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
“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
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
“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 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
“Continue.”
“That may be why the critics turned against your last book. Because
“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.”
“October 15.”
“October 15?” The date sounded vaguely familiar. Then it hit me. “Oh. . The day your family died in the accident.”
For the first time, Wentworth started to look his true age, his cheeks shrinking, his eyes clouding. “I deceive myself by blaming my work. I trick myself into thinking that, if I hadn’t sold ‘The Fortune Teller’ to Hollywood, we wouldn’t have driven to New York to see the damned movie. But the movie didn’t kill my family. The movie wasn’t driving the car when it flipped.”
“The weather turned bad. It was an accident.”
