The Bookseller(51)

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.