“I’ve brought several styles for each of the children,” Richard informs me, and for the first time I look to my left and notice that Mitch is seated there, quietly swinging his stockinged feet and glancing around the store. “You’ve come at the right time for school shoes. Most of last fall’s styles are on clearance, and our spring shoes are not in yet. So you’ll find some excellent values, ma’am.”
I smile. “Well, there’s no telling when children will outgrow their shoes and need a new pair.” This statement—as is the case with so much of what I say in these dreams—falls into the “How on God’s green earth do I know a thing like that?” category.
“First, for the young lady . . .” Richard opens a box and pulls out a pair of brown Mary Janes. Charming and delicate as Cinderella being presented with the glass slipper, Missy lifts a foot. The salesman slips on the shoe and buckles it across her instep. Missy has lovely, dainty feet, similar to my own. My feet have always been a source of pride; they’re one of my best features. Judging by the graceful fit of the shoes, my imaginary daughter will likely follow suit.
Richard pinches Missy’s toes through the shoe. I wonder why he is doing that; no one does a thing like that when you buy adult shoes. I realize he must be checking the fit. “How do they feel, honey?” I ask her as he adjusts the second shoe on her other foot.
“Nice,” she says, standing. “Comfortable.”
“Take a walk,” Richard suggests.
Missy walks from one end of the shoe department to the other. “I also have those in black, if you prefer,” Richard tells me.
I shake my head. “No, the brown is fine.”
Missy returns and sits next to me. “They’re good,” she says. “But can I try the others, just in case?”
I smile. That is exactly what I do when I shop. Even if I am satisfied with the first thing I try on, I always have to try all my selections, just in case something else turns out to be more to my liking.
After trying two more pairs, Missy goes back to the brown Mary Janes. Just what I would have done, I think, nodding my approval.
Once Missy is outfitted, Richard and I turn to Mitch. He tries on several pairs of lace-up shoes, all of which he says are uncomfortable. I look at his eyes as he uneasily watches Richard lace one pair after another onto his feet.
“Mitch,” I say, scanning the displays in front of us. “How about a pair of loafers?” I smile at him. “They would just slip on your foot. They’d not need to be tied.”
Relief is visible on his face. “That would be perfect, Mama.”
This parenting thing isn’t so hard, I tell myself. I could do this, if I had to do it all the time. All you need is a little intuition, and the wherewithal to pay attention to the details.
“Betty at the counter will ring you up,” Richard says when we are through. He stands and picks up the discarded boxes. “Lovely children, madam. You must be proud of them.”
I smile. “Indeed I am.”
And it’s true. I am—totally and irrationally—quite proud of these two imaginary little people.
I fish in my handbag and find a checkbook with both “Lars K. Andersson” and “Mrs. Katharyn Andersson” printed in the top-left corner of each check. Writing a check to May-D&F for the shoes, I realize I have no idea what the date is; I scribble some illegible numbers on that line.
I tear the check from the book and give it to Betty, the salesgirl at the counter. “You don’t want to use your account, Mrs. Andersson?” she asks me as she takes the check.
“My account?”
“Yes—your charge account.”
“Oh.” I can feel my face turn slightly red. Of course I would have a charge account here. “No, not today.” I smile sweetly at her as she hands me the receipt.
Mitch tugs at my coat sleeve as I’m placing the checkbook back in my purse. “Were we good?” he asks me.
“Excuse me?”
“Were we good? Missy and me, were we good?”
“Of course you were good.” I smile down at him, thinking about what the babysitter said in my last dream. They really are good kids, you know. Of course they are; isn’t it obvious? So what in heaven’s name was she talking about?
Mitch hops up and down excitedly. “Yippee!” he says. “Then we can go, can’t we?”
I have no idea what he means, so I just shake my head in confusion.
“To Bluebell Toys,” Missy explains. “Don’t you remember, Mama? You promised that if we were good while we got our shoes, we could go to Bluebell Toys and . . . well, you know. Look around.”
I promised that? Did I promise to buy them something? Do they get a toy for being good on an errand like this? I have no idea what the protocol is. I wish Lars was here to help me navigate these peculiar waters.
“Well, so I did,” I say. “Lead the way, children.”
We take the escalator down. I scan the first floor as we descend, my eyes instinctively seeking out a book section. The May-D&F downtown has a rather substantial book department. They host visiting authors and book-signing events—something Frieda and I would love to do, but it is impossible to get any writer with a national or even regional reputation to visit our small shop; we have tried, and always come up short in our appeals to the authors’ publicists. It’s discouraging. In many ways, the book departments at the big stores—those, and the drugstores that peddle dime paperbacks—are more our competition than other small bookshops.
The children and I get off the escalator, then walk toward a large doorway, which evidently leads outside to the smaller stores in the shopping center. This whole shopping center experience is foreign to me; I don’t shop this way in my real life.
Right before we reach the door, Missy points toward the women’s formal wear section. “Look, Mama, there’s your dress,” she says. “The one you wore the other night.” She smiles. “Well, not your dress exactly,” she explains. “Yours is at home, of course, in your closet. But it’s the same dress as yours.”
She’s right. There, on the racks, is the coral dress that I couldn’t find at the May-D&F downtown the other day. It’s undeniably the exact same dress—although I can’t help noticing that it’s on a clearance rack.
“Do you remember when I bought that dress?” I ask Missy.
“Sure,” she replies. “Just after Thanksgiving. You wore it to Daddy’s office Christmas party. And then you wore it the other night to the party at the Nelsons’ house.”
I nod, thinking that over. The dress must be part of the holiday line of formal wear that the saleslady downtown mentioned. If it’s on clearance now, that means that in this dream world we’ve moved into the future, as I suspected.
How far into the future? I wonder. Are we only into 1963, just a few months from now? Or have we moved even further beyond that?
“Here’s a quiz for you,” I say to the children as we go outside. The air is cold, but the bright sunlight warms our faces. “Can you tell me who’s the president of the United States?”