remembered, first lines were. She took them.
“Why did I have you collect favorite first lines rather than jokes?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it is time for you to have a new beginning,” she said, quickly going through the cards, glasses perched on the end of her nose. “And now yours, Lewis, your book.”
“ Moby-Dick,” I said.
“What do you think the book is about?” Ann asked.
“A lone survivor,” I said. “I bought a copy of the book at Brant’s and copied the line.”
I took out my notebook.
“Is it that hard for you to remember? Almost everyone knows it. ‘Call me Ishmael.’ ”
“Yes,” I said. “Can I read what I have on the card?”
“All right,” she said, lifting a hand in acceptance, “read.”
“ ‘It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.’ ”
“That’s not the beginning of Moby-Dick, Lewis,” she said.
“No,” I said. “It’s the end.”
