The Plot by Jean Korelitz (digital book reader txt) 📗

to have her child, and the two of them live together in a kind of isolated way, in the house Samantha herself grew up in. But they’re not close. And it gets worse between them as the daughter, Maria, becomes a teenager.”

“Oh, you mean it’s like my house,” he said delightedly.

Anna held up another sign. MORE THAN 2 MILL SOLD, it said. And under that: SPIELBERG DIRECTING MOVIE.

“So, Jake! I hear Steven Spielberg is making it into a movie. How’d you hook the big one?”

It was a relief, at least, to move the subject away from himself and even his book. Jake talked a bit about the film, and what a fan of Spielberg he’d always been. “It’s amazing to me that he connected so powerfully with this story.”

“Yeah, but why? I mean, the guy probably has his pick of every film project that’s out there. He picked The Crib. Why, do you think?”

Jake closed his eyes. “Well, I guess there was something in the characters that must have spoken to him. Or—”

“Oh, so like my daughter, who’s sixteen, and my wife, who start screaming at each other when they get up in the morning and don’t stop till midnight, I could get Steven Spielberg to make a movie about them? Because I’m down with that. My producer’s right here. Anna? Can we get Steven Spielberg on the phone? I’ll tell him whatever he’s paying Jake, I’ll sell him my wife and daughter for half.”

Jake stared at him in horror. He turned to look for Otis. No Otis. Not that Otis could have done anything.

“Okay!” Randy said with a flourish. “Let’s take some calls.”

He stabbed his console with a forefinger, and a woman with a low voice asked if she could ask Jake a question.

“Sure!” said Jake, far more enthusiastically than he felt. “Hi!”

“Hi. I love the book so much. I gave it to everyone in my office.”

“Oh, that’s so nice,” Jake said. “Do you have a question?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to know how you thought of that story. ’Cause I mean, I was really surprised.”

He searched in his cerebral file for the most appropriate of his prepared answers.

“I think when you’re writing a long story, like a novel, you don’t think of every part of the story at once. You think of one part, and then the next, and the next. So it sort of evolves—”

“Thanks,” Randy said, cutting off both the caller and Jake. “So you kind of make it up as you go along. You don’t write an outline beforehand?”

“I never have. That’s not to say I never will.”

“Hi there, you’re on with Randy.”

“Hi, Randy. Do you know if the city is planning to do anything about all the people doing drugs around Occidental Square? I was down there last weekend with my in-laws, and it was just ridiculous, you know?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Randy concurred. “It’s never been this bad, and the city, it’s like: see no evil, hear no evil. You know what I think they ought to be doing about it?”

And he was off: the mayor, the council, the do-gooders handing out food and coupons, what was that supposed to accomplish? Jake looked at Anna, who was watching the host, her face ashen. There were no more scribbled signs. She seemed to have given up on that. And the time ran out.

“Okay, appreciate you coming in,” said Randy Johnson as soon as a car insurance ad began. “It was fun. I’ll look out for the film.”

I’m sure you will, Jake thought. He got to his feet. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thank Anna,” Randy said. “Her idea.”

“Well …” he started to say.

“Thanks, Anna.” It was Otis, finally in the doorway. “This was great.”

“I’ll walk you out,” said Anna. She went in front of him. He was suddenly far more nervous than he’d been while waiting for the interview to begin, or even after it had begun falling off the cliff that was Seattle institution Randy Johnson. Behind her, his eyes on her narrow back, the long gray hair between her shoulder blades, he descended the stairs to the ground floor. Then they were back in the lobby and Otis was retrieving their bags from behind the security guard’s desk.

“I am so sorry,” Anna said.

“Well, he’s not the worst.”

“No?”

He’d been pretty near the worst, actually. Anyone could be an idiot or a jerk, separately, but the combination of ignorance and mean-spiritedness—that was special.

“I’ve been asked if I paid somebody else to write my book for me. I’ve been asked to look at the interviewer’s child’s fiction. On the air. One woman on a TV show, just before it started, she said to me: ‘I’ve read the beginning and the end of your book and I thought it was just great.’”

“Shut up.” Anna grinned.

“Absolutely true. Of course it’s a ridiculous format: a few minutes on a radio show or a television show, to say anything substantive about a novel.”

“But he was … I just thought, y’know, he might rise to the occasion. He may not be a fiction guy, but he’s interested in people. If he’d read it he’d have been a completely different person. But obviously …”

Otis was on his phone, and frowning. He was probably ordering an Uber to SeaTac.

“Please, it’s fine.”

“No, I just, I wish I could make it up to you. Would you … do you have time for coffee? I mean, I’m sure you don’t. But there’s a good place at the Market …”

It seemed to have surprised her as much as it surprised him, and immediately she tried to walk it back. “Oh never mind! You probably need to get going. Please forget I asked.”

“I’d love to,” said Jake.

CHAPTER TENUtica

She took him to a place on the top floor of a building opposite the market, and insisted on getting the coffee. It was a local chain called Storyville, and the place was warm with a fire going and a window overlooking the Public Market sign. She had recovered her cool at some