“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.
The crackling in Wentworth’s fireplace seemed to come from far away, like the faint tap of a typewriter.
The hand on my shoulder was again so gentle I barely felt it. When I opened my eyes, Wentworth stood over me, but this time he was silhouetted by light.
“Good morning.” He smiled.
“Morning?”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“I slept thirteen hours?” I asked in shock.
“You’re more tired than I imagined. Would you like some breakfast?”
My stomach rumbled. I couldn’t recall waking up with so strong an appetite. “Starved. Just give me a moment to. .”
“There’s an extra toothbrush and razor in the bathroom.”
As I washed my face, I was puzzled by my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were no longer drawn. Wrinkles on my brow and around my eyes were less distinct. My eyes looked bright, my skin healthy.
At the kitchen table, I ate a fruit salad Wentworth prepared-oranges, bananas, pears, and apples (the latter two from his trees, he reminded me). I refilled my bowl three times. As always, there was tea.
“Is it drugged? Is that why I’m sleeping so much?”
Wentworth almost smiled. “We both drank from the same pot. Wouldn’t I have been sleepy, also?”
I studied him as hard as he had studied me. Despite his age, his cheeks glowed. His eyes were clear. His hair was gray instead of white. “You’re in your early eighties, correct?”
“Correct.”
“But you look at least twenty years younger. I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps you do.”
I glanced around the old kitchen. I peered toward the trees and bushes outside. The sun cast a glow on falling leaves. “This place?”
“A similar compound in another area would have produced the same effect. But yes, this place. Over the years, I acquired a natural rhythm. I lived with the land. I blended with the passage of the sun and moon and seasons. After a while, I noticed a change in my appearance, or rather the lack of change in my appearance. I wasn’t aging at the rate that I should have. I came to savor the delight of waking each day and enjoying what my small version of the universe had in store for me.”
“That doesn’t seem compatible with your gun.”
“I brought that with me when I first retreated here. The loss of my family. . Each morning was a struggle not to shoot myself.”
I looked away, self-conscious.
“But one day crept into another. Somehow, I persisted. I read Emerson and Thoreau again and again, trying to empty myself of my not-so-quiet desperation. Along with these infinite two acres, Emerson and Thoreau saved my life. I came to feel my family through the flowers and trees and. . Nothing dies. It’s only transformed. I know 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 The Architecture of Snow was.
“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 The Architecture of Snow is on our list.”
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.