The Plot by Jean Korelitz (good books to read for teens txt) 📕

husband to tell you about Evan Parker, the real author of Crib.

He had to fight the urge to crumple it up on the spot.

Jake went to put his dirty clothes in the hamper and return his toothbrush to its usual place. He tried, by some fearful instinct, to avoid seeing himself in the mirror, but inevitably he caught his own gaze, and there it plainly was: the impact of these last months, deeply and unmistakably etched into dark circles around his eyes. Pale skin. Lank hair. And above all an expression of intractable dread. But there was no quick fix for it now, and no way out but through. He went back to the living room, and his wife.

Anna had brought from Seattle a set of well-used knives, a “Dutch oven,” an old wooden cutting board she’d had since college, and even a mason jar half full of something that looked like desiccated tapioca pudding, which turned out to be sourdough starter. With these she had been producing a continuum of actual food for months: balanced meals, confections, casseroles and soups and even condiments that now filled the freezer and the refrigerator shelves. She had also dispatched Jake’s existing dishes (and silverware, and glasses) to the Goodwill on Fourteenth Street, replacing them with new sets from Pottery Barn. She was setting down sturdy ceramic bowls of the green soup as he took his seat.

“Thank you,” he said. “This is beautiful.”

“Soup for the raveled sleeve of care.”

“I believe that’s sleep,” he said. “And soup for the soul.”

“Well, this is for both. I figured we were going to be needing a lot of it, so I made a double batch and froze it.”

“I love your pioneer instincts.” He smiled, taking his first sip.

“Island instincts. Not that we didn’t have supermarkets on Whidbey. But people always seemed to want to prepare for being cut off.”

She tore the end off the bread and handed it to him. Then she watched him begin.

“So, how does this work? Do I have to ask you questions or are you just going to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

In that instant, and despite the long day without food, he lost his appetite.

“I’m going to tell you,” he said.

And he tried.

“I had a student named Evan Parker. Back when I taught at Ripley. And he had this great idea for a novel. A plot that was … well, striking. Memorable. Involving a mother and her daughter.”

“Oh no,” Anna said quietly. It landed on him like a blow, but he made himself go on.

“It surprised me, because he had no real feeling for fiction that I could see. Not much of a reader, which is always an indicator. And the few pages of his work I saw, well, he could write, but it wasn’t anyone’s idea of a great book in progress. Maybe his own, but no one else’s. Certainly not mine. But still—he did have this great story.”

Jake stopped. It already wasn’t going well.

“So … did you take it, Jake? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He felt sick, suddenly. He put down his spoon. “Of course not. I didn’t do anything, except maybe feel a little sorry for myself. A little pissed at the universe that this guy had come up with such a great idea straight out of the gate. He was a nightmare as a student. Treated everyone else in the workshop as if they were wasting his time, and not a shred of respect for me as a teacher, of course. Sometimes I wonder, would I have done it if he hadn’t been such a jerk.”

“Well, I wouldn’t lead with any of that if you’re ever asked,” said Anna with heavy sarcasm.

He nodded. Of course, she was right.

“I think we might have spoken once, outside of class. In a conference. That’s when he took me through this plot. But never anything personal. I didn’t even know basic stuff like that he was from Vermont or what he did for a living.”

“He was from … Vermont,” Anna said slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Where you coincidentally just were. Giving a reading and working on your revisions.” She set down her glass.

Jake sighed. “Yes. I mean no, it wasn’t a coincidence. And I wasn’t working on my revisions. Or giving a reading, for that matter. I was meeting one of his friends from the Ripley program, in Rutland. His hometown.”

“You went to Rutland?” She seemed horrified.

“Well, yes. I’ve been kind of hiding away from this. I finally felt I needed to deal with it directly. See if there was anything I could figure out, by being there. Maybe by talking to some people.”

“What people?”

“Well, the Ripley friend, for one. And I went to Parker’s place.”

“His house?” she said with alarm.

“No,” Jake said. “Well, yes, that too. But I meant the bar he owned. Tavern,” he corrected himself.

After a moment she said: “Fine. What happened after you were his teacher and talked to him one time outside of your workshop.”

He nodded. “Well, basically, I forgot all about him, or almost forgot. Every year or so I’d think, Hey, that book still hasn’t come out. And maybe he found out it was a lot harder to write a book than he’d thought it was going to be.”

“So finally you decided, He’s never going to write it, so I’m going to write it. And now Evan Parker’s threatening to expose you for stealing his idea.”

Jake shook his head. “No. That’s not what happened. And whoever’s threatening me, it’s not him. Evan Parker is dead.”

Anna stared at him. “He’s dead.”

“Yeah. And actually a long time ago. Like, within a couple of months of that Ripley workshop. He never did write his book. Or at least, he never finished it.”

For a moment she said nothing. Then: “How did he die?”

“Overdose. Awful, but absolutely nothing to do with his story, or me. And when I heard about it … I really wrestled with this, of course. But I couldn’t just let it go. The plot. You see?”

Anna