The Bookseller(52)

I drive around the corner and turn south on Washington Street. A few blocks later, I park across from my old duplex. Here, too, things are silent. Absent are the shimmery purple drapes that hang in my front windows in the real world. Instead, the curtains are light blue with daisies printed on them. I find them fussy-looking, not like anything I would have selected.

Over on the Hansens’ side of the building, the shades are drawn. I wonder if they still live there. In the real world, the Hansens’ home was dark last night by the time I returned from my dinner with Frieda, so I didn’t get to see Greg and commiserate with him about the Giants’ loss in the last game of the World Series. I wonder what I can interest him in now. Perhaps football? Let’s hope so. I laugh at myself, thinking about this. I couldn’t care less about football. But if Greg is interested—why then, I shall become interested, too.

I wonder how Greg is doing with his reading, in this dream world. I am curious whether someone else is helping him, since in this life, I’m not here to do so.

Kevin and I saw a film a couple of years after the war, a Christmas story called It’s a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart starred as a man who, contemplating suicide on Christmas Eve, was given the opportunity to see what the world would have been like if he’d never been born. As we emerged from the theater after the show ended, Kevin said he thought the film was hugely sentimental, with an obvious plot and far-fetched characters. He scoffed at the storyline as Christmastime sappiness, with a singular intention: selling movie tickets.

True, I conceded, but you have to admit that it gives you something to think about. “It does give you pause, thinking about your own life,” I’d added, “and who you’ve affected over the years.”

Kevin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Movies like that are made for women,” he said. “Your gender is entirely too romantic, Kitty.”

I smile now, remembering this conversation, remembering the movie. I think about seeing Kevin at C.J.’s last night. And I wonder if he’d still feel that way, were he to see that movie now, all these years later.

And I? What do I think? Am I having the effect on others that I want? I’m helping Greg, in the real world. Moreover, I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

In fact, nothing else going on there right now—not Sisters’, not Frieda, not even thinking about my parents coming home soon—gives me as much pleasure as seeing Greg learn to read, seeing the world of literature open up for him.

I take one last look at the duplex, then pull away from the curb. When I drive past Mr. Morris’s house down the block, I slow down, turning my head to see if my nonagenarian neighbor is sitting in his rocking chair on the porch. But he is not there, so I speed up again. Keeping my eyes and the long hood of the Cadillac facing forward, I hastily leave Washington Street and the old neighborhood behind.


At the shopping center, I head directly for the storefront that had been empty, the one Frieda has her eye on. Of course, I don’t imagine it will be empty in this world.

Not only is the store a bookshop, but it’s twice the size of the available space in the real world. Frieda must have taken over the unit next door, as well. Over both units is a large sign: GREEN’S BOOKS AND NEWS.

Of course. This store is hers, not ours. This bookstore belongs to Frieda Green. It does not belong to two would-be sisters. It’s no surprise that she changed the name.

I peer through the glass, trying to be inconspicuous, looking at the displays inside. The store is bustling; customers browse dozens of stacks filled with books, magazines, newspapers, reading material of all sorts. Toward the right-hand side, I see a young male clerk helping someone reach a book on a high shelf. Nearby, in the fiction area, two middle-aged women huddle, comparing the covers of novels, evidently trying to decide what looks interesting. One of them is holding a book with block lettering and a Jewish star on the cover. Squinting and learning forward, I can just make out the title—The King’s Persons. The woman opens the book and scans the first few pages, then speaks to her friend, who shrugs and takes the book in her hands. She flips through the pages and says something to her companion before tucking the book under her arm, in all likelihood intending to purchase it. The two women—shoulders pressed together, heads bent toward one another, talking books—remind me of Frieda and myself. Of Frieda and myself in my real life, that is. It saddens me to look at them; I bite my lip and turn away.

I glance at the checkout counter. My heart beats rapidly in my chest. I expect to see Frieda, all her confidence and swinging hair, running her show. But that doesn’t happen. Frieda is not there at all, at least not anywhere that I can see. Instead, a young shopgirl sits behind the counter on a tall stool, her eyes down, reading something in front of her on the counter.

I take a deep breath and step inside. Walking toward the register, I put on what I hope is a spirited smile, and face the shopgirl.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

Despite my bravado, I am at a loss. “I was just . . . I was looking for . . .” I glance around helplessly, as if the answer will appear before me if I sweep my eyes around the brightly lit shop. I turn back to her and shrug. “I think I’d just like to browse.”

She smiles and waves her hand. “Go ahead, ma’am. If you have any questions, be sure to let me know.” She turns to wait on a customer who has queued up behind me.

I walk to the front stacks. The two women have moved on, and I have this area to myself. The stacks are filled with best sellers, romances, books with colorful covers. I immediately spy the new anthology by J. D. Salinger, which we’ve heard is coming out in early 1963. In this bright new bookstore, Frieda has almost a full row of copies of the new Salinger on display, highlighting its mustard-colored cover, its title in simple, modern text with no other artwork. There are numerous copies of Seven Days in May, the military thriller that was just gaining momentum back in my real world. I spot a shelf stocked with another nuclear-war-themed novel, Fail-Safe. In the real world, Frieda and I have preordered twenty copies of that book, which is due for release any day now. Clearly, Fail-Safe is making its mark in my imaginary 1963. Maybe, I think with amusement, I should increase our order quantity, back in the real world.