guilt-ridden author, father, and husband living in isolation. When the paperback of
“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 1966, 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 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.”
“
“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 enthused. “A legendary hermit coming out of seclusion. A solitary genius ready to tell his story. CNN would jump at the chance. The
“Wait a second,” a marketer asked. “How
“In his early eighties,” I answered.
“Maybe he can barely talk. Maybe he’d be useless on the
“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 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 his agent had died twelve years earlier and that no arrangements were made for anyone else to represent Wentworth, 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 Author’s 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. Go up to Vermont. Knock on his door. Keep knocking until he answers.”
I checked Google Maps and located Tipton in the southern part of Vermont. A Google search revealed that few people lived there. 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-tree-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) only 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 even
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.”
I didn’t have an 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.” 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 a little 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 the book for you.”
“You’re the author?”
“Guilty.”
I looked at the cover.
“You’re here to see the colors?”
“A little pleasure with business.” I paid for the book.
“Business?”
“An author lives around here.”
“Oh?”
“R. J. Wentworth.”
