My OperaHezra Purred His Agreement
Thursday, August 28, 2008 8:27:12 PM
What? thought Philip Reed as he approached the old street level storefront. I don't remember this. Neighborhood seems different. I've been working too hard; have to pay more attention to what's going on.
Reed was an eager young man, energetic in his work and active in his personal life. He was a church-going man and an active protester of injustice when he perceived it. He was a happy and involved man. How else can it be said? He had a faithful wife, two little boys, an enjoyable profession, and a positive outlook on life. His major vice was book buying. He enjoyed books better than computers, TV, or fast cars. Having a wife who shared his literary interests to a lesser extent, especially in science-fiction and history was a plus. He had a good life, and was ecstatic to find a new source for his books.
Reed wasn't perfect. He'd forget his wife's birthday but not the points for a first edition of Giles Goat Boy. He could be quick to anger---but be just as quick to settle down. He never knowingly hurt anyone, and he treated his clients as friends. His annual tax return period of long hours exhausted him, but he never took it out on his family. He was a trusting man, and taking calculated chances usually served him well. There were plenty of gray areas in the tax code to give him reason for favoring his clients over the IRS. Tax definitions were often abstruse, and the clients' interests were always paramount. On occasion, he'd drive too fast or otherwise take a chance in traffic. But, by and large, you could count on him as a reliable citizen and friend.
Such people as Reed exist in more cases than the average person might think. He was middle America to the core. Most people had nothing negative to say about him, other than to occasionally criticize his sometimes too casual appearance or his eagerness to talk about rare books at the drop of a hat or his annoying habit of carrying dental floss around with him. He'd use it at inopportune times. But, he was popular at work, and he took on many a problematic tax case: big or little. “The tax laws require strong and imaginative consideration…” was his oft stated creed.
Once in a while, Reed could imbibe a few too many drinks, but it only served to put him asleep. You can't be too dangerous when you're sleepy, especially when you're conked out. He rarely drank when out with his wife, so driving was never a problem.
Now, he looked through the large, paned-glass window. The display was well filled with dust, cobwebs, and partially arranged old books of varying ages and conditions. The old, battered, green awning tried its best to keep the direct sunshine away.
As the young CPA stood on the quiet sidewalk, his eyes traveled a short distance to the right of the window until they saw the store's entrance, three steps down to an ornate wood door. The heavy, black portal was unlocked and slightly ajar---an apparent indication that the shop was open.
Above the door, Reed saw a weathered sign confirming his thought as to the store's stock-in-trade:
PORTER'S BOOKSHOP
Harold Porter, Proprietor
Reed quickly decided that his client visit could be delayed---there was no specific time set for his appointment anyway. This was too much of a temptation. He smiled a satisfied smile. He was a child opening a birthday gift as he eagerly stepped down to the door and grabbed the handle. Entering, he expected the faint, musty odor of old books and paper and wasn't disappointed. He stopped and glanced around briefly.
The shop seemed quite dark, but that was partially due to Reed's walking in from the morning sun. He'd see better as his eyes became accustomed to the interior. He stood in the doorway for a few more seconds. Several bare light bulbs were hung down from the high, pressed metal ceiling and opened the shop to his gaze.
Age was plainly noticeable. The few benches and chairs he saw nearby were desperately in need of refurbishing. Wall shelves were well worn, and he thought he could see patches and streaks of bare and chipped wood in many places. A light coat of dust seemed to cover, everything.
And the books were virtually everywhere: the shelves stuffed to overflowing; the central display tables piled high and filled beneath and alongside. Passable aisles were practically non-existent, and there was barely enough room for an agile person to step through and gain access to the main section of the shop---or what he thought was the main section. At least it seemed brighter there.
Making his way carefully through the printed forest, Reed headed for the desk he saw, expecting to see the owner hard at work, perhaps pricing new arrivals, or studying catalogs, or---he grinned---more likely enjoying morning coffee and sampling the merchandise.
No one was visible, but a strangely observant cat with mottled gray coloring was resting on the small stack of books at the corner of the desk, as if it was keeping an eye on the store while the owner was away.
The cat had been watching him, but now quickly turned its head toward an open door behind the desk. Reed followed the gaze and saw a head and body slowly appear over the basement staircase as an old man made his way up from the depths of his storeroom.
He smiled in acknowledgement of Reed when he reached the top of the stairs and noticed him. Closing the door, he turned and walked the few steps to the desk, depositing two small volumes on it as he voiced his greeting.
“Yes, sir. What can we do for you this fine morning?”
The old man wore a faded gray flannel shirt and brown pleated trousers. An ancient blue cardigan was buttoned askew, keeping the morning chill at bay. Harold Porter and the local men's clothing shop had obviously not exchanged greetings in years, perhaps decades.
He had a soft, leathery complexion backing a rather bulbous nose, which appeared slightly too large for his face but did serve to keep his glasses firmly in place. His bright, deeply set blue eyes artistically complemented the pure white, almost foamy, hair; they seemed to glow, and Reed sensed a true goodness and intelligence behind them. He took an instant liking to the old bookseller.
Porter picked up his cat, cradled it lovingly in his arm, and stroked its soft back slowly and rhythmically as Reed spoke.
“I don't remember seeing your shop before, and I'm always glad to make such a discovery. It gives me another opportunity to try someone new.
“I'm a collector of Stephen Crane's works---have been for the past eight years. But, I simply haven't been able to find a reasonably priced first edition of his THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. I know this isn't your everyday book, but is there any chance you have one? In any condition?”
Reed was always hopeful, but not overly so. He had long ago become accustomed to disappointment. He had a family to support and didn't have the extra money to buy expensive rare volumes at every opportunity.
“Crane was an unorthodox fellow,” said Porter as he carefully placed the cat back on the desk. “Hezra and I have spoken of him often, haven't we Hezra?” He looked toward the cat with an affectionate smile born of long companionship.
Hezra purred his agreement.
“Perhaps we can help you, my friend. What do you say, Hezra? Do you think we might have a copy of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE around somewhere?”
Scattering books behind him, Hezra darted quickly towards a section of shelves a dozen feet away. He landed on the floor and stayed near the glass-encased
bottom section, softly purring as Porter grinned and walked slowly around the desk to meet him. Reed followed too, listening closely and patiently to the old man.
“Yes, Stephen Crane was an odd fellow, but he had a remarkable realism in his stories, especially his first, MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS.
“A sad story that was, with slums, prostitutes, and all. Did you know that it foretold part of his future? His wife actually owned a brothel in Florida when he married her a few years after he wrote the book.”
Porter continued without waiting for Reed to comment, and he slowly crouched down to better look through the bottom shelves.
“Let's see, where are those Crane books, Hezra? Ah, here we are. Now we must find the RED BADGE for our friend.”
The bookseller examined the lower shelf a few more seconds and then stood up with a book in his hands.
“Have you found something, Mr. Porter?” asked Reed.
Although he had little hope of finding a first edition, he was now growing in anticipation, confidence, and excitement as he watched Porter look gingerly through a book---a book that looked way too good for his wallet. They returned to the desk in mutual silence, as did Hezra, padding a few steps behind them.
Reed saw that the book was bound in a light tan buckram and had what looked very much like the original plain dust jacket–a rare thing indeed for the 19th Century. Strangely enough, it appeared to be in perfect condition.
Was it possible, he wondered? After all these years, was it possible to find a perfect first edition? Or was its existence merely a dream bubble that would soon burst?
Porter was apparently satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, and he handed the book to Reed.
“It was very sad to see unfair and scandalous rumors chase him and Cora Taylor to Europe where he would die so young. Imagine that: drugs, promiscuity---even Satanism. How could people believe such trash?”
Reed recalled Crane and his problems as he examined the bookseller's copy of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. Almost by rote, he said, “Crane was a superb stylist, writing realistically and naturally---even psychologically. Although he never witnessed an actual battle, he was fascinated with war all his life. THE RED BADGE was a Civil War masterpiece. And a few of his short stories are considered to be among the best ever written in the English language…”
His voice drifted to silence as he studied the book. The title page announced: THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE, AN EPISODE OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, by Stephen Crane. The lettering was all in black, and the red ornamentation included a plumed helmet and 17 fleurs-de-lis. The publisher was D. Appleton and Company, the date shown was 1895, and the top of the pages was dyed yellow. A look at the copyright page and the four pages of ads at the back confirmed it. THE RED BADGE was not listed in the ads. The points were all as perfect as they were correct. And there was little doubt in Reed's mind that he held a first edition, but he was almost afraid to look through the pages for the final verification of state.
He stoically faced Porter across the desk. Was this kindly man to be the rainbow to his pot of gold?
“I'd like to buy this book, Mr. Porter, but can we be sure of what state of the first edition it truly is?”
Porter took the book back and opened it carefully. “Yes, my friend, just look here on page 225. As you can see, the last line of type is perfect.”
Reed saw that it was.
The old man continued. “While the first edition was being printed, the line of type at the end of page 225 became damaged and had to be corrected. The copies with the damaged type are second states. The corrected type copies are third states, and they can be identified by an imperfect, slanting “d” in the last line.
“Yes, my friend. This line is perfect, and we have here a beautiful copy of the first state of the first edition of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. Don't we, Hezra?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
Reed remembered the points to look for in determining the state of this edition, and he agreed with Porter's analysis. He began to get slightly warm and sweaty under his collar as he reached for the book to examine it again. To be so close to adding this book to his Crane collection was enough to make his bibliophilic heart jump through his chest. But the money! Damn! Thought Reed suddenly. Porter will want thousands for this!
Well, no matter. He had to have it if the price was anywhere near reasonable. No! He had to have it, period. He wasn't going to let this opportunity of two or three lifetimes pass him by. Vacation plans dwindled in his thoughts.
Wasn't it Henry Ward Beecher who prophesied this moment when he asked “Where is human nature so weak as in a bookstore?”
“You're quite right, Mr. Porter. I agree with your comments and wish to buy the book.” He hoped his voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt. “What do you want for it, sir?” Reed held his breath as he slowly looked through the volume again, hoping he appeared casual and nonchalant.
And then he saw the writing.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Porter. Even though this is a perfect edition, what is this writing here in the back? Is this a prior owner's signature? In fact, it appears to be…”
Porter took the book back to examine the writing. “Yes, my friend. This is the signature of the original owner who signed his name in the back and gave the book to his friend, Harold. And yes, the original owner was the author, Stephen Crane.”
Reed was flabbergasted and speechless. His hands were shaking, and his whole body was sweating with anticipation and hope. This was worse than a bad IRS decision. This was more stressful than his wedding day.
Porter put the book on the desk and picked up his cat, cradling it once more. “Well, Hezra, what do you think? Should we let this nice gentleman add this fine book to his Stephen Crane collection?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
“Then so be it.” He looked at Reed again. “My friend, you can have it for twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed the slowly recovering Reed with obvious astonishment.
Porter answered softly, almost defensively. “It is the first state of the first edition, my friend. And it has the author's signature. I think twenty dollars is eminently fair. Don't you, Hezra?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
Reed could hardly believe his ears. The last time he had heard of a very good copy of the first state changing ownership a few years ago, the price was around six thousand dollars. But, this copy was better than very good---even better than fine. It was new---pristine---virtually just as it had come from the printer and binder, including a dust jacket! And, it was SIGNED BY STEPHEN CRANE! But! But! Was it genuine?
Porter watched him patiently as he examined the book again. Well, he thought, if it is a fake, it's a damn good one. And it's well worth twenty dollars no matter what. But, his conscience added, am I not taking advantage of an old man?
“Mr. Porter, are you sure of the price? Twenty dollars seems…”
“Yes, my friend,” answered Porter. “I know what the book is, and I'm firm on my price. If it's too much, then you don't have to buy it from me.”
“Then twenty dollars it is, Mr. Porter,” said Reed, easily applying a somewhat larcenous smile to his face. Suddenly, he couldn't do simple math. “What is it with the sales tax?”
“Sales tax?” Porter looked at him blankly.
“Well, never mind. Here's twenty-five dollars to cover it all. I don't need a bag. I'll take it as it is.” Reed very much wanted to leave the shop before the obviously sleeping Porter woke up.
The old bookseller dropped the two bills into his top desk drawer. “Thank you, my friend,” he smiled warmly. “Please come again.”
Reed carefully put the book in his attaché case with loose papers to protect it. The thick file already in there became arm baggage. He safely held it against his body as he stepped gingerly toward the front door. After a few dozen feet, he stopped and turned around. “Thank you, Mr. Porter. You've done me a great service.” He quickly left the shop and turned toward the main street, half a block away.
Porter remained standing at his desk, softly stroking his warm companion's back as he watched Reed's departure.
*
Later that day in his accounting offices, Reed stopped to visit George Granger, the firm's patriarch. He had to share the story of his remarkable find with a fellow collector and good friend.
“I'm still in a dream,” said Reed, as he rubbed his hands together in undisguised glee. “I just can't believe it really happened. But it did. There's the book. I've examined it at least a dozen times. It really is a perfect copy of the first state of the first edition of Crane's THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. All the points are there! And the topper is that it's signed by Crane! I checked his signature in my references.”
Reed left his chair and walked to the side window to view the late afternoon vista. He was simply too satisfied and pleased with himself to sit still very long. His entire day had been one of anxiety and excitement. The older man remained seated, slipped on his ever-present protective gloves and studied the book intently.
“What was the man's name, son? We don't have that many bookshops left in the city anymore. I can't picture any of the better ones letting something like this happen.”
Reed called his reply happily from the window. “Porter's Bookshop. Harold Porter, Proprietor.”
Grange looked up quickly. “Porter's?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Near Sunshine Park, about halfway down an ancient alley called Harper's Lane---a place I didn't even know existed.” He turned and started back toward his char. “Number twelve, I think. Why do you ask?”
The older man moved forward to the edge of his seat, and looked keenly at Reed over his reading glasses. “Why do I ask? Why son, Harold Porter was a respected old bookseller when my father first met him seventy years ago. He used to talk about him quite a bit. His shop was razed and used as a parking lot after he died in the early 1930s!”
After a short, shocked silence, Grange continued with a knowing point of his finger toward the astonished Reed. “You know, a few months ago you risked your life dragging a woman from a burning car. You saved her life. And her name was Mary P. Chase. Do you remember that?”
“Why yes, I do. But what has that got to do with this?”
Grange continued in an awed voice. “It never occurred to me before this, but didn't you ever ask her what the “P” stands for?”
*
At the same time and yet in another time, a satisfied old man held his pet in his arms, stroking its back gently as they watched the front of his store grow darker with the setting sun.
He whispered softly, with a contented, knowing smile on his face. “A nice gentleman, Hezra. Yes, indeed, he was a nice gentleman.”
Hezra purred his agreement.
© 2008
Reed was an eager young man, energetic in his work and active in his personal life. He was a church-going man and an active protester of injustice when he perceived it. He was a happy and involved man. How else can it be said? He had a faithful wife, two little boys, an enjoyable profession, and a positive outlook on life. His major vice was book buying. He enjoyed books better than computers, TV, or fast cars. Having a wife who shared his literary interests to a lesser extent, especially in science-fiction and history was a plus. He had a good life, and was ecstatic to find a new source for his books.
Reed wasn't perfect. He'd forget his wife's birthday but not the points for a first edition of Giles Goat Boy. He could be quick to anger---but be just as quick to settle down. He never knowingly hurt anyone, and he treated his clients as friends. His annual tax return period of long hours exhausted him, but he never took it out on his family. He was a trusting man, and taking calculated chances usually served him well. There were plenty of gray areas in the tax code to give him reason for favoring his clients over the IRS. Tax definitions were often abstruse, and the clients' interests were always paramount. On occasion, he'd drive too fast or otherwise take a chance in traffic. But, by and large, you could count on him as a reliable citizen and friend.
Such people as Reed exist in more cases than the average person might think. He was middle America to the core. Most people had nothing negative to say about him, other than to occasionally criticize his sometimes too casual appearance or his eagerness to talk about rare books at the drop of a hat or his annoying habit of carrying dental floss around with him. He'd use it at inopportune times. But, he was popular at work, and he took on many a problematic tax case: big or little. “The tax laws require strong and imaginative consideration…” was his oft stated creed.
Once in a while, Reed could imbibe a few too many drinks, but it only served to put him asleep. You can't be too dangerous when you're sleepy, especially when you're conked out. He rarely drank when out with his wife, so driving was never a problem.
Now, he looked through the large, paned-glass window. The display was well filled with dust, cobwebs, and partially arranged old books of varying ages and conditions. The old, battered, green awning tried its best to keep the direct sunshine away.
As the young CPA stood on the quiet sidewalk, his eyes traveled a short distance to the right of the window until they saw the store's entrance, three steps down to an ornate wood door. The heavy, black portal was unlocked and slightly ajar---an apparent indication that the shop was open.
Above the door, Reed saw a weathered sign confirming his thought as to the store's stock-in-trade:
PORTER'S BOOKSHOP
Harold Porter, Proprietor
Reed quickly decided that his client visit could be delayed---there was no specific time set for his appointment anyway. This was too much of a temptation. He smiled a satisfied smile. He was a child opening a birthday gift as he eagerly stepped down to the door and grabbed the handle. Entering, he expected the faint, musty odor of old books and paper and wasn't disappointed. He stopped and glanced around briefly.
The shop seemed quite dark, but that was partially due to Reed's walking in from the morning sun. He'd see better as his eyes became accustomed to the interior. He stood in the doorway for a few more seconds. Several bare light bulbs were hung down from the high, pressed metal ceiling and opened the shop to his gaze.
Age was plainly noticeable. The few benches and chairs he saw nearby were desperately in need of refurbishing. Wall shelves were well worn, and he thought he could see patches and streaks of bare and chipped wood in many places. A light coat of dust seemed to cover, everything.
And the books were virtually everywhere: the shelves stuffed to overflowing; the central display tables piled high and filled beneath and alongside. Passable aisles were practically non-existent, and there was barely enough room for an agile person to step through and gain access to the main section of the shop---or what he thought was the main section. At least it seemed brighter there.
Making his way carefully through the printed forest, Reed headed for the desk he saw, expecting to see the owner hard at work, perhaps pricing new arrivals, or studying catalogs, or---he grinned---more likely enjoying morning coffee and sampling the merchandise.
No one was visible, but a strangely observant cat with mottled gray coloring was resting on the small stack of books at the corner of the desk, as if it was keeping an eye on the store while the owner was away.
The cat had been watching him, but now quickly turned its head toward an open door behind the desk. Reed followed the gaze and saw a head and body slowly appear over the basement staircase as an old man made his way up from the depths of his storeroom.
He smiled in acknowledgement of Reed when he reached the top of the stairs and noticed him. Closing the door, he turned and walked the few steps to the desk, depositing two small volumes on it as he voiced his greeting.
“Yes, sir. What can we do for you this fine morning?”
The old man wore a faded gray flannel shirt and brown pleated trousers. An ancient blue cardigan was buttoned askew, keeping the morning chill at bay. Harold Porter and the local men's clothing shop had obviously not exchanged greetings in years, perhaps decades.
He had a soft, leathery complexion backing a rather bulbous nose, which appeared slightly too large for his face but did serve to keep his glasses firmly in place. His bright, deeply set blue eyes artistically complemented the pure white, almost foamy, hair; they seemed to glow, and Reed sensed a true goodness and intelligence behind them. He took an instant liking to the old bookseller.
Porter picked up his cat, cradled it lovingly in his arm, and stroked its soft back slowly and rhythmically as Reed spoke.
“I don't remember seeing your shop before, and I'm always glad to make such a discovery. It gives me another opportunity to try someone new.
“I'm a collector of Stephen Crane's works---have been for the past eight years. But, I simply haven't been able to find a reasonably priced first edition of his THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. I know this isn't your everyday book, but is there any chance you have one? In any condition?”
Reed was always hopeful, but not overly so. He had long ago become accustomed to disappointment. He had a family to support and didn't have the extra money to buy expensive rare volumes at every opportunity.
“Crane was an unorthodox fellow,” said Porter as he carefully placed the cat back on the desk. “Hezra and I have spoken of him often, haven't we Hezra?” He looked toward the cat with an affectionate smile born of long companionship.
Hezra purred his agreement.
“Perhaps we can help you, my friend. What do you say, Hezra? Do you think we might have a copy of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE around somewhere?”
Scattering books behind him, Hezra darted quickly towards a section of shelves a dozen feet away. He landed on the floor and stayed near the glass-encased
bottom section, softly purring as Porter grinned and walked slowly around the desk to meet him. Reed followed too, listening closely and patiently to the old man.
“Yes, Stephen Crane was an odd fellow, but he had a remarkable realism in his stories, especially his first, MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS.
“A sad story that was, with slums, prostitutes, and all. Did you know that it foretold part of his future? His wife actually owned a brothel in Florida when he married her a few years after he wrote the book.”
Porter continued without waiting for Reed to comment, and he slowly crouched down to better look through the bottom shelves.
“Let's see, where are those Crane books, Hezra? Ah, here we are. Now we must find the RED BADGE for our friend.”
The bookseller examined the lower shelf a few more seconds and then stood up with a book in his hands.
“Have you found something, Mr. Porter?” asked Reed.
Although he had little hope of finding a first edition, he was now growing in anticipation, confidence, and excitement as he watched Porter look gingerly through a book---a book that looked way too good for his wallet. They returned to the desk in mutual silence, as did Hezra, padding a few steps behind them.
Reed saw that the book was bound in a light tan buckram and had what looked very much like the original plain dust jacket–a rare thing indeed for the 19th Century. Strangely enough, it appeared to be in perfect condition.
Was it possible, he wondered? After all these years, was it possible to find a perfect first edition? Or was its existence merely a dream bubble that would soon burst?
Porter was apparently satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, and he handed the book to Reed.
“It was very sad to see unfair and scandalous rumors chase him and Cora Taylor to Europe where he would die so young. Imagine that: drugs, promiscuity---even Satanism. How could people believe such trash?”
Reed recalled Crane and his problems as he examined the bookseller's copy of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. Almost by rote, he said, “Crane was a superb stylist, writing realistically and naturally---even psychologically. Although he never witnessed an actual battle, he was fascinated with war all his life. THE RED BADGE was a Civil War masterpiece. And a few of his short stories are considered to be among the best ever written in the English language…”
His voice drifted to silence as he studied the book. The title page announced: THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE, AN EPISODE OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, by Stephen Crane. The lettering was all in black, and the red ornamentation included a plumed helmet and 17 fleurs-de-lis. The publisher was D. Appleton and Company, the date shown was 1895, and the top of the pages was dyed yellow. A look at the copyright page and the four pages of ads at the back confirmed it. THE RED BADGE was not listed in the ads. The points were all as perfect as they were correct. And there was little doubt in Reed's mind that he held a first edition, but he was almost afraid to look through the pages for the final verification of state.
He stoically faced Porter across the desk. Was this kindly man to be the rainbow to his pot of gold?
“I'd like to buy this book, Mr. Porter, but can we be sure of what state of the first edition it truly is?”
Porter took the book back and opened it carefully. “Yes, my friend, just look here on page 225. As you can see, the last line of type is perfect.”
Reed saw that it was.
The old man continued. “While the first edition was being printed, the line of type at the end of page 225 became damaged and had to be corrected. The copies with the damaged type are second states. The corrected type copies are third states, and they can be identified by an imperfect, slanting “d” in the last line.
“Yes, my friend. This line is perfect, and we have here a beautiful copy of the first state of the first edition of THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. Don't we, Hezra?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
Reed remembered the points to look for in determining the state of this edition, and he agreed with Porter's analysis. He began to get slightly warm and sweaty under his collar as he reached for the book to examine it again. To be so close to adding this book to his Crane collection was enough to make his bibliophilic heart jump through his chest. But the money! Damn! Thought Reed suddenly. Porter will want thousands for this!
Well, no matter. He had to have it if the price was anywhere near reasonable. No! He had to have it, period. He wasn't going to let this opportunity of two or three lifetimes pass him by. Vacation plans dwindled in his thoughts.
Wasn't it Henry Ward Beecher who prophesied this moment when he asked “Where is human nature so weak as in a bookstore?”
“You're quite right, Mr. Porter. I agree with your comments and wish to buy the book.” He hoped his voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt. “What do you want for it, sir?” Reed held his breath as he slowly looked through the volume again, hoping he appeared casual and nonchalant.
And then he saw the writing.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Porter. Even though this is a perfect edition, what is this writing here in the back? Is this a prior owner's signature? In fact, it appears to be…”
Porter took the book back to examine the writing. “Yes, my friend. This is the signature of the original owner who signed his name in the back and gave the book to his friend, Harold. And yes, the original owner was the author, Stephen Crane.”
Reed was flabbergasted and speechless. His hands were shaking, and his whole body was sweating with anticipation and hope. This was worse than a bad IRS decision. This was more stressful than his wedding day.
Porter put the book on the desk and picked up his cat, cradling it once more. “Well, Hezra, what do you think? Should we let this nice gentleman add this fine book to his Stephen Crane collection?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
“Then so be it.” He looked at Reed again. “My friend, you can have it for twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed the slowly recovering Reed with obvious astonishment.
Porter answered softly, almost defensively. “It is the first state of the first edition, my friend. And it has the author's signature. I think twenty dollars is eminently fair. Don't you, Hezra?”
Hezra purred his agreement.
Reed could hardly believe his ears. The last time he had heard of a very good copy of the first state changing ownership a few years ago, the price was around six thousand dollars. But, this copy was better than very good---even better than fine. It was new---pristine---virtually just as it had come from the printer and binder, including a dust jacket! And, it was SIGNED BY STEPHEN CRANE! But! But! Was it genuine?
Porter watched him patiently as he examined the book again. Well, he thought, if it is a fake, it's a damn good one. And it's well worth twenty dollars no matter what. But, his conscience added, am I not taking advantage of an old man?
“Mr. Porter, are you sure of the price? Twenty dollars seems…”
“Yes, my friend,” answered Porter. “I know what the book is, and I'm firm on my price. If it's too much, then you don't have to buy it from me.”
“Then twenty dollars it is, Mr. Porter,” said Reed, easily applying a somewhat larcenous smile to his face. Suddenly, he couldn't do simple math. “What is it with the sales tax?”
“Sales tax?” Porter looked at him blankly.
“Well, never mind. Here's twenty-five dollars to cover it all. I don't need a bag. I'll take it as it is.” Reed very much wanted to leave the shop before the obviously sleeping Porter woke up.
The old bookseller dropped the two bills into his top desk drawer. “Thank you, my friend,” he smiled warmly. “Please come again.”
Reed carefully put the book in his attaché case with loose papers to protect it. The thick file already in there became arm baggage. He safely held it against his body as he stepped gingerly toward the front door. After a few dozen feet, he stopped and turned around. “Thank you, Mr. Porter. You've done me a great service.” He quickly left the shop and turned toward the main street, half a block away.
Porter remained standing at his desk, softly stroking his warm companion's back as he watched Reed's departure.
*
Later that day in his accounting offices, Reed stopped to visit George Granger, the firm's patriarch. He had to share the story of his remarkable find with a fellow collector and good friend.
“I'm still in a dream,” said Reed, as he rubbed his hands together in undisguised glee. “I just can't believe it really happened. But it did. There's the book. I've examined it at least a dozen times. It really is a perfect copy of the first state of the first edition of Crane's THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. All the points are there! And the topper is that it's signed by Crane! I checked his signature in my references.”
Reed left his chair and walked to the side window to view the late afternoon vista. He was simply too satisfied and pleased with himself to sit still very long. His entire day had been one of anxiety and excitement. The older man remained seated, slipped on his ever-present protective gloves and studied the book intently.
“What was the man's name, son? We don't have that many bookshops left in the city anymore. I can't picture any of the better ones letting something like this happen.”
Reed called his reply happily from the window. “Porter's Bookshop. Harold Porter, Proprietor.”
Grange looked up quickly. “Porter's?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Near Sunshine Park, about halfway down an ancient alley called Harper's Lane---a place I didn't even know existed.” He turned and started back toward his char. “Number twelve, I think. Why do you ask?”
The older man moved forward to the edge of his seat, and looked keenly at Reed over his reading glasses. “Why do I ask? Why son, Harold Porter was a respected old bookseller when my father first met him seventy years ago. He used to talk about him quite a bit. His shop was razed and used as a parking lot after he died in the early 1930s!”
After a short, shocked silence, Grange continued with a knowing point of his finger toward the astonished Reed. “You know, a few months ago you risked your life dragging a woman from a burning car. You saved her life. And her name was Mary P. Chase. Do you remember that?”
“Why yes, I do. But what has that got to do with this?”
Grange continued in an awed voice. “It never occurred to me before this, but didn't you ever ask her what the “P” stands for?”
*
At the same time and yet in another time, a satisfied old man held his pet in his arms, stroking its back gently as they watched the front of his store grow darker with the setting sun.
He whispered softly, with a contented, knowing smile on his face. “A nice gentleman, Hezra. Yes, indeed, he was a nice gentleman.”
Hezra purred his agreement.
© 2008
