Book Lovers
It was fall, and Mrs. Hatterfield had begun her yearly task of putting books into ziplock bags and sticking them in the freezer. “Good crop this year,” she said to herself, “though these nonfictions are starting to get out of hand.” She put two in a bag together and sealed it. “Not always the tastiest, but they fill a body alright.”
When her neighbor Mr. Sherman came over for their next Thursday night dinner, they enjoyed a screenplay. “This is excellent,” Mr. Sherman remarked.
He always came over on Thursdays because Fridays sounded too formal. Mr. Sherman liked Mrs. Hatterfield in his own way, but he didn't want his interest to spoil their friendship.
“Ever since my John died” she had said to him often, “I have had the hardest time with murder mysteries. I just cannot seem to...digest them.”
The late Mr. Hatterfield had been a linguistics professor, until one day he was thrown violently from a moving train and killed. Mrs. Hatterfield was devoted to the memory of her husband. And Mr. Sherman tried to be respectful by keeping romance at a distance.
But romance was sometimes hard to avoid. It was there in every story, and it got into their bloodstreams. Sometimes it was subtle enough that after dinner Mr. Sherman stayed quite late, with the two of them bantering and flirting as only two book-loving old kooks could. But other times it was so strong and so apparent that the two of them became quite embarrassed and would scarcely have finished desert before Mr. Sherman would be excusing himself and bowing out the door. On those nights, Mrs. Hatterfield would go to bed giddier than she would ever admit, and Mr. Sherman would walk home slowly and sit up late, thinking.
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The next Thursday night, they worked through the stories of Irving, which left them unsatisfied, so they finished off with some Dickinson. Then it was a night for banter and wit; and for Mr. Sherman and Mrs. Hatterfield, that always meant a long conversation.
"You know I am a man of diverse tastes," said Mr Sherman. "And excellent company" added Mrs Hatterfield. He smiled. "But I have never loved the classics the way some people seem to. Sure, I enjoy a Shakespeare play every now and again, and I love the way good poetry feels on the tongue, but some things like early American literature have just never been satisfying to me. I once tried Walden..."
"A little dry for a book about a pond, don't you think?"
"And I know I can't stand Whitman."
"Well, maybe there's no metric for taste."
"Or maybe there is."
"Oh, Mr. Sherman," she said, "I'm not sure many people really love the classics the way you give them credit for. I think they just like to have them on the shelves in case they ever work up enough of an appetite."
That was another late night for Mr. Sherman.
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When he got there the next Thursday, Mrs. Hatterfield was just finishing a letter.
“From my sister, Paula,” she said. “She's invited me to go down to Palm Springs for the winter again.”
“When will you go?” Mr. Sherman asked. It was not a question of if. Mrs. Hatterfield sighed. “I'll fly out in November.”
That evening they shared Conrad's Heart of Darkness.
“It's an acquired taste I think,” said Mrs. Hatterfield. “I didn't care much for it when I was young.”
“It has a depth I can appreciate,” said Mr. Sherman thoughtfully. “And the way it's all put together is extraordinary. But it's a European recipe for an African dish. To me there is something about it that just doesn't seem...authentic.”
“I never would have noticed that,” said Mrs. Hatterfield.
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They had just three more Thursdays before she left, which they spent on, Orwell, Faulkner, and Toni Morrison.
“What do you think of Beloved?” Mr. Sherman asked when they had finished.
“It was a lot to chew on.” said Mrs. Hatterfield. “And different than what I usually like, but you know me. I'm not usually very adventurous when it comes to that. It will take a bit for me to digest.”
“But you liked it?”
“I liked it, yes. It was different for me, but worth it.”
“What made it worth it to you?”
“Well, I think when I take in a story or essay or poem, I'm usually looking for immediate satisfaction––some sweetness, simple carbs, familiar flavors. But shouldn't the point of reading be to see another perspective, to gain empathy, to grow?”
“I agree completely. But there is something about seeing a perspective you can relate to in a book. Sometimes I can't, and often that's what makes things like the classics so unappealing to me.”
Mrs. Hatterfield pursed her lips, thinking. “I see,” she said after a moment. “Mr. Sherman, I am glad you are my friend.”
“The same to you, Mrs. Hatterfield.”
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The next morning, Mr. Sherman dropped her off at the airport. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, but not the romantic. At this point in their relationship, there was only one romantic thing to do, and Mr. Sherman kept talking himself out of that.
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From her seat at the window, Mrs. Hatterfield looked out as the plane rose up above the little airport and the little town and turned itself towards Palm Springs, California. She took in the news from the in-flight magazine, but couldn't make herself enjoy it. It was always the same––bland. She closed her eyes and imagined the warmth of the sunshine.
Finally the plane landed and Mrs. Hatterfield made her way through the busy airport to the baggage claim, where her sister stood in a colorful sundress, waiting for her.
"Hello Paula.”
“Hello Frankie,” her sister said.
"Only John ever called me Frankie. You know I prefer Francis."
"Francis always sounded like an old woman's name."
"I am an old woman."
"You're hardly any older than me."
"Well, you live younger. It must be all the sunshine you get.”
On the drive, Mrs. Hatterfield couldn't keep herself from staring out the window at the palm trees. “It never ceases to amaze me,” she said. “It's as if you live on a totally different planet.” Soon they pulled up to a small bungalow with a flat roof. “It looks so modern,” said Mrs. Hatterfield.
“You say that every time.”
“Well, it looks that way every time. When did you say it was built?”
“Sometime in the 70s.”
They walked in.
“I see you've been painting,” said Mrs. Hatterfield.
“Oh, these are some more I've collected,” her sister said. “I never put my own in the front room.”
They spent the late afternoon and evening on the patio talking and picking their way through the newspapers and magazines on the little table. They discussed current events and old friends, the art classes Paula taught, and Mrs. Hatterfield's dinners with Mr. Sherman. “He's a gentleman and a dear friend,” Mrs. Hatterfield said, “but he's not much of a romantic.”
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The next morning Paula came into the front room and found her sister sitting in an armchair with a blanket on her lap, wearing her cardigan. A cup of tea and a book sat on a TV tray in front of her. Paula looked at her for a moment. “Have you turned up the air conditioning? I invited you here to get out of the cold, not to bring it with you.”
“It's just in the mornings,” she said. “I enjoy my books and tea so much more if it's chilly and I'm wrapped in a blanket.”
Paula shook her head. "I'm going out for a walk; would you like to come?"
“Thank you, but I'll stay in. I'll see you when you get back."
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It was two weeks after she had arrived that the first letter from Mr. Sherman came.
“Don't know why you two don't just call each other,” Paula said as Mrs. Hatterfield opened it. “Or use email.”
“Same reasons you're not a photographer, I expect,” said Mrs. Hatterfield, looking up at her. “It's too immaterial, too insubstantial. There would be no joy in writing an email, and nothing to savor in reading it. Letters have weight, texture, scent, and infinitely more taste...Besides, there's nothing romantic about an email.”
Paula raised one eyebrow and Mrs. Hatterfield blushed slightly, turning back to her letter.
Dear Mr. Sherman
Thank you once again for feeding Dinah. Paula can't stand to have her here. I've told you before that she's allergic. The first day I came up, her nose started itching and she made me bathe and wash all my clothes. If you need it, Dinah has another bag of food in the pantry.
Yes, we are well. I have been enjoying some of the lighter reading options here––I think you would like Russell Edson––but as you know I brought a couple more familiar books with me––A Christmas Carol for the holidays and Sense and Sensibility for the rest of the time. I've just started that novel again. Being here with Paula definitely changes how I take it in. It makes me realize that the experience of consuming a book is about so much more than just the words. It's the texture of the pages, the smell of the paper...and the way you remember it is always connected to the people you shared it with. With Sense and Sensibility, here, I keep seeing myself in Elinor, and especially seeing Marianne in Paula.
Sorry to go on; I know Sense and Sensibility isn't your kind of book––on the wrong side of the spice trade and all that. Actually, though, that is why I brought it here. There are so many other books I'd rather enjoy at home with you.
Affectionately,
Francis
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Dear Mrs. Hatterfield,
Dinah is as aloof as ever. I have sometimes wondered what she does all day, then realized I haven't done much more. I wonder if you've ever heard of a writer named Ross MacDonald––that was his pen name anyway. I hope I'm using that dash right. I always worry about grammar in my letters to you. As a retired engineer, I don't have the same academic background and you know I've just picked up most of what I could from reading. I've been doing a bit of that, but of course, I'm always thinking of sitting at your table reading together.
I hope I haven't overstated my case about the classics. I wouldn't want you to think I would automatically dislike a book just because it was British. But I do feel this hunger in part of me I've rarely been able to fill completely, where I want to be able to read something like this Ross MacDonald novel and see that compassion and complexity playing out among characters who come from where I come from and reckon with the same kind of heritage as me.
By the way, my brother's family will be coming from Michigan for a few days over the holidays. I look forward to hearing from you again, and wish you and Paula a merry Christmas.
Your sincere friend,
George Sherman
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Dear Mr. Sherman
Merry Christmas and happy holidays! I hope this reaches you safe and sound and in time for Christmas. I also hope your brother and his family are well and are good company.
I believe I have heard of Ross MacDonald. If I remember right, he wrote hard-boiled detective fiction. Of course, you know about my intolerance for those kinds of stories. I guess it's a bit like what you were talking about. Some things are just harder for me to palate than others, and I feel this longing or hunger for this feeling of satisfaction I had when my John was still with me.
Some of the books I hunger for, even when there are other things I say I'd like to try, are the ones I've enjoyed so many times before. There's an immense comfort and warmth for me in A Christmas Carol, as you know, which I'll be getting into tomorrow. It was one of John's favorites.
I hope you know, however particular I seem to be about my own tastes, that I can't overstate how much I appreciate your perspective and your friendship. Of course your friendship is more to me than just your perspective, but I really do appreciate how you've helped me refine my tastes in terms of books. I look forward to seeing you soon.
With love,
Francis
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Mrs. Hatterfield's letter reached Mr. Sherman two days after his brother Ray, Ray's wife Jean, and their two daughters did. They were on their way to St. Louis to see Jean's family, and Mr. Sherman's house was very nearly the halfway point in their route.
When Mr. Sherman sat down at the kitchen table to open the letter, Ray laughed at him good-naturedly. They'd been sitting around most of the morning, and the two girls were playing in the snow in the yard.
“You look like you've been starving for a reply, George. What do you two write anyway, love letters?
“It's signed that way,” Mr. Sherman said before he had realized it.
“Signed what way? Love?”
“With love, Francis.”
“So you've got yourself a lover? Way you've been describing her was more like a good friend that you eat with.”
“What difference?” Mr. Sherman mumbled.
Ray sat up, serious now. He shared a look with Jean. “Not much difference, maybe,” he said. “I didn't mean to pry. I just didn't know you were serious about her that way.”
“I didn't mean that I was, I just...I never expected that I would be, or that she might be about me. I mean…she's definitely not the type I would have thought I could get on with so well, and I'm sure I'm not what she thought she needed.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jean gently.
“Well, right now for instance, she's reading A Christmas Carol. I could never read A Christmas Carol. It's Dickens for God's sake!”
“We got our daughters names from A Christmas Carol,” Jean said, smiling.
Mr. Sherman looked dumbfounded. He mouthed their names silently, slowly.
“Ebony and Marley,” Ray said. “For Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley.”
“Partners in crime” added Jean.
“See, when you take in a book, George, it becomes part of you. It's as much yours as your hands or your head.” It doesn't belong to Dickens or to Victorian England any more than the shirt on your back. If you read A Christmas Carol, even if you don't like the taste of some of it, your body is going to filter out the parts that won't do you any good and keep the parts with nutritional value. The only part that stays with you is the part you grow from.”
“So why Scrooge and Marley?” Mr. Sherman asked.
“Well, sure, there are some things that aren't great about them,” said Ray.
“Stealing from the poor” interjected Jean.
“And Scrooge's philanthropy at the end isn't anything if it isn't shortsighted” added Ray. “But their cynicism is quite refreshingly honest. We want our daughters to have that kind of honesty––to see the world for how it is, and that means being able to form realistic judgements about people and material things and about society as a whole.” Ray looked at Jean. She continued for him.
“Reading redeems the book. Sink your teeth into it, tear it apart, let the words roll across your tongue. As you chew on the ideas, the paper turns back into pulp. It's rebirth. Absorption into the bloodstream is absolution. Take what's wholesome and healthy and dispose of the rest. Some people say there's no metric for taste, some say there is. But taste is just one part of consuming a book.”
George Sherman nodded slowly, thinking.
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Mrs. Hatterfield stepped out of the plane into a cold January evening. She hurried inside, dismissing second thoughts about leaving Palm Springs. She saw Mr. Sherman near the baggage claim, holding a bouquet of flowers, waiting to welcome her home.
“Hello George Sherman.”
“Hello Francis Hatterfield.”
“Calla Lillies! George, how sweet of you!”
Mr. Sherman coughed. “I thought they would make the transition back to winter easier.” He paused. “I read A Christmas Carol.”
“How was it?” She exclaimed more than asked. “What did you think?”
“I read it,” Mr. Sherman said, and smiled. “Did you finish Sense and Sensibility?”
“I finished it just before I left.”
“How was it?”
“Delicious,” she said. “Do you know what I think makes it so satisfying? It's the proposal in the last bite. It leaves such a pleasant taste in the mouth. But then again, it's everything that comes before that makes the last bite so good. If there were too much sweetness, or bitterness, or sourness before, then the proposals would be all wrong.”
“I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm afraid I've been a bit of a downer for you here, all my talk of not seeing myself in those books and all.”
“But I see you in them––” Mrs. Hatterfield blurted. Her cheeks flushed red. “I see you every one of them George. In Sense and Sensibility, you're there. You're...”
Mr. Sherman blinked. “Mr. Darcy?” he asked tentatively.
“Mr. Ferrars, actually. But...yes.”
There was a silence while Mr. Sherman savored those words.
“George––”
“Francis,” Mr. Sherman said, “will you marry me?”