The Bookseller (15 page)

“Are you all right?” I ask them. “I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to stop suddenly like that. It's just . . . it's just . . .”

And then I don't know what to say. They wait, eyes large and questioning.

“It's just . . .” I continue weakly. “All of a sudden . . . I just can't remember . . . where is Michael? Why isn't he with us?”

Michael? Who is Michael? What am I talking about?

Missy shakes her head. “Silly, silly Mama,” she says, reaching forward and affectionately patting my shoulder. “Did you really forget? Daddy came home from work early today, so you could take Mitch and me shoe shopping.” She releases my shoulder and leans back in her seat. “Everything is fine, Mama,” she reassures me gently. “Michael is safe at home, with Daddy.”

H
eavens, how disturbing,” I tell Aslan when I awake. “It's nice to be back here, where everything makes sense.” Aslan looks at me blankly, then stands, turns twice, and settles back into the covers, purring loudly.

It's raining lightly but steadily. A rainy morning in Denver generally means it will rain all day. More common here are abrupt afternoon thunderstorms, especially in the summer and early autumn, but those are sudden and violent—brief downpours that sluice off the rooftops in buckets and occasionally cause the South Platte River and some of the neighborhood gulches to flood. A gentle, all-day rain is a rarity here. We get so few of those days, I actually find them to be a bit of a treat.

I get up and pull on my cotton robe, which is quite a bit more threadbare than the blue quilted number of the dreams. But it is also more colorful, bright purple with a fuchsia cherry-blossom pattern all over it. In the bathroom, I untie the kerchief I've been wearing over my head at night to protect Linnea's exceptional work. It's only been a few days since my wash-and-set, but I plan to call and make another appointment soon. I am beyond a doubt going back. I am a Linnea Andersson Hershall convert.

Going out to get the mail, I am saddened to find there is no postcard from Mother. I fetch my damp
Rocky Mountain News
from the welcome mat and shuffle through it as I step back inside. I have taken to reading the sports page before anything else. Greg was right; the Giants did win the pennant, beating the Los Angeles Dodgers last night with four runs in the ninth inning. The World Series, which will pit the Giants against the New York Yankees, starts immediately. This surprises me. I would have thought they'd give the players some time to rest first. But what do I know of sports? I've learned more about baseball in the past few weeks of talking to Greg than I've ever known before in my life.

Going into my kitchen to make breakfast, I think dreamily about the stories I can write for Greg, once the World Series is under way. Mitch, Missy—and the mysterious Michael, whoever he is—are erased from my mind.

A
t the shop entrance, I shake out my umbrella. Once inside, I take off my slicker and rain bonnet and hang them in the back room. Glancing in the mirror above the restroom sink, I admire my hair once more. I brush a bit of rainwater from the hem of my indigo-blue skirt, which I have paired with my favorite chartreuse sweater and a long string of blue and yellow glass beads; a bright outfit to cheer up a damp day.

Frieda is at the counter, drinking coffee and smoking. I wave my hand in front of her. “I really wish you wouldn't smoke in the shop.”

She inhales, then puffs out. “And a good morning to you, too.”

“Honestly.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, deliberately place my stool beyond the reach of her fumes, and sit down. “It turns away customers, Frieda.”

She lets out a laugh. “Since when?”

“Since always.” I don't know why I'm picking a fight with her. I just feel irritable. And uneasy.

Frieda has the newspaper spread in front of her on the counter. She is scanning the help-wanted section. “Looking for a job?” I ask, glad for an excuse to change the subject.

She shakes her head. “Looking for inspiration.” She glances around. “We have to do something, Kitty. We barely made the rent this month; I don't see how we're going to make it in November. And if we're not staying, we ought to tell Bradley immediately.”

She's right. We did make the October rent, but we had to scrape to do it. Frieda says we will have to delay our loan payment this month, hoping to see a little capital come in before the loan is past due on the fifteenth. But I'm glad we at least paid Bradley. I always feel bad when we are late on our payment to Bradley.

Even so—even though we sometimes pay late and a few times we did not pay at all—I know Bradley would be disappointed to lose us. Chances are, another tenant would not come along easily, not with the lack of business on Pearl Street these days.

“Maybe we can negotiate a lower rent,” I suggest. “That would be better for Bradley than having us leave, wouldn't it?”

Frieda shrugs. “I don't know,” she says snappily. “And anyway, what good would that do?” She looks around again. “How long can we stay here, anyway, with no business? Ask yourself that, Kitty.”

I think about University Hills, the shopping center in my dream. Except, of course, it is not made up. That shopping center actually exists. “Have you ever been to University Hills?” I ask Frieda. “The shopping center way down south, on Colorado Boulevard?”

“Once,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “It seems so far out of town.” She looks thoughtful. “But everything is far out of town, these days, isn't it?”

I nod. “May-D&F has a store there, and they probably carry books. But I wonder if there is any other bookstore in the shopping center.”

Frieda looks at me carefully. “Would you even consider it?” she asks. “You've shot down the idea of moving to a shopping center—you've shot it down numerous times, Kitty.” She stands and looks out at the rain. “Why the change of heart?”

I shrug. “Things are changing, aren't they?” I ask her quietly. “The world is changing.” I step closer to Frieda, feeling the heat of her body next to mine, smelling her smoke-and-perfume scent. Stinky, but familiar. “We have to keep up,” I say. “Or else get out of the way and let someone else pass us by.”

T
hat afternoon, Frieda and I close early and take a little excursion to University Hills. We have to ride two buses to get there, and it's still raining, so we are both soaked by the time we arrive. Stepping off the bus, we scan the large parking lot. “All these cars,” Frieda says, shaking her head in wonder. “Where do they come from?”

I point to the west, the south, where new neighborhoods and houses are cropping up like dandelions in a garden plot. “Out there,” I say. “You wouldn't believe it if you saw it.”

Frieda glances at me. “Have
you
seen it?”

I nod, hoping she won't ask more. The rain is letting up, and the sun is starting to poke through. We turn and begin walking along the pathway. The shopping center is exactly as I remember it from my dream. The outsize concrete planters, the piped-in music. The strolling mothers and children. I half expect to see my own self, with Mitch and Missy in tow, walking toward us.

There's a shopping center directory posted next to one of the planters, and Frieda and I scan the listings, looking for a bookstore.
We find none. “Let's see if there are any available spaces,” Frieda suggests, almost in a whisper.

As we walk along, she suddenly takes my hand. “Kitty,” she says. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

I shrug. “I know it's what you want.” I gently squeeze her hand. “And we're just looking, right? Don't get your hopes up.”

Frieda nods slowly, but I see the sparkle in her eyes. “Just looking,” she says dreamily. “We're just looking.”

I
wake up alone in the sage-green bedroom. Lars's side of the bed is empty, the covers rumpled. Putting my hand out and feeling the warmth under the sheet where he was lying, I guess that he arose not long ago. I leave my hand there for what seems like a long time.

After rising and putting on my robe, I enter the hall and turn into the living room. To my left, I can see the dining room. It isn't a separate room but rather an extension of the living room, the way it was at the Nelsons' house and the way it so often is in these modern houses. Both the living and dining rooms have pale, faintly golden-hued walls and coved ceilings. The low-pile aqua carpeting matches the color of the front door, I note with self-approval. The dining room features a lustrous oak table; six chairs surround it, upholstered in nubby turquoise fabric. Near the head of the table, under the window, is a small wooden school desk, not unlike those that filled the classroom back in my teaching days. There is a faintly sour smell in the air, but I cannot make out what it is.

Along the back wall of the dining room are several sets of dark wood, shutter-style doors; two are cabinet-height with a counter jutting out below them, and the other is a saloon-style doorway, leading, presumably, to the kitchen. The cabinet-height
shutters are closed, but I can see that when opened, they would provide access from the kitchen to the dining room. Quite handy, I think, should the cook be preparing a meal in one room and serving it in the other.

From behind the shutters, I hear a man's cheery whistle—off-key, just like Frieda's. The thought makes me smile. I cross the room and push through the swinging doorway. Lars is there, with all his brightness and his blue eyes. I walk quickly to him and embrace him, my body pressed against his. “Well, hello, there, beautiful,” he whispers. “Feeling better this morning?”

“Feeling just fine.” I tilt my head up to receive his kiss. It's a long, lingering, full-mouth kiss, one that I don't want to end. I can tell that Lars doesn't, either; it's with reluctance that he finally draws his lips away from mine.

“Wow,” he says breathlessly. “That was quite a welcome.”

“I just missed you,” I replied. “I just . . . wanted to . . . feel you.” I give him another squeeze. “Feel how real you are.”

He laughs. “I'm real, all right.” He turns back to the countertop and lifts an olive green electric percolator. “Ready for coffee, love?”

“Yes, please.” While he pours it, I look around the kitchen. The countertops are orange Formica; the stove and refrigerator are both beige. A window over the sink lets in morning light; on its sill is a large mason jar, half filled with coins. The curtain over the window exactly matches the wallpaper; both show a cheery pattern of fruit slices—bananas, apples, oranges, limes—on a taupe background. The cabinetry is dark brown, very simple, with sleek brass handles and no ornamentation on the wood. My first thought is how easy it must be to keep it clean. I am forever scrubbing the ornate trim on the kitchen cabinets in my Washington Street duplex, and no matter how I try, I can never get the decades-old gunk out of the crevices.

I wander back through the swinging doors, cross the dining room, and enter the living room. My eyes are drawn to the large picture window that faces the street, and I step over to take a look outside. It's a bright, wintry morning. Why is it winter here and autumn in the real world? I cannot reconcile this. The clean white snow against the dark of the leafless trees, the startling blue of the sky, the mountains in the distance, and the long, lean houses—all together, they make me take a deep breath, relishing their freshness.

“Here's your coffee.” Lars comes up behind me and hands me a warm cup. I wrap my hands around it. “See anything new and exciting?”

I shake my head, sipping the coffee. “It's pretty, though.”

He puts his arm around my waist. “Sure is. I love this view.”

I laugh. “Of the neighbors' houses?”

He shakes his head. “Of potential,” he says. “Of the future.”

Squeezing my shoulder, he goes back to the kitchen.

Just as I am wondering why Lars is making breakfast instead of me—isn't that the wife's job?—I am attacked.

“Mamamamamamamamamamama!” I manage to hang on to my mug, but the hot coffee goes flying. It does not land on my attacker or me, thank goodness, but it splashes all over the picture window and the carpeting.

I turn to see a small, bespectacled boy with an enormous grin on his face. But there's something off about his smile, and with a start I realize what it is: although he is beaming, he's not looking directly at me. He is looking sideways through his thick lenses—at the couch, the coffee table, perhaps the floor.

At nothing.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell at him. “What do you think you're doing?”

And then a noise arises from the boy that doesn't even sound human. It's the shriek of an animal in pain—one caught in a trap, perhaps, about to be devoured by a predator and fully aware of
its fate. I've seen some disturbing fits by children, in restaurants and the like, but never in my life have I heard a child scream like this. I stagger backward and stare at him.

Lars rushes in from the kitchen. Simultaneously Mitch and Missy arrive, tumbling down the stairs and into the living room.

Lars firmly takes the screaming child by his shoulders. He holds him tightly, but I notice he does not actually hug the boy, nor move in any closer than arm's length. Instead, he starts softly repeating, “Go to the river, go down to the river, go to the river, go down to the river . . .”

I step back, transfixed. Mitch quietly walks over and stands next to me. “Is he always like that?” I whisper to Mitch.

He nods, and we both continue to stare. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, but is likely only a few minutes, the screaming subsides into whimpers. And then there is silence.

Lars slowly releases the child's shoulders. “Mitch,” he says, turning toward the other two children. “Why don't you and Missy take Michael back upstairs?” He presses his lips together. “I'll have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.”