Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover (24 page)

Over time we found that there were letters from each of the authors to go along with the signed books. Isabella had apparently been a teacher and an avid reader who had been a contemporary of the different authors. She had apparently written to them (plus who knew how many others who never responded) to inquire about using their books in her classes. We didn’t have her original letters, but from the responses we gathered that she had written to the authors with some specific, detailed questions about their work. In some cases an ongoing correspondence had developed, and in one case even a true friendship. Some of the names meant nothing to us, but my mom recognized most of them. She excitedly asked Bill if she could tell a friend of hers who was an antiques dealer about what he had and get her opinion. He readily agreed, so my mom made the call.

We were all quite surprised, to say the least, when not ten minutes later the person my mom had called appeared at the door to our house and excitedly asked to see what we had found. After spending about twenty minutes looking at the books, she said, “These are first editions. First editions that have been signed by the authors. These are signed first editions in incredibly good shape.”

“Are these worth what I think they are?” my mom asked her.

“More. Way, way more.”

“I’m already thinking pretty high.”

“Go higher. Way higher.”

“Way?”

“Way higher.”

“What are you saying?” Bill asked.

My mom answered. “Simply that your college education may just have been paid for in full.”

“
What?
” Bill and I shouted nearly simultaneously.

My mom asked her friend a simple question. “Could you find a buyer for these?”

“No. No way would I even try that,” she answered. “Something this valuable and one-of-a-kind would have to go to an auction house. These are way too precious to risk the mistake of going to an individual buyer who might low-ball us. Do you want me to make some calls?” she asked. My mom looked at Bill who simply nodded in stunned disbelief.

In his spare time (!), Bill went to the local library and did some research. He wanted to learn something about his mysterious benefactor. From the books that she had saved we knew when she was alive and most active. Using the local newspaper, which unfortunately wasn’t online but was only available on microfiche, Bill went through paper after paper after paper. After two hours he had found only one brief mention of the woman. But then, as he started his third hour of tedious searching, he hit the mother lode. Not only was there an article, but it was a front page article with a big headline: “Local Teacher Welcomes Twain.” We quickly skimmed the article.

Apparently Miss Isabella Brown had persuaded her “friend,” Mr. Mark Twain, to come to the school and speak with her students, giving a reading from one of his books. Twain was a big deal, so apparently the entire community wanted in on the action. He consented to give a talk one evening in the largest gathering place in the community, and according to the article the place was packed—filled to overflowing. Our Isabella was hailed for her relationship with the famous author and for getting him to speak to them. For her part, she downplayed herself and put the importance of ideas front and center, extolling the virtues of reading, learning how to write well, and being able to tell stories.

The article gave us more facts than we had expected to find, as well as a number of leads we could follow later when we had more time. We searched a bit more and finally found an obituary for her. The note of her passing was brief and didn’t provide much additional information, but we made a copy of it anyway, to add it to the record. He didn’t tell me then, but Bill was thinking that someday, some future day when college was finished and he was a completely independent adult, that future day, he wanted to write a book—the story of Isabella. He wanted to tell her story, the story of her life, and the story of her legacy and how her descendants had kept her bequest safe until he came along. As near as we could tell, Bill was her youngest living descendant. He felt that it was his responsibility to keep Isabella alive by telling her story and maybe encouraging others to think ahead, to plan for their descendants’ education, and to encourage learning, reading, and thinking.

The small suitcase we had found in the basement at Bill’s old house turned out to give us the greatest gift of all. Isabella had not only appreciated literature and writers, but she was one herself. The suitcase contained more than a dozen journals, each filled from top to bottom, edge to edge, with handwritten words. She had maintained a journal of her activities, her thoughts, her feelings, and what was going on around her. Bill now had the perfect tool for getting some insight into the woman who provided such a huge gift to him, even though she was born well over a hundred years before the present day. She didn’t know who would benefit from her foresight, but she provided the greatest gift of all nonetheless.

Her journals provided a treasure trove of details, including her correspondence with some of her favorite authors. She was very precise in everything, even going so far as to copy the text of the letters she sent to people into her journals. It was through our reading that we found some of her correspondence with Mark Twain, as well as her thoughts and reflections on meeting him, introducing him, and remaining in touch with him.

Isabella tried her hand at writing but was never satisfied with what she produced. Three of the notebooks were not journals but were books that she attempted to write, stories she attempted to tell. I couldn’t wait to read what she had written. Her writings of all sorts gave us some insight into who Isabella was and how she came to be that wonderful person. Her writing was so vivid that it was almost like sitting and talking with a living person.

We found another very important letter in the trunk. There was a letter written by Isabella that we found with the others. That letter instructed “my unknown future descendant and heir” to sell the books and pursue a lifetime of learning. She knew that after decades and decades, the chances were good that the authors would become better known and that signed first editions of their books would most likely increase in value. Her letter instructed the reader to make the best deal possible to get enough money to obtain the highest and finest education possible.

There was one additional thing in the trunk that had been added many years after Isabella placed her books and letters inside for safekeeping: there was also a letter to Bill from his mother. When he first read her letter, he wouldn’t talk about it and wouldn’t show me, but a day later he shared her words with me. The letter was really very simple. She told him that she loved him and was sorry for everything that had happened. She wrote of how much she wished things had been better and closed by telling him that the contents of the trunk and the suitcase were all for him, to help pay for his college education. She knew an education was the best preparation one could have for going into the world and not just surviving, but thriving. The letter sent Bill into a funk that lasted for several days. Eventually he started to get a bit better, which was good, because I had been really worried.

T
RUE
to her word, the local antiques dealer was able to get the books on auction a few weeks later. Bill and I took the bus to New York City on the day they were scheduled to go on the auction block. That day was another first for us, since neither of us had ever been to New York City in our lives.

The auction house had asked Bill to say a few words about the books, so at the start of the auction Bill went to the podium. I swore the man looked as calm as anyone you’ve ever seen. He spoke beautifully and never seemed to hesitate or search for words. There was emotion in his voice and in his expression, but it only served to hold everyone’s attention as he spoke so passionately about the subject.

“From reading her journals, I’ve learned that my great aunt was a teacher in rural New York State. She had a love for learning. She loved teaching, she valued ideas, thinking, pushing the limits. She had a particular love of literature and spent a large part of her life in active communication with many of the big names in American literature at that time: Edith Wharton, Mark Twain, Jack London, to name just a few. She collected a large number of first editions of books published by some of those authors, all signed by the authors.

“Demonstrating the relationship she had with these writers, a couple of the books were inscribed ‘To My Dearest Isabella’. One book, a book that I have decided to keep just because it is too precious to me, was inscribed ‘To My Dearest Isabella, Thank you for believing in me when no one else did, Sam’. The ‘Sam’ in question is Samuel Clemens, also known as Mark Twain. Isabella had a particularly good relationship with Mr. Clemens, based on a large number of letters he wrote to her.

“A few of those letters are up for auction here today, in addition to these amazing books. I am finding it very difficult to part with something that is so very personal and precious, something that has been preserved in my family for nearly one hundred years. But there is one letter written by Isabella that I found with the others. That letter instructs me to sell these books and pursue a lifetime of learning. She knew that, after decades and decades, the chances were good that the authors would become better known and that signed first editions of their books would most likely increase in value. She addressed her letter ‘To My Unknown Future Descendant and Heir’ and instructed me to make the best deal I could to get enough money to educate myself to the highest level possible.

“I am about to embark on my college career. I have been terrified, because college is very expensive, and I quite honestly have no money whatsoever. I am on my own. I will work hard, and I publicly proclaim to all that are listening: Thank you, Isabella. I will do you and your legacy proud. Thank you.”

Bill came back to his seat next to me and hugged me as the audience applauded. He grabbed my hand and sat down beside me, refusing to hide our relationship from the world. He hung on so tightly. At first I tried to pull away, but I quickly realized that that wasn’t going to happen today. So I simply sat back and held his hand too.

We were absolutely stunned when the bidding opened high on one of the volumes—and kept going higher! And higher! There were apparently also some people bidding remotely. One of those buyers seemed to be desperate to get his (or her) hands on one of the books. Soon they had outbid everyone gathered in the room and had acquired the book for a seemingly astronomical sum. We both sat in the back of the room, speechless over the result of just the first auction.

By the end of the day, with all of the books and the letters auctioned off, Bill came away with well over a hundred thousand dollars after paying the commission to the auction house and the consulting fee for the antiques dealer. Bill suggested that we go somewhere and celebrate, but neither of us knew where we could go. Neither of us drank, so that limited things even more. In the end we decided to take ourselves back home, so we simply went back to the bus terminal and got on the next bus headed our way.

The book that Bill decided to keep was a Mark Twain volume. Bill tucked the corresponding letter from Twain about the book inside the front cover of the volume. The book and the other letters we packed away in our bedroom in individual zip lock bags to minimize their exposure to air and keep the ancient paper from disintegrating.

It took a bit of looking, but that next weekend we even found Isabella’s grave. The headstone was weathered and covered with vines. The burial ground was maintained, in some rudimentary form, but was certainly not in pristine condition. It was, after all, an old country cemetery. We did the best we could to clean off her headstone, trim the grass and weeds that had overgrown the area. Bill also placed some flowers on her grave. It was sad to think that we could be the first people in decades that bothered to do the simple act of leaving flowers as a memorial to someone who had moved on. We both were silent, simply holding hands in quiet contemplation of this amazing woman that we would never meet and never know face to face, but who was becoming very important to our lives, this woman who loved stories.

We humans are storytellers. We have been since the days thousands of years ago when early man painted stories on cave walls in what is now France. We have been storytellers from the days of early hunter-gatherers clustered around the fire at night to tell stories after the evening meal. We have been storytellers since the days of the traveling minstrels who went from town to town sharing stories and songs. The lyrics of those songs told tales of far away and magical places, ideas that entertained people wherever they were shared. And today, just as much as any time in human history, people are still storytellers. The success of Twitter and Facebook demonstrate our ongoing desires to tell tales and to entertain.
Grand Theft Auto
told a story just as much as
Beowulf
had in its time. We had lots of stories to tell. Bill had one of the best, and I was part of that story.