The Bookseller(32)
Frieda uses both hands to adjust the book. I think about Linnea and wonder, since she likes Shakespeare, if she has read Chaucer. I make a mental note to go through the stacks and put aside a selection of books for her—Chaucer and maybe Edmund Spenser if she likes classics, Joseph Conrad, perhaps George Bernard Shaw, if she enjoys turn-of-the-century writing, and possibly some contemporary female authors like Katherine Anne Porter and Flannery O’Connor, since it appears Linnea has primarily read works by men.
“That Hansen kid came by,” Frieda says. “The one that lives next door to you. Said to tell you thanks again, said he ‘just keeps reading it over and over.’ Said he can’t wait to read more.” She stands back, waiting to see if the Chaucer will fall again, but it appears to be grounded now. Frieda turns to me. “What’s that all about?”
Chapter 11
Mama.”
I open my eyes and look around. Everything is so blurry.
“Mama, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
There is a small pat on my right sleeve. I concentrate, and Missy’s face comes into focus. She is looking at me with trepidation. Her look reminds me of an actor I once saw playing a psychiatrist on television. In that story, the patient was a woman who had stumbled on the sidewalk and hit her head on a stone wall; she lost her memory entirely and could not even recall her own name. In the scene I am now thinking about, the doctor was looking at the patient as if he felt not only concerned about her situation, but also overwhelmingly sorry for her.
Missy is giving me the exact same look. Her strawberry blond curls are in pigtails on either side of her head, tied with red bows that match her plaid dress. Her little brow is furrowed, making her appear much older than the age she is—which, I realize with alarm, I still don’t actually know. I have assumed the children to be about five or six, but I have no idea of their exact age, or when their birthday is. Moreover, I still assume that they are twins—nothing so far has led me to believe otherwise—but I don’t know that with any certainty. What a preposterous imagination I have. To keep dreaming about an entire made-up family, one’s own entirely made-up family, and not even know the children’s ages, birth dates, or birth order.
“I’m . . . I’m fine, sweetie.” I look around. My vision has cleared up, and I can now see that we are in the shoe department of a large store. It is not a store with which I am familiar. I do most of my shopping at Monkey Wards on Broadway or May-D&F downtown, the store where I went in real life to seek out the coral-hued dress. This store looks a bit like May-D&F, but not like any part of May-D&F that I’ve ever been in. I can tell by the vivid yellow, red, and blue display racks, the carefully arranged patent leathers, tennis shoes, and rubber boots, that we are in a department that carries only children’s shoes. In all my years of shopping at May-D&F, I don’t think I have once set foot in the children’s shoe department—but I do know where it is, on the second floor, near the better dresses and coats. I see neither of those departments anywhere nearby, which leads me to believe we are in a different store entirely.
A salesman briskly approaches us, his arms loaded with brightly colored cardboard boxes. RICHARD, his nametag reads, and above that I see the familiar blue May-D&F logo, with its tiny sketch of the downtown store’s iconic triangular roof standing in for the hyphen. So this is a May-D&F store—but unless they’ve rearranged recently, I don’t believe we’re downtown. I wonder exactly where we are, but of course there’s no way to ask without sounding absurd.
“I’ve brought several styles for each of the children,” Richard informs me, and for the first time I look to my left and notice that Mitch is seated there, quietly swinging his stockinged feet and glancing around the store. “You’ve come at the right time for school shoes. Most of last fall’s styles are on clearance, and our spring shoes are not in yet. So you’ll find some excellent values, ma’am.”
I smile. “Well, there’s no telling when children will outgrow their shoes and need a new pair.” This statement—as is the case with so much of what I say in these dreams—falls into the “How on God’s green earth do I know a thing like that?” category.
“First, for the young lady . . .” Richard opens a box and pulls out a pair of brown Mary Janes. Charming and delicate as Cinderella being presented with the glass slipper, Missy lifts a foot. The salesman slips on the shoe and buckles it across her instep. Missy has lovely, dainty feet, similar to my own. My feet have always been a source of pride; they’re one of my best features. Judging by the graceful fit of the shoes, my imaginary daughter will likely follow suit.
Richard pinches Missy’s toes through the shoe. I wonder why he is doing that; no one does a thing like that when you buy adult shoes. I realize he must be checking the fit. “How do they feel, honey?” I ask her as he adjusts the second shoe on her other foot.
“Nice,” she says, standing. “Comfortable.”
“Take a walk,” Richard suggests.
Missy walks from one end of the shoe department to the other. “I also have those in black, if you prefer,” Richard tells me.
I shake my head. “No, the brown is fine.”
Missy returns and sits next to me. “They’re good,” she says. “But can I try the others, just in case?”