The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

  C.J.’s Tavern, despite its name and despite having a small lounge that opens into the dining room, is not actually a tavern. It’s a Mexican restaurant on Santa Fe Drive. We have to take three buses to get there, but, as Frieda says, it’s worth it. You can’t grow up in Denver without learning to love Mexican food, and C.J.’s has the best chiles rellenos in town.

  Frieda and I are both upbeat at dinner. I am eternally grateful to be here with her, without having to think about that other world. As for Frieda, she simply seems happy and carefree. I know she’s been worried about the shop, so it’s reassuring to see her so animated.

  We talk about the vacant storefront we saw in the shopping center at University Hills. A few days ago Frieda called the manager and set up an appointment for us to look at its interior. “It’s not that unreasonable, you know,” she tells me. “Yes, it’s more than we’re spending now for rent. A lot more. But when you run the numbers . . . I’ve been going over it, both in my head and on paper, and I think that it would only be a few months before we’d start turning a profit.”

  “And what until then?” I ask. “Where would we get the capital?”

  She sips her wine. “I can’t go to my parents for money. We’d have to get another bank loan.” Before I can open my mouth to protest, she goes on. “I know my father cosigned our last loan. And I know that the bank might turn us down without his cosignature on a new loan. And yes—we still owe on our current loan. I know all that.” She sets down her glass. “But if we could convince the bank that we’re going in the right direction, that this move would keep us from going under . . .” She shrugs. “Don’t you think they’d prefer to extend us just a little bit, rather than have to foreclose on us?”

  I take a big gulp from my wineglass. It sounds so daunting. It sounds like the big time. Like really going out on a limb, much more so than we did when we opened our little shop eight years ago.

  Frieda’s eyes are dreamy. “We could be big, you know,” she says, leaning toward me. “This could be just the start. There are shopping centers like that cropping up all over the place. And the stores that make big money—they have a formula, you know, a style, something that people come to expect when they walk in.” She shrugs again. “Now, that hasn’t been done much in the book business, at least not in Denver. But that could change, right? Who’s to say a chain of bookstores couldn’t work? If it works for hamburgers and hardware, why not for books?”

  Why not indeed? She has a point. A truly good point. I can’t deny it.

  Still—this feels like her gig, not mine. Like she could do this whether I was there or not. She could take all that glowing confidence she’s always had; she could use it to sail into whatever success story she wanted to write for herself.

  “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” I ask.

  Frieda shrugs. “I’ve been thinking this through for years, Kitty.”

  I don’t know how to answer that. I take a bite of my chile relleno and push the rice about on my plate.

  Frieda glances over my shoulder. “Don’t turn your head,” she whispers. “But I have to tell you who I see sitting alone at the bar.”

  “Who?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Kevin.”

  Kevin? Good grief, I haven’t seen him in more than a decade. “How does he look?” I ask Frieda.

  She watches him from the corner of her eye. “Tired,” she says finally. “And old.” She smiles. “He looks old, Kitty. You ought to be happy about that.”

  I laugh. “Well, I look old, too.”

  Frieda drains her wineglass and lights up a Salem. “Not with that dazzling new hairstyle, you don’t.”

  I put my hand to my head. Linnea’s work has held up well, although I do have an appointment to see her again next week. It’s true that when I look in the mirror these days, I see a fresher, more attractive Kitty than I’ve seen in a long time. But how much of that is a new hairstyle? And how much of it is the fact that—at night when I’m asleep, anyway—I am madly in love with my perfect dream husband?

  “I think Kevin just noticed me,” Frieda says. “And you, too. He’s getting up.” She lowers her voice. “Take a deep breath, sister. He’s on his way over.”

  She looks up at him and smiles, and that gives me an excuse to turn my head. I feign surprise, but I’m sure he’s not fooled.

  “Hey. I thought it was you two.” Kevin leans over our table. He is as long and gangly as he was back in the day, with those sloping shoulders of his. Still built like an adolescent boy. I realize that I have become used to Lars’s broad back and shoulders, his stockiness, which complements my own. Kevin and I were never a very good match physically. He was too tall when we danced; the top of my head barely made it to his collarbone, and I felt like I was straining my neck looking up at him. He always tried to get me to wear the highest heels possible, to get us closer in size. That only made things worse; my feet would be killing me by the end of the evening. He also thought I was too chubby, although he did appreciate my bountiful breasts. Despite these noteworthy assets, he was constantly urging me to go on a diet.

  Unlike Lars, Kevin has managed to hang on to his hair all these years. He always had a lot of it, dark and wavy, and he still does. His eyes are the same warm brown they always were, but they look glassy. I can tell he’s had too much to drink.

  Frieda motions toward the empty chair between us, then stubs out her smoke in the ashtray by her side. “Have a seat, Kev.”

  He pulls out the chair and sits. I give Frieda a questioning look. She glances down at her hands, which are folded neatly in front of her; she ever-so-slightly motions with her right pinkie toward her left ring finger. I sneak a peek at Kevin’s left hand and see that it is ringless.

  Aha. Did she see that from all the way across the room? Or did she just guess it, since he’s here all by himself this late at night? Married men—happily married men, at any rate—are not sitting alone in a bar at this time of night. They are at home with their wives, their children, and probably in most cases the proverbial family dog.

  “Long time,” Kevin says. He has brought his drink, and he empties it and motions to the waitress to bring him another. “You girls fancy a round on me?”

  Now this is a surprise. He was always a cheapskate. Not that he didn’t pay for our dates, of course, but I always felt like he took me to the most inexpensive places he could get away with, and spent as little on me as he could. Even for my birthday and Christmas, his presents were things like a tiny bottle of perfume or a cut-rate scarf or hat. He always said he was saving for our future. Well, that didn’t turn out to be all that accurate, did it?

  Frieda nods at the offer of a drink. The waitress brings Kevin another Scotch and the bottle to fill our wineglasses. “On my tab,” Kevin says pointedly. The waitress smiles stiffly at Frieda and me, and withdraws from the table.

  “How is life treating you girls?” Kevin relaxes back in his seat, and for a moment I think he’s going to fall over backward. Good heavens, how many has he had? You’d think, on a weeknight, out in public—and him a doctor now, too; I can’t forget that. You’d think a doctor with a drinking habit would be more discreet.

  “We’ve been quite well,” Frieda replies. “We have a bookstore on South Pearl Street.”

  Kevin nods. He pulls a pack of Pall Malls from his jacket pocket and lights one. Frieda immediately joins him by selecting a Salem from her pack on the table. He holds out his lighter to her, and she leans forward to accept the flame he offers. I watch them both silently, trying to relax my heated face and my furrowed brows.

  “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 e
xist.

  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.”

  Chapter 17

  At 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.

  But 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 enthuse
d 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.”

  But 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.