The Bookseller(54)

I sit in the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, my forehead in my hands. The thought I had while browsing Frieda’s store, my notion that the dreams mean nothing—that they exist purely for my amusement and entertainment—has been crushed, like a fallen leaf buried under the first heavy snow of winter.

Frieda, Frieda, what have I done? What did I do?

What happened between us?





Chapter 18


I wake with a start. It’s pitch-black in my bedroom. The clock reads 2:45. Aslan is there, of course, purring blissfully, happy as a clam. Sometimes I wish I were Aslan.

Rising from the bed, I don my purple dressing gown and slippers and stumble through the darkness to the living room. At my desk, I turn on the lamp and have a seat. I reach for the telephone and dial Frieda’s number.

She answers on about the seventh ring. Frieda is a heavy sleeper; always has been. “Huhhh . . .” she says, something between a grunt and a hello.

“Freeds,” I say urgently. “Freeds, I’m sorry it’s so late—”

“Kitty? What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Her voice is instantly alert, and this warms me. Knowing that she could shift from bottomless sleep into enormous concern for me, just at the sound of my voice—I am comforted by this, and I feel my entire body relax.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m all right. I just . . .” I hold the receiver closer to my mouth and whisper, “I had a bad dream.” It sounds silly when I say it, so I add, “A really terrifying dream.” And then I have to smile, because of course my dream was not terrifying in the typical sense: no monsters, no masked men with handguns, no tornadoes whipping off the roof above my head.

“Oh,” Frieda breathes, and I hear her settling herself. I can picture her curled up in a mound of blankets in her bedroom—the shades drawn, the bedside lamp turned on. I hear the click of her lighter and the long inhale of smoke. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Do I want to tell her about it? What an interesting question. I have no idea whether I want to tell her about it. On the one hand, it would be wonderful to unburden myself. Especially to a person like Frieda, who would listen and offer practical advice—and then perhaps the whole ordeal would end once and for all. On the other hand, the complete and utter foolishness of it makes me hesitate to put it into words. Even to Frieda, who I’d trust with my life.

“Kitty? Are you still there? Did you dream about the troubles in Cuba? What the president said on the news, about the Russian missiles? Is that what scared you?” She sighs, and I can almost feel her clenching her teeth. “Because, honestly, that whole situation is downright petrifying.”

My mouth lifts into a tiny faux smile, the smile you make when you don’t feel like smiling. “Actually,” I tell Frieda. “I’m not scared about that at all.”

I can’t explain to her why I’m not anxious about Cuba. Everyone else is frightened to pieces by that. And yet I feel an inherent calm about it. I don’t know why, but I’m certain it’s going to blow over—and soon, too.

“You aren’t scared by that?” Frieda sounds surprised. “What is it, then?” She pauses. “Are you all right, sister?”

I stare out at the darkness of the street in front of me. I can’t tell her. I just have to hope the dreams go away on their own. Perhaps they simply have more of the story to tell me. And once the story is over, the dreams will end.

“I’m all right,” I say finally. “I just . . . I had to hear your voice. I had to know that I’m back here. That I’m safe.”

“Your doors are locked?” Frieda asks, exhaling cigarette smoke.

I laugh; of course locked doors can’t keep out what is making its way inside my world. “Yes,” I tell her. “Aslan and I are snug as bugs.”

“Well, then. Go back to bed and try to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling like a child who has been comforted by her mother. “Frieda . . .”

“Yes, sister?”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll see you in the morning.”





Chapter 19


I return to bed and close my eyes, waiting for sleep. I hope it will be a sleep of darkness, of blankness, of nothing. But that is not to be. Coming into dream-consciousness, I’m back there again. Back in the other world.

I am no longer shocked at my return to the dream life. What is surprising is that I am still sitting in the Cadillac in the shopping center parking lot. It seems to be the same day, even the same hour. The sun is sitting identically low in the western sky. I am wearing the same camel-colored coat and matching gloves, and the car is in precisely the same parking space. It is as if no time has passed. But of course, there is no reason time should pass here. Not here, where everything—good and bad—is imaginary.

I turn on the engine, pull out of the lot, and drive back to Springfield Street. Lars and the children have returned; the station wagon is parked in the driveway. I go inside and shake off the cold, hanging my coat in the front hall closet. I place my hat, gloves, and handbag on the shelf above the closet’s clothing rod.

“Mama!” I am hugged around the waist by both Mitch and Missy. I bend down to their level and return their affection. I am surprised at the fierceness with which I hold them, with how deeply I bury my nose into their flaxen heads and inhale the profound, clean smell of their hair. In my real life, I do not hold children like this. I had no idea, before now, how good it feels to do so. There are so few children in my life. There is Greg Hansen, of course, but our relationship is that of instructor and student, not one of physical affection. Occasionally I see Frieda’s nieces and nephews, and Bradley’s grandchildren regularly make an appearance in the shop. But none of those are children I’d feel comfortable holding with this fervor. Were I to suddenly do so, the discomfort would undoubtedly go both ways.