The Last Book Party(29)
“You inherited them from your spinster aunt?” I asked.
“Touché,” Henry said. “These are the favorites, the ones I would want on a desert island.”
He pulled out a slim paperback and placed it in my palm. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos. He insisted that I take it. I felt a flicker of resentment at Henry’s assumption that I hadn’t read the book, but the truth was, I hadn’t. Slipping the book into my knapsack, I told Henry I’d give it a go and report back.
At home, I begged off joining my parents for dinner at Scott’s Chowder House and curled up on the living room couch to read. Enchanted by ditzy, gold-digging Lorelei Lee’s sway over her hapless suitors, including one who “cannot even get married on account of his wife,” I flew through the little book, marveling that this lighthearted, satirical novel was a favorite of Henry’s.
That night I dreamt that I was walking alone on the beach and came upon Henry, looking handsome in a tuxedo and dancing barefoot on the sand with a coquettish flapper with a blond bob and cherry-red lips. I was about to call to him when the flapper took off her long strand of pearls and used them to lasso Henry around the neck and pull him toward her. I watched, standing still on the sand, as they clung to each other and receded into the distance.
22
Over the weekend, I got lost in Middlemarch, which I had long chided myself for not having read. After slogging through the first 150 pages or so, I got swept into the book's world. I read all day on Saturday and for hours after dinner, causing my father to suggest I give it a rest “before I go cross-eyed.” The next morning, I declined his offer to join him in casting for stripers at Coast Guard Beach and kept reading.
On Monday, after discussing the book with Henry, who adored Dorothea as much as I did, he handed me what he called “a palate cleanser,” a novel called Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm. A satire of life at Oxford University published in 1911, it was a quick and clever read. The following morning, we talked about what we loved about the heroines of both books, the serious, selfless Dorothea and selfish femme fatale Zuleika, who can’t commit to anyone responsive to her charms and who inspires a host of besotted undergraduates to die for her.
I would have expected that Henry would try to “educate” me with “big,” important novels by men like Don DeLillo and Thomas Pynchon. But Henry’s favorite books were mostly just plain fun. His taste revealed an altogether different sensibility than what came across in his highly researched articles and somewhat pompous memoir. The books he loved were quick to make me laugh, and our talks about them resembled the passionate chatter of fans rather than serious sessions between learned tutor and young student.
Better than discovering the books, though, was the realization that Henry and I shared a sensibility, and a sense of humor. We liked the same books, the same characters, even the same lines. When Henry remarked how quickly I read, I answered with a quote from Zuleika herself. “I utilise all my spare moments. I’ve read twenty-seven of the Hundred Best books.” Henry joined me in reciting the last phrase of the quote, “I collect ferns,” and we burst out laughing.
Encouraged by our rapport, I brought him one of my favorites, Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson, which had taught me that language doesn’t have to be fancy to be profound. When I placed the book on his desk, Henry eyed the title and frowned. He looked around his cluttered office and then back at me.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked.
“I’m trying to tell you two things—one, don’t be so literal and two, trust me. Read this book.”
“That’s three.”
“All the more reason to do what I say.”
He picked up the book, flipped through its pages. Slapped it on the palm of his hand decisively.
“Your wish is my command.”
The next morning, Henry told me he loved the book, pronouncing both the writing and my insisting that he read it “extraordinary.” Even better than his reaction was how his office had been rearranged since the day before. The wingback chair where I had worked uncomfortably was gone. In its place, an old school desk with attached chair and a wooden top that flipped up to reveal the storage bin. The desk was battered, with initials that had been carved into the wood long ago. There was a rock-hard wad of chewing gum stuck beneath the top. But the arrival of my own desk in Henry’s office felt like a promotion, or a declaration. What pleased me even more was the bunch of wild white roses, thorny yet flowering, in the inkwell.
23
That evening, my mother received a call from Danny’s advisor at MIT. Danny hadn’t shown up for two appointments over the past week, and when the advisor checked with a few of his professors, he discovered that Danny had not been attending classes, nor had anyone seen or spoken to him in more than a week. Concerned, the advisor had gone to Danny’s apartment on Franklin Street, where he found Danny, unshaven and unshowered, complaining of worthlessness and exhaustion, his apartment strewn with dirty dishes and half-eaten food. With my father in New York for a business meeting, my mother asked me to drive with her to Cambridge the next morning.
“I’m not up for dealing with it alone, Eve,” she said. It was a rare admission that Danny’s episodes were wearing her down, which made me worry for both her and my brother.