Ghost writer, p.29
Ghost Writer, page 29
The man nodded, exited, and was quickly replaced by the man in the suit again. “Listen, let me escort you out.”
Jonathan stepped into the hallway where it was quieter. “I was wondering. Clyde was in the middle of a manuscript that he was working on. I really need to go to his study and see exactly how many pages he has completed. We would have to come back and do that anyway, so I might as well do it now.” The man in the suit hesitated. “I can have you call the house and confirm, if you would like. But a whole lot of people are going to be upset about this, and it might just be easier to take care of it now.”
The man nodded and said, “All right. Go ahead. Let me know when you are finished.” They walked a few feet to the study. “Where will all of his possessions go? He doesn’t have any family, you say?”
Jonathan flipped on the light in the study. “Clyde probably has a will. He was organized in every part of his life except his writing. He has pages scattered all over the place in here. I may be a while.”
“Take your time. We’ll be here for another hour at least.”
Jonathan excused himself into the study and quietly shut the door. It was true that he did need to find out how much of the manuscript was complete. He prayed all of it was and that Clyde just hadn’t gotten around to sending the rest. But the real reason he wanted access to his study was to find out any information he could about why and how Clyde had written the story about his life. Though he was thankful he wouldn’t be receiving any more pages, Jonathan knew it would haunt him until he had the answers he needed.
He slowly lowered the blinds to the windows as completely as they would go, which wasn’t much further, and turned on the small lamp on the edge of the desk. He smiled at the old typewriter, partially covered with a sweater draped across the top, that sat on a small table next to his desk. Clyde had never learned to use the typewriter properly, and it frustrated him so much that he once pushed it off the table and it crashed into the ground. Ever since then the w had not worked and the manual return had to be pushed with two hands. But Clyde never gave it up, because there was one thing that he used the typewriter for, and that was for his title and dedication pages. For some odd reason, he insisted on typing out his own dedication page, an endearing quirk that made him who he was. No one ever questioned it.
He sat down in the chair, but as he did it tilted and he almost fell out. Jonathan remembered Clyde had mentioned he might need to get a new chair because a wheel had fallen off his and it was a little unstable. That had to have been six years ago.
He carefully scooted closer to the desk and began to try to figure out which piles he should be looking in. Clyde was notorious for his clutter, and when the photographer came to take the famous photo that now appeared on the back cover of every single one of his books, it had to be cropped so badly due to the mess surrounding him that they lost his shoulders on either side of the photo. Clyde always joked that it made him look thinner. But he had also demanded the photo be taken at the desk where he wrote, even though the photographer had desperately wanted him to pose in front of the pond as the sun set.
The desk was still a mess of pencils, rubber bands, erasers, and three different dictionaries. On top of the tallest pile was a Bible open to the book of John and written in as if he might have tried to write the book himself.
The pile closest to him consisted of a lot of white lined notebook paper, bound together with three thin rubber bands. Jonathan unwrapped it, one of the rubber bands snapping and stinging him on the hand, and thumbed through the pages. He realized that this pile was the handwritten version of the manuscript pages Jonathan already had. Years ago, the house finally convinced Clyde to hire someone to type out his work so it could be easily read by everyone involved. He did it, but not without kicking and screaming all the way. He finally found a nice young college student who typed one hundred ten words a minute and needed a little extra money, and everyone had joked through the years—she was now married with three children—that the only thing that had booted Clyde into this century was a pretty brunette who bleached her hair blond. The woman still typed his manuscripts to this day and was now his housekeeper.
“I’m a sucker for blondes,” Clyde once told Jonathan when he had asked him why every lead female in his books was blond. Jonathan made a mental note to talk to her soon. He hadn’t thought of it before, but it was likely she was the one typing out all the pages about him for Clyde.
Jonathan pushed that pile aside and chuckled a little at the fact that the wood on the edges of his desk was being held together with masking tape. This was certainly not a man who needed a beautiful environment to write in.
Jonathan thumbed through a few more piles, hoping to find any clue that would indicate Clyde was the writer. As he was wading through it all, he stumbled across a folder marked Notes written in Clyde’s sloppy handwriting across three other headings that had been crossed out.
He opened the folder and several pieces of loose paper fell out and floated to the ground. Trying not to fall out of the chair, Jonathan gathered them all up and set them in front of him. He figured they were notes for the book he was writing currently, maybe some information on serial killers, the FBI, or district attorneys. But as Jonathan read closer, he realized that every single note within the folder was a piece of Scripture. One read, in shaky, arthritic handwriting, 1 John 2:2: He Himself is the propitiation for our sins. Another, written on a yellow sticky note, said, John 18:12: So the Roman cohort and the commander, and the officers of the Jews, arrested Jesus and bound Him.
Jonathan thumbed through more notes, and every single one of them was a passage of Scripture. One, written in large handwriting and underlined, read, John 19:10–11: Pilate therefore said to Him, “You do not speak to me? Do You not know that I have authority to release You, and I have authority to crucify You?” Jesus answered, “You would have no authority over Me, unless it had been given you from above; for this reason he who delivered Me up to you has the greater sin.”
Jonathan sighed, trying to make sense of it all. Why in the world would Clyde have a folder full of Scripture? Then Jonathan saw a piece of paper that made him set everything else down. It was white paper, and the Scripture was written neatly in the middle of the page in dark red ink. It read, Isaiah 61:1: The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and freedom to prisoners. The words prisoners and freedom were underlined with dark blue ink, and at the bottom of the page was a large star. Jonathan flipped the page over and was astonished to find many more Scriptures. Luke 4:18: He has sent Me to proclaim release to the captives. Zechariah 9:11–12: As for you also, because of the blood of My covenant with you, I have set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. Return to the stronghold, O prisoners who have the hope; This very day I am declaring that I will restore double to you.
Jonathan continued to sift through the notes, and every single piece of paper in there, from what he could tell, had Scripture on it. After a few minutes, he finally closed the folder, perplexed by what he had found. Why in the world would he have a folder full of verses from the Bible? Was this a clue he needed?
Jonathan set the folder aside carefully and continued to wade through the mess. The rest of the desk proved no more helpful. Scrap pieces of paper, notes from a book three years ago, and a sack of unopened fan mail was just about all he found.
“He hasn’t finished the book,” Jonathan said, hoping his words weren’t true but unable to find anything that would indicate otherwise. Still, he had a lot more to go through: file drawers, cabinets, and several piles stacked on the floor near his desk. What was he going to do if it wasn’t finished? Clyde’s manuscript was all he was hanging on to, and since there was no synopsis it would be hard to find a ghostwriter to finish it. His job was at stake on this one.
Jonathan returned his focus to finding clues from the other manuscript. So far, nothing odd had turned up, other than the folder of notes from the Bible. Jonathan opened every drawer in the room. The door opened and the man in the suit peeked in.
“Mr. Harper, we’re just about to wrap up here.” Jonathan nodded. “Um, we did get ahold of Nellie Benson. She asked us to relay a message to you. She would like you to come to the office as soon as possible.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“She was pretty torn up by the whole thing.”
“I’ll be right out.”
The man shut the door and Jonathan stood in the middle of the room, scanning it with his tired eyes, trying to find something, anything, that would link Clyde with the manuscript about his life. After a few more moments of no luck, Jonathan decided he would leave and maybe come back the next day.
But just before he turned to open the door, something caught his eye. He didn’t know why he missed it before. Perhaps he had been at a bad angle. But from where he stood now, he realized that underneath that heavy sweater on the typewriter was a single sheet of white paper.
He gently picked up the sweater, remembering how much that old thing meant to Clyde, and then sat down at the typewriter. He slowly pulled the paper out and read it.
For Jonathan,
may you find the light
that has always shined for you
and may it reveal itself
in the pages that you have read
and guide you to your first love.
Jonathan let out a breath that felt as if it had been held in for weeks. He read and reread the six simple lines, then laughed weakly as he read them one more time. This was it! This was his clue. This was what must be the dedication page for the manuscript he had been writing about Jonathan’s life. It didn’t answer a lot of questions, but it did answer one. Clyde was the author of that manuscript, and though many things remained unanswered, Jonathan knew one thing for sure. He would, thank God, never receive another manila envelope containing pages about his life again.
chapter 21
Kathy’s van sat idling near his assigned parking spot. She was out of her car before Jonathan could get out of his, and they met halfway on the sidewalk. Kathy rushed into his arms and Jonathan held her for a moment. Then Kathy looked up at him.
“What happened?” She held his hands. “Did anything bad happen?”
Jonathan couldn’t keep his bottom lip from trembling, but he managed to keep the pool of tears in his eyes in check, at least for now.
“Jonathan?” She squeezed his hands as her eyes grew larger. “What happened? Please don’t tell me that . . . that . . .”
“It’s over.”
“It’s over?” Kathy barely managed.
“Yes. Clyde’s the writer. I have proof.”
“But—”
“Kathy,” he said, holding up a finger to stop her from going on. “There’s something very important I have to tell you. Something very sad.”
By this point, Kathy couldn’t even speak and she was holding her breath, so Jonathan thought he’d better continue quickly.
“Honey, when I got to Clyde’s house, there were police cars, an ambulance and . . . a fire truck. . . .”
Kathy covered her mouth with her hands.
“Clyde . . . died in his sleep last night.”
Her uncontrollable sobs were loud enough for everyone in the parking lot to hear. Jonathan grasped her around the shoulders and led her back toward her van where the kids were plastered to the windows, watching everything.
“I can’t believe it,” she said through loud sobs. “Clyde is dead?”
“Yes, honey. He died peacefully.” He laughed a little to try to hold back the tears that were threatening to escape. “In his favorite pajamas.”
Kathy shook her head. “What are we going to tell the girls? They’ll be devastated.”
Jonathan stopped her a few yards away from the van. “We just have to tell them the truth. But I don’t want them to know Clyde was the one who . . . well, you know. They don’t need to know that.”
Kathy glanced back at the van and said, “But, honey, I need to—”
“Sweetheart, Nellie’s a wreck, and I’m going to have to go upstairs and figure out what’s going to happen with Clyde’s book.” Jonathan stuck his hands in his pockets to try to get the feeling back to them since he had left his coat at the office earlier. “I’m not sure he has finished his book. Maybe he was too busy on another piece of work.”
Kathy didn’t find that funny, but Jonathan was past the point of caring too much about what people were thinking of him. He’d stood on the edge of sanity and dangled one foot into the black hole.
“Please, honey. I know it’s going to be hard, but I’ve got to get to the office. The press is going to be here any minute, and Nellie’s going to need help trying to figure all this out.”
Kathy wiped her nose on her sleeve and zipped her coat up as high as it would go. “The girls are going to be so upset.”
“I know, I know.” Jonathan hugged her again. “But you can go home now. It’s safe. And I’ll be home as soon as I can. Let’s plan on still going to Eleanor’s early, okay?”
Jonathan walked her the rest of the way to the van, avoiding the peering faces stuck to the slightly tinted glass. He opened the van door for her, but before she got in, she said, “What did you find that made you so sure Clyde was this writer?”
Jonathan took the piece of paper that had been in Clyde’s typewriter from the pocket of his pants and, without unfolding it, handed it to her and said, “I’ll be home soon.”
Jonathan couldn’t look back to see what was going on in the van. He figured Kathy would have to tell the girls right then and there, and he couldn’t bear to see all four of them crying at once. Besides, his feelings for Clyde were mixed right now, and if he wasn’t careful, he might say something he would regret.
As soon as the elevator doors opened to his floor, he knew everyone there had gotten word of Clyde’s death. As he stepped out, a few people tried to act busy and not stare, but most everyone else had completely stopped what they were doing. Jonathan straightened himself up and pretended not to notice, which was pretty silly, but it was the best he could do at the moment. He was never so glad to see Edie in his life.
She stood at her desk and said, “Jonathan, I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.” She tossed her gum in the wastebasket as a sign of solemnness. “Nellie wanted to see you right away.”
Jonathan acknowledged that with a nod and gently shut the door behind him. He stood there for a long moment, trying not to cry, trying to make sense of it all. He couldn’t take his eyes off the large eight-by-ten photo of him and Clyde at a banquet in 1989 honoring Clyde as “American Writer of the Century.”
He walked slowly to his window, his body as heavy as if there were two of him, and looked down at the parking lot. Kathy’s van was gone, but now a swarm of media had gathered. Jonathan sighed, thankful he was already in the building.
He folded his fingers together and placed his hands gently to his mouth, as if he might pray. But instead, he felt the urgency to go see Nellie. He knew she would be a wreck. Five years ago her sister had died in a car accident, and she had to take three months off to recover.
Jonathan opened his door and quietly made his way down the long hallway toward Nellie’s office. A couple of people nodded at him as he passed, and he was nearly there when Carl Osburg came out of the bathroom, nearly knocking him over. His hand reached for Jonathan’s shoulder.
“Jonathan . . .” The toe of Carl’s shoe suddenly found something interesting on the floor to trace.
“I guess you heard.”
“Yeah. Everyone here did. Nellie got a call from some guy from the medical examiner’s office. She’s not doing well.”
“I know. I’m going to see her right now.”
Carl nodded, still awfully interested in the green carpet underneath him. “That will help. You and Nellie were the closest to him.” In rare, emotional boldness, Carl managed to look him in the eye. “I know he was like a father to you.”
Carl patted Jonathan on the back and stepped aside so Jonathan could move down the hall. As he rounded the corner, several people were milling about outside Nellie’s office. One of her assistant editors, Mark Stewart, glanced up to see Jonathan and got the attention of the others so they would move out of the way.
Jonathan shook his hand. “How is she?”
“She’ll be better now that you’re here. She’s . . . she’s pretty torn up.” Jonathan looked at the crowd around him, and Mark added, “She wanted to be alone.”
“Oh. Should I go in?”
“Most definitely,” and he opened the door for him.
Inside, Nellie was collapsed on her desk, her head turned to the side with a tissue near her nose. As soon as her door opened, she sat up, saw Jonathan, and wailed hysterically. Jonathan moved nearer and offered open arms, which Nellie jumped into and wailed even harder.
“I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” she said, her mascara running down her face like a pen leaking ink.
“Well, Nellie, he was an old man.” Jonathan grabbed another tissue and dabbed her eyes.
“But he was so healthy. It just came so suddenly.” She blew her nose and returned to her chair. “I mean, I’m brokenhearted and scared to death.”
Jonathan knew she was talking about the house. Clyde was their premier writer. They had tried to find bankable writers over the years, but no one matched Clyde. No one came close. And now they were without their money-maker. Even though he had already retired, this was very final.
Jonathan sat on the edge of her desk. “Well, we know his death will get a lot of publicity, so that will help boost sales for a while anyway.” Jonathan hoped he didn’t sound too callous.
