by Del Howison
“Does the boy save the father?” the new CEO asked. He came from Gladstone’s broadcast division.
“Nearly dying in the process.”
“Well, at least it isn’t a downer.” The head of marketing shook his head from side to side. “A couple of days on a farm in a storm. Feels small. The book chains want global threats and international conspiracies.”
“I promise—on the page, those few days feel huge. The ten-year-old becomes the father. The sick father becomes the son. At first, the boy’s overwhelmed. Then he manages almost superhuman efforts.”
“Child in jeopardy. The book won’t appeal to women. What’s the title mean?”
“The epigraph indicates that The Architecture of Snow is a quote from an Emerson poem about how everything in life is connected as if covered by snow.”
The CEO sounded doubtful. “Has anybody heard of the author?”
“No.”
“A first novel. A small subject. It’ll be hard to persuade the book chains to support it. I don’t see movie potential. Send the usual rejection letter.”
“Can’t,” I said, risking my job. “The author didn’t give a return address.”
“A typical amateur.”
“I don’t think so.” I paused, about to take the biggest risk of my career. But if my suspicion was correct, I no longer needed to worry about my job. “The book’s beautifully, powerfully written. It has a distinctive, hypnotic rhythm. The punctuation’s distinctive also: an unusual use of dashes and italics. A father and a son. Lost innocence. The book’s style and theme are synonymous with …” I took the chance. “They remind me of R. J. Wentworth.”
The CEO thought a moment. “The Sand Castle?”
“We’ve sold eight million copies so far, a hundred thousand paperbacks to colleges this year alone.”
“You’re suggesting someone imitated his style?”
“Not at all.”
“Then …?”
“I don’t believe it’s an imitation. I think Peter Thomas is R. J. Wentworth.”
The room became so quiet, I heard traffic outside.
“But isn’t Wentworth dead?” a marketer asked. “Wasn’t he killed in a car accident in the sixties?”
“Not exactly.”
* * *
October 15, 1961. Three disasters happened simultaneously. A movie based on one of Wentworth’s short stories premiered that month. The story was called “The Fortune Teller,” but the studio changed the title to A Valentine for Two. It also added a couple of songs. Those changes confirmed Wentworth’s suspicions about Hollywood. The only reason he sold the rights to the short story was that every producer was begging for The Sand Castle and he decided to use “The Fortune Teller” as a test case. He lived with his wife and two sons in Connecticut. The family begged him to drive them into Manhattan for the premiere, to see how truly bad the film was and laugh it off. En route, rain turned to sleet. The car flipped off the road. Wentworth’s wife and two sons were killed.
The film was more dreadful than anyone imagined. The story’s New England setting became a cruise ship. A teenage idol played the main character—originally a college professor but now a dance instructor. Every review was scathing. Nearly all of them blamed Wentworth for giving Hollywood the chance to pervert a beloved story. Most critics wrote their attacks in mock Wentworth prose, with his distinctive rhythms and his odd use of dashes and italics.
Meanwhile, his new book, a collection of two novellas, Opposites Attract, was published the same day. March & Sons wanted to take advantage of the movie publicity. Of course, when the date was originally chosen, no one could have known how rotten the movie would be. By the time rumors spread, it was too late to change the schedule. Reviewers already had the book in their hands. It was charming. It was entertaining. In many places, it was even meaningful. But it wasn’t as magnificent as The Sand Castle. Anticipation led to disappointment, which turned to nastiness. Many reviewers crowed that Wentworth wasn’t the genius some had reputed him to be. They took another look at The Sand Castle and now faulted passages in it.
* * *
“All on the same day,” I told the marketing/editorial committee. “October 15, 1961. Wentworth blamed everything on himself. His fiction echoes transcendental writers like Thoreau, so it isn’t surprising that he followed Thoreau’s example and retreated to the countryside—in this case, Vermont, where he bought a house on two acres outside a small town called Tipton. He enclosed the property with a high fence, and that was the end of his public life. But the myth started when Time put him on its cover and told as much as it could without being able to interview him. College students began romanticizing his retreat to the countryside: the grieving, guilt-ridden author, father, and husband living in isolation. When the paperback of Opposites Attract was published, it became a two-year bestseller. More than that, it was suddenly perceived as a minor masterpiece. Not The Sand Castle, of course. But far superior to what critics first maintained. With each year of his seclusion, his reputation increased.”
“How do you know so much about him?” the head of marketing asked.
“I wrote several essays about him when I was an undergrad at Penn State.”
“And you’re convinced this is a genuine Wentworth manuscript?”
“One of the tantalizing rumors about him is that, although he never published anything after 1961, he kept writing every day. He implied as much to a high school student who knocked on his gate and actually got an interview with him.”
“Those essays you wrote made you an expert? You’re confident you can tell the real thing from an imitation?” the CEO asked.
“The book’s set in Vermont, where Wentworth retreated. The boy limps from frostbite on his right foot, the same foot Wentworth injured in the accident. But I have another reason to believe it’s genuine. Wentworth’s editor, the man who discovered him, was Samuel Carver.”
“Carver?” The CEO leaned forward in surprise. “After more than forty years, Wentworth finally sent his editor a manuscript? Why the pseudonym?”
“I don’t have an answer. But the absence of a letter and a return address tells me that the author expected Carver to know how to get in touch with him. I can think of only one author who could take that for granted.”
“Jesus,” the CEO said, “if we can prove this was written by Wentworth—”
“Every talk show would want him,” the head of marketing said. “A legendary hermit coming out of seclusion. A solitary genius ready to tell his story. Larry King would jump at the chance. The Today show. Sixty Minutes. Oprah. My God, Oprah. He’d easily make the cover of Time again. Maybe Newsweek. Maybe both. We’d have a guaranteed number one bestseller.”
“Wait a second,” a marketer asked. “How old is he?”
“Seventy-eight,” I answered.
“Maybe he can barely talk. Maybe he’d be useless on Oprah.”
“That’s one of a lot of things you need to find out,” the CEO told me. “Track him down. Find out if he wrote this manuscript. Our parent company wants a twenty-percent increase in profits. We won’t do that by promoting authors who sell only fifty or a hundred thousand hardbacks. We need a million-seller. I’m meeting the Gladstone executives on Monday. They want to know what progress we’re making. It would be fabulous if I could tell them we have Wentworth.”
* * *
I tried to telephone Wentworth’s agent to see if she had contact information. But it turned out that she had died twelve years earlier and that no arrangements had been made for anyone else to represent the author, who wasn’t expected to publish again. I called Vermont’s telephone directory assistance and learned that Wentworth didn’t have a listed phone number. The Authors Guild couldn’t help either.
My CEO walked in. “What did he tell you? Does he admit he’s the author?”
“I haven’t been able to ask him. I can’t find a way to contact him.”
“This is too important. Show some initiative. Go up there. Kno
ck on his door. Keep knocking until he answers.”
I got a map and located Tipton in the southern part of Vermont. Few people live near the town, I discovered. It was hard to reach by plane or train, so the next morning, I rented a car and drove six hours north through Connecticut and Massachusetts.
In mid-October, Vermont’s maple-covered hills had glorious colors, although I was too preoccupied to give them full attention. With difficulty—because a crossroads wasn’t clearly marked—I reached Tipton (population 5,073) after dark and checked into one of its few motels without getting a look at the town.
At eight the next morning, I stepped from my room and breathed cool, clean air. Rustic buildings lined the main street, mostly white clapboards with high-pitched roofs. A church steeple towered above a square. Calm. Clean. Quiet. Ordered. The contrast with Manhattan was dramatic.
Down the street, a sign read Meg’s Pantry. As I passed an antique store, I had the palpable sense of former years. I imagined that, except for satellite dishes and SUVs, Tipton looked the same now as it had a hundred years earlier, perhaps two hundred years, that the town was a time capsule. Then I noticed a plaque: Jeremiah Tipton Constructed This Bulding in 1792.
When I opened the door, the smell of coffee, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hash browns overwhelmed me. A dozen ruddy-faced patrons looked up from their breakfasts. My pale cheeks made me self-conscious, as did my slacks and sports coat. Amid jeans and checkered wool shirts, I obviously wasn’t a local. Not that I sensed hostility. A town that earned its income from tourists tolerated strangers.
As they resumed their murmured conversations, I sat at the counter. A gray-haired woman with spectacles came over, gave me a menu, and pulled a notepad from an apron.
“What’s the special?” I asked.
“Corned beef and eggs.”
Tension ruined my appetite, but I knew I couldn’t establish rapport if my bill wasn’t high enough for the waitress to expect a good tip. “I’ll take it.”
“Coffee?”
“You bet. Regular. And orange juice.”
When she brought the food, I said, “Town’s kind of quiet.”
“Gets busy on the weekends. Especially now that the leaves are in color.”
When she brought the check, I said, “I’m told there’s a writer who lives in the neighborhood. R. J. Wentworth.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Wentworth? I don’t think I ever heard of him,” the waitress said. “Mind you, I’m not a reader.”
“You’d love his books,” I said. The obvious response to a statement like that is, “Really? What are they about?” But all I received was a guarded look. “Keep the change,” I said.
Subtlety not having worked, I went outside and noticed slightly more activity on the street. Some of it wasn’t reassuring. A rumpled guy in ragged clothes came out of an alley. He had the vacant look of a druggy.
Other movement caught my attention. A slender man wearing a cap and a windbreaker reached a bookstore across the street, unlocked its door, and went in. When I crossed to it, I saw that most of the volumes in the window had lush covers depicting covered bridges, autumn foliage, or snow-covered slopes, with titles related to Vermont’s history and beauty. But one volume, small and plain, was a history of Tipton. I tried the door and found it was locked.
Through the window, I saw the slender man take off his windbreaker. His cap was already off, revealing thin hair. He turned toward the rattling doorknob and shook his head, motioning courteously for me to leave. When I pretended to be confused, he walked over and unlocked the door.
“I’m not open yet. Can you come back in an hour?”
“Sure. I want to buy that book in the window—the history of Tipton.”
That caught his attention. “You’ve got excellent taste. Come in.”
An overhead bell rang when he opened the door wider. The store was filled with pleasant mustiness. He tugged a pen from his shirt pocket. “I’ll autograph it for you.”
“You’re the author?”
“Guilty.”
I looked at the cover. Tales of Historic Tipton by Jonathan Wade. “I’m from New York. An editor for March and Sons. It’s always a pleasure to meet an author.”
“You’re here to see the colors?” Wade asked.
“A little pleasure with business.” I handed him fifteen dollars for the book.
“Business?”
“An author lives around here.”
“Oh?”
“R. J. Wentworth.”
“Oh?”
“I need to speak to him.”
“Couldn’t you just write him a letter?”
“I don’t have his address.”
“I see.” Wade pointed at the book in my hands. “And you thought perhaps the address is in there?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“You won’t find it. Still want to buy the book?”
“Absolutely. I love history, and when I meet an author, I’m always curious to see how he writes.”
“Not with the brilliance of R. J. Wentworth, I regret to say. We used to get people asking about him all the time. Thirty years ago, my father had a thriving business, selling Wentworth’s books to people who asked about him. In fact, without Wentworth, he wouldn’t have made a living. Nor would anybody else in town, for that matter. Tipton would have dried up if not for the tourists Wentworth attracted.”
“But not anymore?”
“His fans got old, I guess, and people don’t read much these days.”
“So a waitress across the street told me.”
“This town owes him a lot, even if he didn’t mean to do us a favor. In these parts, if you’re not born here, you’re always an outsider. But after more than forty years of living here, he’s definitely one of us. You won’t find anybody who’ll tell you where he is. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes if I violated his privacy.”
“In the eyes?” I asked in amazement. “You mean you’ve spoken with him?”
“Despite Bob’s reputation for being a hermit, he isn’t antisocial.”
“‘Bob’?” I asked in greater amazement. The familiarity sounded almost profane.
“His first name is Robert, after all. He insists on being called Bob. He comes into town on occasion. Buys books. Eats at the Pantry. Gets a haircut. Watches a baseball game at the tavern down the street.”
I continued to be astounded.
“Not often and certainly never on a weekend during peak tourist season,” Wade said. “He picks times when he knows he can move around without being bothered.”
“Even at his age?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“But what’s he like?”
“Polite. Considerate. He doesn’t make assumptions about himself. What I mostly notice is how clear his eyes are. You’ve read his work?”
“Many times.”
“Then you know how much it’s influenced by transcendentalism. He’s like Thoreau. Calm. Still. Reflective. It’s soothing to be around him.”
“But you won’t help me meet him?”
“Definitely not.”
“Could you at least phone him and try to arrange a meeting?”
“Can’t.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do. I literally can’t. Bob doesn’t have a telephone. And I’m not about to knock on his door. Why do you need to talk to him?”
I told Wade about the manuscript. “I think it’s his work, but it doesn’t have his name on it.” I added the detail that I hoped would make Wade cooperate. “It was addressed to his editor. But unfortunately, his editor died recently. They were friends. I wonder if he’s been told.”
“I only have your word that you’re an editor.”
“Here’s my business card.”
“Twenty years ago, a man showed me a business card, claiming he worked in the White House. He said the President wanted to give Bob an award, but he turned out to be an assistan
t to a Hollywood producer who wanted the movie rights for The Sand Castle.”
“What harm would it do to put a note in his mailbox?”
“I’ve never intruded on him. I’m not about to start now.”
* * *
Outside, a pickup truck rattled past. A few more locals appeared on the sidewalk. Another rumpled guy came out of an alley. A half block to my right, a Jeep was parked outside an office marked Tipton Realty. I walked over and pretended to admire a display of properties for sale: farms, cabins, and historic-looking homes.
When I stepped inside, the hardwood floor creaked. The smell of furniture polish reminded me of my grandmother’s house.
At an antique desk, an attractive red-haired woman looked up from a computer screen. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant.
“I was wondering if you had a map of the roads around here. My Vermont map doesn’t provide much detail.”
“Looking for property?”
“Don’t know yet. As you can probably tell, I’m not from around here. But the scenery’s so magnificent, I thought I might drive around and see if anything appeals to me.”
“A weekend place to live?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re from New York, right?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“I meet a lot of people passing through. I’m a good judge of accents. New York’s a little far to have a weekend place here.”
“I’m not sure it would be just for weekends. I’m a book editor. But I’ve given some thought to writing a novel.”
This attracted her interest.
“I hear the location has inspired other writers,” I said. “Doesn’t John Irving live in Vermont?”
“And David Mamet and Grace Paley.”
“And R. J. Wentworth,” I said. “Doesn’t he live around here?”
Her expression became guarded.
“Great writer,” I said.
Her tone was now curt. “You’ll find maps on that table.”
* * *
As I walked to my car, I thought that the CIA or the mafia ought to send their recruits for training in Tipton. The townspeople knew how to keep secrets. I chose north, driving along brilliantly wooded back roads. The fragrance of the falling leaves was powerful, reminding me of my boyhood on Long Island, of helping my father rake the yard. He burned the leaves in a fallow vegetable garden behind our house. He always let me strike the match. He died from a heart attack when I was twelve.