The Bookseller (7 page)

Finally, I am settled in with the microfilm I requested. I turn the hand crank gradually, scanning the pages until I reach the personal advertisements in the back of each day's edition.

Yes, my ad is there. I ran it for a week, from Sunday, October 10, until the following Saturday.

I smile ruefully, reading about my younger self, the self who still had hope for that part of her life.

I wonder what that self would think of me now. Would she be surprised that eight years have passed, and I have not changed all that much? That I still bop around my house listening to popular music in the morning? That I still root around in my closet for something to wear and leave a mess of clothes all over my bedroom, like a teenager? Would my thirty-year-old self
tsk-tsk
me about that? Would she be surprised that her personal ad got her nowhere, did not change her life one iota?

I don't know. But I do know that nothing in my personal ad gives me any idea what happened to Lars Andersson.

I browse the remaining pages slowly. At first I feel discouraged by the lack of information in my ad, but after a while, I get immersed in that world that was. Hurricane Hazel smashed into North Carolina on the fifteenth, working its way up the coast and taking down homes and businesses in its wake. In England, dockworkers were on strike. On the front page of the Saturday, October 16 edition is a photograph of a woman with a little boy on her lap. Tragically, the boy was killed by a self-inflicted wound from a handgun left unattended in the home. The caption informs me that the photograph is of the boy with his mother, taken some months before the accident. A prizefight, reportedly “the greatest match ever offered in Denver” took place on October 19 at City Auditorium Arena. The Trinidad Junior College homecoming queen and her attendants are shown in a photograph on October 20. They look carefree, joyous, and very, very young.

And then, in the October 21 edition, I come across the death notices.

S
o. There you go. Now I understand what happened. Lars Andersson did not stand me up, after all. Lars Andersson could not have stood me up, because he was not alive to do so.

Walking out of the library and slowly heading for the bus stop, I am not sure what to do with this information. I feel a terrible sadness for this man I never met—this man I've now met in my dreams. And I have to smile at my ridiculous imagination—at my crazy mind, which has come up with an entire dream life for myself with this person.

This man who, purely by a stroke of bad luck, I never got to see face-to-face.

I
am almost eager to go to bed that night, curious what might happen and what I might dream. Laughing at myself, I pour a generous shot of whiskey just before bedtime, thinking it might put me to sleep sooner.

To my surprise, my dream places me not in the split-level house, but in a darkened restaurant. The tablecloths are checkered; the walls and linoleum floor are a deep red. The restaurant is crowded, and I can see several couples waiting for tables near
the hostess stand. Judging by the hustle and bustle of the place, I think it must be a weekend evening.

To my right is Lars, in a suit and tie, looking respectable and happy, his left arm draped possessively around my bare shoulder. I am wearing a sleeveless forest-green dress made of broad silk; I can feel its slipperiness on my back and across my ribs. We are seated at a booth, facing the restaurant's entrance. The other side of the booth is empty.

“Welcome back,” Lars says, his bright eyes gazing into mine. “You seemed to go off to dreamland there for a few minutes.”

I smile awkwardly. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I must have been daydreaming.”

“Imagining a more carefree lifestyle for yourself?” He grins.

My smile fades. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. Doesn't everyone do that sometimes?” His smile is wistful. “Especially you and me.”

What in heaven's name does
that
mean?

From speakers somewhere above our heads, there is music playing. The clear, lusty voice is unmistakable—it's Patsy Cline, one of my all-time favorite vocalists. Despite the fact that most of her songs are about heartbreak—or maybe it's because of that—I love Patsy's cadence, her musical approach. I love the way that you know, just through her songs, that whatever the reason for your sadness, Patsy would sympathize with you. If you could sit down with her over a drink in some smoky cowboy bar and talk about it, Patsy Cline would assure you that it—whatever
it
is—would be all right. She would pass a handkerchief to you and order another round. She'd tell you she'd been through the same thing, and worse, and she'd come out the better for it.

I have all of Patsy Cline's records. But I've never heard this twangy, melancholy song before. Like so much of her music, it's about breaking up. She's singing about how she would rather
know now, would rather just get it over with, if her lover is thinking about leaving her.

If you got leavin' on your mind . . . Tell me now, get it over . . .

“Is this a new song?” I ask Lars abruptly.

“What, love?”

“This song.” I frown. “This song that's playing—is this a new release of Patsy Cline's?”

He smiles. “I believe it is. In fact, I think it was you who told me that this is a new release—just a day or two ago, when it came on the radio at home.”

Is that so? I smile inwardly. Now my brain is making up an imaginary hit parade. How very talented of it.

Lars looks toward the doorway, then glances at his watch. “They should be here any minute,” he says. “Bill is generally quite prompt.” He shrugs again. “I don't know anything about the wife, though.”

Unsure how to respond to this, I simply nod.

Lars stirs his drink, then takes a sip. “Ah. Here they are.”

He stands as a couple approaches our table. They are about our age, or perhaps a bit younger. The woman has jet-black hair, sleekly pulled back with a rhinestone headband. She wears a furtrimmed cape. Her companion is tall, much taller than Lars; this is apparent when Lars stands up to greet them. The man has that square-faced jock look about him, the type who was probably a football player in high school. The type who always wanted to go out with Frieda, though she generally turned them down. Frieda has never been much for dating anyone, actually, no matter how good-looking a fellow is. Sometimes it seems like she tries to force herself to get out there—like when she contacted some of my personal-ad castoffs all those years ago. But in general, dating is not a big thing in Frieda's life.

“Bill, meet my wife, Katharyn.” Lars turns toward me. I extend
a hand over the table—it would be awkward to try to rise from the booth—and Bill takes it and clasps it tightly.

“And this is my wife, Judy,” he says, releasing my hand. Judy and I exchange pleasantries. I am still trying to figure out who they are. Presumably business associates. Perhaps clients? I shake my head. This would be easier if I knew such details, but since it's a dream, I suppose it hardly matters what I say or do.

After we've placed Bill and Judy's drink order, and everyone's food order, we settle down to chat. I learn that Bill is indeed a client. He wants to build an office building downtown, but it will be more than that; the idea is that it will house offices on the upper floors and small shops on the lower floor. This immediately piques my interest, especially the part about the small shops. Ought Frieda and I to be considering downtown? It has never come up in our what-to-do-next discussions. I wonder what the rent would be on such a place. Perhaps, if the men keep talking, I will be able to find out.

“It's a brilliant move,” Lars is saying approvingly. “It just makes business sense. We design it slick, we design it modern, but even so, we ensure that it's accessible on a smaller scale. We make it appealing to both the businessman and the passerby—something for everybody, as it were. You'll be at full capacity before you even open your doors, Bill. You'll be turning away tenants in droves. You'll see.”

Bill sips his Scotch. “I absolutely agree, Lars.” He sets down his glass. “And I must say that, after too many discussions with architects who seem to be living in the Victorian age, I appreciate talking with someone who understands foresight as much as I do.”

Under the table, Lars squeezes my hand in triumph. I squeeze his back.

Judy slices herself a piece of bread and nibbles it without butter.
“Enough business, boys,” she says. “You can talk about that any time.” She smiles at me, and I automatically smile back, although I am slightly ticked off. I actually wanted to hear more about the new building.

“Judy, you are one hundred percent correct.” Lars nods at her. He's no dummy; he must realize that to get the husband's business, he also needs to chitchat with the wife. “Let's change the subject,” he suggests.

“Let's,” Judy agrees gaily. “I want to learn about Katharyn. Where did you two meet?”

Lars's eyes meet mine. “It's quite a story.”

“Quite,” I agree, and then, not knowing where to go from there, I add, “Why don't you tell it, dear?”

Lars places his hand over mine. “Believe it or not, this beautiful lady was looking to meet men through the lonely hearts section in the newspaper.” He goes on to tell about my ad, about the letter that he spent days writing, in an effort to get it absolutely perfect. “I waited and waited for her to call,” he says. “I was afraid I had taken too long to write. Perhaps she'd already met some other fellow.” His eyes are downcast, but I can see that they are merry under his lashes. “And then one night the telephone rang.”

“We talked for hours.” I take up the tale. “And made plans to meet.” After that, I don't know what else to say. The story is true so far, but only in a dream could it have ended here, in this restaurant, instead of where it actually did—with Lars deceased, with me sitting alone and unaware in a coffee shop.

“And then, as we were lingering over a few last words to each other on the telephone line, I began to feel a tight pain in my chest,” Lars says. “I had trouble breathing. Katharyn must have heard it in my voice, because she asked what was wrong. I told her that I was having chest pains. ‘Good heavens, where are
you?' she asked, and the last thing I remember is giving her my address. Then I blacked out.”

I stare at him, shocked. That did not happen.

In the real world, what happened is that we said good-bye and hung up the telephone. And two days later, he failed to appear at the coffee shop.

Now it all makes perfect sense. In the real world, Lars
did
have a heart attack and die, just as the newspaper obituary said he did.

What I hadn't realized—until now—is that it happened that very night.

It happened only moments after we got off the telephone.

S
o. This is the part where, if I were at a movie theater or watching a program on television, I might just laugh aloud. I would shake my head. Honestly, I might think, this is simply too absurd to continue. I would contemplate getting up from my seat, walking out of the theater, or turning off the television set.

But I can't do that. I am forced to stick around. Like a bug caught on flypaper, I don't have any choice in the matter.

Regardless of how absurd or unbelievable it may be, I cannot seem to leave. I cannot get out of this dream.

J
udy leans forward. “My, what a story,” she says. “Tell me, Katharyn, what happened next?”

And suddenly, in a rush—in the way things happen only in dreams, of course—I know exactly what happened next.

“I knew something serious must have gone on,” I begin. “I knew I needed to act quickly. I'd scratched Lars's address on a piece of paper, and I picked it up and ran next door to my neighbor's.
I wanted to leave my telephone line open, you see, in case he regained consciousness. I knocked on the neighbor's door, and when she answered, I rushed for her telephone and called the police. When I explained what had happened, they said they'd dispatch a squad car and an ambulance right away. I explained briefly to my neighbor what was happening. Then I went back to my apartment and picked up the telephone and called his name, but he didn't come back on the line. Finally I could hear someone banging on his door, then breaking in. I heard lots of excitement and voices, and I could tell they were trying to do something medically with him, though of course I had no idea what.”

Judy's eyes are huge over her martini glass. “Goodness, you must have been frightened out of your wits!”

“I was.” Nodding, I continue. “I kept calling through the line, trying to get someone to talk to me. Finally a man picked up the telephone. When I told him I was the one who had rung for help, he said it appeared that Lars had had a heart attack. I asked where they were taking him, and he told me they were on their way to Porter Hospital.

“I didn't really think. I just grabbed a coat, called for a taxi—I didn't have a car back then—and went outside. When I got to the emergency room at Porter, I gave Lars's name and tried to get someone to tell me what was going on, but no one would. I didn't know what else to do, so I sat down in the waiting room. No one else was there. After what felt like an eternity, a man and a woman came in. The woman said her brother had been brought in because he'd had a heart attack. She was taken into the treatment area. The man with her was about to follow, but I caught his arm.”