The Bookseller(8)

What I have now—running the store, my independence, the life of a single working woman . . . well. I may have wanted to start a business with Frieda. After the disaster my teaching career turned out to be, I may have wanted to surround myself with books all day, to spend my days on my terms.

Evidently, however, I did not expect the years to pass in the manner in which they have.

I ruffle through the rest of the papers in the file, until I find Lars’s letter:


Dear Miss,

I know you don’t know me, and I know that most people say that this is a foolish way to go about meeting someone. I have heard that it never works. For the most part, I have believed that, because I have not seen too many people succeed at it. But I read your advertisement (actually, I have read it about a dozen times now), and from your description, I think that I might be someone you would be compatible with.

You said you were looking for someone who is playful, but not silly. Here are some things I like to do. One is to visit my nephew and niece and have football games in the street. Don’t worry, we use a soft ball and have yet to break an automobile windshield—and the kids are 12 and 8, so they are pretty good about watching out for oncoming traffic. I also like to build things for other people. When my niece and nephew were little, I built a swing set for my sister’s backyard. I built a doghouse for a friend’s dog that was spending its nights in the cold. Perhaps those are not playful things, but they are things that make others happy, and that makes me smile.

You mentioned travel. I have not had the opportunity to do as much traveling as I’d like. I immigrated to the United States from Sweden with my family when I was a teenager. I’ve had to work hard to make my way in this country, but things are better now and I have the means to live a more comfortable life. I am hoping that will include more travel in the future, both within the country and internationally. Have you been to Europe? I have not been back, but I would like to go someday, especially if I were accompanied by a travel companion who might appreciate the Old World for all its beauty and history.

Another of my interests, which you did not mention, is American sports, particularly baseball. Perhaps you are not a fan. I hope that if we were to meet and get to know one another, you would forgive me this indulgence. They say baseball is America’s pastime, and as an American myself now, I find that it has become mine as well.

I’m glad you were not afraid to say you are looking for a man who wants a family. A lot of ladies seem afraid to admit that, as if they think it makes men desire them less. I guess they might be justified, because a lot of fellows (especially past a certain age) are either on the fence or adamantly say no to the idea of children. I don’t feel that way. I’ve always wanted a family and I hope it’s not too late! (I’m only 34, so I suppose there is time.)

So you see, miss, why your advertisement appealed to me. I hope you’ll respond. I would love to get to know you.

Sincerely,

Lars



I sit there, rereading the letter. I stare at the telephone number he wrote in a postscript. And then I read the letter through a few more times. True, he is not Shakespeare. But it’s clear why I wanted to contact him. There is something there; I can’t deny a connection, just through those few pages of written words.


Later, while cutting up vegetables for my dinner, I telephone Frieda. Although I am worried that she’ll still be in a mood, I need to talk to her. Perhaps, I think as I dial, her brisk walk will have cleared her head.

She answers on the third ring; her voice, when she hears mine, is friendly. “Miss me?” she asks. “I know it’s been almost two hours since you saw me.”

I laugh. “Of course,” I say. “But that’s not the only reason I’m calling.” I plunge in and ask her, “Do you remember a fellow named Lars? From the personals?” There is no response, so I ask again.

“Thinking,” she says. “Yours or mine?”

When I ran my personal advertisement, I realized—after skimming a few of the initial replies—that not all of the respondents would turn out to be likely suitors for me. “I am wunderfull. Pleeze call me” was the entire content of one rather revealing letter. Sadly, it was not an anomaly.

There were others, too, in whom—while they were capable of stringing basic sentences together—I did not feel a spark of interest. My reasons varied: too tall, too talkative, too slick sounding.

One evening Frieda came over to my apartment, and we went through the letters one by one. We made three piles: “Kitty,” “Frieda,” and “Discard.” Into the Kitty pile went letters from those who intrigued me. “It’s my ad, after all,” I told her, laughing. “I get first dibs.” Into the Frieda pile went letters from the fellows for whom my initial reaction was lackluster. Frieda selected several of these to contact. “Why not?” she reasoned. “They’re just going here otherwise.” And she waved her hand at the Discard pile.

Ironically, she had better luck than me with the letters. She went on quite a few dates, and actually went steady for several months with a man she met through my personal ad. I thought they were going to get serious, but it was not meant to be. When she told me their relationship had ended, Frieda shrugged flippantly. “He simply wasn’t good enough for me,” she’d said. “He didn’t think as highly of me as you do, Kitty.”