It is cold in the city, and Gore seems restless as we have coffee with toast in his suite at the Plaza. “Let me show you Edgewater?”
I’ve never been to Edgewater, and welcome the chance to see it, especially in Gore’s company. I had an image of Gore’s early life there with Howard, both of them in their twenties, young and ambitious, the world opening before them. It was what Gore calls “the golden time,” and he says he often misses it.
We drive along the Hudson into Dutchess County, to Barrytown, a few miles north of Rhinebeck. It takes about two hours, and Gore is full of memories even before we set foot on the property. “I got it so cheap,” he recalls, always interested in the details of money. “But I sold it to Dick Jenrette, a businessman, in 1969. He paid about $125,000. I had paid $35,000 for the place. Better than stocks or bonds! Never buy stocks or bonds! Buy houses!”
We park nearby on gravel. The river is locked in ice, the sky like a cobalt lid. The gentle slope to the water is white with snow, but a hard crust covers it. “I can see Dick Wilbur and his wife, Mary, running naked down this slope. They arrived in the early afternoon, had a drink or two, then ran to the river. Both of them naked, hand in hand! He was the most beautiful young man. Glorious. And a great poet. Even Wystan thought so.”
There are six white pillars, making this a stately home of sorts. “Doric pillars—I loved them on first sight. These pillars sold the house. I pictured myself on this veranda, sipping a mint julep. My Southern genes activated. I was suddenly the owner of a plantation house in Mississippi, my grandfather’s home state. I had overseas investments. I didn’t have to lift a finger to live. A fantasy.”
We looked through the window into an octagonal room. “That was my study,” says Gore. “It’s more elegant now. Jenrette has filled it with period furniture. He has a great library. I had one, too, but it was a working library, the books I needed around me to convince myself that I was a writer. A writer needs books for support. You see what everyone else has done, and it gives you courage.”
He tries the door. Of course it’s locked. “I should have called ahead. He would have let us in.”
I watch him as he looks out to the river toward a little island. I can’t imagine how many ghosts are crossing the lawn in his mind, running toward the river. They make no footprints in the snow, but they are there, lightly running.