The Plot полностью

Only “Evan.” Of course. Jake supposed this was why the alumni page hadn’t appeared in his initial “Evan Parker” searches. Naturally, the Evan in question would only require his first name, at least to anyone and everyone who’d known him. Evan, the triumphant rescuer of the kidnapped bottle opener. Evan, the guy who sat at the seminar table with his arms tightly folded across his chest. Everyone would know an asshole like that.

Guys, I can’t believe this. Evan died last Monday. Really sorry to have to share.

(This, it was hardly surprising, had been posted by Martin Purcell, Ripley 2011–2012.)

Oh my god! What?

Fuck!

Holy shit that’s so awful. What do you know Martin?

We were supposed to meet up at his tavern last Sunday, I was coming down from Burlington. Then he didn’t text me back. I figured he blew me off or forgot or something. Few days later I called him and I got a disconnect notice. I just had a bad feeling. So I Googled and it came right up. I knew he’d had some problems in the past, but Evan had been sober for a while.

Oh man, that poor guy.

That’s my third friend to overdose! I mean, when are they going to call it what it is? AN EPIDEMIC.

Well, thought Jake. This certainly confirmed his assumption about what “unexpectedly,” “struggles,” and “demons” signified.

Jake’s phone buzzed.

Crab Pot Seattle, Anna had written. There was a photo of a tangle of crab legs and cut-up ears of corn. Beyond that: a window, a harbor.

Jake went back to his laptop and googled the words “Evan+Parker+ tavern,” and a story from the Rutland Herald came up: Parker Tavern, a not-too-classy-looking spot on State Street in Rutland, was under new ownership following the death of its longtime owner, Evan Parker of West Rutland. Jake stared at the building, a run-down Victorian, the kind you’d find on most major streets in most New England towns. It had once probably been someone’s lovely home, but now it had a green neon PARKER TAVERN FOOD AND LIQUOR over the front door, and what looked like a hand-painted sign announcing Happy Hour 3–6.

On his phone, the single word: Hello?

Jake wrote back: Yum.

Enough for two, she wrote immediately.

In the Rutland Herald story the new owners, Jerry and Donna Hastings of West Rutland, hoped to preserve the bar’s traditional interior, eclectic draft selection, and, above all, warm and welcoming ambiance as a meeting place for the community and visitors alike. When asked about their decision to retain “Parker Tavern” as the bar’s name, Jerry Hastings answered that it was out of respect: the late owner’s family went back five generations in central Vermont, and before his tragic and untimely death Evan Parker had worked for years to make the tavern the success it was.

Okay then! Anna texted. Obviously not feeling chatty at the moment. No worries! Or maybe you’re communing with your muse.

He picked up his phone again. No such thing as the muse. No such thing as “inspiration.” It’s all deeply unspiritual.

Oh? What happened to “everybody has a unique voice and a story only they can tell”?

It’s gone to live with the Yeti and the Sasquatch and the Loch Ness Monster in Atlantis. But I actually am working right now. Can we talk later? I’ll bring the Merlot.

How will you know which one?

I’ll ask you. Of course.

He went back to Ruth Steuben’s spreadsheet for Martin Purcell’s email address, opened up Gmail, and wrote:

Hi Martin, this is Jake Bonner, from the Ripley program. Sorry to email you out of the blue, but wondered if I could give you a call about something? Let me know when might be a good time to chat, or feel free to phone me whenever you like. Very best to you, Jake.

And he added his phone number.

The dude called immediately.

“Oh wow,” he said as soon as Jake answered. “I can’t believe you emailed me. This isn’t some kind of Ripley fundraising thing, is it? Because I can’t right now.”

“No, no,” Jake said. “Nothing like that. Look, we’ve probably met, but I don’t have my Ripley files with me so I’m not sure if you were in my class or not.”

“I wish I was in your class. That guy I got assigned to, all he wanted us to do was write about place. Place, place, place. Like, every blade of grass had to have its own backstory. That was his thing.”

He had to be talking about Bruce O’Reilly, the retired Colby professor and profoundly Maine-centric novelist with whom Jake had had an annual beer at The Ripley Inn. Jake hadn’t thought about Bruce O’Reilly in years.

“That’s too bad. It’s better if they move students around. Then everyone gets to work with everyone.”

It had also been years since he’d given any thought at all to the institutionalized teaching of creative writing. He hadn’t missed it.

“I have to tell you, I loved your book. Man, that twist, I was like, holy crap.”

No special significance to “that twist,” Jake noted with intense relief. Certainly no: And I’ve got a pretty good idea where that came from.