The Bookseller (22 page)

Of course there is no photograph of the tiny, dingy, long-closed Pearl Street store.

“This place has become soooo popular.” The shopgirl sighs. “Miss Green put out a letter to all employees last week about another store that's opening in the spring, in Boulder. She says we're only going to get bigger and bigger.”

“Miss Green . . . do you mean Frieda Green?”

“Yes, that's her. Do you know her, ma'am?”

“I used to,” I say slowly. “It was a long time ago.” I straighten up a bit and tap the brochure in my hand. “Tell me, where would I find Miss Green these days? Does she work in one of these other stores?”

The shopgirl laughs. “Of course not,” she says. “She's got a big office downtown. A—what's it called? A corporate headquarters. It's on the same block as the downtown Green's. I went there for the company Christmas party.” She smiles shyly. “I felt like a church mouse; they were all so glamorous.”

I take another breath and plunge in again. “Do you know . . . maybe this is a silly question, but do you know about . . . Miss Green used to have a business partner. A Miss Miller. Kitty Miller . . .”

The shop girl's face sours. “
Everyone
knows about Miss Miller.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, is that true? What do they know about her?”

She looks around. “I shouldn't gossip like this to a customer, but okay.” She leans forward. “Miss Miller and Miss Green had a terrible fight some years ago. Miss Miller—well, she was married by then, her married name was Mrs. Andersson, and honestly, I don't know the whole story, but I think that had something to do with it—her getting married, having a family, all that.” Her voice lowers. “Anyway, they had some little bookshop that didn't make any money. They were in a lot of debt, and they quarreled about it. And Mrs. Andersson just walked away. Left the whole mess in Miss Green's hands.” She shrugs. “Miss Green picked up the pieces and made a success of it, as you can see. But I heard that Miss Green never forgave her old partner.” She looks down at her book, obviously embarrassed at having said so much, then quickly returns her gaze to me. “But I have no idea what happened to Mrs. Andersson. Or Miss Miller, if you want to call her that.”

I
sit in the driver's seat of the Cadillac, my forehead in my hands. The thought I had while browsing Frieda's store, my notion that the dreams mean nothing—that they exist purely for my amusement and entertainment—has been crushed, like a fallen leaf buried under the first heavy snow of winter.

Frieda, Frieda, what have I done? What did I do?

What happened between us?

I
wake with a start. It's pitch-black in my bedroom. The clock reads 2:45. Aslan is there, of course, purring blissfully, happy as a clam. Sometimes I wish I were Aslan.

Rising from the bed, I don my purple dressing gown and slippers and stumble through the darkness to the living room. At my desk, I turn on the lamp and have a seat. I reach for the telephone and dial Frieda's number.

She answers on about the seventh ring. Frieda is a heavy sleeper; always has been. “Huhhh . . .” she says, something between a grunt and a hello.

“Freeds,” I say urgently. “Freeds, I'm sorry it's so late—”

“Kitty? What's wrong? Are you all right?” Her voice is instantly alert, and this warms me. Knowing that she could shift from bottomless sleep into enormous concern for me, just at the sound of my voice—I am comforted by this, and I feel my entire body relax.

“I'm sorry,” I say again. “I'm all right. I just . . .” I hold the receiver closer to my mouth and whisper, “I had a bad dream.” It sounds silly when I say it, so I add, “A really terrifying dream.” And then I have to smile, because of course my dream was not terrifying in the typical sense: no monsters, no masked men with handguns, no tornadoes whipping off the roof above my head.

“Oh,” Frieda breathes, and I hear her settling herself. I can picture her curled up in a mound of blankets in her bedroom—the shades drawn, the bedside lamp turned on. I hear the click of her lighter and the long inhale of smoke. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Do I want to tell her about it? What an interesting question. I have no idea whether I want to tell her about it. On the one hand, it would be wonderful to unburden myself. Especially to a person like Frieda, who would listen and offer practical advice—and then perhaps the whole ordeal would end once and for all. On the other hand, the complete and utter foolishness of it makes me hesitate to put it into words. Even to Frieda, who I'd trust with my life.

“Kitty? Are you still there? Did you dream about the troubles in Cuba? What the president said on the news, about the Russian missiles? Is that what scared you?” She sighs, and I can almost feel her clenching her teeth. “Because, honestly, that whole situation is downright petrifying.”

My mouth lifts into a tiny faux smile, the smile you make when you don't feel like smiling. “Actually,” I tell Frieda. “I'm not scared about that at all.”

I can't explain to her why I'm not anxious about Cuba. Everyone else is frightened to pieces by that. And yet I feel an inherent calm about it. I don't know why, but I'm certain it's going to blow over—and soon, too.

“You aren't scared by that?” Frieda sounds surprised. “What is it, then?” She pauses. “Are you all right, sister?”

I stare out at the darkness of the street in front of me. I can't tell her. I just have to hope the dreams go away on their own. Perhaps they simply have more of the story to tell me. And once the story is over, the dreams will end.

“I'm all right,” I say finally. “I just . . . I had to hear your voice. I had to know that I'm back here. That I'm safe.”

“Your doors are locked?” Frieda asks, exhaling cigarette smoke.

I laugh; of course locked doors can't keep out what is making its way inside my world. “Yes,” I tell her. “Aslan and I are snug as bugs.”

“Well, then. Go back to bed and try to get a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling like a child who has been comforted by her mother. “Frieda . . .”

“Yes, sister?”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I'll see you in the morning.”

I
return to bed and close my eyes, waiting for sleep. I hope it will be a sleep of darkness, of blankness, of nothing. But that is not to be. Coming into dream-consciousness, I'm back there again. Back in the other world.

I am no longer shocked at my return to the dream life. What is surprising is that I am still sitting in the Cadillac in the shopping center parking lot. It seems to be the same day, even the same hour. The sun is sitting identically low in the western sky. I am wearing the same camel-colored coat and matching gloves, and the car is in precisely the same parking space. It is as if no time has passed. But of course, there is no reason time
should
pass here. Not here, where everything—good and bad—is imaginary.

I turn on the engine, pull out of the lot, and drive back to Springfield Street. Lars and the children have returned; the station wagon is parked in the driveway. I go inside and shake off the cold, hanging my coat in the front hall closet. I place my hat, gloves, and handbag on the shelf above the closet's clothing rod.

“Mama!” I am hugged around the waist by both Mitch and Missy. I bend down to their level and return their affection. I am surprised at the fierceness with which I hold them, with how deeply I bury my nose into their flaxen heads and inhale the profound, clean smell of their hair. In my real life, I do not hold
children like this. I had no idea, before now, how good it feels to do so. There are so few children in my life. There is Greg Hansen, of course, but our relationship is that of instructor and student, not one of physical affection. Occasionally I see Frieda's nieces and nephews, and Bradley's grandchildren regularly make an appearance in the shop. But none of those are children I'd feel comfortable holding with this fervor. Were I to suddenly do so, the discomfort would undoubtedly go both ways.

But these two—clearly they not only desire but expect this connection with me. The thought makes my heart pound just a bit more quickly.

Finally I release them and ask, “Did you have fun, darlings?”

“
So
much fun,” Missy says. “I won the first game. Daddy won the second.”

“And I got a strike!” Mitch adds, hopping up and down. “Mama, I got all the pins down at one time!”

“Good for you both,” I tell them, and then I ask, “Where are Daddy and Michael?”

“Upstairs,” Missy says. “Daddy is giving Michael a bath.”

This seems odd, in the middle of the day. I make my way up the half flight of stairs and knock on the bathroom door. “It's me.”

“Come in,” Lars says. He is slowly, rhythmically pouring water from two plastic cups over Michael's thin, naked back. I can see the tiny round bones of Michael's spine, like beads under the skin. Michael has his eyes closed and a smile on his face, and he is humming. I look at Lars, searching for understanding. “He was having a rough time,” Lars says in a low voice. “So we came home. You know how warm water helps him settle down.”

I nod, not because I was aware of this tactic for calming Michael, but because it makes sense. I, too, find a warm bath beneficial when I'm not at my best. The heat, the gentle splashes of water—it's soothing in a way that nothing else can quite equal.

“Did you have a nice time?” Lars asks.

“Yes, it was . . .” I sit down on the closed toilet seat lid and take a look around. This bathroom, though smaller than the one I share with Lars, has the same slanted-front cabinets on the vanity; here, they are painted white. The walls are sky blue with white fish decals swimming the length of the longest wall, stuck-on bubbles arranged merrily above them. The sink, tub, and toilet are a robin's-egg color, and the floor is a spotless white tile.

I watch the water stream down Michael's back. “I went to the shop,” I finally venture. “Frieda's and my . . . our old bookshop.”

Lars looks at me. “Did you now?” His voice is even, and I cannot decode his opinion about this information.

“It's closed down.” I can see myself in the mirror over the vanity, and my eyes look hollow. “She's closed down the Pearl Street shop. She has six other stores, and she changed the name to Green's Books and News, and she wasn't even there when I went to the one at the shopping center, and . . .” I stop talking. I must sound ridiculous to him.

Lars keeps his eyes steady on me. “Katharyn,” he says finally. “All that happened a long time ago.” He returns his gaze to Michael. “You know this. You remember it, right?”

I shake my head. “I don't remember it. I'm sorry, Lars, I still don't . . . I don't . . .” I bite my lip, looking at my gloomy face in the mirror. “I just don't remember a lot of . . . details.”

“Well.” His voice is neutral, but soft. “That's understandable, love.”

“Oh, Lars.” And suddenly, I feel myself breaking down. Tears start streaming down my cheeks.

Lars stands and comes to my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it gently. “It's okay, love,” he whispers. “It's okay. I know you feel bad about it. Even all these years later.”

“What did I do?” I ask him, and I know he thinks the question is rhetorical. But of course it's not.

“You did what you had to,” Lars says evenly. “You did what you had to for your family, for your child . . .” He tilts my chin up, so I can look in his eyes. “I know everything you gave up . . . for us . . . for him.” His voice is a whisper, and he turns his eyes toward the bathtub, where Michael is still humming, quietly playing with the two cups. “I know what you sacrificed. Don't ever, ever doubt, Katharyn . . . how incredibly grateful I am to you for that.”

I
go to our bedroom to lie down. If I fall asleep, I will wake up back where I belong. Where things make sense and nothing is confusing like this.

But I can't sleep. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, to my surprise, memories do.

It's like the time when I was in the green bathtub, or the evening in the restaurant with Lars's client and his wife. All of a sudden, I remember things with clarity.

I remember what started out as a routine visit to the obstetrician. I even remember the date: July 6, 1956. I was a few weeks into the second trimester of my pregnancy; Lars and I were expecting a Christmastime baby. I expressed concern that I was so big already. I felt tired and out of sorts, I told the doctor, as if I were ready to give birth now, though of course I had months yet to go.

“Let's check for a heartbeat again,” Dr. Silver said. “I know we tried to hear it early on, and we checked again when you were here a few weeks ago. But we should definitely hear it by now.” Putting the stethoscope to my belly, he listened, then moved it, listened again, moved it again. This went on for a full five minutes,
while he didn't say a word. Finally he stood. “I'll be back in a moment, Mrs. Andersson,” he told me. “I want to have Dr. Enright take a listen here, too.”

I lay there, sweating bullets, my mind numb. No heartbeat, I was thinking. He can't hear a heartbeat, and he's afraid the baby is dead. He wants the other doctor to confirm it.

The two men entered the room, and Dr. Enright poked all over my belly with his stethoscope, too. They looked at each other and nodded, then conferred with each other, their backs to me. I started to cry; I couldn't help it. How will I ever tell Lars that the baby has died? I wondered. He's going to be devastated.

The doctors turned around simultaneously. Seeing my face, Dr. Silver took my hand in both of his. “Mrs. Andersson, please don't cry. It's good news. Let me be the first to congratulate you. Both Dr. Enright and I are quite sure you are expecting twins!”