The Bookseller (6 page)

And then I stop and draw in my breath.

Midway down the hallway is a photograph that I know well. I cannot remember the actual event, though I am featured front and center. My blond hair falls in waves around my chubby face; my mother always said that I had the most beautiful curls as a small child. They only evolved into my maddening cowlicks when I entered my school years.

I am sitting on a picnic blanket, my parents on either side of me. My mother props me up—I couldn't have been more than six months old—and smiles her beguiling smile. My father is seated next to her on the blanket, his long legs stretched in front of him. We are picnicking in Washington Park, not far from my childhood home on York Street in the Myrtle Hill neighborhood
of Denver. These days, people call Myrtle Hill “East Washington Park”—but back then the neighborhood had its own name, distinct from the park itself.

I know—because she told me some years ago—that at the time this photograph was taken, my mother was pregnant. She was expecting the first of three babies that came after me. All of them were boys, and all were stillborn. “The doctors never could figure it out,” my mother said quietly, the day she told me this sad tale. “After it happened that many times . . . well, the doctors told your father and me that we ought to take steps to make sure we did not . . . that there was never another child.” She shrugged, her eyes downcast, and said no more.

I don't remember her expecting the first two babies, but I remember the last one. I must have been about six or seven years of age. I remember my mother's protruding belly, how it got in my way when I wanted to climb on her lap and practice reading from my primer, the way my teacher expected us to do in the evenings. I remember my father taking Mother to the hospital, and my aunt May—who was young and unattached then, not yet Uncle Stan's navy bride—coming to stay with me. I recall that when my father came home, many hours later, his step was heavy. He sat on the sofa, wrapped his arms around me, and put his unshaven cheek against my smooth one. He told me in a very low voice that my baby brother had gone to heaven. “You mean the baby isn't going to come live here and grow up with me? He's gone forever?” I'd asked, keeping my cheek pressed to his scratchy face.

“Yes,” he'd answered hoarsely, and I felt the wetness of his warm tears on my skin. “He's gone forever, honey.”

I remember feeling angry with my mother's physician. He should have been able to save my baby brother, I thought. Weren't doctors supposed to save everybody?

Now, looking at the photograph of my young parents and my infant self, I feel as if something or someone is striking my heart. A small sob escapes my throat. I am, suddenly, awash in sadness.

“Mother, Daddy,” I say softly. “Why is your photo in this house?” I look around. “Why am
I
in this house?”

I step quickly to look at the rest of the pictures. Yes, there are strangers here, old and young, children and grandparents, who knows who. But not all of the faces are unfamiliar. Some of these photographs are of my relatives. I see my aunt Beatrice, arm around my mother, in their teen years. There is a photograph of my cousins Grace and Carol Louise, with me sandwiched between them—me chubby, my swimsuit banding across my developing chest, and the two of them gangly in loose-fitting suits, all of us in rubber swim caps, squinting into the sun. There is a lake and a sandy beach behind us. I remember that time, remember the vacation our two families took that summer to Lake McConaughy in Nebraska.

There are my grandparents, stiff and formal in their wedding photograph, my grandmother looking more mature than the nineteen years she was at the time—and more grown-up by far than any nineteen-year-old you see these days. This picture, too, I remember. My mother showed it to me frequently, told me the story of their wedding day, how they almost didn't get married because the preacher was coming from Kansas City and a snowstorm delayed his train. “During the wait, Grandpa started to get cold feet—probably literally as well as figuratively,” my mother would tell me, running her fingers over the photograph in its leather case. “But his brother—you remember Uncle Artie; he died when you were ten—gave Grandpa a firm talking-to. Told him good women did not come along every day, especially in eastern Colorado ranching country in 1899. Told Grandpa that if he didn't marry Grandma, then he—Uncle Artie—would do it
instead.” My mother smiled. “Well, that was all the convincing it took. Grandpa knew that Uncle Artie meant every word. The preacher arrived, and the deed was done.” She smiled fondly at her mother's young face. “And the photograph taken.”

Tears well in my eyes as I study the photographs. So many of these faces, like my cousins', are those I do not see often enough. Some, like Aunt Beatrice and my grandparents, are people who have passed out of my life already. I think suddenly about what it means to grow old. It means that all those that you loved as a youth become nothing but photographs on a wall, words in a story, memories in a heart.

“Thank heavens for you,” I whisper to the picture of my parents with my baby self. “I don't know what I would do without you.”

I make my way down the hallway and enter the room at the end of it. It is indeed an office, large and sunny, with a picture window on its east wall and a drafting board positioned beneath the window. Pencils and drafting tools overflow a metal tray attached to the board's right side. In the corner of the room is a small liquor cart, with a row of clean tumblers, several shot glasses, and an array of bottles—some clear glass, some green, all about half full—arranged neatly on its surface. The bottles and cut-glass barware catch rays of sunlight coming through the window.

A cherry desk sits in the middle of the room, with a telephone in one corner, two photograph frames in the opposite corner, and a blotter in the middle. There is a business-card holder next to the telephone, holding a stack of cards. I pick up the top one. “Andersson Architecture and Design. Lars Andersson, President,” it reads. “Commercial, Business, Residential.” I smile, remembering what Lars said years ago about planning more business-related structures than homes; I wonder if the
third descriptor on the card is merely wishful thinking. The card shows an address in downtown Denver and a telephone number. I memorize the number, and then tuck the card in the pocket of my bathrobe, absurdly thinking that perhaps this small slip of paper will make its way back with me to the real world, where I might be able to dig deeper into the identity of Lars Andersson.

I lean over and study the picture frames. The first shows an eight-by-ten photograph of me. If it were real, and not simply a prop in my dreams, it would have been taken within the past few years; I can see the familiar lines around my mouth and eyes, the ones I see every morning in the mirror in the real world. I note a slight restraint in my face, as if I were hoping that I could smile sufficiently to look warm and friendly in the photograph, but not so much that the lines would noticeably deepen. My hair is smoothed down and curled under. I am wearing an indigo dress with a boatneck, pearls, and a matching pillbox hat. Very Jackie Kennedy, I think; in this dream world, clearly I am modeling myself after the First Lady. I let out a small laugh. I do like the Kennedys, and I did vote for Jack. I still believe firmly in his capabilities, despite the fears everyone has lately that he has no idea how to handle the Communists, and we're all going to be blown to bits before the year is out. Regardless of my admiration for her husband, however, it would be out of the question in my real life for anyone to confuse me with Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy.

I pick up the other photograph frame. It is intriguing for the simple reason that it contains no pictures. Just three separate slots where pictures could be placed. Were these slots for photographs of the children? If so, why did Lars take the photographs out? And why three instead of two?

“Mama!” I hear Mitch shuffle down the hallway, and then he appears in the office doorway. “We've been waiting prayers
for you,” he says accusingly. “Daddy said to bring you this, and to carry it carefully.” He holds out a mug that is three-quarters filled with coffee—almost black, as I like it, with just the slightest touch of cream. I smile and take a sip, enjoying the faintly sweet taste. Evidently, Lars also knows that I like one lump in my coffee.

“I'm sorry, darling. Tell Daddy I'll be right there.”

“Okay.” He takes off down the hall.

I
wake again to the yellow walls, to Aslan, to home.

“Lovely dream,” I tell him. “But I'm not sure where you were, buddy.” I scratch behind his ears. “You know, you may be there,” I speculate. “It seems to be a rather large house. Maybe you're hiding in the basement.”

I smile as I rise and begin my day.

M
idmorning at the shop, while Frieda is in the ladies' room, I try calling the telephone number I'd memorized, the one on Lars's business card. I dial it furtively, feeling like a child sneaking a cookie from the jar while her mother is out of the kitchen. I have no idea what I'll do if someone comes on the line. But an operator's recorded voice tells me the number is not in service.

Next, I try Lars's residential number from eight years ago, the number he provided in his letter. Calling this number is a long shot—but it's worth a try, if for no other reason than to know whether the number is still in use. If it is, I expect I'll just hear the telephone ring indefinitely; the chances of him answering are slim, this time of day. Surely he would be at work at this hour on a weekday. Nevertheless, my palms are sweaty, dialing this number for only the second time in my life. After I have dialed,
I place my left index finger on the telephone hook, ready to hang up immediately if there is an answer. But I hear the same recorded voice, telling me this number is not in service either.

Quickly I pull the telephone book from the shelf under our checkout counter. I scan the business listings, looking for architectural firms with the name Andersson in them. There are none—not even an Anderson, the more typical spelling. And certainly no Anderssons.

I try the residential listings. Nothing for Lars Andersson or L. Andersson. Imagining myself as Mrs. Andersson, I even look for Katharyn Andersson and K. Andersson, thinking that perhaps our telephone is in my name. But no such luck.

I cannot think what else to do. My fingers drift into my dress pocket, finding my mother's daily postcard. I don't know why, but today I decided to carry my mother's words with me throughout the day, instead of filing them, as I have been up until now. I don't need to glance at the card to remember the picture on the front—a smiling hula dancer, her dark hair held back from her face by a gardenia crown, her grass skirt covering her long legs. Mother's words on the back—those, too, I have memorized.

“What, Mother?” I whisper aloud to the quiet shop. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Is there somewhere else I should look? Some clue I am missing?

I consider my personal ad, think about the newspaper in the fall of 1954. If I saw the paper from those days, would it give me a clue?

I
need to do some research,” I tell Frieda when we have our coffee break at ten o'clock. It's not truly a break, because we don't close the shop. If anyone came in, of course we would attend to the customer. But if no one is there, we settle on our stools behind the counter, sip our coffee, and have a chat. Sometimes we talk about business, sometimes about what we're reading. Sometimes we fall into idle Pearl Street gossip—who we saw coming out of the Vogue with whom the night before, what other shopkeepers are doing to attract business to our little street, how unkind it was of the city to take our streetcar line away.

Frieda blows on her hot coffee. “What kind of research?” she asks.

I feel myself blushing. “It's about a person. A . . . man.” It sounds so foolish, saying it.

Frieda has a gleam in her eye. “You're holding out on me! Did you meet someone new? Where? When?”

I shake my head. “It's nothing like that.”

Desperately, I want to confide in her. For over twenty years,
I've kept almost no secrets from her. But besides being silly, this just seems so . . . personal. Like it belongs to no one else. Just me.

“It's just someone I heard about,” I tell her. And then, hastily, I lie. “An author. He writes historical books.”

I know this will detach her interest immediately. Frieda can't stand history. In the eleventh grade, despite my efforts to tutor her, she nearly flunked America: Columbus through the Great War—without a doubt the easiest course I've ever taken in my life. But Frieda is all about the moment.

“Anyway, I'm going to take an early lunch and go to the library downtown, if it's okay with you.” I drain my coffee cup and rise from my stool.

She waves her hand. “Certainly. I have nowhere else I need to be.”

I
walk over to Broadway and take the bus downtown, to the big central library that just opened a few years ago. In the research section, I ask the librarian to set me up with microfilm of the
Denver Post
from October 1954. It takes a while for her to find what I am looking for and set it up on a microfilm machine for me. I wait, browsing the stacks, thinking that the library is both the bookstore's enemy and our friend. They have everything here—why would anyone ever need to
buy
a book? On the other hand, there is nothing like the library to awaken a reader to the endless possibilities of the written word.