted to pitch the book to committee before revealing the author so no one would have any preconceived biases toward it. But he knew if he didn’t tell Nellie when she asked he would be in trouble later.
“No, actually it’s a house author.”
“Really?” Nellie said in a satisfactory tone. “Who? Ebert Walton? I heard he was wanting to do another sci-fi soon.”
“No. He’s from nonfiction.”
“Nonfiction?” Nellie’s eyes stared at the ceiling in thought. “Don’t tell me. James Underwood. That’s it, isn’t it? He’s finally taken my advice and crossed over!”
“No.”
Nellie’s pen clicked faster. “Erika Soprano? She’s so flowery with her words Carl says she’s a nightmare nonfiction writer.”
Jonathan shook his head.
“Fine, tell me. I could guess all day.”
“Francis.” Jonathan couldn’t even get himself to say the last name.
“Francis?” Nellie leaned forward on her desk. “Francis . . . I don’t recall having an author by that name. Has she been with the house long?”
“He.”
“He . . . Francis. . .” Nellie rose from her desk and with wide eyes exclaimed, “Francis Flowers?!” Jonathan barely had time to nod when Nellie raced around her desk while laughing hysterically. “Are you saying Zippy’s writing a novel?”
Jonathan swallowed before saying, “Yes.”
Nellie couldn’t hold back the tears. She hurriedly shut the door and said, “Jonathan, please tell me this is a joke.”
Jonathan turned around in his chair to face her. “It’s quite good, Nellie. You’ll be surprised.”
“To say the least,” she said, blotting at the corner of her eyes to keep her mascara from running. “Jonathan, please. Zippy can’t write fiction.”
Jonathan’s eyes followed Nellie back to her desk. “It’s a great story. Better than decent writing. It’s about a pharmaceutical company that’s paid off to destroy a cure for cancer because—”
Nellie waved her hand. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “Save it for the meeting, Jonathan. Please.” She sat down at her desk, avoiding eye contact.
Jonathan stood. “What, Nellie? You’re questioning my judgment? I know a good book when I see one.”
Nellie nodded and stared at her desk.
“Nellie, for pete’s sake, look at me! You can’t even look at me!”
Nellie’s eyes rose slowly until they met his. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. You’re right. I am questioning your judgment. I mean, Zippy, for crying out loud. Zippy.”
“Look, I know it sounds crazy. But it’s really good. I was shocked.”
Nellie’s eyes fell onto her desk calendar and she made a deliberately long glance at her watch. “I’m about to be late for a meeting. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me.”
Nellie grabbed a black folder, punched her index finger through her French twist a couple of times, and moved past him and out of her office. Jonathan’s head fell back and he stared at the ceiling, wondering if every part of his life were falling apart.
He finally picked his coat up off another chair, grabbed his briefcase, and headed right out of Nellie’s office and toward his. As he approached Edie’s desk, he noticed a tall, dark-haired, husky young man standing next to it. Edie’s eyes were wide with anticipation as Jonathan came closer. She glanced at the young man several times and then said, “He wanted to see you, Mr. Harper.”
Jonathan’s whole body felt so tired he thought he needed to sit down at once, but there were no chairs around. The man looked familiar, and Jonathan was just about to decide he was a writer he’d met at a conference when the man said, “Yeah. I need to talk to you.” His gruff voice fit well with the leather jacket, dirty five-o’clock shadow, and boots with chains.
Jonathan hung his coat on the coatrack nearby. “I’m sorry. I don’t see writers without appointments.”
The man moved closer. “I’m not a writer.”
Jonathan turned, uncomfortable at how close the man was. He glanced at Edie, who couldn’t stop herself from staring. “Then what do you need to see me for? I’m very busy.” Jonathan kept his tone low and forceful as he met this man’s angry green eyes.
“Yeah. Apparently you’ve been real busy with my fiancée.”
Jonathan suddenly noticed how tall this man was, and before he could process the last sentence, the man said, “So busy that she’s now too busy to marry me.”
Jeremy. Sydney’s fiancé. Edie was staring relentlessly, and this man’s aggressive body language was drawing stares from the few people passing by.
“Let’s go into my office, shall we?”
“Let’s stay out here so I can beat you up in front of all your bookworm friends.”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble—”
“I know you don’t. You’re a coward. But you stole my girlfriend, and now you’re gonna pay for it.”
Jonathan pushed past him and headed for his office, hoping he could shut himself in or at least bring Jeremy into a secluded area.
“Should I call security?” Edie asked. No reply came. Jonathan didn’t have an answer. He turned around in his office and Jeremy was right on his heels. As soon as he caught up with him, Jeremy shoved him enough to make him stumble backward and drop his briefcase.
“Yeah, Edie! Call security!” Jonathan locked eyes with Jeremy as he turned around and caught his balance. “You better back off.”
Jeremy laughed and folded his arms together. “You think security is gonna protect you, you spineless coward? You don’t think I’ll be waiting out in the parking lot for you some late night when no one’s around to save you?” Jeremy laughed again and glanced over his shoulder. Jonathan could see Edie on the phone, talking as fast as she could and pointing inside the office. A few of his colleagues were in the background trying to get a better view.
“Look, I don’t know what you think happened between Sydney and me, but you’re mistaken if you think we were. . .” Jonathan lowered his voice. “. . . involved.”
Jeremy had taken two steps forward. “Then she wasn’t talking about you when she said she’d found a better man who’d treat her right?”
Jonathan found his tongue heavy. “Well, maybe, but—”
“I treat her great! I buy her anything she wants! Have you seen the ring on her finger? Or did that just conveniently slip out of your sight?”
Edie was standing now, glancing down the hall as she waited for security to arrive. Jonathan clenched his jaw and felt anger rising inside him.
“You treat her great? Is that what you just said?” Jonathan managed to inch forward a little himself. “Then why does she show up here looking like a car wreck every week?”
