Where or When by Anita Shreve Read Free Book Online Page B

shit, is what I’d like to do. Actually, I do not always hate my job. I used to like to talk to people about what was important to them.
Where does the pain in your poetry come from?
I imagine going to a market in Cambridge and buying ingredients for a meal that I would make for you. I love to cook. Am I going too far?
Yesterday I called The Ridge to see if it was still there. You will probably not be surprised to learn that it has been turned into an inn. I asked the woman who answered the phone if she had a brochure with a photograph so that I could see what it looked like now. She said the only exterior shot was the building itself with the fountain. Did I remember the fountain? I said yes, but that my most vivid memory was of the girl I met there thirty-one years ago. She said: “Did you marry her?” I said: “No, but I should have.”
Now I
know
I am going too far.
Sometimes I think we are both too serious. If you want me to stop, just tell me. I know this can end in an instant.
I know we have to meet. I think you know that as well.
I could tell you so much more, but I really just want to hold your hand.
As I sit here trying to compose a letter that will mean something to you, I can’t take my eyes off your picture. You said in a letter that you are not interesting and not mysterious, but you didn’t say that you are not beautiful.
 
Charles
 
November 16, London
 
Dear Charles,
Today I took a walk in Regent’s Park. I’d love to see it in the summer when the roses are in bloom. I’m in London for talks with my British publisher. They’ve put me up at a wonderful hotel on the Strand. Downstairs in the pub, they serve forty different kinds of malt whiskey. Last night I tried three and was nearly paralyzed. Today is my birthday.
Cheers,
 
Siân
 
November 28
 
Dear Charles,
I want this to stop. I’m sorry.
It has been a very long time since anyone wanted to, or wanted only to, hold my hand.
I do not know you, but I sometimes think I have felt who you are in your letters.
 
Siân
    Â 
    November 30
    Â 
Dear Siân,
Regarding your last letter, there is a wonderful story about Jack and Bobby Kennedy during the Cuban missile crisis. You probably already know it, but I’m going to tell it to you anyway. Reducing it to its essentials, the story goes like this. At a crucial moment in the negotiations, Jack Kennedy gets a telegram from Khrushchev that’s fairly conciliatory and suggests that Khrushchev is going to back off. Just as Jack and Bobby are about to celebrate, however, Khrushchev fires off another telegram. This one is hostile and essentially tells Kennedy that he’s changed his mind about backing off. What to do? Bobby has a brilliant idea. Ignore the second telegram, pretend they never got it, and immediately go on national TV, thanking Khrushchev for his humane gesture—thus ending the crisis.
Your comment about holding your hand will haunt me forever.
The enclosed device has many possibilities, but I hope you’ll use it to listen to the tape I am sending with it. Sorry for the sound quality, but some of these songs are as old as I am. A number of them had to come off a jukebox.
I know you could order a similar tape with an 800 number and your credit card, but it wouldn’t be the same. I tried for the time that might bring us back together, if only for a moment. My favorite song is “Where or When.” The B side of that record, “That’s My Desire,” is a close second. This may mean nothing to you. There is a gap on one side where I screwed up. Just be patient. If you can’t be that, just put it in the trash compactor.
We have a reservation for lunch at The Ridge for next Thursday at twelve noon. I’m including with this letter directions from your house.
I thought it unfair to meet for lunch and not allow you to know what I look like when I know what you look like, so I am sending along this