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Hope

It wasn’t until later in life, much later, that Hope had begun to appreciate the interesting child she had been, and, perhaps, to some extent at least, find something to admire there, something to hang some self-worth on.

Take her early and persistent ardor for fountain pens.

She’d bought her first fountain pen—a clear-barreled Schaefer with a chromed metal cap—at eleven, at Woolworth’s, for a dollar. It came with two royal-blue cartridges, and Hope had found the kit’s comparatively exotic allure (versus Bic ballpoints and number 2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencils) irresistible.

A dollar at that time, make no mistake, was a substantial sum, was more than some grown-ups earned per hour, and so the impulse to purchase the pen had brought with it a sizable opportunity for buyer’s remorse. But only constant delight had followed, as well as a succession of increasingly costly fountain pens, each more sublime than its predecessor in heft and feel and fluency.

Hope had been the only kid she knew who used fountain pens. From sixth grade on she’d done all her homework and quizzes and even her high-school math tests in fountain pen.

As an adult, she’d composed journal entries and greeting-card captions with a Parker. Had jotted grocery lists and notes-to-self with a Pelikan. Had had a green-marble Waterman Phileas medium-point (always, always a medium point) in her purse hanging on the doorknob when she died, and had been saving her pennies for a Montblanc Meisterstück 149 instead of a rainy day.

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