Neither a Borrower nor Lender Be


Subject: Neither a Borrower nor Lender Be
From: Cecilia Baader (ceciliaann@hotmail.com)
Date: Mon Mar 20 2000 - 13:40:54 EST


With the recent dialogue on the lending of books, I thought I might share my
story. I'm thinking that it could be made into a movie. It's got
everything, drama, heartbreak, and a happy ending. What do you think?

Several years ago, my kid brother came to me and said that he needed to do a
book report on any book of his choice and did I have a recommendation? (And
please, Sis, make it a short one, preferably with a story that won't put me
to sleep...) Why, yes, I said, I do. Let me pull it out for you,
brother-o-mine. The book, the only book, the one that you will read and it
shall make you into a reader.

_The Catcher in the Rye_.

So he took the book and came to me a couple of weeks later, pencil in hand,
asking me to tell him what this whole book was about. No, he hadn't read
it, and he wasn't going to. He had better things to do than read. Just
tell him, if you want to be a good sister.

So I did. And round about my sixth sentence, just about the time where
Holden was drinking in the piano bar, he informed me that that was enough
and would I please skip to the end. What happened to Holden? I was about to
launch into a long explanation of California and DB and the big question
over who Holden is talking to and he stopped me, saying, okay, so he's nuts
and he' in California. Got it. He left the room smiling, paper in hand.

Stupid kid got an A.

And he never gave me my book back. For years I bugged him, telling him that
despite his insistence that he'd given it back to me, it was simply not
true. I didn't have it. And he was the guilty party. The book was last
seen in your posession, Brian Boru. I want it back, I said, and I'll brook
no arguments.

But still no book. He didn't have it, and I needed to leave him alone. He'd
given it back to me, he swore, and arguing with him wasn't going to bring
the book back. I'd obviously lost it. God knows how many years I had only
my memory to remind me of things like the ducks and Phoebe's broken record
and saying nice things to mothers on trains.

So finally, I broke down and did it. I bought a new copy. White, with the
rainbow stripes.

Don't worry, I told myself, even if it's not _your_ book, it's still the
same on the inside. Look, there's the taxi driver. And the piano player.
And the hooker. They're all there, they haven't gone anywhere, despite the
color of the book and the lack of the old book smell.

Then, not two months after I bought it, my mom was cleaning out my brother's
old room. He'd moved out finally, and they were going to have a guestroom
sans skateboard stuff. So she was going through boxes and found it. The
maroon cover. She called me immediately and I came over that night.

It had taken nearly ten years, but I had it back.

A few months ago, my best friend came to visit me from the far-away place to
which she'd moved, and we had one of those marathon middle-of-the-night
talks for which we are famous. In the course of the evening's conversation,
she mentioned to me that, in the course of her marriage and move, she'd lost
her copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_.

(She was positive that her brother TJ had filched it. In my wisdom, I was
able to offer the opinion that brothers are very often the culprits. She
agreed, as there was also a Springsteen album MIA. She was positive that
he'd never confess, and her circumstance as a Catcher-less person pained
her.)

Feeling terribly generous, I felt compelled to offer her one of my two
copies.

I gave her the choice: the white cover or the maroon? (To tell the truth,
I'd simply never dreamed that she would choose anything other than the
white. She knew the story of the maroon cover, and I felt sure that she
would make the right decision.) She, of course, chose the maroon. She too
knew the power of the maroon cover. The maroon cover of my teenaged years,
the maroon cover of my name inscribed with childish writing on the
frontispiece, the maroon cover of my dreams. I was crushed. But,
determined to be generous, I gave it to her, smile bravely in place.

This loss, unlike my previous one, was unlikely to be reversed. The maroon
cover, gone. Gone gone gone. I would walk past my bookshelf and where I had
previously seen two glorious copies, there was now one. With a white cover.
  The white cover associated with nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. I
could hardly bear to look at it.

It wasn't the right one.

But again Mom comes to the rescue. Mom of the tag sales and resale stores.
Mom who knows of my devotion to Salinger but does not understand it. Mom
who happened across a maroon cover Catcher and offered it to me, saying that
she was sure that I already had one, but that this was the one that she
remembered. From my youth. The maroon cover.

I opened it and stuck my nose inside. It had the right smell. I paged
through and spied the Museum with its dioramas and Sally's ice skates and
Jane's kings all in the back row and Sure, it wasn't my _original_ copy,
but it was close. Darn close. I took a look at the publication date.
1981. Just about right. Maybe a little older than the original, I thought.
  Even better. I found myself incapable of containing my joy. The maroon
cover. Home at last, home at last. Thank God Almighty, it's home at last.

My sister has never read _The Catcher in the Rye_ and has asked me if I
would loan her my copy.

Guess which one she's getting.

Regards,
Cecilia.
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