The Bookseller(88)
“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” I think about the sad triumvirate. “In this world, I’ve shut down. Things have worn me down. Michael, Frieda, losing my parents . . .”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” he says. “You can do anything you want to, love. I don’t ever want you to feel tied down by our life here at home.”
“Well.” I glance at the newspaper again, then back at Lars. “I guess we’ll just see.”
We make love passionately that night. We are slow with each other, taking our time, touching each part, our hands moving as slowly as if we were uniting for the first time. I memorize the shape of his body, the warm feel of his skin next to mine. Laying my head against his chest, I inhale his clean, intoxicating scent. I press my hand against his heart, his beautiful and wonderful heart. I say a silent little prayer that it will keep ticking long enough for us to grow old together.
Afterward I nestle myself against him, pressing the length of my body against his. I don’t ever want to let him go. “I don’t know where I’ll be when I wake up,” I whisper to him. “When I go to sleep here, I feel like I ought to say good-bye to you, because it might be forever.”
The snowy sky outside has made the room brighter than usual, and in the half-light I can see his dazzling blue eyes. “Isn’t that true for everyone?” he asks. “Any one of us can be gone in a second.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Don’t think I don’t consider that . . . all the time,” he says. And then he repeats hoarsely, “All the time.”
We go to sleep with our arms wrapped around each other.
Chapter 30
I’m standing in front of the shop. The morning is misty, almost foggy. I can barely make out the street in front of me, the few cars parked along it. I glance to my left, looking north on Pearl Street. Through the haze I can see the sandwich shop, the Vogue Theater, the drugstore. Everything is where it belongs. I twist my neck and look behind me, through the plate-glass window. I see my meticulously constructed display of fall colors and cozy-up-with-them books. Beyond these, Frieda is sitting at the checkout counter. She glances up, sensing my eyes on her, and gives me a smile and a small wave. I automatically smile back, feeling my heart skip a beat or two.
“I love you,” I whisper, although of course she can’t hear me through the glass. “I love you so much, sister. More than you’ll ever know.”
And then, looking at her, I feel suddenly, irrationally angry. Something she’s done makes me furious. I feel betrayed, like I could never trust her again. Having no idea why I feel that way, I try to shrug the emotions away.
I’m not sure why I’m outside. Was I going somewhere? I don’t think I was. It’s cold out here, and I’m not wearing a coat or hat, nor holding my handbag. I wrap my arms around my ribs, tucking my hands under my sweater sleeves.
No traffic passes. The street is silent and still. Will Pearl Street always be as still as this? It makes me sad, thinking about Frieda and me leaving this place, about things changing. I know it has to happen; I know it’s the right thing to do. The future, at least the near future, is not here. It’s in the vast shopping centers and the sprawling ranch houses and the highways that go on forever.
Is that the future just for a time—or is it for always? Is that Denver’s future; is it America’s? I wish I could look in a crystal ball and see what the world will be like in fifty years. But I am not a fortune-teller.
I think about the world I share with Lars and the children. If I had a crystal ball, what would it tell of that world, in fifty years? What would become of my children? Mitch and Missy would, I am sure, discover their passions in life, whatever those passions may be. They would, I hope, marry and have families. They would live with integrity and commitment and love, the way that Lars and I would teach them to.
And Michael? I hadn’t thought I could get any colder, standing out here, but considering a future for Michael makes me shiver. What would become of him, if that imaginary world were real?
I think about the woman who came into the shop with her autistic daughter. I wish I could talk to that mother again. If I could, I would be more gracious. I would smile kindly and welcome her to my store. I would then go about my business and not stare at her child.
Perhaps I would have been smarter about how I set up that silly, wobbly display of books. But if not, and if the child still knocked it down—well, then, as the mother made her hasty retreat, I would not ask rude questions. Instead, I would hand her a complimentary copy of Ship of Fools. And as I did so, I would look in that mother’s eyes, and without words, I would try to let her know that I understood.
I turn and go inside. The bell over the door jingles as I enter. Frieda looks up at me, a wordless smile twitching around her lips. The phonograph is turning silently, softly, its stack of records completed. Frieda swivels on her stool, selects a new stack, and places the records on the phonograph’s stem. The first disc drops onto the turntable; the needle moves into position. Patsy Cline’s voice fills the bookstore.
If you got leavin’ on your mind . . . Tell me now, get it over . . .
I shake my head. This song doesn’t exist yet. In the other world, in the Italian restaurant we went to with his clients, Lars told me that Patsy Cline had just released it.
And that happened in February. Which is three months from now.