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?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you, Bradley.”
While he is in the kitchen, I look around. His apartment, I note with relief, has not changed. Same old gray sofa with the stuffing coming out, same tweed armchair by the window, pulled a little closer to the television set than I remember. Same small, battered wooden dining table with four chairs. Enough space, he always said, for himself and his three grandchildren to sit there at the same time.
Bradley appears, a teacup held shakily in each hand. I step forward and take one of the cups. Our hands touch; his are rough from the cold of winter and the depths of old age.
“Please, sit,” he says, pointing toward the table.
I take a seat, and Bradley sets down his tea and pulls out the chair across from me. “How are you?” he asks, settling himself. “And that nice husband, and the children—how is everyone?”
I smile and sip my tea. “We’re all fine, Bradley. Just fine.” I put down my teacup. “See here, I’m a bit confused, and I hope you can help me out. I’m not sure what happened or why we don’t have the shop anymore.” I look down at the floor. “And where Frieda is,” I say, looking up. “I don’t know where Frieda is.”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation—but truthfully, what do I care? It’s going to end soon anyway, and I’ll be safe at home in my apartment. So I may as well say what I wish.
Bradley looks at me for a long time. “You don’t know where Frieda is?”
I shake my head.
“Did something happen, Kitty? Something to make you not . . . remember things?”
“I don’t know!” I burst out. “I think I’m dreaming, Bradley—this is a dream, right? This is not real, this is just made up in my head, and I’m just going along with it. But some parts of it . . . some parts . . .” I shake my head, not sure what I want to say. “Some things in this world make perfect sense, and are wonderful,” I go on. “Lars—my husband—he’s amazing. Truly amazing. I’ve never met anyone like him. I love him, with all my heart.” I feel my face warm with bliss when I say this, and I smile in spite of myself, picturing my beautiful dream man. “And the children—well, two of them, Mitch and Missy, they’re darlings. Michael is . . . Michael is . . .”
Bradley nods, and when I can’t continue, he speaks softly. “It’s all right, Kitty. I know what Michael is.”
This acknowledgment, this gentle understanding from this gentle man, gives me more relief than anything—with the exception of Lars’s clear devotion—that I’ve experienced thus far in this dream world. I want to hug Bradley, and I have to put my arms down firmly at my sides to keep myself from doing so. “Thank you,” I tell him quietly. “Thank you for . . .” I don’t know what to else to say, so I just finish, “the tea.”
Bradley smiles. “Any time.”
“You’re okay . . . without a . . . tenant downstairs?”
He shrugs. “I’m okay. Building’s been paid for a long time now. Just gotta keep up with the taxes and utilities, and the Bennetts’ rent and the apartment next door mostly cover it. My sons want me to sell, but I like it here. I don’t want to get kicked out, and I don’t—” He grins. “God knows, I love my grandchildren. But I do not want to live with them.”
I smile in return, then reach forward and take his leathery hand. “Where is Frieda?” I ask him softly. “Tell me, where is Frieda, and where is our shop?”
Bradley squeezes my hand, then releases it. He stands and picks ups his empty teacup. “She’s moved on,” he says. “Bigger and better things, Kitty.” He shakes his head, looking out the window. “I can’t tell you exactly where, because I don’t know,” he goes on. “She closed here and opened in that newfangled shopping center on Colorado Boulevard.” He looks back at me. “But I think—and this is just what I hear from others, because God knows she doesn’t come around here anymore—I think that was just the beginning.”
I leave Bradley’s apartment and get in the Cadillac. Placing the key in the ignition, I take one last look at the quiet old building. But there is nothing more to see there, so I turn my head, put the car in gear, and pull away from the curb.
I drive around the corner and turn south on Washington Street. A few blocks later, I park across from my old duplex. Here, too, things are silent. Absent are the shimmery purple drapes that hang in my front windows in the real world. Instead, the curtains are light blue with daisies printed on them. I find them fussy-looking, not like anything I would have selected.
Over on the Hansens’ side of the building, the shades are drawn. I wonder if they still live there. In the real world, the Hansens’ home was dark last night by the time I returned from my dinner with Frieda, so I didn’t get to see Greg and commiserate with him about the Giants’ loss in the last game of the World Series. I wonder what I can interest him in now. Perhaps football? Let’s hope so. I laugh at myself, thinking about this. I couldn’t care less about football. But if Greg is interested—why then, I shall become interested, too.
I wonder how Greg is doing with his reading, in this dream world. I am curious whether someone else is helping him, since in this life, I’m not here to do so.
Kevin and I saw a film a couple of years after the war, a Christmas story called It’s a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart starred as a man who, contemplating suicide on Christmas Eve, was given the opportunity to see what the world would have been like if he’d never been born. As we emerged from the theater after the show ended, Kevin said he thought the film was hugely sentimental, with an obvious plot and far-fetched characters. He scoffed at the storyline as Christmastime sappiness, with a singular intention: selling movie tickets.
True, I conceded, but you have to admit that it gives you something to think about. “It does give you pause, thinking about your own life,” I’d added, “and who you’ve affected over the years.”
Kevin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Movies like that are made for women,” he said. “Your gender is entirely too romantic, Kitty.”
I smile now, remembering this conversation, remembering the movie. I think about seeing Kevin at C.J.’s last night. And I wonder if he’d still feel that way, were he to see that movie now, all these years later.
And I? What do I think? Am I having the effect on others that I want? I’m helping Greg, in the real world. Moreover, I’m thoroughly enjoying it.
In fact, nothing else going on there right now—not Sisters’, not Frieda, not even thinking about my parents coming home soon—gives me as much pleasure as seeing Greg learn to read, seeing the world of literature open up for him.
I take one last look at the duplex, then pull away from the curb. When I drive past Mr. Morris’s house down the block, I slow down, turning my head to see if my nonagenarian neighbor is sitting in his rocking chair on the porch. But he is not there, so I speed up again. Keeping my eyes and the long hood of the Cadillac facing forward, I hastily leave Washington Street and the old neighborhood behind.
At the shopping center, I head directly for the storefront that had been empty, the one Frieda has her eye on. Of course, I don’t imagine it will be empty in this world.
Not only is the store a bookshop, but it’s twice the size of the available space in the real world. Frieda must have taken over the unit next door, as well. Over both units is a large sign: GREEN’S BOOKS AND NEWS.
Of course. This store is hers, not ours. This bookstore belongs to Frieda Green. It does not belong to two would-be sisters. It’s no surprise that she changed the name.
I peer through the glass, trying to be inconspicuous, looking at the displays inside. The store is bustling; customers browse dozens of stacks filled with books, magazines, newspapers, reading material of all sorts. Toward the right-hand side, I see a young male clerk helping someone reach a book on a high shelf. Nearby, in the fiction area, two middle-aged women huddle, comparing the covers of novels, evidently trying to decide what looks interesting. One of them is holding a book with block lettering and a Jewish star on the cover. Squinting and learning forward, I can just make out the title—The King’s Persons. The woman opens the book and scans the first few pages, then speaks to her friend, who shrugs and takes the book in her hands. She flips through the pages and says something to her companion before tucking the book under her arm, in all likelihood intending to purchase it. The two women—shoulders pressed together, heads bent toward one another, talking books—remind me of Frieda and myself. Of Frieda and myself in my real life, that is. It saddens me to look at them; I bite my lip and turn away.
I glance at the checkout counter. My heart beats rapidly in my chest. I expect to see Frieda, all her confidence and swinging hair, running her show. But that doesn’t happen. Frieda is not there at all, at least not anywhere that I can see. Instead, a young shopgirl sits behind the counter on a tall stool, her eyes down, reading something in front of her on the counter.
I take a deep breath and step inside. Walking toward the register, I put on what I hope is a spirited smile, and face the shopgirl.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Despite my bravado, I am at a loss. “I was just . . . I was looking for . . .” I glance around helplessly, as if the answer will appear before me if I sweep my eyes around the brightly lit shop. I turn back to her and shrug. “I think I’d just like to browse.”
She smiles and waves her hand. “Go ahead, ma’am. If you have any questions, be sure to let me know.” She turns to wait on a customer who has queued up behind me.
I walk to the front stacks. The two women have moved on, and I have this area to myself. The stacks are filled with best sellers, romances, books with colorful covers. I immediately spy the new anthology by J. D. Salinger, which we’ve heard is coming out in early 1963. In this bright new bookstore, Frieda has almost a full row of copies of the new Salinger on display, highlighting its mustard-colored cover, its title in simple, modern text with no other artwork. There are numerous copies of Seven Days in May, the military thriller that was just gaining momentum back in my real world. I spot a shelf stocked with another nuclear-war-themed novel, Fail-Safe. In the real world, Frieda and I have preordered twenty copies of that book, which is due for release any day now. Clearly, Fail-Safe is making its mark in my imaginary 1963. Maybe, I think with amusement, I should increase our order quantity, back in the real world.
I pick up a copy of the book that the two women were looking at, and one of them bought—The King’s Persons, by Joanne Greenberg. About dozen copies are lined up on the shelf. To their left, a small poster is propped up with an easel: NEWLY RELEASED! LOCAL AUTHOR! On it is a photograph of a rather serious-looking young woman, along with a glowing review of The King’s Persons from the February 17, 1963, Denver Post. I’ve never heard of this novel, nor of Joanne Greenberg, but I make a mental note to find out more about her when I return to real life. And then I smile inwardly; how entertaining it is to be able to predict the future—albeit an imaginary future—in such a vibrant, meticulous way! Perhaps if I let go more often in these dreams, simply rolled with them as I did at first, I would enjoy them more.
A large copy of a Henri Matisse paper cutout—its vivid black, blue, green, and yellow hues attracting my eyes—hangs between two tall bookshelves. I recognize it immediately; I even know its name, The Sorrows of the King. Matisse created this work in 1952, toward the end of his life, when he worked with cutouts instead of painting. I have no idea how I know this; I’ve never seen it before. It’s very to-the-moment, exactly the kind of thing Frieda would adore.
And then, suddenly, I realize that I have seen it before. A lithograph of The Sorrows of the King was displayed in the window of a gallery in Paris, when Lars and I were there on our honeymoon. I remember standing on the street with my new husband, my arm tucked into his, staring at it. Both of us were silent, overcome with the beauty of the simple figures, the colors, the blackness in the center. “It just stays with you,” Lars whispered. “Close your eyes, Katharyn, and you can still see it in your mind’s eye. You can still see the colors.”
I closed my eyes and squeezed his arm, taking it in. “Frieda would love this piece,” I said, opening my eyes. “I must tell her about it when we get home.”
Yes, I remember that.
I glance at the counter, where the shopgirl has finished ringing up the customer who was waiting earlier. I walk back over. “What a lovely store,” I say. “Have you worked here long?”
She shrugs. “A few months. It’s a nice place to work, especially if you love books.” She smiles again; she has a pretty smile, with very white teeth. “My friend who works at the Bear Valley Green’s told me about it. Said I should apply. So I did, and I was fortunate to get the job.”
“At the . . .” I shake my head, confused.
“Bear Valley,” the girl says patiently. “You know, the shopping center in Lakewood.”
I frown. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of it.”
The girl gives me a curious look. “Well, it’s one of our six.”
“Your six?”
“Six Green’s Books and News locations,” she explains.
What she says doesn’t register for a moment. “I’m sorry, did you just say . . .”
“There are six stores,” she says, handing me a brochure. “This one we’re in, this is the original.”
I glance at the brochure. It lists the shop here in University Hills, plus a location in downtown Denver; the one the shopgirl mentioned at Bear Valley; another one in Thornton, a Denver suburb to the north; and two in Colorado Springs. The photographs of the other stores show gleaming new locations in shopping centers or on busy commercial streets.
Of course there is no photograph of the tiny, dingy, long-closed Pearl Street store.
“This place has become soooo popular.” The shopgirl sighs. “Miss Green put out a letter to all employees last week about another store that’s opening in the spring, in Boulder. She says we’re only going to get bigger and bigger.”
“Miss Green . . . do you mean Frieda Green?”
“Yes, that’s her. Do you know her, ma’am?”
“I used to,” I say slowly. “It was a long time ago.” I straighten up a bit and tap the brochure in my hand. “Tell me, where would I find Miss Green these days? Does she work in one of these other stores?”
The shopgirl laughs. “Of course not,” she says. “She’s got a big office downtown. A—what’s it called? A corporate headquarters. It’s on the same block as the downtown Green’s. I went there for the company Christmas party.” She smiles shyly. “I felt like a church mouse; they were all so glamorous.”
I take another breath and plunge in again. “Do you know . . . maybe this is a silly question, but do you know about . . . Miss Green used to have a business partner. A Miss Miller. Kitty Miller . . .”
The Bookseller Page 16
