Karma

Karma

1994

I thought I had gotten away with it. Ten years passed, without a word. Without even a whisper. But then a shout: “Thief! Liar!” And I was back at Cedar Lane Community School District all over again. It was as if I had never left.

1984

God, such drivel, I thought as I read through a stack of 27 short stories and poems from my high school students. These pieces were the same self-conscious, immature pieces I got every year. The poems were all sappy love “sonnets” or depressing odes to teenage angst, and the short stories were filled with dragons and mermaids and unicorns. Ugh.

But then I got to Ashley’s story. Four older women playing bridge and having a very realistic conversation about life and men and death and children and diets and menopause. It was wonderful: funny and heartbreaking at the same time.

Hmm. Really impressive.

I thought about my own writing. I had been trying to break through to publication for a couple of years. So far, only rejection letters. I kept all of them in a box in my closet. It was my own personal ode to disappointment. I had written so many stories and poems. None were good enough. And here was this kid, writing something really beautiful. She probably cranked it out in the class before mine.

Life was decidedly unfair.

I pulled her paper out of the stack. Her handwriting was full of loops and whirls. It was girly and graceful and lovely. It was really just like Ashley herself. She was a charming young lady, always so eager to please. She always earned high grades, even though her writing was usually nothing to brag about. It was good, but not great. Until this piece.

I read it again and again, the story taking hold in my mind and getting better with each read. It was masterful. If I could only write like this, I could get my foot in the door. Really, it would only take one really good piece of writing to start my career off. The things I had written up to this point were solid pieces. But they weren’t catching the attention of the editors I needed to impress.

This piece, though...It would impress them.

I thought through the possibilities. They were tempting. I would need to do a little investigation, first, though.

The next day, I called Ashley back to my desk. “Hey, I wanted to know where your assignment was. I was surprised when I didn’t see it with the other papers.”

“I turned it in, Ms. Webb. Really, I did.”

“Hmm. I went through the stack three times. You usually aren’t late with your assignments. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you wrote?”

Ashley outlined the story. “I don’t know what to do,” she finished.

“Well, that sounds like a really interesting piece. How did you come up with it?”

“My mom and her sisters get together to play cards every weekend. I just wrote it based on them.”

“Do you have another copy of the story?”

“No, I don’t. Should I rewrite it?”

“No, no need. I could just give you a grade based on your average and this conversation.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.”

I can make this work, I thought. That night, I brought out my Smith Corona typewriter, loaded a clean sheet of paper into it, and I typed, “‘The Declarer and the Dummy,’ by Katherine Webb” at the top of the paper. Then I typed Ashley’s story.

1994

I submitted that story to The Nebraska Review, and it was accepted for publication. After that, my work exploded on the literary scene. I kept my publications a secret from my co-workers, though. This was for me. Just for me. Plus, I didn’t want to take any chances that Ashley might discover that I used her story. And there was some guilt, too. I can’t deny it. I knew what I had done was wrong, per se. But I just needed a foot in the door. My work would stand on its own after that.

Two years later, I quit my job to devote myself to my writing. Ashley had graduated by then, and she had gone off to college to major in biology. I moved to New York to be closer to the publishing world. I continued to write, adding several short stories and poems to my collection. I even began to publish novels. It was when my fourth novel was being promoted that things went awry.

“Thief! Liar!” The voice came out of the crowd at Barnes and Noble, just as I sat down at the table to begin signing books. Near the back, I saw several people turn to look behind them. And then, the crowd parted to let her through. It was Ashley. It had been ten years since I had last seen her. She hadn’t changed a bit.

“You’re a thief. You stole my story,” she said in a conversational tone. It cut through the crowd like a knife.

“Ashley, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But come on up here and we’ll figure this out.” I tried to keep my tone light and airy. And innocent.

She walked up to me, her face hard and angry. “I trusted you. You were my teacher,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Ashley, let me get out of this and we’ll go talk,” I said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will return shortly. There are signed copies right here if you’d like to purchase one. If you already have one you want me to sign, please wait here. I’ll be back.”

I guided Ashley outside. “Okay, Ashley, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know already. It was my story about the women playing bridge. Remember? You ‘lost’ it. But somehow it magically turned up in The Nebraska Review with your name on it.”

I couldn’t deny that the story was in the journal. But I could deny that it was hers.

“Ashley, that was my story. I wrote it about my grandmother.”

“How can you lie to my face?”

“I’m not lying.”

“I have proof, you know,” she said.

My heart leapt to my throat. Proof? How could she possibly have proof?

It was as if she read my mind. “I have a paper that proves that I wrote that story.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ashley.”

“Jessica’s paper was on top of mine in the stack. The ink from my story bled through onto the back of her poem. You can see my name on the story.”

I felt my heart hammering in my chest. Is that even possible? What do I do now?

“What do you want, Ashley?”

“That’s what I thought. You bitch. I can’t believe you. You know what I want? I want the money you have earned because of my story. I want your career. I want your life. That’s what I want.” Angry tears began to seep out of her eyes.

“Ashley…”

“I went for years thinking that I wasn’t a writer. I studied biology because I didn’t think I had the talent it would take to make writing my career. If I had known that I could get published, everything would be different. I would be happy.” Tears were flowing steadily now. Ashley dug in her purse for a tissue, and then once she found one, she wiped her face with it and put it back in her bag.

“I can’t give you your life back, you know. But you can start now, Ashley. It’s not too late. Write something and send it to me. I’ll help you get it published. What’s done is done, though. We can’t change the past.”

“Oh, yes, we can. You’re going to come clean about my story.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Either you do, or I will.”

“Ashley, be realistic. Think. I can help you. I’ll call my agent right now.”

“Not good enough. I need that story. I don’t have anything else to publish. I stopped writing after I took your class.”

“Okay, I’ll give you one of mine that I am working on.”

“Are you kidding? That’s ridiculous!”

“Ashley, please. I can’t tell anyone about that story. It would destroy me.”

She smiled bitterly. “So?”

And there it was. Her real desire. It wasn’t enough for her to become a writer. She wanted to take writing away from me. “Ashley, I have to get back in there. I want us to talk about this, though. As a show of good faith, I’ll give you my phone number. Here. And you can call it now to prove to you that it’s not a fake number.”

She pulled out her phone and plugged in my number. She called it, and my phone rang. “See? You can call me anytime. Day or night. I want to find a way to make this work for both of us, okay? Think about it, please.”

“Go to your adoring fans. I’ll consider it, and I’ll call you soon. This isn’t over, you know.” Ashley put her phone back in her purse and turned to walk away.

I watched her stride at a purposeful clip. She means business, I thought. I had no idea how to get out of this, but I was certain I would think of something before she called me. I slipped back into the bookstore and started signing books, hoping that it wouldn't be for the last time.

* * * * *

Ashley called me the next day. “I thought about it last night. I want what I want. Either you ‘fess up or I will do it for you.”

“Ashley…”

She hung up.

Damn it! I didn’t know what to do. I thought I could convince her to help herself by keeping me on her side, but apparently that wouldn’t be happening. I would have to tell my agent and my publisher, and it would be the hardest thing I had ever done. I wondered how long Ashley would give me before she stepped in.

* * * * *

It took me three days to even make the appointment with Nancy and Bob. We would meet in Bob’s office at the publishing company. I was so nervous--acid filled my stomach. I had been trying to decide how to approach this since Ashley called. I still didn’t know what to say.

I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. I saw Julie, the receptionist, as soon as I stepped out, and she waved me back to Stacey’s desk.

“Hi, Stacey. I’m here to see Bob. I have an appointment.”

“Yes, I see that. He’s got someone in there right now. Nancy is in there, too.”

“Okay, thanks.” I took a seat in one of the opulent chairs outside Bob’s office. My insides still burned, so I tried to distract myself with the magazines on the coffee table. They didn’t really help. I tried to wrap my head around what I was about to do. I was going to torpedo my entire writing career. I didn’t know what I would do after that. Could I keep writing? I could, of course, but I would likely never be published again. Could I go back to teaching? I suppose I could if I hadn’t stolen a student’s work to publish as my own. What did that leave me?

At that moment, the door to Bob’s office opened, and Ashley walked out. She had red-rimmed eyes, and her nose was running, clear snot glistening on her upper lip. She didn’t look up; she just clenched a sheet of notebook paper in one hand and hurried past Stacey. What was that all about?

“Katherine, it’s good to see you. We have something to discuss, I warrant?” Bob said to me.

“Um, yes, I suppose we do,” I said, and I picked up my purse. Clutching it to me, I followed Bob into his palatial office. The nerves attacked again. I felt a wave of nausea, and my knees threatened to buckle and give way under me. I made an enormous effort to stay upright and to keep from vomiting.

“Hello, Kate,” Nancy said. She had turned around in the chair in front of Bob’s desk and was regarding me with, what? Icy disdain? Cold fury? I couldn’t read her.

“Hello,” I choked out. She turned to face the desk again, and I sat down in the chair next to hers.

Bob walked around the desk and sat in the leather chair behind it. “Well, you must be very upset by all of this.”

“I am.”

“Ashley had quite a story to tell.”

“I know, and let me just say--”

“No, it’s alright, Katherine. We told her in no uncertain terms that we would take legal action if she continued this ridiculous behavior.”

What?!?

“Kate, she is so obsessed, and she went to such lengths to discredit your work. I am so sorry this happened, but Bob and I will make sure that she ceases this nonsense.”

“Well, I...I don’t know what to say.”

“You shouldn’t really say anything. Let’s allow Legal to take care of this,” Bob said. “This is the same advice I give anyone who faces such an accusation from a disturbed fan.”

“Okay…”

Nancy reached over to touch my shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about. However, be sure you do not engage with Ashley if she reaches out to you again.”

“That’s right, Katherine. Don’t say anything to her or about her. To anyone. Now, you go home. Put this ugliness behind you. Do some writing. Nancy and I will brainstorm next steps for this and for the book tour.”

Bob stood up, as did Nancy and I. He came around to me and opened his arms for a hug. “Really, Katherine, this happens far more often than you would imagine. Nancy and I have it under control. You don’t need to worry about a thing.” He released me, leaned back, and laughed. “As if we would believe that some little faded piece of notebook paper would be enough to make us doubt you!”

Nancy joined in the laughter. I did not. Bob took me by the elbow and guided me to the door, his smile fading to a serious, paternal look. “Now, you just take care of yourself. Maybe drink a cup of tea or take a warm bath. You seem shell-shocked.”

“I am,” I whispered.

“You poor thing. Shall I drive you home?” Nancy said, patting my back.

“No, I think I’m okay,” I said. I needed to go somewhere and think. “Thank you both very much. I’ll see myself out.” I stepped out of the office, nodded at Stacey, and left the building.

* * * * *

I went home, my mind roiling. So they didn’t believe her, and they went on the offensive, threatening a lawsuit. I did not see that coming. What did it mean? That I was off the hook? That I would go back to writing, as if nothing happened? And what would Ashley do? Give up? Or not? I found myself thinking about her and what she must be going through right now. How frustrated and heartbroken she must be. To be that close to getting what she wanted, and to have it all torn away by two people who believed a lie.

What if I were in Ashley’s shoes? I knew what writing meant to me. What if it meant the same to Ashley all those years ago? And I stripped that away from her. Now she was and would forever be wondering, “What if?” If it were me, could I live with that? I didn’t think I could.

I reached for my phone, looked at my recent calls, and found Ashley’s number. My thumb hovered over it. What would I say to her? What could I say to make any difference?

I pressed the number, and I heard the phone begin to ring. Part of me hoped she wouldn’t answer, of course, because then I could go on my merry way, knowing that I had made an attempt to make amends. Part of me wanted her to answer so that I could begin to make things right.

“What do you want?” Ashley growled when she picked up the phone.

“I am sorry. I want you to know that. And I want to help you.”

“Just leave me alone. You got off scot-free. You can keep writing and raking in the bucks and being famous while I go back home to my boring life.”

“Ashley, please don’t hang up. I really want to make this right.”

“Sure you do. Why don’t you just dedicate your next book to me? That would be quite the joke, don’t you think?”

“No, that’s not what I had in mind.”

“Well, then, what?”

“I want to collaborate on a piece. With you.”

“Oh, please. You want to co-author something? Really?”

“Yes, I want to write a piece with you, and then I want to help you start publishing on your own.” I held my breath. I hoped she would bite.

“What would it be about?”

“Our story. This story.”

“What?!? And out yourself?”

“Yes. And then I’ll be your mentor. Your teacher. Again. It’ll give me a chance to repair the damage I have done.”

“I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t blame you. I’ll leave the details up to you. How does that sound?”

“Let me think about it.” She hung up.

* * * * *

Ashley called me the next day, and we decided to meet at a Starbucks to discuss the plan. I arrived early because that’s how I am. I found a spot to sit, near the back and out of the way of traffic, at least as out of the way as I could get. I got out my computer and logged in. Ashley walked in a couple of minutes later, and I waved her over.

“What do you want? I’ll get it,” I said.

“Just a large black coffee.”

I went to the counter, ordered, and waited for the drinks to be made. I looked over at Ashley. She was biting her fingernails and tapping her foot. I was sure she didn’t know what to believe. Would I really confess my sin? Would I really co-author the piece with her? I couldn’t blame her for being distrustful. I certainly hadn’t given her a reason to trust me.

I took the drinks back to the table. “Here’s your coffee. Have you had a chance to work out the details?”

“Yes. Most of them, anyway. We’ll tell the story from each of our perspectives, back and forth, you know?”

“That should work well.”

“I don’t know how it’ll get published, though.”

“Oh, I think we’ll find a literary magazine that will pick it up. And then, the proverbial shit will hit the fan.”

“What will you do when it does?”

“I’ll be alright. I’ll mentor you, take an agent’s cut of what you make. I’ll probably tutor as my day job.”

“Okay, let’s do this, then.”

I started a new document, and I titled it “Karma.”

“I’ll start, and then you add your part,” I said. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second. Then I started typing.

Karma

By Katherine Webb and Ashley Marsh

1994

I thought I had gotten away with it. Ten years passed, without a word. Without even a whisper. But then a shout: “Thief! Liar!” And I was back at Cedar Lane Community School District all over again. It was as if I had never left.

I passed the computer over to Ashley. She bit her lip as she read what I had written, and she looked up as she considered her first written words since high school. She soon bent over the keyboard, and, looking at the keys as she typed, she began to tell her story.