The Plot полностью

Late the next morning he drove west on Route 4 with the Taconic Range ahead and the Green Mountains in his rearview mirror, intent on finding the house where Evan Parker’s family had lived. Without an exact address he wasn’t sure how difficult it was going to be, but once he turned off at the West Rutland exit he discovered that the town didn’t have much of a there there; certainly less of a there than most New England towns with their classic squares and village greens. Jake easily found Marble Street just beyond the old brick town hall, and he drove past automotive shops and supermarkets and the old quarry itself, which was now an arts center. A mile later he spotted the Agway, and slowed down. The house, just past it on the right, turned out to be impossible to miss. He pulled over and leaned forward in his seat to take it in.

It was a massive three-story Italianate with a marble base, set back from the road and frankly stunning: large, clean, freshly painted yellow, and surrounded by intentional plantings, an encouraging offset to some of the architectural decay he’d seen over the weekend. Whoever lived there now had carefully trimmed the hedges, and Jake could see the outline of a formal garden just behind the building. He was attempting to align the relative splendor of what he was seeing with Evan Parker’s reported money woes when a green Volvo slowed beside him and turned in to the driveway. Jake grabbed for the key and turned it in the ignition, but already the driver had climbed out and was giving him an unequivocally friendly wave. She was a woman about his own age with a long and very red braid down her back. Despite the baggy coat she wore, it was obvious that she was rail thin. She was calling something. He rolled down his window.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

Now she was walking toward his car, and the New Yorker in Jake cringed: Who took this kind of a chance with a total stranger parked outside your home? Evidently, a Vermonter did. She came closer. Jake began grasping for some explanation of why he was here, but he couldn’t think of anything, which was probably why he ended up with a version of the truth.

“I’m so sorry. I think I knew somebody who once lived here.”

“Oh yeah? Had to be a Parker.”

“Yes. He was. Evan Parker.”

“Sure.” The woman nodded. “You know, he passed away.”

“I heard. Anyway, sorry to bother you. I was just driving through town and I thought, you know, I’d pay my respects.”

“We didn’t know him,” the woman said. “Sorry for your loss.”

The irony of that, of being offered condolences for Evan Parker, nearly made him confess right there. But he produced the required noises. “Thanks. I was his teacher, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” she said again. “In the high school?”

“No, no. It was a writing program. Up at Ripley? In the Northeast Kingdom.”

“Ayuh,” she said, like a true Vermonter.

“My name’s Jake. Your house is gorgeous.”

At this, she grinned. She had distinctly gray teeth, he noticed. Cigarettes or tetracycline.

“I’m trying to get my partner to repaint the trim. I don’t like that green. I think we need to go darker.”

It took him a moment to understand that she actually wanted him to weigh in on this issue. “You could go darker,” he said finally. It seemed to be the right answer.

“I know! My partner, she hired the painter one weekend I was out of town. She pulled a fast one on me.” The woman grinned at this. She wasn’t holding much of a grudge, in other words. “My name’s Betty. You like to see the inside?”

“What? Really?”

“Why not? You’re not an ax murderer, are you?”

The blood rushed to Jake’s head. For the briefest moment he wondered if he was.

“No. I’m a writer. That’s what I taught up at Ripley.”

“Yeah? Have you published anything?”

He turned off the car and slowly stepped out. “A couple of books, yeah. I wrote a book called Crib?”

Her eyes widened. “Seriously? I got that out of the library. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m going to.”

He held out his hand and she shook it. “That’s great. I hope you like it.”

“Oh my god, my sister’s gonna lose her shit. She said I had to read it. She said I wouldn’t see the twist coming. ’Cause I’m the person who leans over in the movie and tells you, five minutes in, what’s gonna happen. It’s like a curse.” She laughed.

“That is a curse,” Jake agreed. “Hey, it’s really nice of you to invite me in. I mean, I’d love to see it. Are you sure?”

“Sure! I wish I didn’t just have a library copy! If I had my own copy you could sign it.”

“That’s okay. I’ll send you a signed copy when I get home.”

She looked at him as if he’d promised her a Shakespeare First Folio.

He followed her up the tidy driveway and through the large wooden front door. Betty, as she opened the door, prepared the way by calling: “Sylvie? I’ve got a guest.”