True to his word, Tony Meeks came to class that Monday with a large white cake box tucked under one arm. Without uttering a sound, he set the box on the corner of my desk at the beginning of class then skulked down the aisle to his seat.
Later that week, with the spring wildflowers in full bloom in the courtyard and fat, lazy clouds scudding across a brilliant blue sky, I beckoned Tony Meeks to stand up and read one of his assignments aloud to the class.
“I’d rather not,” he said.
His comment surprised me. A few of the other students looked around. As is typical of a creative writing class, there was never a shortage of people willing to read their sparkling, brilliant words to their peers—after all, everyone always applauded—so about a half dozen hands went up following Meeks’s retort.
I smiled humorlessly then told the other students to drop their hands. “Come on, Tony. It’s a wonderful example of what this assignment is all about. I’d really like you to share it with the class.”
“And I’d really rather not,” he said.
I could have let it go at that. But I didn’t. “Stand up, Tony,” I called to him.
At first, Tony Meeks did not move. I watched the chain from his wallet swing hypnotically as he shifted with evident discomfort in his seat. He was gazing out from behind the filigreed curls of his hair, his head turned slightly downward so that his forehead looked more prominent than usual. Already I was wondering how far to push this; it wasn’t as if I could force him to stand and read, and his continued refusal would only make me look powerless. But then, to my relief, he unfolded himself out from behind his desk and stood to his full height.
“Please,” I said to him, going around my desk and settling down in the creaky wooden chair. “Go on and read.”
His eyes never left mine. Even when he picked up the pages of his assignment and began to recite, his eyes remained fixed on me. At first I thought I saw disdain in his stare…but when I realized it was nothing more than a childlike embarrassment, I wished I hadn’t pursued this with him and that I had let the whole thing go.
The assignment was for the students to write their own obituaries. It was a fun exercise that usually elicited some laughs, and there were usually two or three students who learned something about themselves in the process. Most students saw themselves living lives of grandeur, pomposity, dreams that in real life would most likely never reach fulfillment. That was part of the fun of the assignment, after all—to look back on a crazy life that was never lived. But Tony Meeks’s obituary had been humble and eerily realistic. He had even misspelled his last name, Meaks, showing that who he was and what he may or may not have accomplished after his death meant very little to whoever wrote about it. It was sadly unpretentious and extremely well-written.
So Tony Meeks read his obituary aloud. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and despite his reticence to read it to his peers, he received an ovation after he was done.
And the whole time, his eyes never left mine.
Once the class cleared out, it was my intention to speak one-on-one with him, as he was generally a slow mover and one of the last students to shuffle out of the classroom. I had wanted to beam pride at him and thank him for reading aloud, and wasn’t it a wonderful thing? Didn’t he feel good getting those words out of him and sharing them with the rest of the class? But he was quick that day—out the door like a jackrabbit.
The following afternoon, I read about his death in the newspaper.
My aforementioned celebrity came in the form of rumors that began circulating throughout the college immediately after Tony Meeks’s death. Some of my more superstitious students had begun to apply some correlation between Tony Meeks’s death and my insistence that he stand before the classroom and read his obituary just hours before the fatal motorcycle accident. I was informed by some of my colleagues that some students referred to me as Professor Death. I laughed it off, suggesting that the name had a nice Marvel Comics ring to it. But in truth, the kid’s death troubled me.
I waited a full month after the accident before I read Tony’s novel. One evening, I poured myself a glass of Dewar’s, as if to drink to poor Tony’s memory, then settled in the living room of the rented house on Primrose Avenue with the cake box in my lap.
He had told me his novel had no title. But when I opened the lid of the box, I saw that he had typed THE BODY FIELDS in all caps in the center of the page. Below that—A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE BY ANTHONY MEEKS. Unlike the assignments he had turned in for class, which had been written on a PC or laptop and printed on a standard laser printer, it seemed the manuscript had been typed on an old manual typewriter.
I read the whole manuscript in two days. It was brilliant. The assuredness of the voice, the economy of word, the perfect plot structure—it was like a goddamn primer on how to write a suspense novel.
Yet instead of inspiring me, it sent me spiraling into a dark depression. I began to drink more than usual, and my demeanor around the campus became one of curtness and agitation. I was like someone itching for a fight. Nights, I lay awake listening to the sounds of the traffic on Primrose. I attempted to resurrect some older novel manuscripts I’d kept from years earlier. But these were petrified dead things, incapable of revivification. I was dating a woman around this time but she ultimately left me because of my depressive mood. I could hardly blame her.
Excuses could be made, though in truth, I don’t remember thinking things out too well. I guess maybe I made the mistake of looking at the tips of my fingers too closely one afternoon, examining those whorls and valleys and tributaries that conspire to lend me identity, and I realized that people—all people—were just random assorted pieces indiscriminately compiled to suggested who they are as a whole. I put those fingertips to work, and spent just over a week retyping Tony Meeks’s manuscript. I tightened up the narrative and changed some names, but in the end, I altered very little and even kept the title. When I was done, I typed my name below the title, then sent the manuscript to a literary agent whom I’d met at a writing seminar a few years earlier. Two weeks later I signed with that agent, and a few months after that, this agent sold the manuscript to a major New York house. The book hit the New York Times bestseller list, and Wilson S. Paventeau’s life had changed forever.
11
It was late by the time I returned home from Montclair. The house was dark, and I hurried from the car to the front porch as if someone—or something—was chasing me. Inside, I turned on all the downstairs lights before removing my coat. When I realized I was still clutching the copy of Mr. Cables, I chucked it across the living room. It fell behind the sofa, and I could hear the dust jacket tearing as it struck the floor.
Not good enough, I thought, shoving the sofa aside and snatching the book up off the floor. I went to the fireplace, kicked aside the metal grate, and tossed the book inside. There was a lighter in a junk drawer, which I grabbed up and brought over to the fireplace. Kneeling down, I flicked the lighter and touched the tongue of flame to the corner of the book. It didn’t catch at first…but then a small blue runner of fire lifted off the book cover and rose to a bright orange flame.
Will that really change anything? said the voice in my head.
For a second, I thought someone was watching me from beyond the wall of windows. But that was impossible, because the rear of the house was built on a bluff that overlooked the forest. The rear of the house was two stories aboveground.
This changes nothing, said the voice.
“Goddamn it,” I growled, then blew the flame out. I dug the book out of the fireplace and patted the charred corner with my hand. Black ash drifted to the floor.
The voice was right; destroying the book was no solution.
I sat down hard and leaned against the sofa. My heart felt like a punching bag in my chest. For a long time, I stared at the copy of Mr. Cables on the floor at my feet. I was thinking of it as a copy of a book, when in reality it was the only one. The original. It was Mr. Cables himself.
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I dragged myself to my feet and went down into the basement. In a backroom, I shoved some old clothes and holiday decorations out of the way, revealing an old steamer trunk tucked up against the wall. It contained all of the original versions of my early manuscripts, back when I used to edit off the printed copies. I opened the trunk and dug through the cake boxes inside, the stacks of printed pages held together by rubber bands, and the yellow legal pads riddled with notes. At the bottom of the trunk was Tony Meeks’s original cake box, which contained the typewritten version of his manuscript. I opened the box and saw Tony’s manuscript inside. I took the manuscript from the box, feeling its weight in my hands, and thumbed through it. I had corrupted it by making notes in the margin. I had crossed out a word here and there, changed a few character names. I realized that, based on my editor’s suggestion, I had removed a block of exposition that hadn’t advanced the story, starting with page thirty-three. I flipped through the pages and saw that they corresponded with the pages that were missing from Mr. Cables.
I felt like I was losing my mind.
The last page of the manuscript contained Tony Meeks’s contact information, including his home address, where he’d lived with his parents and siblings.
A small town called Quimby.
12
I set out early the next morning, just as the first real snowfall of the season descended upon my small place in the world. My neighbor’s chimney was at it again, unfurling a pennant of grayish smoke into the atmosphere.
I had no idea if Tony Meeks’s family still lived at the Quimby address, but I figured that, given the series of discoveries that had led me here, there was a good chance they still did. Beside me on the passenger seat was Mr. Cables, with its torn dust jacket and charred corner. My terrible copilot.
The snowfall had turned into a blizzard by the time I reached Quimby. The town was really just a main road flanked on either side by decrepit single-family homes, a blue collar neighborhood that had continued to deteriorate as local factories closed or moved elsewhere. It was Norman Rockwell after the Apocalypse. I drove slowly down the street, peering at the numbers on the houses until I located the right address.
The house had a section of tarp on the roof and was missing some siding. There were two pickup trucks in the driveway collecting snow, and some plastic riding toys strewn about the porch. There was a detached garage out back, its door open, and I could see a few motorcycles and an ATV inside. Their mailbox was fashioned to look like a mallard, its wooden propeller-wings spinning in the wind.
I parked along the curb and got out. The temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees, and I was feeling it in my marrow now. Meteorologists were forecasting a long winter, and I found that, for the first time in forever, the thought of being snowed in at my house terrified me.
It wasn’t until I’d already knocked on the front door that I realized I was holding Mr. Cables in both hands. As if to present it as a gift to whoever answered the door. I quickly dropped my hands and tucked the book under one arm.
The door opened and a young girl, perhaps five or six years old, peered up at me.
“Uh, hi,” I said. “Is your mom or dad at home?”
The little girl shook her head.
“How about a grownup?”
The little girl withdrew into the house and shouted for someone named Nanoo. I stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, sweating in my coat despite the cold that funneled through me. The propeller-wings of the mallard mailbox squealed as they spun.
A woman appeared in the doorway. She was maybe in her early seventies, with silver-streaked hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was as weathered and seamed as an old catcher’s mitt, but her eyes were kind.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Meeks.”
“I’m Gloria Meeks,” said the woman.
“My name is Wilson Paventeau. I used to teach at the community college in Montclair. Tony Meeks was a student of mine.”
“Oh.” The kindness in the woman’s eyes dulled. There was a fragility about her that was disconcerting, as if a strong wind might reduce her to a pile of gray powder. “Yes. I’m Tony’s mother. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.”
She stepped aside and I entered a foyer that was wallpapered in a busy floral design. I could smell something cooking in the kitchen, and the heat pumping from the baseboards nearly bowled me over. I suddenly felt clammy and sick.
“Was there something we can do for you?” she asked.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you and your husband, if he’s…if he’s around…and it may take some time. It’s about Tony.”
“All right.” She touched the young girl on her shoulder and said, “Baby, go to the back door and tell Goompa to come inside, will you?”
The girl nodded and was already streaming down the hallway before the woman turned back to me.
“Can I get you a drink or something, Mr. Paventeau?”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
“Have a seat inside,” she said, motioning toward a stuffy little living room. There was a love seat and a Christmas tree and a fireplace with stockings hanging from the mantel and dog hair all over everything.
“Thank you,” I said, and sat in the love seat. From here, I could see out the windows toward the back of the house. An older gentleman in a checked hunting jacket and ski cap came out of the garage. He kicked the snow off his boots as he climbed the rear steps of the house.
I realized the book was in my lap now. I set it on the seat beside me, not wanting it to touch me. I felt like a traitor in this house.
That’s because you are, said the voice in my head.
“Cut it out,” I muttered.
Something whined. I looked and saw a Golden Retriever watching me from the hallway. Despite the Christmas bells that hung from its collar, it had snuck up on me.
“Mr. Paventeau, is it?” said the man in the hunting jacket as he came into the room. I stood but he motioned for me to sit back down. I shook his hand and he introduced himself as Arnold Meeks. He sat opposite me in an armchair, crossing his legs. He’d removed his boots, and I could see the holes at the bottom of one sock.
Gloria entered and handed me a glass of water. I drank half of it then cradled the glass in my lap. Gloria sat on an ottoman beside her husband’s armchair.
“I taught your son back in 1999,” I said. “At Montclair Community. He was a talented kid. Probably the most talented student I ever had. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” said the man. He reached over and gathered up his wife’s hand, squeezed it.
“Listen, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it,” I said, and told them about how their son had given me a novel manuscript just before he died, and how I’d subsequently published it as my own. Their expressions did not change throughout my telling, and when I finished, the room sank into silence. The Golden Retriever watching from the hallway held more expression on its face than Tony Meeks’s parents.
“Here,” I said, digging a paperback copy of The Body Fields from my coat pocket. I handed it to Arnold, who clutched it in two big hands while his wife peered at it from over his shoulder.
Finally, Gloria Meeks said, “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” I said.
“So this book,” Arnold interjected, handing the paperback to his wife. “It came out in bookstores and everything?”
“Yes. It’s still in print.”
“And you can just…go in a store and buy it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well.” And a broad smile carved its way across Arnold Meeks’s face. He turned to his wife. “Look at that, huh?”
“Anthony had always wanted to be a writer,” Gloria said. She caressed the paperback’s glossy cover. It was one of my more subtle covers, depicting the silhouette of a farmhouse in a field at dusk. I was suddenly grateful for the subtlety of
it. “Since he was a little boy. He used to write all these little stories in these memo books—”
“Drew pictures, too,” said Arnold. “He was a wonderful artist.”
“I remember we used to take the bus into the city once a month,” Gloria went on, “and he’d sit there with this memo pad and just make little notes, write down little observations, about all the people he’d see on the bus. He’d make up stories about them, and I was always amazed as his imagination. Isn’t that something? Oh, he couldn’t have been more than eight years old.”
“He was a talented kid,” Arnold said. “I got a bike out back, he did all the airbrushing himself. You should see it. It’s a beaut.”
“I don’t think you folks understood what I said,” I told them. “About the book. About what I did.”
“You got our boy’s book published,” said Arnold. “Ain’t that right?”
“Yes, but it was under my name. I put my name on it.”
“But these are his words, right?” Gloria said, and she clutched the paperback to her chest as if it were something valuable that she’d long since misplaced. “This is Anthony’s story, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“And there it is,” said Arnold, “for all the world to see. I think that’s really something.”
“It really is,” said Gloria.
“No,” I said. “No, it’s got my name on it. I published it as my own.”
“I heard that all those celebrities hire people to write their books,” said Gloria. “Is that true?”
“This is different. I stole the book from your son.”
“Oh, now,” Arnold said, waving a hand at me. “The important thing is it’s out there, right? People can read our boy’s story. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?” When I didn’t respond, he repeated the question: “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. It was true—I had no idea anymore. I’d lost myself somewhere along the way and didn’t know right from wrong, good from bad, an honest book from a dishonest book.