The Bookseller (17 page)

The park and playground have changed over the years. The swings look new, and the city closed the swimming beach a few years ago; the lake was too small, too many people were using it, and the water had become murky. Perhaps, I think now, my friends and I were right about a monster living in that dark, dim water.

Michael and I are the only people at the playground. The lake
is partially frozen over, the air is cold, and the sky is gray. Snow is not falling, but it hangs in the clouds. I lift my nose and smell it, the way a watchdog might sniff out an approaching intruder.

Whatever are we doing here? And where are the other children?

“Michael,” I say. “Where are Mitch and Missy?”

He rolls his eyes—not at me, because he doesn't look at me, but at the swings a few feet from us. “You know where they are, Mama. Where they always are during the daytime.”

“And where is that?”

Now he grins; he must think I am joking with him. “Honestly,” I implore. “Where is that?”

“Mama!” He laughs out loud. To my surprise, I find the sound delightful. His laugh has a joyous, ringing tone; it reminds me instantly and incongruously of my mother's laughter. “Silly Mama. They're in school, of course.”

“Oh.” I place my kidskin-gloved hands on either side of me, on the green bench. “And you?” I ask. “Why aren't you in school, too?”

He laughs again and hops clumsily off the bench. “Well, now you're just being crazy,” he says. “You know I don't go to school, Mama.”

Oh.

He trips away from me and walks over to a swing. He gets on and sits still. It's clear he doesn't know how to pump and get himself going. “Push me, Mama.”

I rise from the bench and walk over to him. From behind, I give him a push, my hands light on his back. I am not sure how high he wants to go, but I keep pushing just a little more each time. He laughs gleefully. Once I find a pace that he seems to enjoy, I settle in, maintaining just enough tempo to keep him going without variation.

“Wheeeeee!” Michael cries out with joy as the swing sails through the air.

I take a good look at him. He wears green corduroy pants, a checkered woolen jacket, and a chunky, navy-blue knitted cap that covers his ears. I wonder vaguely if my mother made his hat. His thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses are sturdily positioned on his head. I have the feeling he doesn't go far without them.

He is thinner than Mitch and Missy, who have clearly inherited their stocky builds from both Lars and me. Michael is willowy; I can see how stick-thin his legs are through his pants, how his elbows poke out against the sleeves of his jacket. Is this his natural build, I wonder, or is he simply a picky eater? His hair color and features are similar to Mitch's; it is entirely possible that they are identical twins. I have no idea what the odds are of conceiving triplets, or whether it is typical for two of them to be identical. These are issues that have never crossed my mind back in the real world.

I close my eyes and put my fingers lightly on my belly. I am trying to imagine what it would feel like to have three babies inside me, all at the same time. I cannot fathom it. It makes me think of high school plays, of how Miss Potts, the drama coach, always told us, “
Feel
your character.
Be
your character.” Frieda loved that advice and took it to heart, enthusiastically becoming the tragic Lady Macbeth or the spunky, aspiring actress Terry Randall from
Stage Door
. But I was never particularly good at it. I was always too aware that no matter who I was playing on-stage, underneath the detailed costume and the thick makeup I was still just plain old Kitty.

That's how I feel right now, imagining myself as someone who has been pregnant with triplets. Like it's a part I
could
play if I had to, but I wouldn't be fooling anyone. They'd all know that there were no babies inside me, that it was just a pillow
under my skirt. I remove my hand from my stomach and continue pushing the swing.

Suddenly, I have an inspiration. “Hey, Michael.”

He does not turn his head. “What?”

“When Mama was being silly . . .” I know I am going out on a limb here, and I hesitate. I do not know, have no idea, how I would handle him having a scene, out here all by myself. Nonetheless, I take a deep breath and plunge in. “When Mama was asking those silly questions . . . did you like that?”

His shoulders move up and down slightly. “I don't know,” he says dully.

“Can I . . . is it okay if I ask you some more silly questions?”

He shrugs again. “I don't know.”

I think we are both glad that we are not facing one another.

“Let's give it a try,” I suggest. “How about this? How old are you, Michael?”

He doesn't say anything, and I wait, breathless, praying that he won't explode.

“Michael? Did you hear me?”

“I'm thinking!” he yells. “Can't you see that I'm thinking, Mama?”

He is coming in for a push, and my hands snap back in aversion, missing a beat. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. Recovered, I continue pushing. Then Michael pipes up. “Do you know what time it is?”

I look at my wrist to see if I am wearing a watch, and indeed I am: a tasteful jeweled one with a black velvet band. “It's ten thirty.”

“Ten thirty exactly?”

I laugh. “Okay. It's ten thirty-two.”

“Well, then,” he says. “I am six years, three months, fourteen
days, twelve hours, and eighteen minutes. Mitch is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and fifteen minutes. Missy is six years, three months, fourteen days, twelve hours, and eleven minutes. I'm the oldest!” he finishes proudly.

I am speechless.

He turns his head slightly, so he is looking to the west rather than southward in front of him. “Mama? Do you have any other questions?”

“Yes,” I say. “What day is it?”

“It's Wednesday, February twenty-seventh.”

“What year?”

He giggles. “Nineteen sixty-three, Mama.”

Nineteen sixty-three. So we
have
only moved a few months into the future.

Shifting topics, I ask, “What else are we doing this morning? Besides playing here at the park, I mean.”

His shoulders stiffen. “Mama, it's Wednesday.”

I wait.

“It's
Wednesday
,” he repeats, with a little more edge in his voice.

“Remember, Michael, this is a game,” I say. “So let me ask you: What do we do on Wednesdays?”

“Oh!” He giggles again. “We go food shopping, Mama.”

Aha. “Does Mama make a shopping list?” I ask.

“Well, of course,” he replies. “All mothers make shopping lists.”

I suppose they do. Incidentally, thirty-eight-year-old unmarried women do not make shopping lists. They pop into the food mart when their cabinets and refrigerator are bare, buy whatever looks good and doesn't require a lot of preparation, and take it home.

“Who cooks at our house?” I ask. “Alma or me?”

“Sometimes you, sometimes Alma,” Michael says.

“And Alma . . . does she come to our house every day?”

He chortles, as if what I've asked is extraordinarily ridiculous. “Of course not,” he says. “She comes three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. She arrives at nine o'clock in the morning, and she leaves as soon as she has dinner ready. Except sometimes she comes on Friday instead of Thursday, and then she stays in the evening, if you and Daddy are to go out. But you never go out . . .” He pauses. “Until I'm in bed.”

Hmm. Interesting. I decide it's best to change topics again. “So Alma is not there in the mornings before Daddy goes to work . . . or Mitch and Missy go to school.” I consider this. “Does Mama make breakfast?” I can't imagine preparing a good, healthy breakfast for five people. Many mornings in the real world, I barely get my own egg, toast, and juice on the table before I find myself running late for the shop. In this world, I probably serve Froot Loops every morning.

Nonetheless, Michael nods. “You make breakfast,” he confirms. “Except for the weekends. Daddy makes breakfast on the weekends.” I can't see his face, but I can feel it brighten, the way you can sometimes feel the sun through a thin bank of clouds. “Swedish pancakes on Saturdays and waffles on Sundays.”

“Is that right?” I smile, picturing it: Lars, an apron around his waist, pancake batter on a griddle, expertly flipping at just the right golden-brown moment. It must have been a weekend, the last time we were in the house. The morning I first saw Michael, when Lars was in the kitchen.

This leads me to another question. “Michael,” I say quietly. “You love Daddy a lot, don't you?”

Michael gives a happy sigh. “Yes,” he replies. “Oh,
yes
.”

And me? I want to ask. Do you love
me
, Michael?

But I cannot ask that question. I fear its answer too much.

Instead I say, “One more silly question.” I look around. “Do we come to this park a lot, Michael?”

He leans forward, into the cold air. “We didn't used to,” he tells me. “But lately we do.”

I
close my eyes and concentrate on pushing. I am waiting for the dream to end, because these dreams always seem to end on critical moments like this one. But this time, it does not. I open my eyes, and I am still in the park, still feeling the chill of the air through my coat, still pushing skinny Michael on his wooden swing.

“Mama, is it eleven o'clock yet?” Michael asks.

I check my watch. “Almost.”

“We go shopping at eleven,” he informs me.

“Oh. Right. Well, hop off then and let's go get in the car.”

He skips in front of me, leading me to the parking lot and the Chevy station wagon. He climbs in shotgun, and I turn the key in the ignition.

Glancing sideways at Michael, I say, “Ought we to . . . do you think we ought to go by Grandma and Grandpa's house, since we're in the neighborhood?”

He doesn't look at me—not that I expected him to, of course. “If you want to,” he mumbles, staring at the floorboard.

So I drive carefully out of the park. The only other driving I've done of late was as imaginary as this—the few moments in the car with Mitch and Missy, before I slammed on the brakes, wondering where Michael was, and thus ending that dream. Today the dream does not end; my time behind the wheel continues. The roadworthy lessons my father taught me years ago come back more easily than I would have expected. Just like riding a bicycle, I guess. That thought makes me smile, because
in the real world I do ride my bicycle—quite often, in fact, whenever I am not walking or taking the bus. I wonder if I even have a bicycle in this life.

I head east, then turn south on York Street. A few blocks later, I pull up in front of my parents' small brick bungalow on the west side of the street.

The house is still. The shades are drawn. Someone has shoveled the sidewalk in front of the house, but not the four concrete steps leading up from the sidewalk, nor the walkway to the front porch; these are covered in patches of icy snow that look like they've been there for quite some time. I've become used to the house having a quiet calm about it. It's been that way since my parents left on their long vacation, every time I go over to water the plants. But shouldn't I be done with that by now?

I had been planning to park the car, go inside, see my parents' faces. Driving over, I'd felt a lightness at the thought of their familiar voices. My nose had been lifted in anticipation of the particular smell that always pervades the house—I've never been able to nail down precisely what it is; the best I can come up with is a peculiar cross between roasted butternut squash and dried lavender. I'd been looking forward to the way my father's eyes would twinkle at the sight of Michael and me walking up the steps. I'd thought about how my mother's hug would feel: solid, warm, with a brush of soft wool against my cheek—the handmade yellow shawl she throws around her shoulders in the house, because my father keeps the furnace turned low to save money.

Do my parents get along with Michael? Do they know how to say the right things, do the right things, not set him off? I can't know for sure, of course, but I feel confident that they do. I don't know how I know it, but I am certain that Michael loves my parents, that he feels safe and comfortable around them, just as he does with Lars.

Suddenly a memory comes to me, the flash of an imaginary episode.

I
t is the height of summertime, the sun blazing, the air warm, the bushes heavy with their fattest warm-weather foliage. I am walking up the steps to my parents' house, all three children in tow. Lars, behind us, is coming around from the driver's side of my car. Lars and I are both in tennis whites, racquets in tennis bags slung over our shoulders.

We all grin as the front door bursts open and my father comes out. He steps briskly off the front stoop and bends down to take all three children in his arms at once. They wrap themselves around him, hugging him eagerly.

Even Michael.

“Ah, my darlings,” my father says breathlessly, releasing them. “When did I last see you? It seems like forever.”

Missy giggles. “It was last weekend, Grandpa.”

“Only last weekend?” He gives her a look of exaggerated shock. “Surely that can't be so, Missy. It had to be last year. Maybe the year before.”

Michael laughs, and I notice that he looks directly at my father. Looks him straight in the eye. “Grandpa,” he says seriously. “You are
such
a kidder.”

My mother comes outside, glancing at Lars and me, and then at her watch. “Scoot, you two,” she says. “Don't be late for your game.” She places one hand on Michael's shoulder and the other on Mitch's, steering them gently toward the house. My father takes Missy's hand in his.