The Bookseller(70)

Oh, no. Linnea had hinted at some of this, but she hadn’t told me any of these grim details.

“What did you do?” I know I shouldn’t ask this question; certainly, I would already know what he did. I am hoping he is so involved in his story that he won’t register my asking.

“I did what any big brother would do,” he says. “I took charge. We buried our father next to our mother. We sold everything we had, which wasn’t much. We got on a train going west, because neither of us ever wanted to see Iowa again.”

“And ended up here.”

“And ended up here. It was early morning when our train arrived at Union Station. We had only bought tickets as far as Denver. We would have had to buy another ticket and change trains if we wanted to go farther west. We didn’t, though. We got off the train and looked around; we saw the mountains in the distance and the sun shining on the buildings of the city just as it was waking up. And we looked at each other and decided that here was as good as anywhere else.”

“You’ve come a long way since then,” I say. “And so has Linnea.”

Lars nods. “We’ve been lucky,” he says. “Lucky that, after all the dreary, desperate jobs she and I took just trying to scrape out a living, Linnea found work in a bakery. Lucky that Steven walked into that bakery one day and liked who he saw behind the counter enough to return again and again, just to see her. And lucky that Linnea found Steven as appealing as he found her.”

Oh, now I remember that story. I remember Linnea telling it to me, her eyes shining with a spark she still felt for her husband, even after all those years together. She told me about it the first time she gave me a wash-and-set, back in October 1954. Not in my real life, not when I’m Kitty. No, it was here, when I was Katharyn. It was the first time I went to see her at Beauty on Broadway. Lars was still in the hospital then, recovering from his heart attack.

“And it was Steven who convinced you that you could do better than being a streetcar repairman for the rest of your life,” I say now to Lars. “Steven helped you apply for college.” I can feel my heart quicken, remembering this. Knowing this.

Lars nods. “He encouraged me to stick it out when I wondered whether it was worth all the hassle and expense. Yep, without him, I’m not sure my career would have happened. I might still be fixing streetcars on the Colfax line.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I say a bit ruefully, thinking about Sisters’ and deserted Pearl Street. “There are no more streetcar lines. You’d be repairing buses now.”

Lars chuckles. “Well, that’s probably true. So you see how lucky I was that Steven and Linnea met.” He takes my hand. “And of course, I was very, very lucky that you came along when you did, Katharyn.”

“Lucky,” I parrot softly. “I guess in many ways we have been very lucky.”

His eyes are pained. “I know it doesn’t seem like that right now,” he says. “I know it’s hard to imagine that there could be any good outcome after what happened last fall.”

What happened last fall? I remain silent, waiting.

“You know I’ll always be here for you,” Lars says, squeezing my hand. “You know that I know how hard it is to lose your parents.”

To . . . what?

Now I shake my head in a frenzy, trying desperately to wake up.


I’m sitting on the sofa, rocking back and forth and crying. Lars holds me by the shoulders, hands me his handkerchief, presses his cheek against mine.

“I need to get away from here,” I tell him, squeezing my eyes shut. “I want to go home.”

“Katharyn, you are home. This is your home.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, you don’t understand. This isn’t where I belong. This is all made up, and I need to go back where I belong.” I stand and start pacing the living room floor. My left heel gets caught in the aqua carpet. Perhaps, I think, pulling it loose, the heel has a torn edge and needs repair. If I’m not careful, it will become hooked in the carpeting and I’ll fall. What an absurd thought to have right now.

Lars stands and tries to put his hand on my waist, but I push him away. “You’ve been kind,” I tell him. “More than kind. You’ve been the man I always dreamed would come along someday.” I laugh, and I can feel the bitterness in my throat. “The man of my dreams, right? But this is not real. This is all just a dream. And in the real world, my parents are not dead. Do you understand me? They are not dead there, and I need to go back to where my parents are alive!”

“Mama?” a small voice calls from the landing upstairs. “Mama, is everything all right?”

Lars hurries to the bottom of the staircase. “It’s fine, buddy,” he says. “Go back to bed.”

“Mama sounds upset,” Mitch says, and despite myself, my heart fills with love for him, this delightful, imaginary child of mine. “Mama, are you all right?”

I wobble toward the staircase, wiping my eyes. Standing at the bottom of it, I look up at him, his mop of clean hair, his cozy green pajamas. “Mama’s fine, sweetheart,” I manage. “Just feeling a little sad tonight.”

“Because of Grandma and Grandpa?”

I can’t help it; an enormous sob escapes my throat. Mitch rushes down the stairs and puts his arms around my waist. I bend down to his level and squeeze him tight. Lars stands next to us, silent.