The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) by David Morrell Read Free Book Online

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 you to tell me what you think of my manuscript so far.”
    “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 were my editor, what would you say to challenge me?”
    “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 The Architecture of Snow struggles through a blizzard to save his father. Eddie in this novel struggles to get out of a slum and find a father. You’re running variations on a theme. An important theme, granted. But the same one as in The Sand Castle .”
    “Continue.”
    “That may be why the critics turned against your last book. Because it was a variation on The Sand Castle , also.”
    “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.”
    “So I tell myself. But every time I write another novel about a father and a son, I think about my two boys crushed in a heap of steel. Each year, it seems easier to handle. But some anniversaries . . . Even after all these years . . .”
    “The gun was in your hand?”
    “In my mouth. I want to save you because you saved me . I’ll sign a contract for The Architecture of Snow .”
     
    * * *
     
    Throughout the long drive back to Manhattan, I felt a familiar heaviness creep over me. I reached my apartment around midnight, but as Wentworth predicted, I slept poorly.
    “Terrific!” My boss slapped my back when I gave him the news Monday morning. “Outstanding! I won’t forget this!”
    After the magic of