The Bookseller

by Cynthia Swanson

  After my mother leaves, I call Frieda to say I’m sorry. “It’s all right,” she says. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “I’m coming in,” I tell her.

  “You don’t have to, Kitty. It’s slow.”

  When isn’t it slow, these days? “All the same,” I insist. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I’m still thinking about the conversation with my mother as I walk to the shop. It makes me wonder about my other life, about what I have there and what is missing. Leaving Frieda, leaving the shop and that entire lifestyle behind to devote myself to the children—it had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do. I can see that now, having spent time there, having seen what I’ve seen and remembered what I remember. I can see that there was no other choice.

  Nonetheless, in that life I’ve undoubtedly dug myself into a hole. And that hole includes guilt over Michael’s condition, shock that Frieda really seems to be gone from my life for good—and, of course, the desolation of losing my parents. That heartbreaking triumvirate overshadows everything good there.

  I shake my head. Even from here, from a whole other world, it’s painfully clear that I cannot get past that triumvirate. It eclipses everything else.

  That evening, after we close the shop, Frieda and I go out for a drink. It’s Saturday night, but neither of us feels like venturing far from our neighborhood, so we just go to the Stadium Inn, a tavern on Evans, near the university. When Frieda and I were in college, this joint was always filled to the brim on Saturdays, after DU football games. You couldn’t get a table—you could barely even move. But the university disbanded the football program last year, much to the dismay of many in the DU community—neighborhood watering hole proprietors included, no doubt.

  It’s early, just after five o’clock on a slow night, and we have the place nearly to ourselves. We sit in a booth toward the back. There doesn’t seem to be a waiter or waitress, so I offer to go up to the bar to get us drinks. The bartender, a smiling older man, reminds me a bit of Bradley. I order Frieda’s martini and a glass of wine for myself. “On the house,” the bartender says, putting both glasses in front of me.

  I raise my eyebrows. “On the house? Why?”

  He shrugs, his eyes deep and tender. “Consider it my good deed for the day, ma’am.”

  I shake my head as if to clear it. “Well, thanks,” I say, leaving a dollar for his tip.

  Back at our table, I place the glasses in front of Frieda and tell her what happened at the bar. “Strange,” she says. “Well, no sense looking a gift horse in the mouth.” She takes a sip of her martini and closes her eyes. “Mmm, I needed that.”

  I smile, but do not reply. I plan to nurse this one glass of wine. I am doing entirely too much drinking these days, both here and in the other world.

  Frieda sets down her glass and lights a cigarette. “Kitty,” she says, her voice level. “We need to decide, you know. Our lease is up at the end of November. We could tell Bradley right away that we don’t plan to renew. I know we’re a few days past the first of the month, but he’ll understand.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I rang yesterday,” she tells me. “The management company at the shopping center. I telephoned them, and the space is still available.” Her eyes look dreamy. “We could open in time for the Christmas shopping season.”

  Knowing I ought not, I take several long sips of wine. The hell with it. I need my courage.

  “Freeds,” I say finally. “What if . . . what would you think . . . if I didn’t want to do this anymore?”

  She stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

  I sigh. “The thing is,” I say. “The thing is, I know it’s progress. I know it’s the wave of the future. I know that Sisters’ has no future where we are. I know all of that.” I drink more wine. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” I go on. “And even though all of that is true . . . I don’t know, Frieda, my heart just isn’t in it.”

  “Your heart?” She inhales, then blows smoke toward the ceiling. She looks back at me. “This is business, sister.”

  “I realize that. But even if it is business . . .” I look around desperately, as if the right words will appear before me, perhaps on a cue card or something. “You have to love it,” I say finally. “You have to love what you do. And I don’t think . . . I don’t think . . .” I lower my voice. “I just don’t think I would love it there.”

  Frieda finishes her drink. A waiter has materialized, leaning on the bar; he must have just come on shift. He’s a young college kid, gangly like Kevin was, back in the day—like Kevin still is, as Frieda and I discovered not long ago. Frieda signals him to bring us another round.

  “You’re afraid of change,” she challenges me, as the kid nods at her and ambles behind the bar.

  “I’m not. That’s not it at all. In fact, I do feel ready to make a change.”

  “Oh, really? To what?”

  I finger my empty wineglass. “I was thinking . . . well, two things. One would be tutoring, like I’m doing with Greg Hansen. Working with students who are having trouble learning to read. There are so many of them, and they don’t learn. But they need to learn; that’s how you get by these days. Kids can’t get by in the world anymore if they grow up illiterate, Freeds. And I could . . . I could help them. I’d be good at it. I am good at it. I could start a private service, or maybe work in the schools; they have situations now where someone—a teacher or someone else with the right background—specializes in teaching reading, one-on-one or with small groups. I could do that.”

  Our second drinks arrive—I wonder, will these be free, too? Frieda takes a sip of hers. “You could do that. You could specialize like that,” she says, and I can hear that she’s trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. “You could do that, Kitty, and you would be good at it.” She sets down her glass. “What’s the other thing?”

  “The other thing is . . . well, I’ve been writing these books for Greg, these books about sports, but with simple text that he can read and comprehend, not too advanced. And you know, it really makes a difference. Having something to read that he is interested in, but the writing is at his level . . . it’s made all the difference for him. I think . . .” I look away, then back at her. “I think there is a need for children’s authors who can write books like that.”

  “Well.” Frieda presses her lips together. “Well, these are really good ideas, Kitty.”

  I nod. Neither of us says anything for a while.

  She twirls her martini glass thoughtfully with both hands. “If I tell you something, will you be mad at me?”

  I laugh. “Of course not. What would I be mad about?”

  She ducks her head. “I . . . I’ve met someone, Kitty. A man.”

  “Really?” I sit up straighter. “Where? When?”

  “Now, before you get all worked up,” she says. “I don’t even know if the romantic part is going to happen. I’m not sure how I feel about it.” She smiles. “He’s made it clear how he feels about it, but I’m not sure yet. But here’s the thing.” Her eyes are bright. “He’s an investor, Kitty. He invests in small businesses. Puts up the cash to get a business started, and helps it become a success.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh, that . . . it certainly has potential, Frieda.”

  “But I didn’t want to put you at risk,” she says. “I was afraid to say anything, because I know it’s a risk. A business risk, a personal risk. It’s everything, and it wasn’t fair to ask you to tag along with that. But if you want out . . .” She looks away. “Well. That would make it easier. It would be my responsibility. My risk.”

  “Where did you meet this man?”

  “At my brother Rob’s house, if you can believe that—at Donny’s birthday party. He’s the father of one of Donny’s school friends. Divorced. But took his kid to a birthday party on a Sunday afternoon. Isn’t that great?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s swell. What’s his name?”

  “Jim Brooks
. He’s . . .” She seems suddenly shy, which is unlike Frieda; I find it rather endearing. “He’s a good man, Kitty. A very smart man, a successful man, but also a truly good man. I never . . .” She looks up and smiles. “Meeting someone now, at thirty-eight . . . I never thought that would happen to me. I thought that chapter was closed.”

  But how could it be? She is still as lovely as ever. Yes, there are lines around her eyes. There are strands of gray in her dark hair. But she still carries herself like a queen, just the same as she did back in high school. What smart, successful, good man wouldn’t take notice?

  The only reason it hasn’t happened earlier, I tell myself, is because of chance. Up until now, pure chance had not put her in the right place at the right time.

  Chance has not done that for me, either. Not in this world, anyway.

  I put my hand on hers. “I’m happy for you,” I say. “Whether it turns out to be just business or something more. Either way, it sounds like a good thing.” I drain my wineglass; so much for that resolution.

  She smiles. “It could be a good thing, Kitty. It could be.” She removes her wallet from her purse and starts to put a few bills on the table, but the waiter catches her eye and shakes his head, gesturing to her to put her money away. “Odd,” she says, frowning and tucking the bills back into her wallet. She turns back to me. “A good thing . . .” she repeats thoughtfully.

  “But you’re not going anywhere, right?” I hear the pleading in my voice. “This man, this Jim Brooks—he lives here, he has a child here. Even if . . . even if we didn’t stay in business together anymore, we’d still be as close as we are now. Wouldn’t we?”

  She shakes her head good-naturedly. “Now, what about those dreams of yours? In that world, who goes off and has another life? Who deserts who?” She laughs. “Don’t worry, my darling,” she says, squeezing my hand. “My heart will always be yours.” She finishes her drink. “But I’ve got a big heart,” she goes on. “There’s room to share.”

  Chapter 29

  The master bedroom on Springfield Street is dark when I wake up. I don’t know what day it is, or how much time has passed. I’m no longer dressed in the gray slacks and sweater I had on when I laid down here. Instead, I’m wearing a burgundy skirt and a white blouse. This tells me that at some point, I must have risen and gone about my life. I laugh, thinking of this. Because this isn’t really a life. This is all imaginary.

  I go to the living room. Lars is seated on the tweed sofa, reading One Fish, Two Fish, all three children huddled around him. It’s dark outside; light snow is falling. I wonder if I’ve slept through dinner. Not the dinner that I missed in the last dream, of course; this would have to be some other dinner at some other time. Who knows how time flows here? It could be the next day, or two weeks from now, or the following month. This thought makes me laugh recklessly, and when Lars looks up at me, I ask, “What day is it?”

  He glances at his watch. “Do you mean what time? It’s seven o’clock, love.”

  “No.” I giggle. “I mean, what day?” I perch on the arm of the sofa, next to Missy. “I can’t keep track of days when I’m sleeping,” I tell him. “I wake up, and I barely know where I am.”

  “Katharyn.” He lays the book on the coffee table and gently pushes Mitch aside, making room for me next to him. I sit between Lars and Mitch, with Missy next to Mitch, and Michael on Lars’s other side. It occurs to me that we would paint a delightful family picture.

  “You’re overwrought, love,” Lars says softly to me.

  “Daddy, what does ‘overwrought’ mean?” Mitch asks.

  “Worried,” I tell him. “Daddy thinks Mama is worried, is all.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  I laugh again. “Nothing, sweetheart. Not a thing. Because there is nothing here to worry about. Nothing at all.”

  “Mama doesn’t think we’re real,” says a quiet voice from Lars’s other side.

  “What?” Lars asks sharply. “What did you say, Michael?”

  We all look at Michael. “She thinks she’s making us up,” he says, tapping his forehead. “Inside her brain.”

  I am stunned into silence. The last person in this house I ever would have expected to understand me—he’s hit the nail on the head.

  “That’s enough,” Lars says, rising. “It’s time to get ready for bed, everyone.”

  And so I find myself in the bedtime hustle: baths for all, pajamas for Mitch and Michael, nightie and hair brushing for Missy. She is remarkably patient with this last chore, despite her mop of curls. Remembering how tortured I felt as a child when my mother attempted to detangle my own crazy head of hair, I try my best to go easy on my daughter.

  Lars and I apparently switch off the girl-boy thing, because tonight I get Missy for tucking in. She settles under her covers, her eyes large, looking at the snow falling outside her window. “Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?”

  I shrug. “Depends on how much we get overnight.”

  And will I be here to know the difference? It’s impossible to be sure of that, one way or the other. I find myself saddened by that bit of actuality.

  We read Cinderella—her favorite, she tells me—and then after hugs, kisses, and two songs, I press the covers around her chin and bid her good night. “Sleep well, Princess Claire,” I say softly.

  Missy opens her eyes wide. “I haven’t used that name in a long time, Mama.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “But you’ll always be a princess to me.”

  I remember the thought I had on the day—it now seems very long ago—when Missy, Mitch, and I went shoe shopping. The thought that I would give anything in the world for Missy to be real, and to be mine.

  Anything, Kitty? You would truly give up anything for her?

  My fingers tremble as I brush a lock of hair from Missy’s forehead. I lean toward her ear and whisper tenderly, “I love you.”

  She smiles. “I love you, too, Mama.”

  Downstairs, I wait while Lars finishes with the boys. It’s quiet in the living room, and I pick up the Denver Post from the coffee table. A headline on the right-hand side of the front page cries out, “Air Crash Kills Three Opry Stars.”

  My hands tremble as I pick up the paper and look at the date: Wednesday, March 6, 1963.

  Quickly, I scan the story. The crash occurred last night—Tuesday, at around six o’clock in the evening. Those killed included country music singers Cowboy Copas, Hawkshaw Hawkins . . . and Patsy Cline.

  “No,” I whisper to the silent room. “Oh, no. Please, no.”

  They were in a small airplane. Randy Hughes, Patsy’s manager, was flying the plane.

  There was bad weather, a storm. Everyone on board was killed.

  I feel hot tears in the back of my eyes. It’s so unfair, I think. Good people, people with so much to live for—they should not die that way.

  “Patsy, I’ll miss you,” I say aloud in the silent living room. I make a mental note to keep an eye on Patsy Cline’s performance schedule when I get back to the real world. Perhaps, I think, I will get an opportunity to see her in concert before she dies.

  And then I shake my head, feeling a slight fondness for my own silly imagination. You’re making this up, I remind myself. It would make perfect sense for you to invent a plane-crash death for one of your favorite singers. It’s merely a way, I tell myself sternly, to mentally sort out those same false circumstances for your parents. That doesn’t mean it’s actually going to happen, Kitty.

  Lars comes down the stairs and quietly joins me on the sofa. I show him the paper. “Patsy Cline died,” I say, my hands trembling.

  He nods. “I know. We talked about it before dinner tonight. Don’t you remember?”

  I shake my head. “I have no memory of that whatsoever. All I know is, this paper says that one of my all-time favorite singers is dead.”

  Lars nods again. “I’m so sorry, love. I know how much you adored her.”

  “But I’m making it up,
anyway,” I say, brightening. “She’s not going to die. None of this is happening, so it’s of no consequence, really.”

  He sighs. “Katharyn . . .”

  I squeeze his hand. “You know, in some ways, I wish this was real,” I admit. “There are parts of this world that I wish desperately were real. But other parts . . .” I shake my head, tapping the paper. And thinking of my parents.

  He takes my face in his hands and turns it toward his. “How can I help you, Katharyn? How can I convince you that this is real life?”

  I break away from him and shake my head. “You can’t. Not any more than Frieda can convince me of the same thing back there.” I am thoughtful for a moment. “Tell me,” I say. “What am I like here most of the time? You say we talked about Patsy earlier this evening; I don’t remember that. But I can’t be like this all the time, can I? Not remembering? Thinking I have another life?”

  “You’re not like this all the time,” Lars confirms. “Generally, you do the things you’ve always done. Take care of the children, manage the household. You don’t . . .” He bites his lip. “You rarely mention your parents, Katharyn. When their names come up, you usually change the subject. The kids have asked me about it, and I just say . . .” He shrugs. “I just say that Mama needs some time.”

  I nod. I have no memories of that whatsoever. I try to picture myself—Katharyn, that is—coping in this life. Going about her day, caring for her children. Running into her neighbors at the shopping center and knowing their names. Going to the grocery store without having to be reminded of how to get there. It is hard to envision.

  And yet a part of me longs for it. A part of me is desperate to know what that feels like. What it feels like to truly be me—the me who resides all the time in this world.

  “And have I . . . how long have I been . . . acting this way?” I ask.

  He furrows his brow. “A few weeks,” he says. “You seemed fine for a while after . . . it happened . . . We had the kids’ birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas . . . Looking back now, I thought you were fine, but maybe you were just going through the motions, just doing whatever you could to cope, to get through those events. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks after New Year’s that you . . .” He trails off.