Both Mitch and Missy burst into peals of laughter. “Of course we can, Mama,” Mitch replies. “It’s Mr. Kennedy. And Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy have a little girl. And a baby boy too.”
“And you’re always saying that all you want in life is to be as fashionable as Mrs. Kennedy,” Missy adds, enthusiasm pumped into her breathless words like water pouring from a broken faucet.
I shake my head, realizing how absurd it is to quiz the children in this manner. The name of the president proves nothing. It could be 1963—or 1965, or even 1968. Despite everyone’s concerns over Cuba and those appalling Communists, I have no doubt that Jack Kennedy will be reelected in 1964. No one doubts that. So this could be any year in which he is still president.
I ought to have just asked Mitch and Missy straight out what year it is. But that seems too harebrained a question to ask. They might think I’m more loopy than they already do.
We walk along the concrete pathway of the shopping center. Music is piped in from somewhere above us; I think it is that song about the flowers and girls and soldiers, that song Pete Seeger wrote and several artists have recorded. It is pleasant and lyrical, and even on this slightly chilly day it puts you in the mood for strolling and browsing—and with any luck buying, as no doubt the merchants desire. I wonder if Frieda and I ought to consider playing some soft background music in our bookstore. Would that make customers more apt to browse, and consequentially to buy?
The children eagerly lead me along the wide boulevard. Large juniper bushes in beige stone planters are positioned every few feet. Women chat animatedly with each other as they gaze into the sparkling storefront windows. Children run screeching down the broad passageway, only to be sharply reprimanded and drawn back by their mothers. I see very few men walking about. Clearly, this is a women’s world.
I can see now what Frieda is talking about when she brings up closing our Pearl Street shop and moving to a shopping center like this. We are in the wrong place. That world—the streetcar world in which she and I grew up—it’s gone now. This is the new world—this bright, clean shopping center with its fresh stores and gleaming walkways. Perhaps Frieda is right. Perhaps if we want to survive, this is where we are meant to be.
“Here it is!” Mitch and Missy gape at a brilliantly lit sign: BLUEBELL TOYS, in large, cobalt letters. Below the sign, a double doorway, opened wide despite the slight nip in the air, leads to lavish, irresistible displays of playthings. The displays are placed just inside the doorway; it almost seems that they are alive, with long arms reaching out to smoothly pull the children inside.
“Come on, Mama!” Mitch and Missy tug impatiently on my hands, and we step into the store.
Bluebell Toys is a child’s paradise. Board games, baby dolls, pop guns, and all manner of dress-up clothes, from princess costumes to Western wear. Mitch heads straight for the cars and trucks section, and begins zooming a large metal dump truck across the carpeting. Missy dreamily enters the Barbie doll aisle, studying the racks of clothes designed especially for the fashionable plastic teen. I can see both children from the front entrance, so I stay where I am, looking over the store’s minuscule book section. These are all the books they carry? I didn’t see a book department at May-D&F, though there may have been one on an upper floor. I wonder if there is another bookstore in the shopping center, with a bigger selection for both children and adults.
I am about to ask the checkout girl this very question when a voice behind me loudly proclaims, “Katharyn! Fancy meeting you here!”
Turning, I am confronted by my hostess from the snow-blown cocktail party of my last dream. Instead of the pin-striped satin dress, today she is modestly attired in a brown coat and a burgundy silk scarf. She wears a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. This makes her look older—although, as I noted at her party, I actually suspect she is a good ten years younger than I. Holding her hand is a small boy—bigger than a baby, but not as old as my children.
“Hello.” Of course, I still don’t know her name. I catch Missy’s eye and motion her toward us. Maybe she can rescue me.
Missy skips over obligingly. “Hi, Mrs. Nelson.” She bends down to greet the toddler. “And hi there, Kenny. How are you today?” She reaches toward the little guy and pinches his cheek, the way a grandmother might. Gracious, this girl is an old soul if I ever saw one. She reminds me so much of myself as a child, I cannot contain my emotions. I want to hug her, hold on to her forever. I have to resist an impulse to bend down, grab her around the waist, and bury my face in her hair.
Watching her, I am struck by a thought. I would give anything—anything in the world—for this child of my heart to be real. To be real, and to be mine.
Missy’s calling the woman Mrs. Nelson, however, is of absolutely no help. Mrs. Nelson and I are neighbors and adults—and, as an aside, her husband made a pass at me the other evening in their dimly lit hallway. Of course we’d be on a first-name basis. But Missy, being a child, and a polite one at that, would naturally address this woman by her surname. How exasperating.
“Shopping or just browsing?” Mrs. Nelson asks me. Missy looks up expectantly, waiting for my response.
I don’t have to think about that for long. Suddenly I don’t care what Lars would think, or what the protocol is. These are good children, and they deserve a treat.
“Shopping,” I answer firmly. “Missy, go pick out one of those Barbie outfits for yourself. And tell Mitch that he can get a car or truck. Nothing over three dollars.” I have no idea what three dollars buys in the way of toy trucks, but it seems like it ought to be enough to get something significant.
“Special occasion?” Mrs. Nelson asks, as Missy skips off. “It’s not their birthday, is it?”
Aha. So they are twins, just as I’d suspected.
I shrug. “No special occasion,” I reply. “Sometimes you just need to spoil them a little . . . right?” I say this last weakly, my resolve flushed away by my inexperience, like so much trash in a rainy gutter. Maybe I am taking a huge misstep here.