I am an Evanston resident and an author of three books: a novella, The Curious Odyssey of Rudolph Bloom; a memoir, Chicago Sketches, and fictional vignettes, 1001 Trains in Chicago. I am now in the process of writing a novel. I teach literature courses at Oakton College and at the Newberry Library.

Bob Greenberg could not find a parking space on Clifton Avenue. It had snowed all morning and most of the afternoon. The temperature was five degrees above zero according to the electronic sign that they had just passed at the Lakeview Bank. The heater in his old Chevy wasn’t working. His girlfriend, Eleanor Peterson, sat next to him in the front seat. She was bundled up in a big parka that reminded him of a Jack London story that he read as a kid. The one where the hero ate his beloved dog to survive a freezing snowstorm.

Lawn chairs, planks of plywood of various sizes, and other sundry items were placed in shoveled areas by the curbs. In Chicago, this was the unwritten rule of dibs, where the shoveler had claimed the right to park in that space by placing his marker there. 

Bob learned the hard way that violating dibs on Clifton Avenue could result in severe consequences. On another wintry night last year, he came home tired and a little bit queasy from too much to drink. He removed a moth-eaten loveseat from the shoveled parking space in front of his apartment building. The following morning his car didn’t start because sand was put in the gas tank.

Tonight he especially pissed because he had to park three blocks away. The dirty slush was soaking his socks since he forgot to wear galoshes. His fingers were numbing up because he didn’t own any gloves. He decided to visit Tenenbaum’s Hardware tomorrow, and buy a shovel and become a player in the dibs game as well. He would finally have a use for his broken rocking chair taking up space in the living room.

He and Eleanor trudged through the slushy streets to his apartment. All their misery was soon forgotten, when he opened the wet envelope in his mailbox that was messily stuck to the winter issue of the James Joyce Quarterly.

It was an official looking letter. He didn’t get many of these. It read:

Dear Mr. Greenberg:

You have been named a beneficiary in the estate of Mr. Ralph Irwin. The reading of his will be

held at our office on January 11, 1963, at 2:00 PM. If you are unable to attend please call me at

the following number.

The number was a downtown exchange. The letter was signed by Raymond Dahlgren, Attorney-at-Law, with a South Michigan Avenue address.

Bob Greenberg excitedly read the letter to Eleanor. This was the first that they had learned of the death of Ralph Irwin. Ralph had left Chicago a little over two years ago to take care of his infirmed mother in Cincinnati. They had not heard anything from Ralph since.

Ralph was a colleague of theirs at Senn High School, a gargantuan building situated in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood on the North Side. Ralph and Bob were both English teachers. Each was a James Joyce enthusiast. There was a significant gap in years between them. Bob was born in 1937. Ralph was born in 1905. Yet they seemed to be tied by a tight Joycean knot.

Eleanor was the school librarian. She had flowing blond hair, and was five inches taller than

Bob. She looked like a Viking princess.

Ralph’s book collection was impressive. He had somewhere between five and six thousand

books neatly stacked on shelves in his spacious apartment on the third floor of a gracious

Victorian house on Chestnut, about two blocks from the Newberry Library. The collection

included five first editions of Ulysses and six first editions of Finnegan’s Wake.

Bob and Eleanor were frequent guests at Ralph’s place on Chestnut for dinner. Ralph was a

gourmet cook and he enjoyed displaying his culinary skills for his two friends.

Then, around Thanksgiving, 1960, Ralph told them that he had to return to his hometown of

Cincinnati to attend to his elderly mother whose health was failing fast. He resigned from the

Board of Education, and found someone to sublet his apartment. Soon, Ralph just became a

fond memory.

“I’m absolutely shocked,” Bob said to Eleanor, sitting on an old rocking chair in his living room, sipping a cup of hot tea that she had brought to him.

“I remember all those great meals he made for us on Chestnut Street,” she recalled fondly. “His Beef Wellington was the best,” he exclaimed. “That man was a gourmet chef.”

“Ralph was always generous to us, but this takes the cake,” said Eleanor.

She went on to reminisce about their Bloomsday together four years ago in Dublin, where Ralph picked up the entire tab.

“He knew every nook and cranny that Joyce mentioned in Ulysses. The man could have been a professional tour guy. Then that evening at Wynn’s Hotel was a hoot. Especially meeting Patrick Kavanagh there.”

“ I still remember Kavanagh reading that passage on Gertie MacDowell and the fireworks, capturing all that scrumptious eroticism,” recalled Bob excitedly. “That was the second-best day of my life.

“And the first-best?” asked Eleanor.

“Meeting you babe,” Bob answered without hesitation.

Attorney-at-Law Raymond Dahlgren got right down to business at 2:00 PM on January 11, 1963.

“Mr. Greenberg, I don’t mince words. It looks like you have been bequeathed a considerable

fortune in rare books, as well as several thousand books of undetermined worth. Th Joyce first

editions have been appraised, and valued, in toto, at $85,650. The remainder of the collection

has not been appraised.”

Bob sat in a cushy leather chair staring at Dahlgren as the attorney spoke those words. He was

in a state of shock. His eyes shifted to the framed photo on Dahlgren’s desk. The attorney was

on a boat, one of six men holding on to a large fish. Dahlgren was the only white man.

“That’s a 375-pound grouper we caught off the coast of Nassau. What a beauty, isn’t it?” Dahlgren said pridefully. “Now you might have the means to buy yourself a nice little boat of your own.”

Dahlgren handed Bob a neatly sealed box.

“These are the Joyce first editions with the appraisal information. I suggest that you insure these immediately.”

The attorney gave Bob a card with the address and telephone number of a warehouse in Covington, Kentucky.

“Best of luck, Mr. Greenberg. It would be appreciated if you could remove the books from the

warehouse within two weeks. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

Bob left the law office wondering what to do next. He had about three hundred dollars in his checking account and a little over nine hundred in savings. How much would it cost to transport the books from Covington to his tiny one-bedroom apartment on Clifton? He would have to stack the books wall-to-wall in each of his three rooms, including the kitchen and maybe even the bathroom.

Bob and Eleanor sat in his apartment and pondered their next move. 

“We don’t’ have any plans for the weekend. Let’s rent a U-Haul and get the books,” Eleanor said. 

“Babe, I don’t have the dough to make that kind of trip,” he responded.

“Don’t worry, Bobbie boy, all expenses are on me. Let’s get that U-Haul and leave tomorrow.”

They pulled into the warehouse in Covington early Saturday afternoon on the next day. For an additional fee, the warehouse workers loaded the boxes of books for them.

While they waited for the books to be loaded on the U-Haul, Bob found a phone booth and made a call to Jimmy Snyder, a childhood friend of his who coached basketball at a swanky private high school on the North Shore.

“ Jimmy, do me a favor. Bring your starting lineup down to my place tomorrow morning about ten. I’ll pay them twenty bucks each to bring my book boxes into my apartment. I’ll buy them pizza when we’re done.”

“And what do I get for my good deed, old buddy? asked Jimmy.

“ Everlasting gratitude, and a big IOU,“ Bob replied.

It took seven hours to drive back to Chicago. Eleanor articulated her plans as Bob drove the U-Haul the whole way back to Chicago.

“You’ll have a tidy bit of cash when you sell the Joyce first editions. I suppose that you can start a used bookshop somewhere. But those are a dime a dozen. I think you should specialize in rare books. That’s where the satisfaction is, and, if you’re lucky, money can be made.”

She was only just getting started.

“Begin by selling two of the first editions. As a buyer, you’ll learn the business by negotiating with rare book sellers. You’ll see how they do it, and learn some of the tricks of the trade. But don’t leave your day job until you master the craft.”

Her mind was racing a mile a minute. He couldn’t help but marvel at Eleanor’s beauty and intelligence. He placed his non-driving right hand on her knee, but it was clear that she didn’t want to be distracted from the grand scheme that she was laying out.

“Find an empty store in Evanston with the proceeds of the first editions that you sell. Make sure that it’s close to Northwestern. Professors are a prime market for rare books. And you’ll also get that rich and literate crowd coming down from Winnetka, Glencoe, and Highland Park to look around as well. They wouldn’t think twice dishing out thousands for a Joyce first edition.”

Eleanor continued unflaggingly.

“Limit your hours during the week to appointment only in the late afternoon or early evening. Open the shop Saturday and Sunday from ten in the morning to two in the afternoon. I’ll help you out on weekends. Give it a year to see what happens.”

Bob followed Eleanor’s suggestions to a tee. Only he couldn’t find a suitable place in Evanston. However he did find a nice place on Linden Avenue in Wilmette, in the shadow of the Bahai Temple and a stone’s throw from the Evanston border.

There were very few books of value in the balance of the collection, which was painstakingly cataloged by Eleanor. Bob and Eleanor were inseparable in their time away from Senn in the months leading up to the bookshop’s opening. They got the place ready, and started going together to estate sales in search of literary treasure. Bob also followed through on Eleanor’s suggestion of placing an ad in the Chicago Daily News “Panorama” section seeking sellers of what might be considered literary memorabilia.

Then on a rainy Sunday afternoon in June, one week before the bookshop’s opening, Bob got on his tippy toes and planted a kiss on Eleanor’s forehead as she was standing stacking a goodly number of Trollope novels on a shelf.

“Babe, I have something that I want to stay to you. It’s important.”

“OK, but you see how busy I am. What’s up?”

“ I just wanted to tell you how sexy you are when you are stacking books.”

“Very funny,” Eleanor chortled. “Let me get back to work. The opening is almost here.”

“But babe, I really do have something to ask you. It can’t wait,” Bob implored.

At that moment, Bob get down on his knees on the dusty floor. He took a ring from his jeans

pocket. It was his mother’s wedding ring. In true Trollopian style, he proposed to Eleanor.

“Will you, Miss Peterson, accept my hand in marriage? I shall be greatly honored if you do.”

“I shall, dear sir,” she replied earnestly, as she bent down to give Bob a sustained and heartfelt kiss.

They went downtown to the County building the next day and became husband and wife.

The opening was attended mostly by colleagues and friends. The shop doors opened at 5:00 P.M. There were about fifty people attending, five of whom Bob and Eleanor did not know. One was a well-built, middle-aged woman who seemed fidgety the moment she walked in. There was an aura of mystery about her. Her wavy black hair went down to her shoulders, where her dark curls rested on the edges of what looked to be a red matador’s cape. She wore a tight black dress worn in callipygous glory. Her stylish shoes had three-inch heels, which could be used as a weapon if needed.

By 7:30 P.M., the only guest remaining in the shop was the mysterious woman . She approached Bob and Eleanor with the utmost aplomb.

“Please let me introduce myself. My name is Catharine Woods. I am in possession of some valuable literary memorabilia. I would like to bring these to you for you to see, if you don’t mind. May I make an appointment?”

Bob and Eleanor were on summer break from Senn. They made an appointment to meet her the next morning at ten at the bookshop.

Catharine Woods was exactly on time. She was wearing a russet French peasant dress with gold chrysanthemums on it. A tan beret adorned her head, which highlighted her brown eyes that had the same shade as chocolate pudding. Her eyebrows were bushier that one might expect on a woman. She had on open sandals which revealed crimson toenails. She was tightly gripping a scratched leather satchel with her deeply veined right hand

She opened the satchel and took out two letters in plastic covering. “These were my mother’s. I found it in her personal papers after her death two years ago.” 

Eleanor and Bob sat next to each other in folding chairs at a card table and read the letters. Catharine Woods sat across from them at the table watching them as they read. The stationery paper was of high quality, though badly wrinkled.

The first letter was dated October 8, 1920.

Dear Clare:

You seem to have gotten yourself in quite a pickle. It seems unwise to go through with the pregnancy. Although we had some pleasant romantic interludes, who is to say with certainty that the baby is mine? I do recall that you told me that you were still dating that actor friend of yours at about the time of our first tryst.

Anderson knows of a doctor on Wacker Drive who can do the procedure for you. It’s a nice clean office, and it will be done with discretion. Don’t worry about the money. I will take care of everything.

I am fond of you Clare, I really am. But both you and I are much too immature to be parents. We’re kids ourselves. We both have big plans in life. Remember how we talked about you being the American Bernhardt, and I being the American Flaubert? A baby would only get in the way of our ambitions.

I beseech you to make the wisest decision, and please contact this doctor, whose card I enclose.

Hem

The second letter was dated February 2, 1922.

Clare:

Alas, you have tracked me down in Paris! You have proven to be quite the sleuth. I am glad that your daughter is healthy and doing well. I now find myself happily married and completely absorbed in my writing. I had told you before about my doubts that the child is mine.

I bear no responsibility for your decision to bear the child. You chose not to listen to my advice. I entreat you not to write me again.

Hem

Catharine Woods sat stoically as Bob and Eleanor read the letters. She noticed that they made eye contact with each other several times. It was Bob who spoke first.

“Miss Woods, we would like an expert to examine these letters on their authenticity. We can make those arrangements as soon as possible. The authenticator can come here, and you can be present. Is this something that you wish us to do?”

It took her a good minute or so to answer.

“I do indeed, assuming there is no cost on my end in doing so. I have no doubt as to their authenticity.”

“Please give me your phone number, and I’ll call you when we are ready to do the

authentication,” Bob replied.

Bob and Eleanor discussed Catharine Woods and her letters that same day over lunch. Eleanor had just poured herself a second bowl of gazpacho.

“Bob, I don’t know if I’m up to dealing with Miss Woods right now.”

“Babe, don’t you realize what those letters might be worth if they’re authentic?”

“Lots, I know. But do we really we need the money? For the first time in my life, everything has come together just the way I dreamed it would. We’ve got good jobs, a promising new business, but most of all, we have each other. I just don’t want any new drama in my life right

now.”

Bob Greenberg chewed the last bite of his onion bagel. He really didn’t mind the drama. He had that gut feeling that the letters were genuine, and their owner was indeed Hemingway’s daughter. Yet, keeping Eleanor happy was the most important thing for him. He decided to play it safe and go along with her wishes.

“Babe, I feel the same way about it. I’ll call Miss Woods right now, and I’ll tell her that we’re taking a pass on the letters. Maybe tonight we can catch Cleopatra at the Granada? You know, Liz Taylor is hot, but not as hot as you.”

Three and a half years passed. It was now the winter of 1967.

Bob and Eleanor had bought an old Queen Anne house in West Rogers Park after they sold one of the first editions of Finnegan’s Wake. The stairs to the bedroom creaked, but they viewed that as part of the wonder of the house.

They gave up on the bookshop one year after it had opened. They came to the conclusion that they weren’t businesspeople. Bob was now teaching at nearby Mather High School. Eleanor quit her librarian position and was now doing freelance editing, which allowed her to care forbaby Rudy, who had just celebrated his first birthday.

One freezing and snowy February day, Bob came into the kitchen through the backdoor. Eleanor was slipping a dollop of mashed apricot into the mouth of their son.

“ Hey babe, you know what I love most about living here?”

“I don’t know Bob. Maybe having three bathrooms?”

“Nope, babe. It’s having a garage to park the car in. I hated playing dibs in the winter.”

Later, that evening, after Rudy was put to bed, and they were chilling reading the papers in the den, and snacking on Hostess cupcakes and milk, when Bob came across an item in the Daily News.

“Christ, unbelievable,” he shouted.

“Bob what is it?” asked a startled Eleanor.

“Listen to this babe.”

BODY FOUND IN DIVERSEY HARBOR

A Chicago Fire Department rescue boat dragged the body of a woman from Diversey Harbor early this morning. A woman had been spotted earlier, by a dogwalker, jumping into the icy waters of the harbor. The deceased was identified as Miss Catharine Woods, age 46, of 1118 W. Oakdale, in Chicago. An autopsy by the Cook County Coroner is pending.

“Bob, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You mean about the history of suicides in the Hemingway family?”

“Yep, and she did have his bushy eyebrows” Eleanor reminded him.

Maybe she really was Hemingway’s daughter,” said Bob thinking of what might have been.

“I guess we’ll never know for sure,” Eleanor said matter-of-factly. “It’s time for bed. I’ll see you

upstairs.”

Bob turned off the den lights, and walked up the creaky stairs.