The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

  I smile. “It’s not quite like that. These dreams, Frieda . . . they’re so real. It’s hard to explain. But here’s the thing: it could have happened. My whole life, in these dreams, turns on an event that happened eight years ago.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry, honey, I’m not following you at all.”

  So I tell her. I explain about Lars and the telephone call, and about how in the dream world, we stayed on the line long enough for me to, in essence, save his life. It sounds corny when I say it. Probably because it is, I remind myself.

  Frieda has lit and smoked a second cigarette during my long discourse; now she stubs it out and regards me playfully. “Must be your long-lost husband who died.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t remember?” She twirls her empty coffee cup on the counter. “Years ago, we had a conversation in which we speculated about why we hadn’t met the men of our dreams. And you cracked a good one. You said—and I think I am directly quoting you here—‘Well, the only explanation that could possibly make sense is that he died before I had a chance to meet him.’”

  I am silent for a moment, taking this in. I do remember that conversation. We had it over drinks downtown one night; I think we were celebrating our five-hundredth book sold, or something such. “I can’t believe I actually said that.”

  “Oh, you said it, all right.” Thoughtfully, she fingers her coffee cup. “So, how does this fairy tale end?”

  I shrug. “As you would expect it to,” I tell her. “We fall in love and get married. Quite quickly, within a year, and not long after that I get pregnant and we think it’s twins, and when they’re born, it turns out they’re triplets.”

  Frieda bursts out laughing. “Jesus H., this gets better and better,” she says. “Tell me you get fat as a pig from having them—please.”

  “I’m already fat,” I point out, smiling.

  Frieda shakes her head. “You are not fat, Kitty.” She pours herself more coffee, and holds out the pot to me. “You’re generously endowed, sister.”

  I roll my eyes, accept a refill, and wait for her to sit down. “The thing is,” I tell her, “the thing is, at first it did seem perfect. He was perfect. The house was perfect. The children were perfect—well, sort of, but that’s another story. But now, the more time I spend there, the less . . .”

  I trail off, because I don’t know how to explain any of it. Not Michael and my guilt about his condition—which I can tell, even from this distance of an entirely different world, wears on me greatly in my imaginary life. Not what happened with Frieda in that life. How can I explain that we aren’t even on speaking terms there?

  And certainly not my parents. I can’t tell her what happens to my parents.

  “The less perfect it seems,” I finally finish, and let it go at that.

  Frieda puts her hand on mine. “Oh, honey,” she says. “I don’t know why you’re letting it get to you like this.” She looks out the window, then back at me. “It’s been a tense time for everybody lately—the thing in Cuba, the uncertainty about what’s going to happen, both in the larger world and here in our own little world. But this dream life of yours . . . it’s just an escape, Kitty. It’s not real.”

  “But it feels real!” I cry. “It feels absolutely real, and when I’m there, I can’t help feeling . . . I can’t help worrying . . .” I shake my head and look out the window. “I’m terrified that one of these nights I’m going to fall asleep and end up there permanently. And I will not be able to get back here again.”

  There. I’ve said it.

  Frieda stands and goes to the window. She beckons me to join her. “Put your hand here,” she says, pressing hers against the glass. I do the same. “Feel how warm?” she asks. “Feel the sun?”

  She’s right. When did it get so sunny out? The cloud cover we had this morning seemed like it was going to last all day, but now the sun has broken through, and the glass feels almost hot. I look at Frieda and nod.

  She takes my hand and turns to a bookcase. She places my fingertips against a new hardcover, sleek in its gold-hued paper casing and crisp along the edges of the pages. “You can feel that, too, right?”

  I nod again.

  She leads me to the doorway, and we walk out onto the sidewalk. A truck passes, filling our nostrils with diesel fumes. “You can’t tell me you didn’t smell that,” Frieda says. “And the coffee. You tasted that, right? You felt your mother’s good-bye kiss, your father’s hug. You can feel your stockings against your legs, you can feel your earrings pressed to the fronts and backs of your ears. Right?”

  I sigh. “Frieda, I can feel all of that. But the point is, I feel those things in the other life, too.”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You have a very active imagination, Kitty. That’s a great thing. An active mind—even in sleep—that’s a sign of intelligence.” Her look, when my eyes meet hers, is kind. “But that dream world is not reality. This . . .” She sweeps her long, lovely arm around, taking in the space, our space. And then she puts her arm around my waist and holds me close. “This,” she whispers. “This is where you belong.”

  Chapter 27

  I am—as I told Frieda I would be—frightened to go to sleep that night.

  I put it off as long as possible. As promised, I make my parents a full dinner: lasagna, garlic bread, salad. I have wine on hand to celebrate, but I am careful to drink only one glass myself. The three of us stay up late—talking, remembering old times, and giggling at pictures of clumsy me and so-young them in the photograph album I keep on my desk.

  Finally, at eleven o’clock, they yawn and say it’s time to leave. At the door, they both hug me tight. “Welcome back,” I whisper. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  After they’ve climbed into their car and driven off, I sit upright on the sofa, scratching out a draft of Greg’s next book. It will be about what baseball players do in the off-season, I’ve decided. Of course, what they do is make personal visits to their most loyal fans, people like Greg Hansen. I get through the middle section, where Willie Mays shows up on the doorstep of our little duplex on Washington Street. I underline words I want Greg to memorize: season, street, taxi. Not sure how the book will end, I chew thoughtfully on my pencil, considering. But I can’t concentrate.

  Finally I put the draft pages aside and begin reading Fail-Safe, the novel about nuclear war that we just got in at the shop. It received a marvelous review in last Sunday’s Denver Post, and I expect customers to begin asking about it. The story is not particularly interesting to me, but I need to read it so I can answer customers’ questions.

  As I stare at the pages, rereading the same lines over and over, my eyes cast longingly toward the end table, upon which rests a copy of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark. I read it last year when it first came out, but it was so good, I want to read it again. Well, I tell myself, despite my need to keep up with frontlist fiction—those newly released titles that are popular with customers—the more important thing right now is that I stay awake. I set down Fail-Safe and pick up Miss Brodie.

  Another half hour passes. But despite the switch to a book that’s more to my liking, I am unable to keep my eyes open. I go to the kitchen and brew strong black tea. Cup at my side, I settle back on the sofa with the Spark novel. I sip my tea, read a few more pages, and fight to keep from nodding off.

  When I awake, I cannot say I am entirely surprised to be in the house on Springfield Street. But even so, a moan catches in my throat as I open my eyes and see the green bedroom. I close my lids, hoping I can make it go away, knowing full well that I cannot. Heaving a sigh, I open my eyes again.

  Judging from the light coming through the patio doors, it seems to be late morning. I glance at the clock on Lars’s nightstand—yes, it’s after eleven. I am alone in the bed; the bedroom door is closed. I rise and make my way silently through the quiet house to the kitchen. Alma is there, sitting at the table. It must be coffee-break
time; she’s reading the newspaper, a cup on the table in front of her.

  Alma looks up when I enter. “How do you feel, Señora Andersson?” she asks, and I’m touched by the genuine concern in her voice.

  “I’m . . . I feel all right.” I pour a cup of coffee from the percolator. “Where are Mr. Andersson and the children?”

  “Señor Andersson, he take a day off from work. Let you rest. He take Mitch and Missy to school. Say to stay out with Michael as long as he can. This way, the house is quiet.” She stands up. “I try to do quiet tasks this morning,” she says. “Not disturbing you. No?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t disturb me at all. I appreciate it.”

  “Señor Andersson, he say your night, it was difícil.”

  I nod and sit at the table.

  “You want me fix you something? Some eggs and toast?”

  “Yes,” I say, sipping my coffee. “That would be nice. Gracias.”

  She busies herself at the stove. I glance at the front page of the newspaper, which is dated Monday, March 4, 1963. “Slide Near Ouray Buries 3 Persons,” the headline proclaims. A photo fills most of the page, showing workers trying to rescue avalanche victims on a mountain pass in the southwestern part of the state.

  “Alma,” I say as she places a plate in front of me. “Can you sit a minute and talk with me?”

  She shrugs. “Sí. If you like.”

  “Get yourself more coffee.”

  She raises her eyebrows, but complies.

  “I need some information,” I tell her as she settles into her seat across from me. “The things I’m going to ask you will probably sound crazy, because they are all things that I ought to already know. But I can’t remember them, and I need you to help me.”

  She tilts her head curiously and waits.

  “First, can you tell me when you started working for us?”

  “Hmmm. I think May. It is nineteen fifty-eight. The house, it is nuevo,” she said. “You and Señor Andersson and los niños just move in. You hire me because this house, it is too big for you to manage without help. Especially because you are working in those days, señora.”

  “Was I? And what can you tell me about that?”

  “You have tienda de libros. A bookshop. With the other lady, Señorita Green. You go to the bookshop every day and leave los niños here. They are bebés then, not even two.”

  “And you cared for them?”

  She laughs. “Not me,” she says. “They are handful, those three. Cannot be managed by someone with a household to run. Meals to cook. No, señora, you have la niñera. You do not remember Jenny?”

  I shake my head. “Even if I did . . . tell me about her as if I didn’t.”

  “She think she is high and mighty, that one. But you ask me, she is chafa. No good.” Alma’s lips pucker. “Jenny has fancy college degree in psiquiatría infantil . . . I do not know the English for this; it means taking care of los niños’ heads inside. But she finds no job doing that. You ask me why, I do not know. But later, when I come to know her, I think I can guess. So she come here, work for you and Señor Andersson.” Alma hesitates, and then says, “No es mi lugar, señora, but I told you then, and I say again now. I had lots of güisa—girlfriends—who raised los niños, their own and others, and they fight for the job of raising yours. But Jenny, she is ‘professional.’ This is what you say then, señora.” Alma snorted. “Los niños pobres. Their own mamá can’t be here. Okay. Then they need someone else to be like mamá. They do not need someone to act like they are ratas de laboratorio.”

  I can feel my face fall, and Alma puts her hand tentatively on mine. “Lo siento,” she says quickly. “I should not say this. It is cruel, to say this.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay. Just go on.”

  “Jenny works for you longer than me. She thinks she knows everything about this family. But I think that Jenny was estricto on los niños.” Alma withdraws her hand. “Especially Michael. Jenny thinks . . .” Alma sips her coffee and hesitates. “She thinks there is something wrong in his head. That he is loco. Sí. Okay, she is right about that. Lo siento decir, señora, but she is. But she also thinks she can cure it. Michael does not want to do things los otros niños do. Things todos los niños do. Throw a ball, listen to music, read books. These things do not interest him. He sits in a corner and hums. And Jenny pulls him by his little arms and makes him join los otros niños. She takes his hand and holds it apretado.” Alma puts one hand in the other and grips it tightly, causing her skin to redden beneath her fingers. She lets go and sighs, and I find that I sigh along with her.

  Alma continues. “Jenny forces Michael to join their games. She tries making him sing. ‘Ring Around the Rosie.’ She pulls him, que todo se derrumbe. When he cries, she . . .” Alma bites her lip. “Really, you do not remember this, señora? You do not remember any of this?”

  I swallow hard. “Just keep telling me.”

  “She slaps him,” Alma says softly. “Señora Andersson, mi corazón, it breaks, seeing that. Jenny slaps him and he cries louder, and she picks him up and puts him in the corner and holds his mouth closed so he does not scream. He is un niño pequeño, such a small boy. Los otros niños—so sweet, same as now—they stand there, hold hands, they do not know what to do. They come to me and tug at my skirt. They do not have much words, but I know what they try to say: Alma, do something! And I put up my hands, because what can I do? ¿Y qué? That woman, she is mono, but it is none of my business. My job is to clean los baños and cook, not raise los niños.”

  “Did we . . .” I say softly. “Did Mr. Andersson and I . . . did we have any idea?”

  “Well, el niño was loco, not right in the head. Lo siento decir. And everybody knows. Señor Andersson knows before you. He begs you to take Michael to doctor. But you say Michael is fine, just a little shy and lento, cannot do things fast like los otros niños. You say he comes around, in time.”

  “But we didn’t know . . . that he was being . . . that she was . . .”

  Alma shakes her head. “No. You do not know about that. I should tell you. I should tell you long before I did.” She lowers her eyes. “Like I say, Jenny came here before me. Me, I am the new girl. In those days, I am afraid to speak up. Afraid to lose my job.”

  “But you did . . . eventually.”

  “Sí. More than a year pass. Then I speak up.” Her look is grim. “And when I speak up, you fire that Jenny como un rayo, like . . .” She waves her arm, making a zigzag pattern like lightning in the sky. “Me, I am glad of it. ¡Adiós!” She sets down her cup. “And then you take Michael to the doctors. See what they think.”

  “What did they tell me?”

  “They tell you it is your fault, señora.” Alma stands up. “They tell you he has a disease—autism—and they cannot cure it. And they say it is because he needs his mamá when he is small. But she is not here when he needs her.”

  I can feel my face pucker into a frown. “Do you believe that, Alma? Do you believe it’s my fault?”

  Alma clears my empty plate. “Señora, I say too much. There is work to do. I run the vacuum cleaner, now that you are up. ¿Bueno?”

  Okay, I tell myself. I want to close my eyes, go to sleep, and wake up at home, but I know that I won’t, not yet. Okay, this is only one person’s opinion. Granted, Alma is about as credible a witness as you could find. But still. That couldn’t be the whole story.

  If it was, I reason as I rinse my coffee cup in the sink, why are Mitch and Missy just fine? If Michael is autistic because I am such a horrible mother—why, then, wouldn’t my other two children be autistic, too?

  Immediately I scorn this easy response. It doesn’t work that neatly, my interior critic tells me. If it did, there would be a lot more autistic people in the world. Because there are plenty of horrible mothers.

  The truth is—and I know this as I walk back to the master bedroom to dress—the truth is, there must be some element of hit-or-miss. And whatever hit Michael—Let’
s be honest, Kitty, “whatever hit Michael” is your awful mothering—somehow it missed the other two. They dodged a bullet, and they will be fine.

  But will they? Alma had stopped her story with the firing of Jenny, followed by Michael’s diagnosis. But I could pick up the pieces from there. I must have left Sisters’ Bookshop then. I must have left Frieda, probably quite abruptly. I’d settled in here, staying home with the children and doing my penance. And hoping, praying, that it wasn’t too late. That whatever damage I’d done to Michael could be undone. Hoping, as well, that it wouldn’t strike the other two.

  In the bedroom, I glance at the bed. It’s still unmade, the sheets jumbled as if those sleeping there were restless. Perhaps we were, Lars and I. Crossing the room, I smooth the sheets and bedspread, fluff the pillows. I sense that making the bed is likely not my job, at least not on the days when Alma is here. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to do it.

  Opening the closet door, I inspect the clothes in front of me, trying to select something to wear. But the clothes won’t come into focus. Instead I start seeing little snippets of my life from the past few years.

  I remember some of those days. Not all days, but some of them.

  My children were two and a half when I fired Jenny and determined to throw myself, body and soul, into the raising of my family. I was sure I could make amends. I could make Michael love me. I could make him be normal, be like the other two.

  I decided that being outside in the yard, working with the earth, would be good for all of us. That spring we planted a vegetable garden: tiny lettuce and carrot seeds that we carefully placed in neat rows in the crumbly soil; leggy tomato plants that we bought from the garden store near my old duplex and transplanted into a plot along the back fence. I had to stop Mitch and Missy from having sword fights with the tomato stakes, but eventually we got the job done, and the tomato plants thrived. “Fresh food,” I told Lars with satisfaction when he came home from work. “Fresh food and fresh air. That will change everything.”