The Bookseller (14 page)

Mitch tugs at my coat sleeve as I'm placing the checkbook back in my purse. “Were we good?” he asks me.

“Excuse me?”

“Were we good? Missy and me, were we good?”

“Of course you were good.” I smile down at him, thinking about what the babysitter said in my last dream.
They really are good kids, you know
. Of course they are; isn't it obvious? So what in heaven's name was she talking about?

Mitch hops up and down excitedly. “Yippee!” he says. “Then we can go, can't we?”

I have no idea what he means, so I just shake my head in confusion.

“To Bluebell Toys,” Missy explains. “Don't you remember, Mama? You promised that if we were good while we got our shoes, we could go to Bluebell Toys and . . . well, you know. Look around.”

I promised that? Did I promise to buy them something? Do they get a toy for being good on an errand like this? I have no idea what the protocol is. I wish Lars was here to help me navigate these peculiar waters.

“Well, so I did,” I say. “Lead the way, children.”

We take the escalator down. I scan the first floor as we descend, my eyes instinctively seeking out a book section. The May-D&F downtown has a rather substantial book department. They host visiting authors and book-signing events—something Frieda and I would love to do, but it is impossible to get any writer with a national or even regional reputation to visit our small shop; we have tried, and always come up short in our appeals to the authors' publicists. It's discouraging. In many ways, the book departments at the big stores—those, and the drugstores that peddle dime paperbacks—are more our competition than other small bookshops.

The children and I get off the escalator, then walk toward a large doorway, which evidently leads outside to the smaller stores in the shopping center. This whole shopping center experience is foreign to me; I don't shop this way in my real life.

Right before we reach the door, Missy points toward the women's formal wear section. “Look, Mama, there's your dress,” she says. “The one you wore the other night.” She smiles. “Well, not
your
dress exactly,” she explains. “Yours is at home, of course, in your closet. But it's the same dress as yours.”

She's right. There, on the racks, is the coral dress that I couldn't find at the May-D&F downtown the other day. It's undeniably the exact same dress—although I can't help noticing that it's on a clearance rack.

“Do you remember when I bought that dress?” I ask Missy.

“Sure,” she replies. “Just after Thanksgiving. You wore it to Daddy's office Christmas party. And then you wore it the other night to the party at the Nelsons' house.”

I nod, thinking that over. The dress must be part of the holiday line of formal wear that the saleslady downtown mentioned. If it's on clearance now, that means that in this dream world we've moved into the future, as I suspected.

How far into the future? I wonder. Are we only into 1963, just a few months from now? Or have we moved even further beyond that?

“Here's a quiz for you,” I say to the children as we go outside. The air is cold, but the bright sunlight warms our faces. “Can you tell me who's the president of the United States?”

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: B
LUEBELL
T
OYS
, 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 dinner 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.