“You’ve been writing all these years?”
“All these years.”
He sipped his tea. After a thoughtful silence, he stood and motioned for me to follow. We left the gazebo. Limping, he took me to the small building next to the cottage. He unlocked its door and led me inside.
* * *
His writing studio. For a moment, my heart beat faster. Then the hush of the room spread through me. The place had the calm of a sanctuary. I noticed a fireplace, a desk, a chair, and a manual typewriter.
“I have five more machines just like it—in case I need parts,” Wentworth said.
I imagined the typewriter’s bell sounding when Wentworth reached the end of each line. A ream of paper lay next to the typewriter, along with a package of carbon paper. A window directed light from behind the desk.
And in front of the desk? I approached shelves upon which were arranged twenty-one manuscripts. I counted them. Twenty one. They sent a shiver through me. “All these years,” I repeated.
“Writing can be a form of meditation.”
“And you never felt the urge to have them published?”
“To satisfy an ego I worked hard to eliminate? No.”
“But isn’t an unread book the equivalent of one hand clapping?”
He shrugged. “It would mean returning to the world.”
“But you did send a manuscript to Sam.”
“As Peter Thomas. As a favor to my friend. But I had doubts that the ploy would work. In his final letter, Sam said the changes in publishing were too grim to be described.”
“True. In the old days, an editor read a manuscript, liked it, and bought it. But now the manuscript goes to the marketing department first. If the sales numbers the marketers estimate aren’t high enough, the book won’t be accepted.”
Wentworth was appalled. “How can a book with an original vision get published? After a while, everything will be the same. The strain on your face. Now I understand. You hate the business.”
“The way it’s become.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Because, God help me, I remember how excited I felt when I discovered a wonderful new book and found readers for it. I keep hoping corporations will realize books aren’t potato chips.”
Wentworth’s searching eyes were amazingly clear. I felt self-conscious, as if he saw directly into me, sensing my frustration.
“It’s a pleasant day. Why don’t we go back to the gazebo?” he suggested. “I have some things I need to do. But perhaps you could pass the time by reading one of these manuscripts. I’d like your opinion.”
For a moment, I was too surprised to respond. “You’re serious?”
“An editor’s perspective would be helpful.”
“The last thing you need is my help.” I couldn’t believe my good fortune. “But I’d love to read something else you’ve written.”
* * *
Wentworth’s chores turned out to be raking leaves, putting them in a compost bin, and cleaning his gardens for winter. Surrounded by the calming air, I sat in the gazebo and watched him, reminded of my father. Amid the muted sounds of crows, squirrels, and leaves, I finished my cup of tea, poured another, and started the manuscript, A Cloud of Witnesses.
I read about a slum in Boston, where a five-year-old boy named Eddie lived with his mother, who was seldom at home. The implication was that she haunted bars, prostituting herself in exchange for alcohol. Because Eddie was forbidden to leave the crummy apartment (the even worse hallways were filled with drug dealers and perverts), he didn’t have any friends. The television was broken. He resorted to the radio and, by trial and error, found a station with an afternoon call-in program, “You Get It Straight from Jake,” hosted by a comedian named Jake Barton. Jake had an irreverent way of relating to the day’s events, and even though Eddie didn’t understand most of the events referred to, he loved the way Jake talked. In fact, Jake accomplished a rare thing—he made Eddie laugh.
As I turned the pages, the sound of crows, squirrels, and leaves became muffled. I heard Wentworth raking but as if from a great distance, farther and fainter. My vision narrowed until I was conscious only of the page in front of me, Eddie looking forward to each day’s broadcast of “You Get It Straight from Jake,” Eddie laughing at Jake’s tone, Eddie wishing he had a father like Jake, Eddie . . .
A hand nudged my shoulder, the touch so gentle I barely felt it.
“Tom,” a voice whispered.
“Uh.”
“Tom, wake up.”
My eyelids flickered. Wentworth stood before me. It was difficult to see him; everything was so shadowy. I was flat on my back on the bench. I jerked upright.
“My God, I fell asleep,” I said.
“You certainly did.” Wentworth looked amused.
I glanced around. It was dusk. “All day? I slept all day? I’m so sorry.”
“Why?”
“Well, I barge in on you, but you’re generous enough to let me read a manuscript, and then I fall asleep reading it, and—”
“You needed the rest. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have dozed.”
“Dozed? I haven’t slept that soundly in years. It had nothing to do with . . . Your book’s wonderful. It’s moving and painful and yet funny and . . . I just got to the part where Jake announces he’s been fired from the radio station and Eddie can’t bear losing the only thing in his life he enjoys.”
“There’s plenty of time. Read more after we eat.”
“Eat?”
“I made soup and a salad.”
“But I can’t impose.”
“I insist.”
* * *
Except for a stove and refrigerator, the kitchen might have looked the same two hundred years earlier. The floor, the cabinets, and the walls were aged wood, with a golden hue that made me think they were maple. The table and chairs were dark, perhaps oak, with dents here and there from a lifetime of use. Flaming logs crackled in a fireplace.
I smelled freshly baked bread and, for the first time in a long while, felt hungry. The soup was vegetable. I ate three servings and two helpings of salad, not to mention a half loaf of bread.
“The potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and carrots, everything in the soup comes from my garden,” Wentworth explained. “The growing season is brief here. I need to be resourceful. For example, the lettuce comes from a late summer planting that I keep in a glass frame so I can harvest it in the winter.”
The fresh taste was powerful, warming my stomach. Somehow, I had room for two slices of apple pie, which was also homemade, the fruit from Wentworth’s trees. And tea. Two cups of tea.
Helping to clean the dishes, I yawned. Embarrassed, I covered my mouth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s natural to feel sleepy after we eat. That’s what mammals do. After they eat, they sleep.”
“But I slept all day.”
“A sign of how much rest you need. Lie down on the sofa in the living room. Read more of my book.”
“But I ought to go back to my motel room.”
“Nonsense.” Limping, Wentworth guided me into the living room. The furnishings reminded me of those I saw long ago in my grandmother’s house. The sofa was covered with a blanket.
“I won’t be an imposition?”
“I welcome your reaction to my manuscript. I won’t let you take it with you to the motel, so if you want to read it, you need to do it here.”
I suppressed another yawn, so tired that I knew I wouldn’t be alert enough to deal with anyone following me to the motel. “Thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Wentworth brought me the rest of the manuscript, and again I felt amazed that I was in his company.
The fireplace warmed me. On the sofa, I sat against a cushion and turned the pages, once more absorbed in the story. Jake announced that his sense of humor had gotten him fired from the radio station. He told his listeners that he had only two more broadcasts and then would leave Boston for a talk sh
ow in Cincinnati. Eddie was devastated. He hadn’t seen his mother in two days. All he had to eat was peanut butter and crackers. He put them in a pillowcase. He added his only change of clothes, then went to the door and listened. He heard footsteps. Somebody cursed. When the sounds became distant, Eddie did the forbidden—he unlocked and opened the door. The lights were broken in most of the hallway. Garbage was stacked in corners. The smell of urine and cabbage made Eddie sick. Shadows threatened, but the curses and footsteps were more distant, and Eddie stepped through the doorway.
The crackling in Wentworth’s fireplace seemed to come from far away, like the faint tap of a typewriter.
* * *
The hand on my shoulder was again so gentle I barely felt it. When I opened my eyes, Wentworth stood over me, but this time he was silhouetted by light.
“Good morning.” He smiled.
“Morning?”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“I slept thirteen hours?” I asked in shock.
“You’re more tired than I imagined. Would you like some breakfast?”
My stomach rumbled. I couldn’t recall waking up with so strong an appetite. “Starved. Just give me a moment to . . .”
“There’s an extra toothbrush and razor in the bathroom.”
As I washed my face, I was puzzled by my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were no longer drawn. Wrinkles on my brow and around my eyes were less distinct. My eyes looked bright, my skin healthy.
At the kitchen table, I ate a fruit salad Wentworth prepared—oranges, bananas, pears, and apples (the latter two from his trees, he reminded me). I refilled my bowl three times. As always, there was tea.
“Is it drugged? Is that why I’m sleeping so much?”
Wentworth almost smiled. “We both drank from the same pot. Wouldn’t I have been sleepy, also?”
I studied him as hard as he had studied me. Despite his age, his cheeks glowed. His eyes were clear. His hair was gray instead of white. “You’re in your early eighties, correct?”
“Correct.”
“But you look at least twenty years younger. I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps you do.”
I glanced around the old kitchen. I peered toward the trees and bushes outside. The sun cast a glow on falling leaves. “This place?”
“A similar compound in another area would have produced the same effect. But yes, this place. Over the years, I acquired a natural rhythm. I lived with the land. I blended with the passage of the sun and moon and seasons. After a while, I noticed a change in my appearance, or rather the lack of change in my appearance. I wasn’t aging at the rate that I should have. I came to savor the delight of waking each day and enjoying what my small version of the universe had in store for me.”
“That doesn’t seem compatible with your gun.”
“I brought that with me when I first retreated here. The loss of my family . . . Each morning was a struggle not to shoot myself.”
I looked away, self-conscious.
“But one day crept into another. Somehow, I persisted. I read Emerson and Thoreau again and again, trying to empty myself of my not-so-quiet desperation. Along with these infinite two acres, Emerson and Thoreau saved my life. I came to feel my family through the flowers and trees and . . . Nothing dies. It’s only transformed. I know what you’re thinking—that I found a sentimental way to compensate. Perhaps I did. But compare your life to mine. When you came here, when you snuck onto my property, you looked so desperate that for the first time in many years I was frightened. I knew that homes had been broken into. I got the gun from a drawer. I hoped I wouldn’t need to defend myself.”
Shame burned my cheeks. “Perhaps I’d better go.”
“Then I realized you were truly desperate, not because of drugs or greed, but because of a profound unhappiness. I invited you to stay because I hoped this place would save you.”
As so often with Wentworth, I couldn’t speak. Finally, I managed to say “Thank you,” and was reminded of how humbly he used those words when I told him how brilliant The Architecture of Snow was.
“I have some coveralls that might fit you,” he said. “Would you like to help me clean my gardens?”
* * *
It was one of the finest afternoons of my life, raking leaves, trimming frost-killed flowers, putting them in the compost bin. We harvested squash and apples. The only day I can compare it to was my final afternoon with my father so long ago, a comparably lovely autumn day when we raked leaves, before my father bent over and died.
A sound jolted me: my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID display. Finally, the ringing stopped.
Wentworth gave me a questioning look.
“My boss,” I explained.
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
“He’s meeting the company’s directors on Monday. He’s under orders to squeeze out more profits. He wants to announce that The Architecture of Snow is on our list.”
Wentworth glanced at the falling leaves. “Would the announcement help you?”
“My instructions are not to come back if I don’t return with a signed contract.”
Wentworth looked as if I’d told a slight joke. “That explains what drove you to climb over my fence.”
“I really did worry that you were ill.”
“Of course.” Wentworth studied more falling leaves. “Monday?”
“Yes.”
“If you go back, you’ll lose sleep again.”
“Somebody’s got to fight them.”
“Maybe we need to save ourselves before we save anything else. How would you like to help me split firewood?”
* * *
For supper, we ate the rest of the soup, the bread, and the apple pie. They tasted as fresh as on the previous night. Again, I felt sleepy, but this time from unaccustomed physical exertion. My skin glowed from the sun and the breeze.
I finished my tea and yawned. “I’d better get back to the motel.”
“No. Lie on the sofa. Finish my manuscript.”
The logs crackled. I might have heard the distant clatter of a typewriter as I turned the pages.
In the story, Eddie braved the dangers of the rat-infested apartment building, needing all his cleverness to escape perverts and drug dealers. Outside, on a dark rainy street, he faced greater dangers. Every shadow was a threat. Meanwhile, a chapter about Jake revealed that he was a nasty drunk when he wasn’t on the air. The station’s owner was glad for the chance to fire him when Jake insulted one of the sponsors during the program. But Eddie idealized him and was ready to brave anything to find him. As the rain fell harder, he wondered how to find the radio station. He couldn’t just ask a stranger on the street. He saw a store that sold newspapers and magazines and hurried from awning to awning toward it.
* * *
This time, Wentworth didn’t need to touch me. I sensed his presence and opened my eyes to the glorious morning.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very. But I’m afraid I didn’t finish it. I’m where Eddie found the radio station’s address in—”
“Next time,” Wentworth said.
“Next time?”
“When you come back, you can finish it.”
“You’d like me to come back?”
Instead of answering, Wentworth said, “I’ve given your problem a great deal of thought. Before I tell you my decision, I want you to tell me what you think of my manuscript so far.”
“I love it.”
“And? If I were your author, is that all you’d say to me as an editor? Is there nothing you want changed?”
“The sentences are wonderful. Your style’s so consistent, it would be difficult to change anything without causing problems in other places.”
“Does that imply a few sections would benefit from changes?”
“Just a few cuts.”
“A few? Why so hesitant? Are you overwhelmed by the great man’s talent? Do you know how Sam and I worked as editor
and author? We fought over every page. He wasn’t satisfied until he made me justify every word in every sentence. Some authors wouldn’t have put up with it. But I loved the experience. He challenged me. He made me try harder and reach deeper. If you were my editor, what would you say to challenge me?”
“You really want an answer?” I took a breath. “I meant what I said. This is a terrific book. It’s moving and dramatic and funny when it needs to be and . . . I love it.”
“But . . .”
“The boy in The Architecture of Snow struggles through a blizzard to save his father. Eddie in this novel struggles to get out of a slum and find a father. You’re running variations on a theme. An important theme, granted. But the same one as in The Sand Castle.”
“Continue.”
“That may be why the critics turned against your last book. Because it was a variation on The Sand Castle, also.”
“Maybe some writers only have one theme.”
“Perhaps that’s true. But if I were your editor, I’d push you to learn if that were the case.”
Wentworth considered me with those clear probing eyes. “My father molested me when I was eight.”
I felt as if I’d been hit.
“My mother found out and divorced him. We moved to another city. I never saw my father again. She never remarried. Fathers and sons. A powerful need when a boy’s growing up. That’s why I became a grade-school teacher: to be a surrogate father for the children who needed one. It’s the reason I became a writer: to understand the hollowness in me. I lied to you. I told you that when I heard you coming across the yard, when I saw your desperate features, I pulled my gun from a drawer to protect myself. In fact, the gun was already in my hand. Friday. The day you crawled over the fence. Do you know what date it was?”
“No.”
The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) Page 4