The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

  Both Mitch and Missy burst into peals of laughter. “Of course we can, Mama,” Mitch replies. “It’s Mr. Kennedy. And Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy have a little girl. And a baby boy too.”

  “And you’re always saying that all you want in life is to be as fashionable as Mrs. Kennedy,” Missy adds, enthusiasm pumped into her breathless words like water pouring from a broken faucet.

  I shake my head, realizing how absurd it is to quiz the children in this manner. The name of the president proves nothing. It could be 1963—or 1965, or even 1968. Despite everyone’s concerns over Cuba and those appalling Communists, I have no doubt that Jack Kennedy will be reelected in 1964. No one doubts that. So this could be any year in which he is still president.

  I ought to have just asked Mitch and Missy straight out what year it is. But that seems too harebrained a question to ask. They might think I’m more loopy than they already do.

  We walk along the concrete pathway of the shopping center. Music is piped in from somewhere above us; I think it is that song about the flowers and girls and soldiers, that song Pete Seeger wrote and several artists have recorded. It is pleasant and lyrical, and even on this slightly chilly day it puts you in the mood for strolling and browsing—and with any luck buying, as no doubt the merchants desire. I wonder if Frieda and I ought to consider playing some soft background music in our bookstore. Would that make customers more apt to browse, and consequentially to buy?

  The children eagerly lead me along the wide boulevard. Large juniper bushes in beige stone planters are positioned every few feet. Women chat animatedly with each other as they gaze into the sparkling storefront windows. Children run screeching down the broad passageway, only to be sharply reprimanded and drawn back by their mothers. I see very few men walking about. Clearly, this is a women’s world.

  I can see now what Frieda is talking about when she brings up closing our Pearl Street shop and moving to a shopping center like this. We are in the wrong place. That world—the streetcar world in which she and I grew up—it’s gone now. This is the new world—this bright, clean shopping center with its fresh stores and gleaming walkways. Perhaps Frieda is right. Perhaps if we want to survive, this is where we are meant to be.

  “Here it is!” Mitch and Missy gape at a brilliantly lit sign: BLUEBELL TOYS, in large, cobalt letters. Below the sign, a double doorway, opened wide despite the slight nip in the air, leads to lavish, irresistible displays of playthings. The displays are placed just inside the doorway; it almost seems that they are alive, with long arms reaching out to smoothly pull the children inside.

  “Come on, Mama!” Mitch and Missy tug impatiently on my hands, and we step into the store.

  Bluebell Toys is a child’s paradise. Board games, baby dolls, pop guns, and all manner of dress-up clothes, from princess costumes to Western wear. Mitch heads straight for the cars and trucks section, and begins zooming a large metal dump truck across the carpeting. Missy dreamily enters the Barbie doll aisle, studying the racks of clothes designed especially for the fashionable plastic teen. I can see both children from the front entrance, so I stay where I am, looking over the store’s minuscule book section. These are all the books they carry? I didn’t see a book department at May-D&F, though there may have been one on an upper floor. I wonder if there is another bookstore in the shopping center, with a bigger selection for both children and adults.

  I am about to ask the checkout girl this very question when a voice behind me loudly proclaims, “Katharyn! Fancy meeting you here!”

  Turning, I am confronted by my hostess from the snow-blown cocktail party of my last dream. Instead of the pin-striped satin dress, today she is modestly attired in a brown coat and a burgundy silk scarf. She wears a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. This makes her look older—although, as I noted at her party, I actually suspect she is a good ten years younger than I. Holding her hand is a small boy—bigger than a baby, but not as old as my children.

  “Hello.” Of course, I still don’t know her name. I catch Missy’s eye and motion her toward us. Maybe she can rescue me.

  Missy skips over obligingly. “Hi, Mrs. Nelson.” She bends down to greet the toddler. “And hi there, Kenny. How are you today?” She reaches toward the little guy and pinches his cheek, the way a grandmother might. Gracious, this girl is an old soul if I ever saw one. She reminds me so much of myself as a child, I cannot contain my emotions. I want to hug her, hold on to her forever. I have to resist an impulse to bend down, grab her around the waist, and bury my face in her hair.

  Watching her, I am struck by a thought. I would give anything—anything in the world—for this child of my heart to be real. To be real, and to be mine.

  Missy’s calling the woman Mrs. Nelson, however, is of absolutely no help. Mrs. Nelson and I are neighbors and adults—and, as an aside, her husband made a pass at me the other evening in their dimly lit hallway. Of course we’d be on a first-name basis. But Missy, being a child, and a polite one at that, would naturally address this woman by her surname. How exasperating.

  “Shopping or just browsing?” Mrs. Nelson asks me. Missy looks up expectantly, waiting for my response.

  I don’t have to think about that for long. Suddenly I don’t care what Lars would think, or what the protocol is. These are good children, and they deserve a treat.

  “Shopping,” I answer firmly. “Missy, go pick out one of those Barbie outfits for yourself. And tell Mitch that he can get a car or truck. Nothing over three dollars.” I have no idea what three dollars buys in the way of toy trucks, but it seems like it ought to be enough to get something significant.

  “Special occasion?” Mrs. Nelson asks, as Missy skips off. “It’s not their birthday, is it?”

  Aha. So they are twins, just as I’d suspected.

  I shrug. “No special occasion,” I reply. “Sometimes you just need to spoil them a little . . . right?” I say this last weakly, my resolve flushed away by my inexperience, like so much trash in a rainy gutter. Maybe I am taking a huge misstep here.

  Mrs. Nelson raises her eyebrows. “Well, under the circumstances, I’d certainly agree.” She places her hand on my arm. “You know, Katharyn,” she goes on, her voice lowered. “I must mention, I saw your Lars taking the children over to the golf course on Sunday afternoon, the day after our party. All bundled up and with their sleds dragging behind them. Delightful. And I didn’t see them return for a good two hours. Now, I know Kenny here isn’t much more than a baby . . .” She looks down at him affectionately; he tries to pull away from her, but she tightens her grip. “But even so, I cannot imagine George taking over Kenny’s care for a whole afternoon that way.” She shrugs. “It just wouldn’t happen, you see, not in my house.”

  Kenny starts to whine, and Mrs. Nelson reaches down to hoist him to her hip. “Your Lars is a good man,” she tells me—as if I didn’t already know this. “You got a good one, Katharyn. They aren’t—” Kenny’s wails become louder; he clearly wants to run around the store with the bigger kids. Mrs. Nelson sets him down again. “The husbands aren’t all like yours,” she finishes. “You’re very lucky, you know.”

  “Lucky.” Yes, I suppose I am. Or I would be, if any of this were real.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Nelson puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” Her face turns red. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t kind of me to say that.”

  Wasn’t it? It sounded kind to me.

  “I mean, after . . . everything.” She shrugs, and I can see that she feels she’s backed herself into a corner, though I have no idea why. “I just meant that Lars is a good man, a good father,” she says hastily. “I know that we all—every one of us—we all have some things to be thankful for, and some things . . . some things . . .”

  Young Kenny saves her from further embarrassment. He starts crying so loudly that neither of us would be able to continue our conversation even if we wanted to. “I’d better take him out of here,” Mrs. Nelson says, picking him up. “This boy needs an early dinne
r and an early bedtime.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “I understand.”

  “I’m sure you do. Look at me, with just the one. I cannot imagine what the toddler years must have been like in your house!” Mrs. Nelson lifts her fingers in a small wave. “Bye, now, Katharyn. You enjoy the rest of your day.” She is gone before I can say anything else.

  After we have purchased their selections—I can tell that Mitch and Missy think they’ve hit some sort of jackpot, getting a new toy for no reason—we walk back along the concrete pathway toward the parking lot. I look around. Suddenly I know where we are. This is the University Hills Shopping Center, out on Colorado Boulevard, on the east side of town. This shopping center has been in operation for a decade or so, but May-D&F only opened their store here a few years ago. I have been here once or twice, but honestly, for me it’s easier to take the bus downtown or walk over to Broadway. This place is only convenient if you have a car.

  Which, in this life, surely I must. “Do you two remember where we parked?” I ask Mitch and Missy. The sun has disappeared behind a cloud, and I lean down to button her coat, to adjust his woolen cap more tightly on his head against the wind.

  “Silly Mama.” They swing their toy-shop bags happily, and with their free hands each take one of mine. Balancing the shopping bag with the shoe boxes in it over one arm, I let them lead me to a dark green Chevrolet station wagon with wood-paneled doors.

  “I call front seat!” Mitch yells. He opens the passenger-side front door and scrambles happily onto the brown vinyl seat. Missy whines that it isn’t fair. I shoot her an ominous look, and she grudgingly opens the rear door and slides in, opening her bag to inspect the evening gown she’s chosen for Barbie.

  After finding keys in my purse, I get into the driver’s seat. It feels odd to sit there. I haven’t driven a car in years, not since Kevin and I were together; he used to loan me his car occasionally, if he didn’t need it. Praying that I will remember how to shift the gears and simultaneously operate the clutch, I turn the key in the ignition.

  I am going along just fine, making my way across the parking lot, when a wave of panic hits me. I punch my foot down hard on the brake. In doing so, I forget all about the clutch, and the car stalls.

  “Mama!” Both children are hurtled forward, and I instinctively reach my arm across the front seat to prevent Mitch’s forehead from hitting the dash.

  “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.”

  Chapter 12

  Heavens, 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.

  At 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 c
enter.”

  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.”

  That 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.”