About the Author by John Colapinto Page A
Authors: John Colapinto
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Murderers, Fiction - Authorship, Roommates, Impostors and Imposture, Manhattan (New York; N.Y.), Literature publishing, Bookstores, Bookstores - Employees
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the Snak Shak and had breakfast—my first food in two days. The logical thing to do now is hop the first flight home, I thought as I munched through a stack of pancakes smothered in local maple syrup. And yet . . . my epiphany on the hill above New Halcyon had left me feeling anything but logical. Convinced that luck was once again on my side, I felt no particular pressure to hurry back to steaming New York.
And so, stunned by starch and maple sugar, I strolled out into the street and became a tourist. I ambled to my right, past the little bank, past a shop I hadn’t noticed the night before, called Antiques & Things, then stopped and read the announcements on a public bulletin board: notices advertising winter rentals (entire houses for three hundred a month!); barn sales; art shows; local theater productions; baby-sitting; leaf-raking. These motley announcements affected me keenly; they spoke of community, of a human-scaled interaction unknown to towering New York. The crazy thought shot through me that I would never leave New Halcyon, that I would retire here in rustic splendor, a poet germinating lyrical effusions while good-naturedly sleeping with the local farmers’ daughters. At the local prices, I could live here like a king, on the interest from my publisher’s advance and Hollywood loot, never touching the principle, until my death at age ninety. And if I never produced another scrap of writing, would that really be so strange? American letters teemed with one-hit wonders gone to rot in rural backwaters. Why, it was almost a literary tradition!
I spent the rest of that Saturday trying to drink the place in, to store it away like treasure in my sense-memory. At around seven-thirty, the light began to die. I sat on a dock as the sun slid behind the hill opposite. It was time to go back to the hotel. I let my eyes linger for a moment longer on the distant, steadily burning light that I had been staring at for the past two hours: Janet Greene’s porch light, left on by the Blond family, presumably to discourage thieves, if such people existed in this idyllic hamlet. Of course,
I
was a thief who had, that very day, stolen Janet Greene’s personal property, but this thought did not occur to me then, as so much else did not. Even as my eyes settled, again, on that distant dab of light, another bulb switched on in the house! Then another! I glanced at my watch. Ten past ten. She was right on schedule. Janet Greene was
here
in New Halcyon, a mere five minute’s drive away! This seemed a momentous revelation, and with it came the further, unexpected, realization that I had, in fact, been waiting for her all along.
6
Ask me why I stuck around in New Halcyon one more day to rig up a meeting with Janet Greene, and I will say, simply, “Curiosity.”
Of course, it was more than idle curiosity that led me to risk an in-person encounter with Stewart’s mystery woman. By now it was obvious to me that my trip to Vermont had been a mission almost as much to learn about Janet Greene as to intercept the manuscript. I could not leave with her riddle unsolved; I could not return to New York until I had met the woman who’d played such an important role in the life of my ghostwriter.
It was around nine-thirty the next morning when I settled up “Colin Coleman” ’s hotel bill and then set out for Janet Greene’s place. My trip was not nearly as fraught as it had been the day before. I had invented a plausible enough reason for dropping in on her unannounced. No need to speak of depressed roommates, stolen novels, Hedda Gableresque manuscript burnings, odd and untimely deaths. I was simply a friendly, inquisitive out-of-towner who had fallen in love with New Halcyon. Not so far from the truth.
Today, a battered gray pickup was parked out front of her house, in the same spot where the Blond family’s Bronco had sat. I parked behind the truck and got out. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the house.
And so, stunned by starch and maple sugar, I strolled out into the street and became a tourist. I ambled to my right, past the little bank, past a shop I hadn’t noticed the night before, called Antiques & Things, then stopped and read the announcements on a public bulletin board: notices advertising winter rentals (entire houses for three hundred a month!); barn sales; art shows; local theater productions; baby-sitting; leaf-raking. These motley announcements affected me keenly; they spoke of community, of a human-scaled interaction unknown to towering New York. The crazy thought shot through me that I would never leave New Halcyon, that I would retire here in rustic splendor, a poet germinating lyrical effusions while good-naturedly sleeping with the local farmers’ daughters. At the local prices, I could live here like a king, on the interest from my publisher’s advance and Hollywood loot, never touching the principle, until my death at age ninety. And if I never produced another scrap of writing, would that really be so strange? American letters teemed with one-hit wonders gone to rot in rural backwaters. Why, it was almost a literary tradition!
I spent the rest of that Saturday trying to drink the place in, to store it away like treasure in my sense-memory. At around seven-thirty, the light began to die. I sat on a dock as the sun slid behind the hill opposite. It was time to go back to the hotel. I let my eyes linger for a moment longer on the distant, steadily burning light that I had been staring at for the past two hours: Janet Greene’s porch light, left on by the Blond family, presumably to discourage thieves, if such people existed in this idyllic hamlet. Of course,
I
was a thief who had, that very day, stolen Janet Greene’s personal property, but this thought did not occur to me then, as so much else did not. Even as my eyes settled, again, on that distant dab of light, another bulb switched on in the house! Then another! I glanced at my watch. Ten past ten. She was right on schedule. Janet Greene was
here
in New Halcyon, a mere five minute’s drive away! This seemed a momentous revelation, and with it came the further, unexpected, realization that I had, in fact, been waiting for her all along.
6
Ask me why I stuck around in New Halcyon one more day to rig up a meeting with Janet Greene, and I will say, simply, “Curiosity.”
Of course, it was more than idle curiosity that led me to risk an in-person encounter with Stewart’s mystery woman. By now it was obvious to me that my trip to Vermont had been a mission almost as much to learn about Janet Greene as to intercept the manuscript. I could not leave with her riddle unsolved; I could not return to New York until I had met the woman who’d played such an important role in the life of my ghostwriter.
It was around nine-thirty the next morning when I settled up “Colin Coleman” ’s hotel bill and then set out for Janet Greene’s place. My trip was not nearly as fraught as it had been the day before. I had invented a plausible enough reason for dropping in on her unannounced. No need to speak of depressed roommates, stolen novels, Hedda Gableresque manuscript burnings, odd and untimely deaths. I was simply a friendly, inquisitive out-of-towner who had fallen in love with New Halcyon. Not so far from the truth.
Today, a battered gray pickup was parked out front of her house, in the same spot where the Blond family’s Bronco had sat. I parked behind the truck and got out. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the house.
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