Ghost writer, p.38
Ghost Writer, page 38
A waitress took Jonathan’s order and then he said, “Tell me. How did the reading go last night?”
Zippy seemed to suddenly focus and his expression became serious. He pulled the pages out of a dirty old backpack. “I finished it. Every single word.”
Jonathan smiled with delight. “Wonderful. Any thoughts on the ending?”
Zippy arranged the pages mindlessly. His thoughts were elsewhere. Finally he looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I know how it ends. I’m surprised you don’t.”
Jonathan frowned and cocked his head to the side. “You are? Why is that?”
Zippy’s eyes dropped to the pages beneath his hands. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“No, Francis, please. What is it?”
Jonathan had never seen a more sincere face on Zippy during their entire acquaintance. He seemed disturbed and anxious and gently determined. He scratched his head and said, “Well, this was obviously the first draft. Lacking a lot of character development. Missing some important plot points. Not unusual for a first draft from Clyde Baxter, from what I hear.”
“Repairable, I’m assuming?”
“Yes, of course. Nothing I can’t manage. For the right price.”
“Always.” Jonathan leaned forward on the wobbly table. “So? Are you going to keep me guessing? How does it end?”
“He dies.”
Zippy’s voice was strong and his words had a rare finality about them. Jonathan paused, then tore a packet of sugar open and poured it into his mug. “He dies. Okay. Sort of a downer ending, isn’t it?”
“Well, in one sense, yes. In another sense, no.”
“What do you mean?”
Zippy removed his glasses before he began. “It’s not a downer for the man he’s set free, now, is it?”
Jonathan thought about it. “So we’re supposed to be happy about the murderer denying his knowledge of this guy’s innocence and taking a freedom that didn’t belong to him in the first place?” Jonathan shrugged. “Not exactly bonding material for the reader, is it?”
Zippy’s fingers traced the edges of the pages. “It’s a fascinating story, really, if you look close.”
Jonathan was intrigued by Zippy’s sudden abating offensiveness. He seemed real and normal in a way that surprised Jonathan into a curious stare.
Zippy continued. “The innocent man is set up by incarnate evil, yet it isn’t the schemes and plotting of this that kills him in the end anyway. It’s his silence. It’s his love for this other prisoner.” Zippy looked up at Jonathan. “He chose to die so a guilty man could go free.”
Jonathan wanted to laugh, but a disturbing motion of rationalization stirred his spirit. He kept his voice quiet. “A little farfetched, wouldn’t you say?”
Zippy put his glasses back on his nose and said, “Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Depends on if it’s ever happened to you.” Zippy pulled his perpetual handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. He remained silent, inviting a moment to think for both of them.
Jonathan tried to follow. “I see. So . . . has it ever happened to you? I didn’t realize you had a prison record, Francis.” Jonathan smiled at his own joke. Zippy found nothing funny about it. “Lincoln Smith isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘likeable.’ That’s what I meant.”
“It has happened to me, actually. And I thought it had happened to you.” Zippy’s bloodshot eyes seemed to stare deeper into Jonathan’s. Jonathan shook his head and laughed a little.
“I’m afraid not.”
Zippy folded his handkerchief as he said, “Fascinating approach, really. Very strong marketing points . . . making the serial killer the beginning focal point of the book. People love stuff like that. Look at The Silence of the Lambs. The movie won an Oscar, for crying out loud.” Jonathan couldn’t take his eyes off Zippy. “The FBI agent and his sidekick DA lady make for interesting characters. But I do find it odd that we never meet the character that the entire book revolves around. Don’t you?” He stirred his coffee and glanced up. “Don’t you want to know this man more?”
Jonathan took out a note pad from his briefcase. “Well, I guess. Isn’t the main character the FBI agent, though?”
“I suppose we do follow a man’s journey to try to stop evil only to find a man who turns evil for good and makes the ultimate sacrifice for an unworthy prisoner’s freedom.”
“Maybe the angle Clyde was taking from here on out is what effect it has on this Spade character. What do you think? Does it affect him?”
“Sure.”
Jonathan sipped his coffee. “Why can’t the Spade fellow save him? Wouldn’t that be a more exciting ending? A better one? He could get there just in the nick of time.”
Zippy didn’t miss a beat. “I guess that depends on who you want your savior to be.”
Jonathan felt a strangeness in the air, but he dismissed it and continued. “Okay. So the hero, you mean?”
“You’re uncomfortable with the word savior?” Zippy asked with directness.
Jonathan felt defensive. “No. I’m just clarifying here. Besides, why are you so sure the death of the innocent prisoner was Clyde’s intended ending?”
“I read his notes.”
“He didn’t have any notes.”
Zippy pulled the folder he had taken the night before out from underneath the manuscript. “These were his notes.”
Jonathan took the folder and glanced at the contents. “A bunch of Bible verses?”
Zippy took the folder back, straightened the notes, and bound the manuscript in a rubber band. “That’s the conclusion I came to. I feel quite certain that this is the ending Clyde wanted. But it’s in your hands now.” He handed the pile over to Jonathan. “Let me know what you decide.”
“You’re offended, Francis?” Jonathan asked carefully.
“Offended. No. Yuppies offend me. I’m perplexed.”
“Perplexed. Well, I must say I am, too. I’m still wondering why Clyde wrote this manuscript. He told me before he died it was something he had to do.” Jonathan shook his head. “Something he had to do before he died. I guess he started a little too late.”
Zippy stood and gathered his things. “Actually, I was talking about you. You perplex me.”
Jonathan frowned. “Me? Why?”
Zippy shrugged. “Because I thought you would know this story. I thought it would be as clear to you as it is to me.”
Jonathan stood, too. “Francis, if you feel this strongly about the ending, I will consider it. I’ve got the afternoon to think about it. I’m not completely on board with the idea, but it’s growing on me.”
Zippy took one last look at Jonathan before adjusting his glasses. He had begun to move around Jonathan toward the door, but Jonathan stopped him with a gentle hand. “Francis . . . I . . . I want to thank you for this. For helping me out. I’m . . . I guess you could say I’m on my last leg with the house. I just . . . really need this.”
Zippy buttoned his stained cardigan that looked like it would perfectly fit a schoolgirl and said, “That’s not what you need, Jonathan. Not what you need at all.”
------
The afternoon and night, until the early hours of the morning, were spent locked away in his study, typing out proposals, contemplating Clyde’s manuscript, rewriting, and then tossing it all and starting over. Jonathan’s head pounded with pressure and his muscles ached with stress. But he was relentless. This had to get done. His job, his reputation, and even a little bit of his sanity depended on it.
His process was slowed down, though, by the looming thoughts of the page the writer had sent and the words of Pastor Gregory that morning. He was beyond answers and knew it, but his mind convinced him to keep trying to find that single clue that would lead him to an answer. And his mind was not about to let him forget the death threats that Sydney’s fiancé, Jeremy, was supposedly making toward him. Was it just a coincidence that the writer had told him to embrace his death? Was it as close as the angry young man in leather? Did Jeremy really intend to kill him?
And then there was the odd conversation with Zippy that afternoon. He had never seen Zippy like that. It was as if he’d found his element. But the question was, what exactly was that element?
Jonathan warmed his hands against the fresh cup of coffee he had poured and leaned into his chair. He contemplated Clyde’s story line with the ending that Zippy had offered—insisted upon. It wasn’t such an unlikely ending. Many classics were made famous by their disturbing endings.
But Nellie didn’t want a classic. She wanted a bestseller.
If he chose that ending, he knew much of the book would have to be rewritten. He would have to find some motivation for the James character to die for Lincoln Smith. After all, the man was a filthy, lying, no-good criminal who was hardly worth the clothes on his back. What in the world would make someone like Joseph James give his life for him? Maybe they knew each other. Or maybe Smith had done something kind for James a long time ago. That would need to be resolved.
Secondly, he would need to know more about Joseph James. If not, then it was just a shell of a story. It wasn’t real. But he was sure Zippy could handle that. He did think it was odd that Clyde hadn’t developed him more. He was a great writer. He knew better than to leave a character underdeveloped like that, even in the first draft.
Jonathan’s thoughts drifted to the character of Dietrich Donomar. He wondered what inspired Clyde to write such a purely evil character. And why did the whole story revolve around him, instead of the James character? If you’re going to have a hero, at least get to know him.
He pictured Clyde at his desk with a yellow note pad, writing illegibly, drinking iced tea. Why had this story been so important to him? A serial killer? A hero we know nothing about? A prisoner set free for no good reason? The story itself was as perplexing as the motivation for writing it.
Still . . . something about it kept him rallying for it. Maybe it was just his desperation for two good sells. Maybe it was clouding his judgment. Maybe Clyde Baxter’s book was nothing more than an old man’s attempt at one last hurrah.
No. It was more than that. This story had a meaning. If only to Clyde. But now Jonathan had to make it have meaning for everyone other than Clyde.
The clock read 1:43 A.M. Jonathan moved to his computer and began to type. He was surprised how fast and easy the ideas flowed out of him. With each passing minute, Jonathan Harper felt he was creating a masterpiece. And an hour and a half later, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the strange story about the serial killer, the prisoner, and the innocent hero would pass with flying colors.
But shades of gray quickly colored over his confidence in the form of doubt. A battle inside him brewed. He had to make a decision by morning.
------
“How do I look?” Jonathan nervously asked the four women at the table.
“Wonderful,” Kathy said.
“Very professional,” Meg offered.
“I like your tie!” Leesol chimed in.
Jonathan looked at Sophie. “What about you, sweetheart? You think Daddy looks good this morning?”
“Daddeeee!” Sophie squealed, then took a handful of oatmeal and hurled it at Jonathan. It splattered on his tie and white shirt as if he’d had a bull’s-eye painted there.
“Sophie!” Kathy scolded, rushing over to a stunned Jonathan. “Honey, here, let me help you.” Kathy carefully removed his jacket. “It missed this, at least. Let’s go upstairs and get a new white shirt and tie.” Kathy glanced back at the table. “Meg, watch your sisters.”
Upstairs, Kathy went to the closet and came out with a new white shirt and dark-colored tie. Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and removed his stained clothing. “This was my lucky tie,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ve worn it every time I’ve had a big proposal.” He looked up at his wife. “And this is my biggest day ever.”
Kathy handed him the tie and shirt. “You’ll do fine. You don’t need a lucky tie.”
Jonathan stood and put on the new shirt. “I feel sick.”
“Do you need breakfast? Breakfast would help.”
“No. I can’t eat.”
Kathy touched his face. “Jonathan, you’re going to do fine. This isn’t life or death.”
Jonathan tried to hide the fact that a cold chill ran up his spine. He pulled away from her and went to the bathroom, pretending to need to check his hair. “Okay, I guess I’ll get going.”
Kathy followed him downstairs and helped him on with his coat. She kissed him and then wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Knock ’em dead.”
“Enough with the death analogies, okay?” Jonathan said half jokingly. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”
She laid the collar of his coat down. “All right. Break a leg. Does that work?”
Jonathan smiled and kissed her. “I’ll take that over being dead any day of the week.”
Jonathan looked at his three girls, who sat at the table with encouraging, bright smiles on their faces.
“Good luck, Daddy!” Meg said, and the other two nodded.
“Thanks. I love all of you.”
Jonathan walked outside and down the sidewalk. As he unlocked his car, the lump in his throat grew bigger. “Please, God, let me see them again,” he whispered, his breath freezing in front of him and then blowing away in the strong north wind.
The drive to work was slow. A heavy snow had fallen the night before and the salt trucks lined the main streets, slowing traffic down even further. Jonathan didn’t mind. The meeting wasn’t until eleven, and he was in no hurry to get anywhere fast.
He was on three hours’ sleep. He’d pitched proposals on less. But, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of the events in his life.
As if the strange manuscript about his life wasn’t enough of a mystery, the last page seemed to have a mystery of its own. Jonathan had assumed the death it said was required of him was a physical death. But Pastor Gregory had spoken the same words and meant a spiritual death. What was the difference? And which did the writer mean? Jonathan’s thoughts darkened as he wondered if there was a difference at all. Many men had died a physical death to keep from dying a spiritual one.
Perhaps the guilt he still felt over Sydney brought him to the conclusion that he should die a physical death. It had been many, many years since adultery was punishable by death, yet the guilt that came with it was enough to condemn him alone.
A car in front of him slid sideways and then recovered, causing Jonathan to use greater caution. Unless, of course, the writer controlled the weather as well and this was how he was to fulfill those mysteriously prophetic words.
His thoughts mingled together like old friends until he reached the parking lot of the publishing house. He parked his car in his reserved spot and sat with the engine running. The tall building loomed over him, and he realized he’d never noticed much about it before. He’d walked in and out of it, had failures and successes in it, made friends and enemies inside the doors, but he’d never really noticed how dark the windows were or how red the brick was. He never noticed the landscaping that was now covered in white snow. He smiled a little. It was amazing how beautiful snow made everything. Even the dirty parking lot, stained with oil and tire marks, glowed like a white cloud underneath a hot sun. The snow blanketed everything and made it pure. If only he could be covered like that. If only he could be made pure.
He turned off his engine and wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. He started to button his coat until he glanced out of his window. Snow had begun to fall again. It fell lightly, as if not heavy enough to even carry it to the ground. Jonathan looked up to find a small cloud from the west moving in, nearly covering the sun, but not quite.
Stepping out of his vehicle, he planted his foot firmly into the snow so as not to slip, then buttoned his coat and covered his face with his scarf. He grabbed his briefcase and shuffled his way up the sidewalk and into the building. The monotony of his routine brought him little comfort, and he was barely aware the elevator doors had opened to his floor until Nellie walked by and said, “Don’t forget the meeting.”
Jonathan nodded and walked exactly seventeen paces to Edie’s desk, picked up his memos, avoided Edie’s eyes, and went to his office. He set his briefcase down on his desk, removed his coat, threw it over a chair, then pulled up the shades.
He pressed his hands against the window. The snow was falling harder now. The sky was almost entirely white. Everything below was dusted completely by it. Nothing was left untouched by its beauty. Except him.
It was out there. And he was in here. He was separated from it by an invisible piece of glass that let him look and yearn . . . but not touch.
chapter 27
Jonathan felt energized. The round table held the people who could make or break him. They were putty in his hands. Zippy’s proposal had flown without a hitch. Nellie had even winked and said, “You sold me. I can’t believe it. But you sold me.”
It was like old times. The mood was light. The trust was in him. Everyone was laughing and joking. Things couldn’t be better.
Robert Huff, another senior editor, was passing croissants around the table. “The big dog is back!”
“Woof, woof!” Peter Strong, managing editor, added. “I gotta hand it to you, Harper, we’ve been joking for weeks about this.”
Jonathan smiled smoothly, passing on the croissants but pouring himself a glass of water. “You doubted me?” he asked with a charming grin.
