The Bookseller (12 page)

How am I coping? Does she mean with being drunk? Good heavens, how mortifying.

“I . . . I'm just fine,” I say. “Really. I probably just need some water.”

Her look softens. “Of course. Let's go back to the kitchen and get you a nice tall glass of ice water.” She takes my arm and steers me down the hall. “And Katharyn,” she says, leaning toward me. “I can't thank you enough for lending me Alma. What a worker that girl is!”

I do not know Alma's exact age, but I would guess she is a good five or ten years my senior—and I would guess that I am at least that many years again older than my hostess. Thus I'm unsure how Alma could be considered a “girl.” Nonetheless, I just smile and say, “Any time.”

N
ot long afterward, the party breaks up. The hostess—whose name, maddeningly, I never did learn—rounds up ladies' boots and men's galoshes. The maids bring coats from the bedroom and hand them out; most people take them without a word. Alma hands me mine. “Why, thank you, Alma!
Muchas gracias!
” I tell her, probably a bit too loudly. People stare at me. I don't care.

The snow is swirling around us as Lars and I step down
the drive. “Easy, there,” he says, holding my arm. “Perhaps we should have brought the car.” He steers me into the street, and we shuffle through the snowpack. It is less than a block to our house. I cannot think of anything sillier than the idea of driving to this party.

At our door, Lars waits outside while I go in. The babysitter, who appears to be high school age, rises from the couch and walks over to the television. “Hi, Mrs. Andersson,” she says, switching it off. Before she does, I catch a glimpse of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward in a steamy embrace. I think the movie might be
The Long, Hot Summer,
a film adaptation of a Faulkner novel that was made some years ago. Must be
Saturday Night at the Movies
, a program with which I am unequivocally familiar in my real life. Most Saturday nights I am at home alone, watching whatever movie NBC is showing.

“How was your evening?” the girl asks me.

“Just fine.” I am wondering why Lars does not come inside, and also whether I am expected to pay the girl. And if so, how much? I haven't a clue about such things.

“How was
your
evening?” I ask her. I glance out through the storm door and see that Lars is shoveling the front walk with rapid, efficient strokes.

“Everything went well. No problems.” She smiles at me. “They really are good kids, you know,” she says kindly.

Instead of reassuring me, this makes me wonder if other people think they really
aren't
good kids. And if so, why?

“Well.” I slide out of my coat. “Thank you.” Through the storm door, I can see that Lars has finished shoveling and is now motionless on the covered front step, staring out into the swirling snow. His shoulders rise and fall quickly with his breath, and I think anxiously about his heart. Again, I wonder why he
doesn't come inside, and then I realize that he must be either walking or driving the babysitter home.

The sitter opens the coat closet and selects a brown girl's woolen jacket with
SPARTANS
stitched in gold felt letters across the back. Several small pins that look like they represent various sports and activities—softball, field hockey, cheerleading—decorate the left chest area of the jacket. On the right, T
RISHA
is embroidered in script of matching gold.

“Thank you, Trisha,” I say. “Oh, and would you ask Mr. Andersson to pay you? I don't have enough in my wallet.” Silently, I congratulate myself on this inspiration.

Trisha buttons up her coat and slips on her boots. “Sure thing, Mrs. Andersson. You have a nice night.”

“You, too. Stay warm out there.” I open the door for her, and she goes outside to where Lars is stamping the shovel against the concrete step to drive off the packed snow.

“I'll be back in ten,” he says, leaning in to give me a quick kiss. I point at my purse and shake my head, and he nods in understanding. I marvel at this silent communication between us; if you didn't know any better, you might think we've been doing this for years. I watch as he ushers Trisha down the snowy walk.

After hanging my coat in the closet and taking off my boots, I weave toward the bedroom. The room is dimly lit by a small lamp on the dresser. To my surprise, Aslan is napping on the bed. The relief I feel at seeing him is enormous, as if I have been reunited with a dear friend after years and years of separation.

“My sweet kitty.” I rush over, sit next to him, and stroke his soft yellow fur. He looks up at me with his big green eyes and purrs loudly.

I am still sitting there when I hear Lars come in. I stay where I am, contemplatively petting Aslan and listening as Lars goes
up the half flight of stairs, opens one door briefly and then closes it, and then does the same with another. He comes back down. I hear water running in the kitchen, and then stopping. I can see into the hallway as one light after another is turned off, until the only illumination left in the house is the faint glow from the lamp on the dresser. It is into this light that Lars steps, meeting my eyes as I wait for him in our bedroom.

“You feeling any better?” he asks. He has a glass of water in his hand, and he walks over and gives it to me. “I thought you might need this.”

“Thank you.” I take the glass and drink it. I suddenly feel embarrassed by my wooziness, even if it is not real. “I'm sorry I drank so much.”

He shrugs. “It's understandable, Katharyn.”

I do not know how to answer that, so I remain silent. I watch as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar button, opens the closet door, and hangs up his jacket and the tie.

When he turns back to the room, I am looking at myself in the mirror over the dresser. “Lars,” I say softly.

He sits beside me. “What is it?”

I touch my dress, still looking at my reflection. In the soft light, the dress's color is dazzling, like something an actress or a ballerina would wear on opening night.

“Do you know where I got this dress?” I ask.

He looks at me quizzically. “You got it at May-D&F,” he says. “Where you buy most of your clothes.”

I nod slowly. “And my hair?” I ask, touching the perfect curls. “Who does my hair? What beauty parlor do I go to?”

“Katharyn.” He smiles, puzzled. “You go to Beauty on Broadway, of course. It's the beauty parlor where Linnea works. She's done your hair ever since we met.”

“Linnea.” I ponder for a moment. “Your sister, right?”

“Katharyn.” He puts his arms around me. “You really did drink a lot, didn't you?”

I shake my head and laugh a little. “Well, I guess I did,” I say. I squeeze him tightly and raise my chin, my lips open and ready for his kiss.

B
eauty on Broadway is not at all difficult to find. What is difficult is getting an appointment with Linnea Hershall. “I'm sorry, but Linnea is booked solid until a week from Thursday,” the receptionist tells me on the telephone when I call to set up an appointment for a wash-and-set—profusely apologizing in my head to Veronica at Modern Hair, who I've been seeing regularly for at least a dozen years.

“Can I give you my number, in case Linnea has a cancellation?” I ask. “Really, I can come in any time.” I pause. “She was highly recommended to me.”

“Let me just check.” The line goes dead, and I wait a few minutes, then the receptionist's voice returns. “Can you come in Tuesday afternoon at one thirty? I think she could squeeze you in, if it's quick.”

I smile and raise my fist in a little gesture of triumph. “I can do that,” I tell the girl, and give her my name.

W
hile waiting for my hair appointment, a few days hence, I amuse myself by going downtown to May-D&F and heading straight for the formal-wear section. I look through every rack,
but I do not see the coral-colored dress. “Can I help you find something?” a saleslady asks me.

“I'm looking for a dress that . . . a friend had on.” I describe the dress, carefully noting its color as “coral, or maybe you'd call it more of a peach.”

The saleswoman looks thoughtful. “Honestly, it doesn't sound familiar,” she says. “Are you sure your friend purchased it here?”

“Well, that's what I was told.”

“And when was this?”

It occurs to me that I have no idea when it was. Given the blinding snowstorm, it must still have been winter. But for the first time since the dreams started, I realize that they might not necessarily be taking place in 1962. It's obviously not now, not the first week in October. Denver does get snow in October sometimes, but not big storms like that—and not one storm after another, the way it is in the dreams. Our big storms, our snowiest days, tend to come toward the end of the winter season, February or March. So if the dreams are happening in the present day, why then, it's either a few months from now, or else it's last winter.

Then again, it could be an entirely different period altogether. It's a
dream
, for heaven's sake! It could be any time, or no time at all.

“You know,” I say slowly. “Now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't May-D&F that she said carried it. Perhaps it was somewhere else.”

“Well, we do have a gorgeous new line, just in time for holiday parties. Some of the first items have come in already, and we're expecting more very soon. If I could interest you in something else . . .”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not right now, thanks.” I turn toward the escalator. “Thank you for your time.”

“Certainly. Come back in a few weeks, dear. All the Christmas and New Year's wear will be in by then.”

W
alking into Beauty on Broadway, I am as nervous as if I'm on a first date. The decor is mauve, with dark purple accents. The shop is large; I count eight hairdressing stations. Women are seated at most of the stations. There is a bank of hair dryers along the back wall, nearly all of them humming happily. A manicurist carefully applies polish to the nails of one of the hair-drying women; others under the dryers busy themselves with fashion magazines or the entertainment section from the newspaper.

The receptionist takes my name, leads me to an empty station, and walks away silently. I wait, looking at my reflection. The lights on either side of the mirror emphasize my pale skin. I pinch my cheeks, trying to bring some color to them. I should have put on more lipstick.

While I am agonizing over this, a middle-aged, brown-haired woman appears in the mirror, approaching me from behind. I put my heel down and spin the chair slightly so we are facing each other. She takes my hand. “I'm Linnea Hershall,” she says, a slight lilt in her voice—the remnants, no doubt, of her girlhood Swedish accent. “You're Kitty, is that right?”

I nod, gulping and speechless. Up close, her resemblance to Lars is remarkable. She has the same striking blue eyes, the same wry smile, the same rounded nose. Tears spring to my eyes at the sight of her. I cannot believe that I am looking at a real flesh-and-blood relative of my dream man.

Seeing my distress, Linnea softens. “Let me guess,” she says. “First time with a new hairdresser in entirely too many years.” Her eyebrows rise, then lower. “Am I right?”

Despite myself, I smile. “Ummm . . . yes. That's right.”

“Well, relax.” She turns my chair so I am facing the mirror, and then lightly runs her fingers through my crazy cowlicked hair. “It's easy to get in what I call a ‘hair rut.' And when you're
in one, it's hard to make a change. It can be upsetting.” She tilts her head, looking thoughtfully at my reflection. “My guess, however, is that you'd like a way to tame this unruly look and give it a bit more elegance.”

I nod. “Please,” I say. “That is exactly what I want.”

A
nd so I take a deep breath, trying to calm down and enjoy the experience for what it is. Even Linnea's hands remind me of Lars's: strong, capable, like you could put your whole life in them and nothing bad would ever come of it. I am halfway in love with her before she finishes my shampoo.

Back at her station, she pensively runs a comb through my hair, then rummages in a side cart for rollers. Eyeing my head critically, she tries first one size, and then another, finding just the right small curlers for some areas, the larger pink rollers for big waves on top. She dunks her fingers into a large vat of green Dippity-Do, smooths it into my hair, then expertly rolls each curler and pins it into place.

Once she appears at ease with her work, I open my mouth and venture a comment. “Linnea,” I say hesitantly. “That's a pretty name. And unusual.”

She looks up and smiles at me in the mirror. “It's Swedish,” she explains. “I emigrated here from a small town not far from BorÃ¥s, which itself is not so big; most Americans have not heard of it. I came here as a girl.”

I clasp my hands together tightly to keep them from trembling. “That's a long way to move,” I say finally. “Your family . . . they moved here with you?”

She nods, arranging a small blue curler around a wisp of my hair and attaching it with a roller clip. “My parents and my brother.” She bites her lip. “They've all passed, however.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” I can feel myself shaking. “How sad for you. Were they . . . ill?”

Linnea nods again. “My parents did not do well here,” she says. “We started out in Iowa, where we had distant relatives. But it was the Depression, the work that was available was hard, and my mother's heart . . . well, her heart could not withstand it.” She looks away, and then back at my hair. “More or less the same could be said of my father, I suppose.”

It is hard for me to fathom. I cannot in my wildest imagination envision losing my parents. Perhaps it is because they are so young—my mother is not even sixty yet—but it's hard to picture my life without them. Even this two-month period in which they are so far away is proving much more difficult than I anticipated. The whole idea of them being thousands of miles from home is starting to wear on me. I think about the postcard I received from Mother this morning.