Read Online The Matter With Morris by David Bergen - Free Book Online Page B

there was a very natural bond between the two books; both about women who are trapped. Beth Ann smiled and said, “Well, they do both kill themselves, don’t they? Anyways, Emma traps herself.” And then she said that she and Tom were having a party on Saturday night, would he like to come? He had hummed and given an indefinite answer. Now he stepped out into the hallway, as if Beth Ann might miraculously appear and want to continue the conversation about nineteenth-centurywomen, but he saw no one. He stepped back inside and phoned Mervine, from the men’s group.
    Mervine, in a moment of vulnerability, had recently asked Morris to help him write letters to his ex-wife. Mervine had said that he wasn’t a very good writer, he didn’t have a way with words, and he figured if Morris wrote something persuasive and forgiving and not too elegant, then his wife might be convinced to come back to him. And if not convinced of that, she might at least be persuaded that she shouldn’t have left a man who could write such fine words. There was no answer and so Morris left Mervine a message and said that they should get together to play pool, or maybe have a bite to eat, lunch or dinner, it didn’t matter to him. He had all the time in the world. He’d just been fired from his job. He sat in his leather chair, aware that his own flesh and blood, his family, existed out there in the city, living their lives, and he wondered if Libby was with Shane. He pondered this and as he pondered his anger grew. The man was an outright charlatan. Morris picked up the phone and called the university. The switchboard transferred him to Dr. McKibben’s voice-mail, and when the message cut in, Morris waited and then said: “Mr. McKibben, this is Morris Schutt. A while back I left you a note about my daughter, Libby Schutt. I pushed the note under your door, and as I have not heard back from you, and as I know that you are still with my daughter, I can only imagine that the note was vacuumed up by a janitor and you did not see it, or I can assume that your silence is an admission of guilt on your part. What you are doing is wrong. You know that. Look at it this way. If you were seventeen yearsold, she would be a one-year-old. Would a teenager date a one-year-old? You see what I mean? Perhaps you are having trouble with attachment, or perhaps you suffered as a child, you didn’t get enough love, or something was broken at a tender age. Figure that out, sir, but figure it out with the help of a shrink, or talk to a friend, or talk to your mother. Don’t use my daughter to assuage your sickness. I will keep calling and I will leave notes, and if you don’t act in a proper manner, I will have to take further action, the kind of action that cannot please you. Though I am a pacifist, in this case I would be willing to meet you in a back alley and use my fists. There are people I can talk to, sir. The ethics board. The president of the university. I know him. I could easily write a column about you, Mr. McKibben, and it would not be flattering. How would you like that? I didn’t think so. In fact, you might try to sue me. Good luck with that. Anyway, that’s all for today. I look forward to you making the right decision.” Morris hung up. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was dry. He stood and poured himself some juice and drank it quickly, feeling the cold deep in his chest.
    He still felt the need to talk and so he phoned Samuel in Idaho, which would surprise his brother because they rarely spoke. No answer there either. His brother was a teacher of Arabic who worked secretly for the CIA. He had done this for a number of years now, ever since the Americans had suffered that terrible loss on September 11 and then had decided that whoever was not for them was against them. And they proceeded to pillory all things Muslim. And Samuel, his brother, had benefitted. He had told Morris this when he’dlast come to visit their father, leaning forward