The Bookseller (20 page)

“I've heard about your bookstore,” Kevin says, clicking his lighter closed. “Been meaning to stop in for ages.”

A likely story. I glare at him and take a sip of wine. I cannot explain why I feel such animosity toward him. It was a long time ago. And look at him now. Would I really want to be married to this man?

No. Of course not. I want to be married to the man who doesn't exist.

I force myself to soften, give Kevin a smile. “And you? How have you been?”

He looks at me for a long time, as if trying to decide how to answer. “Oh,” he says finally. “I guess I get along all right. Got a good practice, internal medicine, working out of Saint Joe's Hospital.” He shrugs. “And I'm on my own now. Maybe you've heard that.”

I shake my head. “No. I hadn't heard.”

“Well.” He stirs his drink with his finger. He always did that, I remember. “Some things are just not meant to be.” He smiles grimly. “Got a couple of good kids out of it, though. Want to see pictures?”

I don't, really, but Frieda replies kindly, “Of course we do.” Kevin pulls out his wallet and flips it open. Two smiling little girls peer out at us from school photographs; the smaller one is missing her two front teeth. “This one's Becky; she's ten,” Kevin says, pointing to the elder. “And Nancy here is eight.”

“Lovely.” Frieda comes in for a quick look, then leans back and takes a long drag on her Salem, watching my eyes carefully.

“Yes, lovely,” I echo. “I'm sure you're very proud of them, Kevin.”

He nods. “Well, what little I see of them—their mother keeps them under lock and key—yeah, they seem to be doing all right.” He shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. “They have a stepfather; he's a decent guy, actually. Better for them than me, really.”

Goodness, it all seems so clichéd, like some B-grade movie. Made the wrong choice, did you, buddy? And look where it got you. Drunk and alone in a bar—and running into your college girlfriend, who clearly would have appreciated you more than that shrew you married ever did.

This strikes me as quite funny, and I stifle a laugh. Mortified, I put my hand over my mouth, hoping Kevin won't notice.

But he does. Gazing darkly at me, he asks. “Something funny, Kitty?”

I shake my head. “No, of course not. I'm sorry your marriage didn't work out.”

He takes a long swallow of Scotch. “Yes,” he says coolly. “I'm sure you are.” He stands and drains his glass. “I shouldn't have come over,” he says crossly. “I don't know why I did. I'm sorry I interrupted your dinner, girls.” He slams his empty glass on our table and stalks back to the bar. We watch in silence as he pays his tab, picks up his overcoat and hat, and strides out the door without a backward glance.

“Well, for heaven's sake,” Frieda says softly. I nod, and we both watch the door where he's disappeared.

“Poor chap,” Frieda says after a few moments. She watches me over her wineglass. “Must make
you
feel good, though.”

“Actually,” I tell her, “it doesn't.” I put my face in my hands. “Freeds, I'm tired,” I say. “I had too much wine. I need to go home.”

She nods. “Me too, sister. Me too.”

A
t home, I crawl into bed, adjust the covers evenly around myself, and then pull Aslan toward me and snuggle him close to my chest. I turn off my bedside lamp and take a deep breath, enjoying the stillness and my solitude.

I am convinced that the dreams won't return. I've seen it all now, haven't I? I've seen what kind of child Michael is. I've seen what I would have to contend with, if the dream life was my real life.

“I get it,” I say aloud in the darkness. It seems silly, saying it out loud, but I want to make sure my subconscious understands. I want to be sure it knows that
I
understand.

There is no such thing as a perfect life. It's not perfect here, and it's not perfect there.

I truly don't expect that I'll wake up there again. In the house with Lars, the children, and my other life.

B
ut I do. This time we are eating what appears to be lunch, seated around the dining room table. The shutters to the kitchen are open, and I spy the cheery fruit-motif wallpaper, sunlight shimmering through the south-facing window. The entire family is at the table with me: Lars, Missy and Mitch, Michael.

I look across the table, meeting Lars's eyes.

“How was it, in that other world?” he asks.

“What?” I startle myself, and everyone else, with the sharpness of my reply. The children stare at me, half-eaten sandwiches in their hands. Lars gives me a curious look.

“Sorry,” he says. “You just seemed like you were a million miles away. In some other world.”

“Oh.” I smile. “I suppose I was.”

The children go back to their sandwiches. Peanut butter and grape jelly, it looks like, judging from their purple-smeared faces. On each child's plate is a small stack of carrot sticks and the remains of a pile of potato chips; evidently they ate the chips first, before the sandwiches and vegetables. Mitch and Missy eat delicately, holding their sandwiches with their fingertips, like little bear cubs licking a handful of honey. Michael is not eating his sandwich at all; instead he is pulling it apart into small bits that he rolls into balls, then arranges neatly around the perimeter of his plate. I turn my gaze away from him, hoping my distaste doesn't show. And hating myself for feeling this way about my own—albeit imaginary—child.

I look down at my plate, and glance at Lars's. He and I are eating chef salads. Did I make this? It's quite elaborate, with carefully arranged slices of Swiss cheese, hard-boiled egg, olives, and delicatessen ham and turkey on a bed of iceberg lettuce. In real life, I would never make something this fancy for lunch. Frieda and I usually have a sandwich from the shop down the street, or else I brown-bag it with what the children are eating today, peanut butter and jelly.

“So, what's on the docket for the afternoon?” Lars asks. He sets his fork on his empty salad plate and wipes his mouth with a blue-flowered paper napkin.

“Celebrity Lanes, Daddy!” Mitch cries, and Missy enthusiastically nods in agreement.

Michael, I note, remains expressionless.

I've heard of Celebrity, although I've never been there. It's on Colorado Boulevard, the same street as the University Hills Shopping Center, several miles north. It opened a few years ago. I believe its official name is Celebrity Sports Center, and in addition to bowling, they have a swimming pool, arcade games, and other amusements. I'm sure it's delightful if you have children, or like bowling. Since neither of those is true in my real life, I have not found occasion to visit Celebrity. Besides, like the shopping center, it's difficult to get to without a car.

“Maybe Mickey will be there,” Missy says, and I remember reading in the
Denver Post
that Walt Disney owns the place, and his characters make regular appearances.

Lars tilts his head thoughtfully. “It will be busy there. It might take a while to get a lane.”

“We'll be patient,” Missy promises. “Anyways, there's lots to do while we wait.”

“Anyway,” I correct her. “It's not ‘anyways,' Missy—it's ‘anyway.'”

She ducks her head, chided. “Sorry, Mama.”

Lars smiles. “Mama the schoolmarm.” His eyes twinkle at me across the long table. “Once a teacher, always a teacher. Right, Katharyn?”

I raise my eyebrows. “That was a long time ago.”

He lifts his glass and takes a sip of water. “A whole other lifetime ago.”

I don't reply. Instead, I get up to clear the table. As I am rising, Michael swings his arm in front of himself, and his milk glass tumbles over.

“Michael!” I say harshly. His face crumples, and I can tell he's about to start shrieking.

I put my hand to my mouth. “It's okay,” I tell him, softening.
“It happens. We'll clean it up.” Lars comes around the table and puts both hands on Michael's shoulders, trying to calm him before he explodes.

I go through the swinging doors to the kitchen. While I am getting a dishcloth from the sink, Lars appears behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “Everything okay in there?” I ask.

“Yes, he's fine. I got to him in time.”

I nod, relieved. Lars nuzzles my neck. “You don't seem too enthused about our afternoon plans.”

I shrug.

“Honey.” He spins me to face him. “Let me take them. You take the day off. Go do something you enjoy.”

I can feel my face brighten. “Really? Are you sure?”

He laughs. “Of course. You need it, love. You've had a hard week.”

I bite my lip. “I really have,” I reply. “And there are things . . . I need to do some things, so yes . . . thank you, Lars.”

“You take all the time you need,” he says. “Take the Cadillac. Go shopping. Go see Linnea, get your hair done.”

B
ut shopping and getting my hair done—even by Linnea, who I'm dying to see in this world, if for no other reason than to see how she compares with the Linnea in my other world—these are the last things on my mind. Although I do plan to go to one shop in particular.

If indeed such a shop exists.

I wanted to ask Lars what day it is, but I would have felt silly doing so. Since he's home during the day, it must be the weekend. I'm hoping it's Saturday, not Sunday. If it's Saturday, Sisters' ought to be open. A few years ago, Frieda and I decided
to open on Saturdays. It cuts off our weekends, certainly, but it makes good business sense. With so many women in the workforce these days, we want to cater to not only the housewife but also the working girl. So now Sisters' is open Tuesday through Saturday each week. We are still closed on Sundays, of course, as are all the businesses on our street. We're also closed on Mondays, making those our own personal Saturdays.

After bidding good-bye to the family, I head to the garage and slide behind the wheel of Lars's car, backing it carefully out of the garage.

The Cadillac is a dream to drive. It seems to have every imaginable convenience: firm but cushiony Naugahyde seats, a heating system that cranks to life and warms me within minutes of turning on the ignition, and an automatic transmission. All I have to do is shift the car into R to back down the driveway and then D to move forward. The steering is remarkably responsive; as I make a left onto Dartmouth Avenue, the car turns with a flick of the wheel. It must be the new power steering that my father has mentioned, wistfulness in his voice; my hardworking father hasn't had a new car in a dozen years or more. I smile, wondering if, here in the dream world, Lars lets him drive the Cadillac. My father would be in heaven, driving this car.

I turn on the radio and tune it to KIMN. They're playing that new song by Patsy Cline, the song that Lars and I heard in the restaurant the night we were there with his clients. I hum along softly.

The car glides smoothly up University Boulevard. I take a left on Evans and head west. Everything looks the same as always. The same University of Denver taverns, drugstores, and filling stations, the same buildings on campus. I note this with slight surprise; the world has not turned upside down just because
my
life is different.

On Pearl, I turn right and head north. There's not much auto traffic. It's a crisp, clear day—no snow in the skies and I'm guessing none in the forecast, at least not here in town. The mountains in the distance to my left are bright with freshly fallen snow; even from here, I can see the sheen that the sun puts on them.

When I reach our block, I cruise by slowly. I'm dismayed, but not entirely surprised, by what I see: Sisters' Bookshop is not there. Bennett and Sons, Attorneys-at-Law, still have their office in the right-hand side of the building. But the display windows on Frieda's and my side are boarded up, and there is a hand-printed
FOR LEASE
sign on the door. Bradley's telephone number is printed beneath the words. The sign is faded and weathered; it looks as if it's been there for a long time. Months, at least, perhaps years.

I park across the street and walk toward what used to be my bookshop.

I
don't know exactly what to do. The glass-fronted door has no board over it, so I peer inside. It's empty. All of our shelves, our countertop—everything is gone. The linoleum floor is bare; the Turkish rugs that we bought secondhand at a thrift store have disappeared. The posters on the wall announcing the latest books and movies—vanished. The door to the back room hangs open, but it's too dark to see past it. But I know what would be there—nothing.

I turn toward the doorway at the side of the building. It leads up a flight of stairs to Bradley's apartment above the store. His number is on the
FOR LEASE
sign; that means he must still own the building. Does he still live upstairs, too? I tread carefully up the stairs and knock on his apartment door.

No one answers for a full five minutes. I am about to leave
when finally the door slowly opens. Bradley looks older here than he does in the other world. He is hunched over, his kind brown eyes behind their spectacles sunk deep into ashy sockets. It takes him a moment to figure out who I am.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” he says finally. “If it isn't Miss Kitty.”

Hearing someone speak my name—my real name, in this unreal world—almost moves me to tears, and I blink rapidly a few times. “Bradley.” My voice cracks a bit. “It's good to see you.”

He opens the door wider. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

I shrug. “I was . . . in the neighborhood, and I just . . .” I lower my eyes, look away, then back at him. “I thought I'd stop by.”

“Well, come in.” He opens the door the rest of the way. “I was just making tea. Would you like some?”