The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) (5 page)

“Mr. Wentworth?”

When I rounded the gazebo and headed toward the cottage, I heard a door creak open. A man stepped out. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a sweater. He was slender, with slightly graying hair. He had dark intense eyes.

He had a pistol in his hand.

“Wait.” I jerked up my hands, thinking, My God, he’s been living alone for so long, he lost his mind. He’s going to shoot me.

“Walk to the front gate.”

“This isn’t what it looks like.” My chest cramped. “I thought you were ill. I came to see if I can help.”

“Stay ahead of me.”

“My name’s Tom Neal. I knocked on the gate.”

“
Move.
”

“I left a note. I’m an editor for March & Sons. Please. I need to talk to you about a manuscript I think you sent us. It was addressed to Sam Carver. He’s dead. I took over his duties. That’s why–”

“Stop,” the man said.

His command made the air feel stiller. Crows cawing, squirrels scampering along branches, leaves falling–everything seemed to halt.

“Sam’s dead?” The man frowned, as if the notion was unthinkable.

“A week ago Monday.”

Slowly, he lowered the gun. He had Wentworth’s sensitive features and soulful eyes. But Wentworth would be in his early eighties, and this man looked twenty years younger, his cheeks aglow.

“Who
are
you?” I asked.

The man rubbed his forehead in shock. “What? Who . . . ? Nobody. Bob’s son. He’s out of town. I’m watching the house for him.”

Bob’s son? But that didn’t make sense. The child would have been born when Wentworth was around 20, before he got married, before
The Sand Castle
was published. Later, the furor of interest in Wentworth was so great that it would have been impossible to keep an illegitimate child a secret.

The man continued to look shocked. “What happened to Sam?”

I explained about the firm’s new owner and how Carver was fired.

“The way you talk about the bus, are you suggesting . . .”

“I don’t think Sam had much to live for. The look on his face when he carried his belongings from the office . . .”

The man seemed to peer at something far away. “Too late.”

“What?”

Despondent, he shook his head from side to side. “The gate self-locks. Let yourself out.”

As he turned toward the cottage, he limped.

“You’re not Wentworth’s son.”

He paused.

“The limp’s from your accident. You’re R. J. Wentworth. You look twenty years younger. I don’t know how that’s possible, but that’s who you are.”

I’ve never been looked at so deeply. “Sam was your friend?”

“I admired him.”

His dark eyes assessed me. “Wait here.”

* * *

When he limped from the house, he held a teapot and two cups. He looked so awkward that I reached to help.

We sat in the gazebo. The air felt more cushioned and soothing. My sense of reality was tested. R. J. Wentworth. Could I actually be talking to him?

“How can you look twenty years younger than you are?”

Wentworth ignored the question and poured the tea.

He stared at the steaming fluid. His voice was tight. “I met Sam Carver in 1958 after he found
The Sand Castle
in a stack of unsolicited manuscripts. At the time, I was a teacher in a grade school in Connecticut. My wife taught there, also. I didn’t know about agents and how publishing worked. All I knew about was children and the sadness of watching them grow up.
The Sand Castle
was rejected by twenty publishers. If Sam hadn’t found it, I’d probably have remained a teacher, which in the long run would have been better for me and certainly for my family. Sam understood that. After the accident, he was as regretful as I that
The Sand Castle
gained the attention it did.” He raised his cup. “To Sam.”

“To Sam.” I sipped, tasting a hint of cinnamon and cloves.

“He and his wife visited me each summer. He was a true friend. Perhaps my only one. After his wife died, he didn’t come here again, however.”

“You sent him
The Architecture of Snow?”

Wentworth nodded. “Sam wrote me a letter that explained what was happening at March & Sons. You described his stunned look when he was fired. Well, he may have been stunned, but he wasn’t surprised. He saw it coming. I sent the manuscript so he could pretend to make one last discovery and buy himself more time at the company.”

“But why didn’t you use your real name?”

“Because I wanted the manuscript to stand on its own. I didn’t want the novel to be published because of the mystique that developed after I disappeared. The deaths of my wife and two sons caused that mystique. I couldn’t bear using their deaths to get the book published.”

“The manuscript’s brilliant.”

He hesitated. “Thank you.” I’ve never heard anyone speak more humbly.

“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 show 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.