By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

  “No,” I said. “But I never really asked.”

  “Did you read his novel?”

  “I only read about a hundred pages,” I said guiltily. “I never noticed anything. What about you? Did you read his book?”

  “Me? I told you. I don’t read anything published after 1920.”

  “Should I call him?” I asked, reaching for my phone. Rick was supposed to be boarding a plane back from Toronto.

  “Text him,” Larry suggested. “He must have reporters hounding him like crazy.”

  I sent Rick a short text: “Saw the story in the NYT. Are you OK?”

  He texted back almost immediately. “Don’t believe all the BS. I’m being targeted. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

  “When will you be back?” I texted.

  “Not sure. Postponed my flight until further notice. Trying to dodge reporters. Will call soon.”

  “See?” I said, showing Larry the messages. “He says he’s being targeted. I bet he just forgot to cite his sources and the press is blowing things out of proportion.”

  “You sound like a freshman trying to explain why he accidentally on purpose stole his entire essay off of SparkNotes. This man is not an eighteen-year-old freshman, Anne. He knew better!”

  I shut my computer. “I want to hear his side of the story first,” I said. “I owe that to him.”

  Over the course of the day, though, the story seemed to metastasize. Larry forwarded me links to related stories on other websites, some with headlines like “The Con Artist” and “Pulped Fiction.” The gossip blogs reported that a film version of Subterranean City, slated to begin shooting in the summer, was now up in the air. #ChasenQuotes started trending on Twitter, along with memes of Rick claiming to have written everything from the Bible to Harry Potter.

  I tried not to get sucked into the media frenzy, but the more I read, the less I could explain away Rick’s transgressions. If it was true, Rick was a cheat and a liar. He’d duped countless people—his readers, his fellow writers, and, worst of all, me. If it wasn’t true, then Rick was the victim of some byzantine conspiracy perpetrated by some unknown enemy. In my gut, I knew which scenario was more likely.

  When I next reached Rick over the phone, he was still defiant. “It’s a witch hunt,” he said. “I bet no one’s work would stand up to such scrutiny!”

  “So you did plagiarize?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not! Anne, how could you even think that? I had a numbskull research assistant—this girl could barely string two words together! I’m sure she did a sloppy job on sourcing, and now I’m getting blamed for her incompetence!”

  “Why don’t you issue a statement?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Rick said. “The publisher’s to blame, if you really get down to it. They placed an absolutely inhumane amount of pressure on me to meet my deadline. I had no choice but to rely on research assistants—they gave me no choice. But of course they want to place the blame squarely on my shoulders, blame me for not supervising my assistants adequately.” Rick snorted angrily. “I’m being pilloried for something that’s not my fault! It’s not such a big deal, really. All the publisher has to do is reissue a new edition with citations. Problem solved.”

  I heard Rick chastising someone in the background. “Tell them to piss off!” I heard him grumble.

  “Are you still in Toronto?” I asked.

  “Ugh, I miraculously made it out, but now I’m stuck on a layover in San Francisco. I think I should lie low here for a few more days until things die down. I’ve got some friends I can crash with.”

  “Want me to fly up?”

  “No, no—you stay put. Don’t worry—once the next scandal du jour hits the news cycle this will all blow over. Just promise me that if anyone calls you for a comment, you’ll hang up.”

  “OK,” I said, feeling uncertain and confused.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go—I’ll call you later.”

  The next day, though, the Times published a slew of follow-up articles, uncovering problems with Rick’s first novel, and then with nearly every essay or article he’d ever written. The Booker committee announced soon after that they were revoking Rick’s prize. Lindell McKenzie and several other writers announced they were filing lawsuits. Rick’s publisher announced it was pulping all remaining copies of the book and issuing refunds to anyone who felt they had been defrauded. While running errands at the campus bookstore, I noticed that all of Rick’s books had been pulled from the shelves.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked Rick the next time he called. “I’m trying to be supportive, but this is getting out of control.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Rick cried. “You have to believe me.”

  “You did it, didn’t you? I’ve looked at all the evidence—it’s damning. What were you thinking?” My voice was taut with anger.

  “I wasn’t thinking, truth be told,” Rick said, his voice breaking. “I’m in a very dark place right now.”

  “But how could you do this?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I never deliberately stole from people. I’m seeing a psychiatrist now to figure out why I’m so damaged. He says I was betrayed by my early success. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so this was my way of coping.” He sighed heavily.

  “What a mess,” I groaned. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Annie, just knowing you’re by my side—”

  “Hold on—I . . .”

  “You can’t leave me now! Are you breaking up with me?”

  “I just—” I felt myself grasping for words. The truth was, I did want to break up with Rick. I just didn’t know how to do it.

  “Haven’t you ever made a terrible mistake and regretted it deeply? I’m not a bad person. I want to change, make things right. Please—you have to have faith in me.”

  “But—”

  “I honestly don’t trust anyone else. I need you more than ever right now. I—I don’t know what I’d do if you left.” Rick’s voice shook with emotion. “I wouldn’t be able to survive—I’d do something terrible, I know it.”

  “Don’t say that!” Rick sounded like he was coming unhinged. What if he did something drastic? What if he hurt someone? What if he hurt himself?

  “It’s true. I have nothing to live for. Please—give me a chance. I’ve lost everything—my career, my prizes, everything. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

  “OK,” I said, trying to calm him down. “Just promise me you won’t do anything to hurt yourself. I’m here. When do you come back?”

  “Early tomorrow morning. I’m planning to head straight to campus from the airport. I’ll meet you at my office first thing—just knock.”

  “OK,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  After I hung up, I frantically called Larry, who whistled incredulously when I gave him the latest update.

  “I can’t believe he’s actually going to show his face at school,” Larry said. “I’d want to crawl into a hole and die.”

  “At least he’s not bailing on his students,” I pointed out, desperate to find something—anything—redeeming about Rick’s behavior.

  “But think of the humiliation!”

  “Come on, Larry,” I pleaded. “We shouldn’t all pile on. He screwed up and he’s sorry. Give the guy a break. Please? For me?”

  I spent the evening worrying that I’d been too hard on Rick. Had I pushed him over the edge? He’d made a huge mistake, but now he sounded truly sorry and truly despondent. I slept poorly that night and headed to campus early, even though my first class didn’t meet until later in the afternoon. As I walked into the department, I stopped in surprise. Pam was standing in front of Rick’s office, pinning a notice to the door. Some empty file boxes were on the floor next to her. I quietly walked up and read the notice over her shoulder.

  NOTICE: PROFESSOR CHASEN IS ON MEDICAL LEAVE. HIS WORKSHOP HAS BEEN CANCELED. PLEASE REFER ANY QUESTIONS TO DR. CULPEPPER, C
HAIR.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, startling Pam.

  “Oh!” she cried, fishing a thumbtack from her mouth. “Anne! You’re here early!” Her eyes lit up. “I’ve been dying to talk to you. I thought you of all people would know what was going on.”

  When I looked at her blankly, she gasped. “Or wait—did you guys break up?”

  “Is Rick not coming back?” I asked.

  “All I’ve been told is to put up this sign and to pack up his books.” Pam looked at me with pity. “So you don’t know anything either? He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “He’s in San Francisco,” I said. “He’s supposed to be back soon.”

  “Really? Not according to Dr. Culpepper, he isn’t,” Pam said knowingly. She looked around quickly and then lowered her voice. “So do you think it’s all true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “The plagiarism? The stealing other people’s work? I read somewhere that he paid a ghostwriter to write all his books!”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “Poor baby,” Pam said, clucking maternally. “So you’re as much in the dark as the rest of us, aren’t you? No wonder you look so terrible. This must have completely ruined your spring break.”

  “Actually, not really, Pam,” I said, my voice icy. “My break sucked, but not because of Rick. It sucked because my dad died.” I walked away before Pam could respond.

  Once I was safely in my office, I tried to call Rick’s phone, but his voicemail box was full.

  “where are you??” I texted. “call me!”

  I waited but there was no response.

  “are you coming back?” I wrote.

  Still no response.

  “PLEASE CALL ME ASAP,” I finally texted.

  I called Larry, feeling panic building in my chest. In my mind, I saw Rick climbing over the railing at Golden Gate Bridge, or stepping into rush hour traffic, or—God forbid—loading a gun.

  “Rick’s vanished,” I said. “He’s not answering his phone. His class has been canceled. He’s apparently on ‘medical leave.’ Do you think—do you think he might have hurt himself?”

  “Wait—you don’t think he was suicidal, do you?” Larry asked.

  “He was saying some crazy things on the phone to me yesterday—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how he has nothing to live for anymore—”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I made him promise not to do anything, and he seemed to calm down by the time I hung up. But maybe—oh God, do you think?”

  “Did you talk to Steve? He should know something, right?”

  “He’s not in his office.”

  “What about Pam? She seems to know everything.”

  “She was trying to pump me for information!”

  “OK, stay calm. We don’t know anything yet. Just don’t panic.”

  “Should I call the police?”

  “No! Don’t do anything yet. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

  On a whim, I checked online to see if any new stories about Rick had been posted since the previous day. On the Times website, I noticed an update on the sidebar and clicked. The Associated Press had a new report, just two sentences in total:

  Discredited novelist Richard Forbes Chasen has checked into a rehabilitation center for undisclosed personal reasons. His representative has no further comment at this time.

  *

  EMILY YOUNG HADN’T BEEN by my office much that spring, busy training for the upcoming NCAA championships. I’d kept up with her mostly through the school newspaper, reading up on her latest games and the team’s steady rise in the rankings. Her next tournament was scheduled to be in Oregon, so I was surprised when I saw her waiting outside my office, dressed not in her tennis gear but in a brown sweater and jeans, her hair hanging loose instead of in its usual ponytail. I realized I’d almost never seen her wearing street clothes.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  “Of course!” I said, motioning her to come in.

  “I have some news about grad school,” she said. “I found out I got into Berkeley and Columbia with full funding.”

  “That’s fantastic news!” I said. “You must be thrilled!”

  But Emily didn’t look thrilled. In fact, she looked like she was about to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Tell me.”

  “It’s about a guy,” she said.

  Oh no, I thought. All this time, I’d assumed Emily was still single. I never saw her on campus with anyone, and she never volunteered any information. She must have met someone in the last few months and was having relationship panic now that graduation was fast approaching.

  “Let me guess—is it about whether or not to break up with your boyfriend before grad school?”

  “Yes!” Emily said. “How did you know?”

  “I was your age once,” I said, smiling. “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, um, you actually know him.”

  “I do?” I ran through my male students in my head, trying to figure out who could possibly be dating Emily.

  “Yes.” She hesitated, biting her lip, her hands nervously clenched in her lap. “I haven’t told anyone because it’s sort of a secret.” Lowering her voice, she whispered, “It’s Rick Chasen.”

  I felt myself go numb. Emily must have seen the shock on my face because she reddened and started stammering, “I know he’s my professor and all, but I’m twenty-one, and he’s not that much older than me, really.”

  “But he’s your professor,” I said, my voice hollow.

  “He’s not really my professor anymore. I dropped his class after we started dating.”

  I didn’t say anything at first, and Emily looked like she might burst into tears again.

  “You’re upset,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, no—I’m just surprised. Go on.”

  “He’s the most amazing professor I’ve ever had,” she said tearfully. “He really cared about what I had to say. It’s so hard to find college guys like that. They’re all so immature and superficial. But Rick listened to me. He told me I was the best writer in the class and that I shouldn’t let my talent go to waste. Did you know he was nearly killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq? And that he lost his best friend in the attack? I nearly cried when he told me. He’s way stronger and braver than I could ever be. I just—I have so much respect for him. He stands up for what he believes is right, even if his life’s at risk!”

  I handed Emily a tissue and she blew her nose. “How did you two start . . . dating?” I asked.

  Emily blushed. “We started hanging out a lot in his office so he could help me revise my stories. He would ask me to close the door so we could talk without being bothered, and we just got to chatting about other stuff. He mentioned that he’d been dating someone but that she made him feel really inadequate. He called her a frigid bitch. I let him vent to me, and one day, he said, ‘Em, I have something to confess. I really want to kiss you. If you weren’t my student . . .’ I—I told him I didn’t have to be his student anymore, and . . . well . . . it sort of went on from there. He told me I was beautiful. No one’s ever said that to me before.”

  I cleared my throat. “And why are you telling me now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who else to talk to,” she cried. “I was with him in San Francisco last week when this whole scandal broke. He was so upset. He said he was being set up and that no one believed him. I told him I believed him. I know what it’s like to be under a lot of pressure to succeed. Before I left, he told me I was the only person he could really trust and that we were soul mates. I love him, Professor Corey. He’s my first real boyfriend. I swear he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  She choked back a sob. “He checked into rehab, and now his phone doesn’t work and I have no way to get in touch with him. But I need to talk to him! He loves m
e—I know he does. I’ll go wherever he wants me to go, as long as we’re together.” She looked at me beseechingly. “I know you’re friends with him. Do you have his contact information? Can you pass a message along to him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how to reach him,” I said. “He didn’t give me any information, either.”

  “Has he been fired?” she squeaked. “They say his class has been canceled. Is he ever coming back?”

  “The administration won’t tell us. And we’re under strict orders not to talk to the press.” Steve had sent out an e-mail just that morning asking us to stay mum and refer any snooping reporters to him directly.

  Emily looked devastated. “Please don’t tell anyone about this,” she begged. “I don’t want to get him in any more trouble. I’d kill myself if the administration found out.”

  I looked at Emily, weighing what I should do next. Should I say anything to her? Or should I keep my mouth shut? She looked at me pleadingly, and I felt a twinge of responsibility and guilt.

  “Emily,” I said. “I need to tell you something. Rick is not who you think he is. He’s not . . . dependable.”

  Emily looked at me quizzically.

  “I don’t know what he’s told you,” I continued. “But you can’t trust everything he says. He’s— How do I say this? He’s an opportunist.” I winced to myself, realizing I was saying the exact same thing to Emily that Adam had said to me six months earlier.

  “What do you mean?” Emily asked. “He’s always been super upfront with me.”

  “I know more about him than you do. You might as well know—we weren’t just friends. We were dating each other.”

  A look of horror crossed Emily’s face, then disgust.

  “You’re the girlfriend?” she asked.

  “I guess you could say that,” I said.

  I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Instead of recognizing Rick as the two-timing prick that he was, Emily turned on me.

  “So you’re the one that made him so miserable,” she said quietly. “You’re the one who was pushing him away.”

  “I didn’t push him away, Emily. He’s been feeding you lies. He’s been using you, don’t you see? He was using you the way he used me.”