The Matter With Morris

by David Bergen

  “You were at his place for the night? Your mother said that was okay?”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “What are you talking about? He’s leaving me.”

  “Yes, I understand that. And I’m sorry. But you were there, at his place, and he waited until the morning to tell you? After breakfast?”

  “Daddy, she’s your age. Don’t you see? She’s probably got a daughter my age. I’m so ashamed.”

  “No, no, Libby. You have nothing to be ashamed about. He should be ashamed, the son of a bitch. What nonsense. ‘Unripe.’“

  “You know what else he said? He said she was amazing. I asked what he meant, stupid me, and he said she was amazing in every way. She was smart, she played the cello, she was great in bed, she made him feel complete. And then I threw my coffee at him.”

  “Good for you. You hit him with it, I hope.”

  “Oh, Daddy. Mommy said good too. When I told her she said, ‘Good, he doesn’t deserve you.’“ And she began to cry again and he took her arm and led her to his bedroom and made her lie down, and he pulled the blanket up to her chin and he bent to kiss her and quickly, so quickly, she fell asleep, as if drugged, and in her sleep she must have dreamed because she shuddered and her left arm jumped and her eyelids, the softest and most delicate things, flickered. How young she was, what beautiful, beautiful skin, so perfect. Lucille had had skin like that once, so long ago, when Morris was first in love with her. They had taken so much for granted, as if she and he and their youthful blazing condition would last forever and ever. This is how one thinks at that age. Note, Morris thought, read Hobbes. The phone rang and rang and then fell silent. Morris did not have an answering machine; he had rid himself of that as well. The light was sucked from the room. He sat beside Libby and held her hand as she slept and he thought, Yes, this too shall pass, and he imagined writing a column in which he would describe a daughter’s fall from innocence and the misogynist who had invoked it.

  At some point, he released Libby’s hand and he wandered about the condo with a heavy heart. He washed the few dishes in the kitchen sink, dried them, and stored them in the cabinet. He scrubbed three pairs of black socks by hand and hung them from the shower rod. Libby slept. The phone rang again but he ignored it. He sat down at his desk, turned on the lamp, and took out paper and pen and began to write.

  Dear Ursula,

  Today I went for a walk around the park and I sat on a bench in the afternoon sunlight and I reflected on my life and the life of my family, my brother, my father, my wife, and my children. I thought of you as well, though you came to me later, as an ideal almost, like a photograph one keeps in a special place and then, while rummaging about looking for something that was lost, the photograph is suddenly found by chance and there is surprise and pleasure in the discovery. That was you. I found I was pleased, I had soft thoughts, and I began to miss you. I recalled our conversation about duty and I realized that it was immoral of me to allow my son to go to war. Not because he died, but because he entered a world where he was a mere object, a commodity, an article of trade. My country said, “We need you, Martin Schutt, to put on a uniform and hold a gun and to aim that gun at the enemy, and for that we will pay you a certain amount of money and we will clothe and feed you and perhaps educate you.” And then, when he was killed, they clapped the pitiful parents on the back and said, “Well done, thou good and faithful fool.” My country could not see that Martin Schutt was more than an object to be manipulated. I did not see that. When my case comes up in court, would I want myself on the jury? I think not. I have stopped living as if there is a relation between the way the world is and how I ought to act in it. My father, who could be wrong in so many ways, was right when he preached that salvation was first and foremost about clothing the poor and feeding the hungry. Are you hungry, Ursula? I am. Hungry and thirsty, though I am not sure for what. I ache, this I know. When you said, “Smell me,” it was the most erotic moment of my life, as if your body might divulge some secret. Perhaps I was hunting for your soul. For we are more than just skin and bones and cock and cunt and intestines and grey matter and shit and blood, are we not? On my knees that night, I smelled something more than just your hair, your body, your beautiful skin, didn’t I? How ineffectual I am. How small. I do not mean to frighten you, and you must be asking why I am telling you all of this. I do so because I have come to a point in my life where I must stop wanting. I must learn to stand alone, to inhabit the space given to me and not reach greedily for more. I want. I want. I want. This has been my mantra for so many years, even when I thought I was being altruistic. Even these words, my mantra, “I want,” these are not mine. They are the words of a man named Henderson. And yet, I claim them. You see, I am inauthentic, a charlatan. And so, I am telling you, with a sad heart, that I will not be travelling down to Minneapolis to see you again. I cannot. I have two daughters, a grandson, an estranged wife, a son I have not yet even buried, all of these people to take care of. But mostly, I have myself to care for and I am not doing a very good job. Placing myself in your arms is not the answer. You are good.

  Morris

  Morris put down his pen, folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote down Ursula’s address, which he now knew by heart. He stood and went to check on Libby, who was still sleeping. It appeared she might sleep through the night. He paced his small apartment, picking up a book and then setting it down, putting the water on to boil, making tea, and then placing it aside absent-mindedly. Finally, he phoned Lucille, who answered immediately and asked, “Is Libby with you?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Morris, why didn’t you answer? I’ve been going crazy. Is she all right?”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “I did everything wrong,” Lucille said. “I was unkind and mean. I was so happy that Shane was finally out of her life that I paid no attention to her sadness.”

  “She told me.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “That you were happy.”

  “Oh, I am, I was, but I didn’t mean her. I wasn’t happy that she was hurt.”

  “Of course you weren’t.”

  “I’m so tired, Morris. I can’t be the good mother all the time.”

  “She’ll be fine, Lucille. She’s a strong girl. I was watching her sleep just now and I thought of you when you were young. You have the same skin texture. Very lovely.”

  “Really? What else, Morris? I felt so bad, I thought she’d run away.”

  “She did. She ran over here. Your eyebrows are similar too, though Libby doesn’t pluck hers.”

  “I’m glad you were there. I’m glad she has both of us.”

  “She was furious that Shane had found someone almost as old as her own mother. Such indignation.”

  Lucille laughed lightly, a sound Morris had not heard in a long time. He tilted his head and marvelled. “The woman’s practically my age,” he said.

  “Maybe she’s got implants. Maybe her skin’s been stretched tight. Did you leave me because I was getting old, Morris?”

  “You left me, Lucille. Remember?”

  “Did I? I thought it was mutual.”

  “And then so quickly you were in bed with that heart surgeon.” He realized as he said this that he was a cuckold. How did the heart surgeon leap so quickly into Lucille’s bed when he, Morris Schutt, had had to wait over a year? Was it aging that had made Lucille reckless? But then, he too had been reckless. But that was before, before. These days he was attempting to achieve moderation. A change of heart.

  “Shh, don’t talk like that. Can I confess something, Morris, without you telling the world? Harvey bores me. He watches too much TV, football, men with tattoos hitting each other. He likes reality shows.” Her voice dropped to a bare whisper. “And he doesn’t like to go down on me.” Morris imagined her annoyance, the haughty shift of her shoulders. Her voice rose again, assured now. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a kind man, gentler than you. The other day he picked me up fr
om work and gave me flowers and took me out for dinner. It was lovely, but something was wrong, like he was doing what he thought I might want.” She sounded wistful. Made a slight noise, a throat-clearing, and said, “I got a Brazilian. Well, not quite, there’s just a little landing strip. He doesn’t like it.”

  “Really?” Morris’s voice had gone husky. She missed him. “Can I land there?”

  “You want to, Mo?”

  “I do, I do.” Then he said giddily, as if this were the confessional part of the day, “I left Dr. Shane McKibben a message a while ago. I’d been trying to find him to have a talk and he was avoiding me, so I left him a phone message. I said that if he didn’t stop seeing our daughter I would take him to court, I would have his job rescinded, I’d report him to the board of ethics, call in the president of the university, and if that didn’t work, I would personally meet him in a back alley. He never got back to me.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.” But she was laughing.

  “Is it? I thought it would please you.”

  “What if Libby finds out?”

  “She’s said nothing, and she would have if Shane had told her.”

  Morris heard a noise, a little scrabble or scratch, and he looked up to see Libby standing in the doorway. She was puffy eyed, rubbing her face, looking about.

  “Hey,” Morris said. “You’re awake.” He held the phone in the air. “It’s your mother.” He searched her face to see if she had overheard him, foolish man. She looked stunned from sleep as she pushed her hand through the air, dismissing the phone. She shuffled to the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Morris?” This was Lucille, calling out.

  Morris came back to the phone and said, “She’s still half asleep, she’ll call you later.”

  “Why don’t you have an answering machine, Morris? Why are you cutting yourself off? I told Harvey about the stocks, the RRSPs, the cellphone, and he said two words. ‘Solipsistic’ and ‘selfish.’ I agree.”

  “Nice alliteration. Harvey’s suddenly a poet now? The man is gifted.”

  “Don’t, Morris.”

  “You don’t. Don’t tell me what Harvey says. I don’t need Harvey’s psychiatric evaluation. I’ve got you and Dr. G for that.”

  “Have you been seeing him, Morris?”

  “No. I stopped going. Last month.”

  “You must go back. He’s good for you.”

  “Is he? Jacob Boehme is also good for me. I’m learning a lot from him. And Aristotle and Augustine. Have you read Cicero, Lucy? He writes very wisely about grief. He says that we must shed distress or it will bring gauntness, pain, depression, and disfigurement.”

  She laughed. Not just briefly, but for a good number of seconds and with a hiccup in between. Then she said more soberly, “I have suffered all of those, Morris. The gauntness especially.”

  “Yes, I saw that the other day. You’ve lost too much weight.”

  “Size six now.”

  “Really?” And he thought of the pants he had bought that afternoon, suddenly the wrong size, and he wondered if he should still expedite them to her the next day, as a sign that he was thinking of her. The thought was of the utmost importance. She could return them.

  She said, “You always wanted me skinnier. That was one of our problems. That you couldn’t accept me for who I was.”

  “Is that true? I thought that you couldn’t accept yourself.”

  She ignored this and then, just before she hung up, she said that she had thought of the perfect place to spread Martin’s ashes. “Lake Atitlán,” she said. “By my sister’s rock garden where Martin liked to sit and look out at the water. The whole family could go at Christmas.” She paused and concluded with “Think about it, okay, Morris?” and she hung up. He put the phone down and looked at his daughter, who had come back into the room.

  “You were talking about me,” she said.

  “Were we?” He was anticipating the barrage, the accusation of meddling, the tears, but Libby was absolutely calm, as if she had no more tears to cry. She said that Shane had told her about the phone call, about Morris’s threats. “He called you hysterical and hilarious. He said, ‘Who does he think he is?’ and I said, ‘He’s my father.’ I didn’t mind you doing that, Dad. I was secretly happy, but that’s not why he left me.”

  What sudden wisdom from the mouth of this child. Or had she always been wise? Perhaps he had been blind, though he knew Libby was full of sympathy and grace, this was evident from her work in the hospital, from her treatment of her grandfather even as he babbled like a child. She was generous, she was naive; she believed that bad things should not happen in the world. Or was that naiveté? It might simply be hope and compassion, qualities that he strove for yet failed to achieve. He stood, suddenly alert, calling out, “I have something,” and he went to the bedroom and rummaged through his bags and pulled out the Dolce & Gabbana shoes, pale blue with those lovely heels, and he brought them back and handed them to her and said, “For you.”

  “Daddy,” she whispered, and she took them and laid down the left shoe very softly and she held the right and then leaned forward and slipped it on. Morris watched. She picked up the left shoe and put that on as well. She stood. She was wearing jeans and the jeans were tight at the calves, and as she walked away from him and then swivelled and walked back to him, he saw that they were perfect and that she was pleased.

  “How did you know my size? Oh, Daddy, thank you, they’re beautiful.” She bent to kiss him on the cheek and he, like a charlatan almost on the verge of no longer pretending, ducked his head, considered, and then lifted it again and said, “You’re welcome.”

  And why not? Why shouldn’t his beautiful daughter benefit from his passions, his mistakes, his stubborn fantasies? To stumble and then correct oneself, this was a necessary and exquisite thing. She didn’t need to know why he bought the shoes. She ought not to know anything about Leah. Ought-not, what a lovely little combination, so fresh it should have a flower named after it. I would like a bouquet of ought-nots for my sweet bohémienne.

  And yet, the following day, when the FedEx man knocked at the door, Morris experienced a moment of regret as he explained that there was only one package, and as he spilled cash into the outstretched palm, he wondered if he should run down to the consignment shop and find Leah something equally desirous. Instead, he mailed his letters. One to Ursula, and the other to the prime minister, which was the column he had written in a fit of anger. It was important to send it, he had decided. The envelope was addressed: “Prime Minister of Canada, Ottawa, Ontario.” There was a third letter, and it was addressed to the president and CEO of Colt Canada. Morris had written it in the early morning, when sleep would not come.

  Dear Sir,

  Last year, when my son was still alive and fighting in Afghanistan, he killed a member of the Taliban. He used one of your guns, a C7 assault rifle. I thought you should know that your weapons of war are working fabulously. So fabulously that several days later he himself was killed by one of your rifles. Accidents do happen, don’t they? I noted that your company is located in Kitchener, Ontario. Wow. Right next to Waterloo, where a lot of my people live. The Mennonites. We like to think of ourselves as pacifists, but this is mostly lip service. We can be hypocrites. Are you a hypocrite, sir? Do you understand that evil is voluntary and this makes man intimately responsible? In any case, my two points were these: my son managed to kill someone else with one of your guns, and he himself was killed by one of your instruments. Congratulations. You’re doing a fine job. One hundred percent.

  Morris Schutt

  This letter he sent as well. Why not? Though the devastation of the world was not the CEO’s fault alone, he needed to take some responsibility. His Weltanschauung had to be challenged. Where would we be if we all abjured accountability, if we all laid the evils of the world on the foundation of contingency?

  Excited and agitated, he dropped the letters into the mailbox, and then walked over to the local cyber café a
nd logged on and read the New York Times, the Guardian, the Washington Post, and the Independent on-line. Then, hesitantly, he perused a few of the newspapers that had syndicated his column, looking for his replacement, or some indication that he was missed, or that he would be back. There was a small note in a midwestern paper that stated Morris Schutt was on holiday and would return. A prick of pleasure, then a rueful dismissal. He wouldn’t return. Not ever. In the national paper, where his column had appeared every Monday, was a guest columnist by the name of Otto Hyperion. What nonsense the man wrote, pop psychology, all about externals, poorly composed and self-serving; though the column was funny, and Morris had to convince himself that it wasn’t. He felt rebuffed. He logged off. Then logged back on to check his stocks, forgetting that he no longer had stocks. He Googled himself and found the usual entries and several new ones, small articles declaring that Morris Schutt the columnist was on paid leave from his job. Garbage, thought Morris, I am not being paid. He went to Wikipedia and looked up “Morris Schutt.” The usual facts—where he’d studied, his work as a journalist, a list of publications with links (who writes this stuff? he wondered)—nothing new, no mention of his most recent life. The entry was quite minor compared to rock singers, movie stars. Even certain other journalists had more said about them. Perhaps they regulated their own sites, made their own entries. These days, fame was all about shameless whoring. Morris clicked on “edit” and after his name, where it read “born 1956,” he changed it to “1956–?,” and farther down the page, aware that the good denizens of this space accepted only what was verifiable and not necessarily true, he wrote, “Morris Schutt has a wife, Lucille, two daughters, and a grandson. At times he can be an out-and-out cur. He was predeceased by his son, Martin, in 2006.” He logged off again, paid, and stepped outside into a cold north wind. He thought, If man’s purpose is to flourish, to stand stalwart against the buffeting storm and find a tiny local corner in which he can thrive, then he, Morris Schutt, was failing. There were moments in his days when he was brought up short by his failure to remember Martin properly, to keep him in the forefront, to hold him in his mind and heart, and when he did fail, when he realized that he had been, for a brief moment, happily absent-minded, he felt guilty and pushed the happiness aside.