After an uneventful and, yet again, not particularly lucrative day, Frieda and I close the shop at five o’clock. As we are locking up, Bradley comes out the doorway that leads to his apartment above our shop. He pauses to button his cardigan, which is beige and tattered, with patches on the sleeves. His smile is friendly, but even so, Frieda and I exchange apprehensive glances.
Bradley is our landlord. He owns the building, living in one of the apartments upstairs, renting out the other, and leasing both our space and the small lawyer’s office next door to us. Bradley is in his sixties, widowed with several grandchildren. When they visit him, they come into the shop and browse the children’s section, and more often than not Frieda and I let them select something for free. Bradley is a good landlord, an honest man. It hurts my heart that we are so low on funds right now—and I know Frieda feels the same way. We have no idea how we’ll make October’s rent, which comes due in ten days.
“You girls have a nice evening, now,” Bradley says. “Enjoy the warm weather while it lasts. Winter will be here before you know it.”
He gives us a long look, one that I cannot read completely; nonetheless, it gives me a panicky feeling and makes my throat close up. Does he know? I wonder, swallowing hard. Surely he must. He has eyes; he can see out his window. Certainly he must see our shop’s comings and goings—or lack thereof—every day.
In any case, Frieda and I both nod. “You, too, Bradley,” Frieda says, and then we turn away and start walking south on Pearl Street.
We are both silent for a while. I don’t want to talk about it—the shop, the rent—and I get the feeling that Frieda doesn’t want to, either. After a few moments she begins to whistle—“Soldier Boy,” by the Shirelles, I think, although with Frieda’s off-key whistling, it’s impossible to know for sure.
At the corner of Pearl and Jewell, we pause before parting ways.
“Have a good night,” I tell her.
“You, too,” she replies, fishing in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter. “Any big plans?”
I avert my eyes. “Nothing special,” I mumble. “You?”
She shrugs, lighting up. “Just the usual old-maid-reading-and-going-to-bed-early routine.”
I smile and give her a brief hug; hers in response is one-armed, the hand holding her cigarette dangling away from my body. “Well, enjoy,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walk east on Jewell, passing my own block at Washington. Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure that Frieda has continued on her way and can no longer see me. Then I walk the few blocks to Downing Street and turn right toward Evans Avenue. I cross the street to wait for an eastbound bus.
At University Boulevard I change buses, heading south. I am not sure where the bus line will stop; in the real world, this is not a part of town into which I’ve ventured. Although I’ve been aware that there is a lot of new construction out here, until now this area has held no allure for me. There is nothing out here but enormous new houses, with enormous new schools and churches to go along with them.
The bus goes as far south as Yale Avenue. “Last stop,” the driver calls; I am the only person left on the bus. I hop off, then watch the bus turn around in an empty lot to make its way back north on University Boulevard. I walk farther south on University and after a few blocks turn east onto Dartmouth Street. A wrought-iron sign informs me that I have entered the Southern Hills neighborhood. I pass an elementary school on my left, a sprawling one-story brick building. Like everything else out here, it looks brand-new.
I keep going until I reach Springfield Street, and then I head south. All is as it was in my dream: freshly constructed houses, most of them ranches or split-levels, and lots of land being built upon. I don’t remember the specifics of which houses existed and which didn’t—it was so dark in the dream—but the feel of the neighborhood is just as I had seen it last night.
Even though I have never been on this particular street before.
I look for number 3258. I find 3248 and 3268.
But there is nothing between them except for an empty, treeless, rather hilly lot.
I stare at the space. I can see the pink-orange brick house in my mind. I know exactly how the house would sit on the land, the low roofline of the attached garage and main section of the house and the higher roof over the upper level. I can envision the saplings planted in the yard, the juniper bushes by the front door. I picture the driveway where Lars smoothly rolled up and parked the Cadillac. My mind visualizes the wooden lamppost next to which Alma stood and waited for her ride home.
But there is no house here, not even any plan for a house—none that I can see, at any rate. There is nothing here except brittle prairie grass, dirt, and weeds.
A man strolls by, an unleashed spaniel walking quietly beside him. The man looks up and tips his hat at me. “Evening, ma’am.” His bushy blond mustache lifts on each side as he gives me a small smile.
I nod. “Good evening.”
He apparently reads the confusion in my expression, because he asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
I tilt my head and turn toward the empty lot. “I was just . . . perhaps I have the wrong address. I was looking for 3258 South Springfield Street.”
He looks at the lot. “Well, this is where it would be, if there was a house there,” he replies. “But as you can see, there’s no house.”
“No.” I turn away, looking over the horizon, to the mountains in the distant west. “Tell me, do you live around here?”
He nods, glancing down the street. “On the corner.”
“Have you lived there a long time?”
“Built in ’fifty-six. So a few years.”
“You don’t—there isn’t a family around here named Andersson, is there? The Lars Anderssons?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t say for sure I know everyone, but the wife does try to make a point of meeting newcomers and introducing them around.” He shrugs. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name, though.”
“And this lot—right here—there’s never been a house here? Or any construction here?”
His mustache twitches again. “Not since ’fifty-six, ma’am.”
I smile back. “All right. Thank you, then. I must have the street number mixed up.”
“Well, good luck to you in finding the Lars Anderssons, ma’am. Have a nice night.” And he strolls off, the dog at his side.
“Yes,” I say to his retreating figure. “You, too.”