Day 8
"I found these really wonderful looking shepherd's pies and I couldn't resist getting a couple. I know they're not exactly the usual tea time fare, but I figured after the way you ate so enthusiastically yesterday, I could take the chance," you say, walking up to the bench where Rory is settling in. "I hope you like lamb."
"Lamb is good," she smiles up at you, rooting her butt around to find a comfortable position. She's wearing a pale blue crocheted cardigan, which sets off her eyes perfectly. "I'm sure that after yesterday, you can guess that I'll eat just about anything."
"Except fruits and vegetables," you reply with a raised brow.
"Yes, except fruits and vegetables," she grins back. "Oh, Frederic and Catherine!" she exclaims, picking up the book you've dropped on the bench. "I take it you finished Go Tell It On The Mountain?"
"Coffee?" you ask, handing her a steaming cup and saucer.
"Please," she smiles, taking the cup and putting a small amount of cream in it.
"Yeah, I finished it last night," you nod, pulling the pastries you've gotten out of the basket and setting them on plates.
"So, what was the verdict?" she asks, taking the fork you're holding out to her.
"I think the thing I found most interesting about it, now that I'm done, is that Invisible Man was written the year before," you elaborate, passing her a plate with her Shephard's pie and a helping of the fruit salad you brought, hoping she'll eat some. "This could have been written in the thirties, when it took place. Both were written during a transitional period for African Americans, moving toward the Civil Rights Movement. Invisible Man foreshadows the coming changes in racial identity in the sixties, Black Power, the Black Panthers, Nation of Islam and Malcolm X, etcetera. Baldwin doesn't do that. I suppose there's a correlation between it and the fact that the Civil Rights Movement's backbone is really the black church, as shown by Dr. King, but Ellison really sees something that's coming that hadn't been there before."
She holds up a finger to get your attention while she swallows. "But Marcus Garvey had a couple of million followers in the twenties," she says when her mouth is empty..
"That is true," you agree, smiling at her attempt to interject into your ramble. "But I still stand by the fact that though it though it was written - or, I should say, published - a year prior, Invisible Man is a much more socially conscious novel. It really foretells what's going to happen in the next decade or so amongst African Americans."
"Maybe that's why everyone has to read it, not Baldwin, in high school," she reasons.
"Probably," you nod, taking a bite of your shepherd's pie and a sip of tea before continuing. "So I finally finished - what do you have today?"
"Same as yesterday - I didn't finish my Cather or read as much as I wanted to in the Pound I had with me. He is…"
"Opaque?" you laugh.
"A bit," she giggles, furrowing her lovely brow. "This is really good, by the way. You got so carried away with your discussion of Baldwin and Ellison that I didn't get a chance to thank you. It's wonderful. Though I have noticed you slipped me some fruit as well," she grins slyly, popping a strawberry in her mouth.
"I figured the vitamin c couldn't hurt you," you smirk back at her.
"So nice to know my health and well being are on your mind," she shoots back with a grin.
"Wouldn't want you to get scurvy or anything," you return, continuing to smirk at her. The literary chatter engaging her fully, and you can see her mind working, the levers moving in her mind as she keeps up with and tries to contribute to a conversation she doesn't know all sides of.
"Last time I checked my name wasn't Horatio," she replies cheekily.
"Touché," you concede, allowing her to win this round of your verbal skirmish.
"Anyway," she beams at your concession, "I didn't finish my jaunt through immigrant Nebraska."
"Prairie literature isn't really my thing. I hate Grapes of Wrath," you reply. "Tortilla Flats, Of Mice and Men, and Cannery Row all are wonderful, but escaping the Oklahoma dustbowl…so not my thing. I can understand how you didn't finish My Ántonia last night. Both of those are as dry as the terrain they seek to describe."
"I think I tend to agree," she nods. "Though I hate to disparage a female author- I feel like I'm trashing the sisterhood."
"What, so no female author can be boring or not as good as hyped?" you laugh. "If I had that standard for my fellow males I would be up a creek."
"Maybe, but men have been producing works of literature for centuries, millennia - even women haven't had as many chances to suck as your gender has," she reasons, her eyes twinkling you can tell by her twitching cheek that she's trying hard not to smile.
"Well, have you seen the recent research that ponders that Homer was a woman?" you volley back with a raised brow.
"Homer does not suck!" she gasps, her mouth hanging open in shock.
"Wasn't my point," you return drolly.
"Then do tell - what was your point?" she huffs.
"That maybe there are women over the centuries and millennia who have written under pseudonyms. We think they're men because we've always been told they're men, but they're really just concealing their true gender," you explain, poking at the bench seat between you. "Maybe the great writers of ancient times really were all women, and we just never knew that."
"You really believe that?" she asks, her voice dripping with skepticism and her brows raised.
"I didn't say I believed it," you reply, holding back a smile. "I'm saying perhaps it's something to think about," you explain, circling your finger through the air. "Maybe in trashing the sisterhood you're really just trashing someone that hid behind the concept of maleness, but was really female after all."
"That made no sense," she laughs.
"Didn't say it had to make sense; it still got you riled up," you smirk back at her, causing her cheeks to flush and turn a brilliant red for a moment.
"You have scones today?" she asks, changing the subject."I do, though I want to point out that it's now Logan - one, Rory - one, just to be fair," you return with a nudge to her knee, unable to stop the smirk that crawls across your face, pulling out the box that has the requested pastry inside.
"You're impossible," she mutters.
"I like to think irresistible," you shoot back.
"You must need to buy an extra ticket for your ego when you fly," she returns.
"Ouch," you laugh. "That was good."
"I do try, though I think you'll agree that it's now Logan - one, Rory - two," she grins.
"I concede to a superior jouster," you nod, with a hand to your chest.
"Scone, milady; jam and cream as well," you say, handing her the requested treat.
"So did you start A Farewell to Arms yet?" she asks while she's putting jam and cream on her scone.
"No, not yet," you shake your head. "I'm starting as soon as I get situated under the tree."
"I think it's my favorite Hemingway - or, actually, the only Hemingway I actually enjoy. It's so sad," she sighs.
"I've avoided it for years - too schmoopy for me, I'm very afraid," you reply. "But that's so typical. I think it's a chromosomal thing - if you're male you must like Uncle Ernest. Females automatically hate him. Too much testosterone."
"Somehow I'd believe that. I had an ongoing debate with someone about the merits of Hemingway - or, I should say, lack of merit I've tried to enjoy him, and just can't," she says with a shake of her head. "It's the machismo - every man wishes he could be Uncle Ernest, off on an adventure."
"Precisely," you nod.
"But Farewell to Arms is so sad - Frederic and Catherine are destined for a tragic end," she sighs again.
"My point exactly," you nod. "I'd rather be climbing San Juan Hill, fly fishing in Wyoming, or sailing off Key West"
"So you're a blood and guts kinda guy?" she asks, her nose wrinkling adorably.
"No, I'm just a guy. I think the need for action, adventure, blood and guts comes with the territory," you chuckle. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate Anna Karenina or A Doll's House, but that also doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be running with the bulls in The Sun Also Rises or fighting Franco in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Though don't try to tell me you're a Romeo and Juliet fan, because the whole star crossed lovers thing just does nothing for me."
"Oh, Ann and Count Vronsky have such a beautiful and tragic story - truly one of my favorites," she sighs again, lifting and dropping her shoulders. "And Ibsen, is so amazingly wonderful. You're making me not want to read what I'm supposed to be reading and just go lose myself in nineteenth century Russia, not Nebraska."
"I know we have a copy of Anna Karenina in the library in our house, if you want me to get it for you," you offer.
"No, though the proposal is tempting, I have to decline. I need to finish this, and I'm nothing if not determined," she says, raising her chin.
"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I'll be right over there under the tree, trying to lose myself in the tragic doomed love story of Frederic and Catherine," you reply with a smile.
"I never would have guessed where you were going to be," she returns cheekily.
"You know, I might just have to call you on your sassiness, little miss," you smirk back at her, while you fix yourself a scone, so you can go sit under the tree.
"Huh, I'd like to see you try," she shoots back, folding her arms over her chest.
"Is that a challenge?" you ask, one brow raised. "Because if it's a challenge, I'll have to accept. I never back down from a challenge!"
"Um," she replies, worrying her bottom lip and pulling on the sleeves of her cardigan - you've obviously stumped her. "I didn't say it was a challenge."
"I heard a challenge in there, quite distinctly," you lob back at her.
"No, no challenge," she says quickly.
"So you concede?" you question, feeling triumphant.
"What is there to concede?" she replies in a tone lacking conviction.
"I will take the high road, and not make you formally wave a white flag; however, I would like to point out, that it's now Rory - two, Logan - two," you grin triumphantly.
"Oh, go read your book," she mutters, opening hers firmly on her lap, and burying her head inside.
You can't help chuckling as you make your way over to the tree, which causes her to hum unmelodically. The verbal sparing making the blood race through your veins. She has beauty, wit, intelligence, and a shared love of letters. Possibly the perfect girl for you; too bad you're not looking for that.
Still, nothing in the last few days had led you to revise your opinion of her lack of worldliness; there is a gaucheness and guilelessness to her. Not in a negative sense – she just lacks a social veneer. She's not like Stephanie or Rosemary, who know exactly what they have to offer and who never meet a situation that makes them uncomfortable or self-conscious. They know who they are and what the score is at all times.
But then again, it's that naïveté that draws you back each day, that has been drawing you like a moth to a flame since you first spotted her. At first you wanted to know if it was real, or just a façade. Discovering it's real made you more and more curious, especially due to her interesting background, as to how deep it is makes you want to know how and why she is so untouched. How a world that had made you cynical and jaded by the time you learned to drive could somehow leave her so unscathed.
This seems so unreal, like it can't be happening, but it is. He's so intelligent, he's funny, he's incredibly cute - how can he be real? He even, like Mom said about Jason, 'keeps up,' which is so rare. Even Jess couldn't always do that. We have such similar tastes in literature, which is so exciting. It's nice to meet someone that I can talk to about books and history, but who doesn't seem to think those things are geeky.
I have this strange feeling that he wouldn't look at me twice if we met at Yale, that I'm not his type at all, but somehow here we connect perfectly. It's like a time out of reality, that in that garden each day we get to know one another like we've never gotten to know another person ever before. I'm connecting with another person like never before.
There has to be something wrong with him. He can't be this perfect, that's just not possible. No one is as perfect as he seems. But if he's not, then what are his faults? I'm not seeing them, not yet.
Speaking of Jess, though, why does every single boy who enjoys literature love Hemingway? He's not that great—he's actually kind of annoying! I guess that means that Logan's not perfect, after all. He loves Uncle Ernest. Typical male.
TBC