So Much More
“I’ve started reading a new book,” the old man said as he sat down in the ripped vinyl chair. It made an odd noise as the foam compressed and the edges of the vinyl rubbed together. His wife briefly glanced up from her magazine, pausing for just a moment to gaze into his eyes.
“Oh really?”
“Yes, it’s about a man of great accomplishment. He has done so many wonderful things.”
“Sounds like quite the man,” she replied, eyes still locked on the magazine.
They sat this way most mornings, at the small table with the ripped chairs. It was always coffee and toast, but the spread differed. Today it was raspberry jam. Some days it was grape jelly or even orange marmalade. Variety being the spice of life and whatnot.
It was barely nine, but Albert’s eyelids drooped, and his movements were slow. He had been up early (as he was most every morning) and started the day by reading. Many days, that’s all Albert did: read his book, ate his toast, and talked with his wife. He didn’t like the people on the television (they were always so angry), and the papers were just puffery. The news was never good, anyway.
“Indeed,” he continued. “Do you know that he wrote thirty books? Thirty books! All published in sixty languages. He even wrote the book I’m reading, the one about him. What an accomplishment.”
“Yes, dear, but you have done so much more.”
“Nonsense. I can’t write a book. My hands are so shaky that I can’t even sign my name. I will never amount to that.”
He held up his hands to show his wife, though she was well aware of his tremors. Albert dropped his hands and fiddled with his toast. He dipped the knife in the jam and spread several uneven strokes across the bread. Even this was too much for his old hands and the pain quickly crept into his fingers.
He continued.
“This man, he went into space. One of the first space tourists. They gave him a free flight. And do you know why?” Albert knew why. “The guy who made the rocket loved his books so much that he gave him the trip. A free trip to space. How about that?”
The reply was the same: “Yes, dear, but you have done so much more.”
“Bah,” he said, waiving a hand at her. “They took away my license. I can’t even drive to the grocery store.”
He was right on that account. After the accident, the judge said he shouldn’t drive. Told Albert that he was a danger to society. Can you believe that? Little old Albert, a dangerous man. The man had never harmed a fly, at least, not one he could remember. In the eyes of the law, however, he was just one slip away from killing someone. But aren’t we all?
Albert took a bite of toast. He didn’t like the raspberry. He wanted strawberry. The raspberry left a tingle on his tongue that he didn’t like. Elenore didn’t seem to notice his nose curl up at the taste of the jam. That, or she just didn’t care. She took a bite of her own toast, licking her lips of the jam with a smile.
He started again: “You know they made one of his books into a movie? That must be amazing. To see your book turn into a blockbuster. Wow.”
“Yes, dear, but you have done so much more.”
The line had lost all meaning to Albert. It wasn’t reassuring or comforting. It just made him even more upset at his shortcomings. He shook his head.
“I can’t even watch a movie nowadays. It hurts my eyes too much. The movies, they are much too fast. You can’t tell what’s going on. And they are so loud. You can’t hear people talk over the music and the explosions.”
His point was true, the movies were way too fast nowadays, but it must not have sat well with Elenore. She looked away and dropped her head. She’s disappointed, Albert thought. Disappointed that I could not do those things.
“He was a millionaire, but you probably guessed that by now. I mean, how can you not be, with a movie and all those books? Must be nice to live the high-class life.”
She sighed a deep sigh, but repeated the line once more: “Yes, dear, but you have done so much more.”
“We live in a small house with old chairs that are ripped and uncomfortable. We eat toast with jam, not feasts. That’s no life of a millionaire.”
Albert finished his toast in silence and pushed back from the table. He murmured something about going to read his book, then stood. The chair made another noise as the foam popped back to life and the vinyl shifted again. Albert worked his way through the kitchen and into the living room, where a large plush recliner sat by the window. To the left of it was a small bookcase holding thirty leatherbound books, each crimson spine embossed with gold lettering. Adventures in Space. The Martian Handbook. Starship Future. A collector’s set of the finest science fiction by quite the man.
To the right of the recliner sat a small end table. This held a single tome, a blue-bound book with only a title and author embossed on the front. No pictures. They were too distracting. Oh, the paperback version had pictures, but not the blue leather one. That was for Albert. A special copy.
Albert sat in his chair, grabbed the blue book, and opened to the last chapter. It was time to finish this story. That was always a sad time for Albert. He didn’t want any of the stories to end. After spending hours meeting this fascinating man and feeling like he knew him inside and out, it was sad to see him go. But such is the way of books; they become a part of us for a time, then slowly fade away once the cover closes.
He had only been reading for a few minutes when Elenore walked in. She stood silently in the doorway, watching Albert read. It wouldn’t be long now.
Albert shook his head, and re-read the last sentence. He shook his head again as his brow furrowed and mouth stood agape. He slowly closed the book and re-examined its deep blue cover. He ran his fingers across the golden title: So Much More, then across the text below: An Autobiography.
“I have read this story before, haven’t I?”
She smiled.
“You wrote that story, dear. It’s your story.”
Albert found the next line of golden embossed text: By Albert Lafferty. He put the book in his lap and looked at his wife. There was a sparkle in his eye like the last puzzle piece had clicked into place. These were the moments Elenore coveted above all else. These moments had become especially rare, however. Albert spoke.
“But I have accomplished so much more than books and movies and fortunes. This book is incomplete.”
Albert put the book back on the end table and slowly stood, bracing himself on the armrest. He walked over to his wife and grabbed her hand.
He spoke slowly now, letting her know it was him, the Albert she had loved all these years: “We’ve lived in this house for sixty years. Raised two wonderful kids here. Had a lifetime of love and adventure. And that is so much more.”
