Joseph sensed her anxiety. “You mustn’t be frightened, dear. I’m a harmless old man. A cripple, really. I’m just nosy about what people read on the bus. My wife, who passed away last year, used to say that my staring was beyond rude. She said it was a sickness, can you believe it?” He giggled. “And you always catch my attention because of your beautiful clothes.”
Casey glanced at her dress and high-heeled Mary Janes. “I look silly, I know. I think this is how I put up with working all the time. To amuse myself and—”
“No, no, dear. Not at all,” he cut her off, seeing that she looked embarrassed, then regretted having done so, because he was, in fact, exceedingly curious about what she did for a living. Was she an actress? “You look lovely. My wife wore the most beautiful hats in the world. It was her great indulgence, and I’m very pleased when I see women wearing them.”
“I. . . I didn’t see you at the bus stop, I can’t remember. . You’re right, I am always reading as I wait. I have so little time to read—”
“No one notices old men,” he said, smiling. This was something he’d started to understand in his early sixties: You’d be invited to fewer things, that young people didn’t want to be around you, and middle-aged people didn’t think you had much to offer. What humbled Joseph was that he had been no different when he was a young man.
Casey felt bad. Her oldest friend was Sabine, and she was only in her early forties.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d intentionally snub anyone. “I had plenty of lookers once. Now it’s your turn.” He laughed as though he’d amused himself with a litany of charming memories. Joseph crossed his arms and puffed out his chest in pride.
They both laughed.
“You can have Jane for two thousand five hundred, because you finally walked into my shop. I never thought you would. Daisy has come to my party,” he said.
Casey smiled. She glanced at the yellowing index card and flipped to the back cover. The ink stain was negligible, faded to the color of wine.
“You see, I’m retiring this year, and I’m letting my inventory go slowly,” he said. “I’m closing after Christmas. Seven more months.”
Casey put Jane Eyre in her lap. She opened her purse and fished out her copy of Middlemarch. Feeling brave all of a sudden, she said, “Isn’t Dorothea Brooke such a fool?”—denouncing Eliot’s main character, whom Casey loved and disliked at the same time.
“Yes. Principled individuals often are,” he said. “But Eliot lets her have it. Dorothea marries old Casaubon. Now he’s the fool! I feel quite sorry for Dorothea. She’s just a young girl who believes too much,” he said. Dorothea’s husband, Casaubon, was a pedagogue who’d spent his life researching a big book that no one would ever read.
“Yes, but Casaubon has his tragedy, too,” she replied. “He had money and work, but not true love. You can’t live without that,” she blurted out.
“No, you can’t.” Joseph nodded in sympathy.
The book dealer looked hurt, and the sadness in his eyes made him look even older. What she’d said had upset him. Casey wished that she could afford to buy something.
“But Jane Eyre. . . she’s a much better heroine, isn’t she?” Casey said, picking up the rare book with her free hand.
A smile replaced his lonely expression. “Jane? Oh, she’s the brightest girl there is,” he said.
Casey nodded, remembering how much she’d loved the homely orphan who grew up to be a governess and fell in love with her tragically married employer, Rochester—how right Jane was to leave Mr. Rochester and how good she was to return to care for him when he was widowed and blinded. Its moral reminded her of Korean fairy tales her mother used to tell her and her sister when they were young—sacrifice and integrity were the only paths for good women.
Casey looked at the old book and stroked its cover. She handed it back to Joseph, but he didn’t take it from her.
“Two thousand dollars,” he said, wishing he could just give it to her, but he hadn’t made a sale in a week. He didn’t want to touch his retirement savings again to make rent. Summer was coming up, and sales were predictably slow then. It was his goal to have a good Christmas season to recoup his prior losses.
“That’s a very good deal,” he said.
“It’s an awful lot of money,” she said. If she’d had the cash in her pocket, she would’ve just given it to him. Money had always been a kind of burden to her. If she had it, she spent it, and when she didn’t have it, she worried about how she should live. She wished she had enough so she wouldn’t feel so anxious all the time. Would there ever be enough?