The Architect Read online

  “How can we create a budget if we don’t know how big the building will be or even where we will put it?” countered the dean.

  “We also have to decide how to raise the money,” reminded the city council member. “Are we going to sell bonds or suggest an increase in the sales tax or the property tax? And remember, whatever we decide will have to go to a vote.”

  “Well, of course we’ll vote,” the dean said.

  “I mean, a vote of the people,” the council member said, pointing out the window.

  There followed a short discussion as to whether it was really necessary to put funding for the new center to a vote, after which the dean moved to adjourn. That reminded the Chamber of Commerce representative that they had not picked a chair for the Committee. In a secret ballot, Elizabeth Trimble, the city councilmember, was elected chair. She was a tall, blond, slim woman whose eyelids always seemed to be at half-mast, as if skeptical of whatever she saw. They then voted to adjourn.

  A week later, in response to a newspaper reporter, the council member allowed that a new convention center was being considered. Several council members then received mail questioning the need for such a center. The old center, more than one writer insisted, was not in such bad shape that a few repairs and a new paint job wouldn’t keep it going for another fifty years. The city councilmember called a press conference to announce that nothing had yet been decided.

  The Chamber of Commerce representative took an e-mail poll to find the best time for the committee to reconvene. They agreed to the same time two weeks later. At that meeting, the chair of the city’s Arts Committee, who had missed the first meeting, said that if she had to look at the old convention center for another fifty years she would move to Portland. The dean said he was sure that wouldn’t be necessary.

  The Chamber representative reminded the committee that the reason they were discussing a new convention center was that the city was losing out on a lot of conventions and trade shows because the old center was too small to accommodate them.

  The dean said that a new convention center near the ferry terminal could revitalize the waterfront, making it a major tourist attraction.

  “You’re going too fast,” the councilmember said. “No one said anything about it being on the waterfront.”

  “I thought we agreed it should be downtown,” the chamber representative said.

  “As far as I can tell, we haven’t agreed on anything yet,” replied the dean. “The idea for a waterfront site just occurred to me and I was tossing it out for discussion.”

  The Arts Committee representative mentioned an architect named Templeton Jones, but the others agreed it was too soon to discuss names.

  Just then there was a knock on the door. A voice announced lunch. The councilmember said that since they were meeting at noon she had taken the initiative to order lunch for everyone. A caterer entered the room with a container full of sandwiches, apples, and soft drinks. The Arts Committee member said she was on a low carb diet and scraped the egg salad off the bread, but not finding anything to eat it with, put the whole thing aside. The dean found himself with a ham sandwich. Since he kept kosher he pleaded with the councilmember who had a cheese sandwich to trade with him. She had already taken a bite out of hers, but he said that was all right. The chamber member pronounced his tuna salad sandwich delicious.

  Between bites they agreed to refer the entire project to the city council. The councilmember and chamber representative were appointed to draft a memo. He said he would put his staff to work on it.

  5

  The architectural firm of Kendall, Schmidt, Hackensack, and Grogan, LLC is located on the seventy-ninth floor of the Columbia Tower. From his office window, Peter Schmidt can look down on much of the city. To the north he could not help seeing the spire of the new St. Thomas church. It was a commission KSHG had worked hard to get and it galled him to watch it go up. When Tony Potts, a new apprentice, came into the office, Schmidt pointed out the window.

  “What do you think of it?” he demanded.

  Potts looked over the landscape, trying to discern what Schmidt was pointing at.

  “The church, damn it, the church,” Schmidt said, pressing the apprentice’s head against the window.

  Potts took a chance.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  “It’s not very nice,” Schmidt said, mimicking Potts’ reedy voice. “Don’t you see that the spire is too thin in relation to the rest of the building? A strong wind will probably knock it down.”

  He wished for a strong wind to come immediately just to prove his point. For a moment, it seemed to sway and Schmidt’s voice rose as he said, “See? See?” But Potts did not see. “Yes,” he said obediently, and left the office wondering if he had made the right career choice.

  Schmidt turned to the Styrofoam model of the church he designed, the one the church board said was not spiritual enough. Perhaps if I added a spire, he thought. He took the pen from his pocket and held it on top of the church model. “No,” he said, shaking his head. Maybe his wife was right when she said he should have attended services. Well, it was too late now.

  It was especially galling that this Jones fellow had come out from the east and established himself so quickly. KSHG traced its roots in Seattle back to the year after the fire. The first brick hotel in the city was designed by Schmidt’s great grandfather, Aloysius Schmidt, still called “Big Al” by the local architectural fraternity. There was a picture of him in the office and he saluted it every day. He was always sorry he did not get a picture of the hotel before it collapsed in the earthquake of 2001.

  “I’ll get even,” Schmidt said to the picture. “I will avenge you, Big Al.”

  Schmidt was six feet four inches tall and in college his fraternity brothers called him “Big Peter,” but it was a cognomen he discouraged after he graduated.

  Schmidt took one more look at the church and then turned to his desk. There was a rumor around town that the city council was going to commission a new convention center. It was a good time to visit other convention centers to see what worked. He wondered if Hawaii had a new convention center.

  6

  Marge saw a figure silhouetted against the frosted glass window of the office door. Whoever it was appeared to hesitate, went away, and came back.

  “Come in,” she called. Perhaps it was a client who was shy, or thought the shabby appearance of the office reflected the work of the architect. She told Jones several times that he would get more business if he would move to a fancier building, but he said this place was good enough and he had enough business.

  “The door is unlocked,” she said, preparing to get up and open it herself.

  A young man entered. He had dark, shaggy hair, deep-set eyes, a hawk-like nose, and a two or three day growth of stubble over his sand colored face. He was tall and athletic looking. Marge was sure he had come to the wrong office, but she said, “Can I help you?”

  The young man looked to his right and left and then at the door behind Marge.

  “Is that Mr. Jones’ office?” he asked.

  “It is,” Marge said, “but he isn’t in right now.”

  The young man’s mouth grew tight; his shoulders slumped. Marge was afraid he was going to cry. She began to open the drawer where she kept a box of tissues, but the young man pulled himself together and asked politely when Mr. Jones would be in.

  “That’s hard to say. He keeps odd hours.”

  “Do you mind if I wait?”

  “Are you a client? Are you building a house?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you looking for a job, because if you are—“

  “No, I’m not looking for a job.”

  He did not seem inclined to provide any more information, so Marge pointed at the chair in the office. The young man sat down and began to thumb through a National Geographic. Marge went back to her work, occasionally taking a peek at him. After an hour she said, “You know, he might not come in at
all today. Would you like to leave your name and phone number?”

  The young man stood up and asked her for a piece of paper. He patted his shirt pocket until she handed him a pen. He wrote that his name was Martin Trathorn and added an address in Albany, New York.

  “Do you have a local number?”

  Just then she saw a familiar silhouette at the door. At the same time, it occurred to her that the mysterious visitor might be a detective, or someone serving a subpoena, so she gestured a go-away signal.

  Jones turned, but the young man saw the signal and bolted out of the office just in time to see the elevator doors close. Trathorn banged on the doors, and then ran down the stairs. He staggered out to the sidewalk and leaned against a lamppost to catch his breath. There was a fine mist in the air, as if someone has recently sprayed the area. Farther down the street he spied the back of a tall man wearing a black raincoat and a beige rain hat. Trathorn ran after him.

  “Mr. Jones,” he called.

  He thought the man hesitated, but he had to wipe the mist from his eyes, and the man moved quickly on. Trathorn ran some more, covering half the distance between himself and the man.

  “Templeton!”

  People were staring now. A woman struggling to open an umbrella asked if he was all right. The man was almost at the end of the street.

  “Dad!”

  The man turned the corner.

  7

  Jones stopped.

  “Dad,” he heard. There was a coffee shop a few doors down and he considered ducking in there. Or, he might lose the young man if he kept going. Then he flapped his arms in resignation and turned back around the corner almost bumping into the young man who was chasing him.

  “You are Templeton Jones, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “And you are--?”

  “Martin Trathorn. I believe I am your son.”

  Jones waited for a punch line. Hearing none, he said, “There’s a coffee shop down the block. Let’s go there.”

  They found a table and Jones asked Trathorn what he would like. “Tea,” he said. “Herbal, if they have it.” Jones made a face, but went to the counter and ordered a cup of chamomile and a tall latte for himself. When he brought them back to the table, Trathorn was reading one of the city's free weekly newspapers, but he quickly put it away. It was mid-morning and the shop was only half-filled. Two people pecked away at computer keyboards; two more read. Soft jazz played on the speakers.

  “So,” Jones said, “your mother must be—“

  “Shaina Wallace. It used to be Trathorn, but she married a Sam Wallace. He died last month.”

  Jones stirred his drink until a tiny whirlpool set up in his cup, obliterating the pinwheel design the barista had created. He studied the boy’s face; his complexion was about the same color as the latte. Strong bones set off deep-set brown eyes so much like his own it made him avert his gaze.

  “She was from Jamaica,” Trathorn said, sipping his tea.

  “I know.” It was coming back to Jones, the lilting voice, the strong coffee-bean colored face, the hair cut so close you could not run your fingers through it. He met her during intermission at the Met. She wanted to be an opera singer but never quite made it. Jones told her he could introduce her to people who would help with her career. He could not remember now if he ever did.

  “Shaina. Yes. I remember her well. How is she?”

  “She’s doing well. She says she forgives you.”

  “For what?”

  Trathorn put his tea down and stared at Jones.

  “For me, I guess.”

  Jones started to extend his hand, but realized that was the wrong gesture when the boy did not reach out to shake it. He looked around the café. No one appeared to be staring at them.

  "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't know."

  "She didn't want you to. I guess she was four or five months pregnant when you left and she didn't want to keep you that way."

  "That way?"

  "Me. She didn't want you to stay only because she was pregnant."

  "I would—"

  "She said you would have left later anyway and that would have been worse."

  "So, why now?"

  "It was my idea to see you, not hers. She only thought it was time I knew who my father was."

  “Excuse me,” Jones said. “My coffee…” He pointed at his cup and then got up and went to the counter where he asked the barista to put a bit of espresso in the cup. He wondered what the boy wanted. When he sat down again he stirred the coffee drink and sipped the brew. Trathorn finished his tea. The room seemed very still. Jones studied the boy’s face for familiar features. It was Trathorn who broke the spell.

  “I grew up as Martin Wallace. She married Sam when I was three and until last year I assumed he was my father. Then one day about six months ago we were driving by the state office building and she blurted out, ‘Your father designed that building.’ I was puzzled. Sam worked in the insurance commissioner’s office. He was an accountant. So, I thought she was still, you know, suffering from grief and had made a mistake. I said, ‘You mean, he worked there?’ Then she told me the whole story.”

  Jones drained the last few drops of his coffee. He remembered the building: a functional concrete and glass job, more sleek than he would have liked, but it was state money and they didn’t want frills. Even the brick he wanted to use instead of dull concrete exceeded the budget. He only got them to agree to his use of what looked like eyelids over the windows on the grounds that they would save on air conditioning.

  What he wanted to do next was replace the state capitol building, a ginger-bread concoction that looked to Jones more like a hotel in Switzerland than a respectable headquarters for the great state of New York. It didn't even have a dome. What he proposed was a concrete building in the shape of the state with wrap-around windows and a glass dome so legislators could see heaven, and vice versa. He left the east coast out of disgust when they rejected his idea, though Shaina didn't believe him. The boy was staring at him.

  “This Wallace fellow, was he mean to you? Is that why you call yourself Martin Trathorn.?”

  “No, he was a good man. I just felt since he wasn’t really my father I should go by my mother’s maiden name. She used Shaina Trathorn Wallace. Perhaps I should call myself Martin Jones.”

  Jones winced.

  “It’s a little late for child support, but if you need—“

  Trathorn’s face reddened.

  “I didn’t come here for that. I told you, Sam was a good man. He provided for us well and he left a substantial life insurance policy. Like I said, he was an accountant.”

  “I can’t offer you a job. I run a small office.”

  “I’m not looking for a job. I start college in the fall.”

  “Then what do you want, Marty?”

  “Martin. I want to get to know you.”

  8

  Right away, Jones ruled out any visits to his condo, explaining that he lived in a one bedroom unit on the top floor of a tall building and there was no room for guests. “Besides,” he said, “I like my privacy.”

  Trathorn nodded.

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Until the end of June. About two weeks. I have a summer job as a camp counselor.”

  Relieved, Jones observed that the sun was out and suggested they take a walk. After a few blocks, they took to a bench in Pioneer Square. A disheveled panhandler approached them.

  “If you can give me fifty cents, captain, I’ll be happy.”

  “You’ll be happy?” Jones said.

  “Well, content.”

  Jones gave him a dollar. Trathorn chipped in fifty cents and the panhandler thanked them both profusely and walked on. Jones turned to Trathorn and said, “All right, here are the rules. You can come to the office and watch me work and ask questions. Are you planning to become an architect?”

  Trathorn shook his head.

  “What then?”

  “A psy
chologist.” Jones laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Sorry. On Mondays and Wednesdays we will have lunch, if I am not otherwise occupied, and perhaps once a week I will take you to dinner. Maybe we’ll go to a ball game. Do you like baseball?”

  Trathorn shook his head.

  "What? How can you not like baseball?"

  "It's boring," Trathorn said. "A bunch of guys standing around waiting for someone to hit a ball to them."

  "You have had a deprived childhood," Jones said. "I suppose it's partly my fault. What sports do you like?"

  "Well, soccer, if I have to like one."

  "How can you not like baseball, but prefer a game where you can't use your hands but you use your head for a bat? You have a lot to learn, Marty."

  "Martin."

  “Come to the office tomorrow morning and we will work something out.” With that, Jones got up and left without looking back.

  The young man showed up at the office every morning at nine o’clock, often before Jones got there and sometimes before Marge arrived to unlock the door. He would watch the architect sketch buildings on a large drawing pad, asking what the building was going to be and how much it would cost. One looked like an Indian long house with a colonnade of totem poles holding up the roof. Jones stepped back, studied his drawing, then crumpled it up. “It looked like an Indian version of the Parthenon,” he explained.

  "Can I have it?" Trathorn asked, nodding towards the drawing in the waste basket.

  "Sure."

  "How come you draw with a pencil? I thought everyone used a computer now."

  Jones held the pencil up. It was little more than a stub, but he hoisted it as if it carried a flag.

  "You mean a CAD, a computer aided drafting system. I hate those things. They hurt my eyes. Besides, I get closer to my ideas when I use a pencil. Then I give it to my assistant to put on the computer." He indicated the young man in the adjoining room.