The Architecture of Snow

“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, my father 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, feeling a chill. “You mean you’ve spoken with him?”

“Despite Bob’s reputation for being a hermit, he isn’t anti-social.”

“‘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 continued. “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 he’s influenced by Transcendental writers like Emerson and 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.”

“Okay, 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 made 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 assistant 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 pit behind our house. He always let me strike the match. He died from a heart attack when I was twelve.

I turned up a dirt road, passed a cabin, reached a wall of trees, and went back to the main road. Farther along, I turned up another dirt road, passed two cabins, reached a stream that blocked the road, and again went back.

My search wasn’t as aimless as it seemed. After all, I knew what I was looking for: a high fence that enclosed a couple of acres. The female student who’d been fortunate enough to get an interview with Wentworth years earlier described the property. The high gate was almost indistinguishable from the fence, she wrote. The mailbox was embedded in the fence and had a hatch on the opposite side so that Wentworth didn’t need to leave the compound to get his mail. A sign warned NO SOLICITORS. NO TRESPASSING.

But nothing in the north sector matched that description. Of course, the student’s interview was two decades old. Wentworth might have changed things since then, in which case I was wasting my time. How far away from town would he have wanted to live? I arbitrarily decided that fifteen miles was too far and switched my search to