In fact, nothing else going on there right now—not Sisters’, not Frieda, not even thinking about my parents coming home soon—gives me as much pleasure as seeing Greg learn to read, seeing the world of literature open up for him.
I take one last look at the duplex, then pull away from the curb. When I drive past Mr. Morris’s house down the block, I slow down, turning my head to see if my nonagenarian neighbor is sitting in his rocking chair on the porch. But he is not there, so I speed up again. Keeping my eyes and the long hood of the Cadillac facing forward, I hastily leave Washington Street and the old neighborhood behind.
At the shopping center, I head directly for the storefront that had been empty, the one Frieda has her eye on. Of course, I don’t imagine it will be empty in this world.
Not only is the store a bookshop, but it’s twice the size of the available space in the real world. Frieda must have taken over the unit next door, as well. Over both units is a large sign: GREEN’S BOOKS AND NEWS.
Of course. This store is hers, not ours. This bookstore belongs to Frieda Green. It does not belong to two would-be sisters. It’s no surprise that she changed the name.
I peer through the glass, trying to be inconspicuous, looking at the displays inside. The store is bustling; customers browse dozens of stacks filled with books, magazines, newspapers, reading material of all sorts. Toward the right-hand side, I see a young male clerk helping someone reach a book on a high shelf. Nearby, in the fiction area, two middle-aged women huddle, comparing the covers of novels, evidently trying to decide what looks interesting. One of them is holding a book with block lettering and a Jewish star on the cover. Squinting and learning forward, I can just make out the title—The King’s Persons. The woman opens the book and scans the first few pages, then speaks to her friend, who shrugs and takes the book in her hands. She flips through the pages and says something to her companion before tucking the book under her arm, in all likelihood intending to purchase it. The two women—shoulders pressed together, heads bent toward one another, talking books—remind me of Frieda and myself. Of Frieda and myself in my real life, that is. It saddens me to look at them; I bite my lip and turn away.
I glance at the checkout counter. My heart beats rapidly in my chest. I expect to see Frieda, all her confidence and swinging hair, running her show. But that doesn’t happen. Frieda is not there at all, at least not anywhere that I can see. Instead, a young shopgirl sits behind the counter on a tall stool, her eyes down, reading something in front of her on the counter.
I take a deep breath and step inside. Walking toward the register, I put on what I hope is a spirited smile, and face the shopgirl.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Despite my bravado, I am at a loss. “I was just . . . I was looking for . . .” I glance around helplessly, as if the answer will appear before me if I sweep my eyes around the brightly lit shop. I turn back to her and shrug. “I think I’d just like to browse.”
She smiles and waves her hand. “Go ahead, ma’am. If you have any questions, be sure to let me know.” She turns to wait on a customer who has queued up behind me.
I walk to the front stacks. The two women have moved on, and I have this area to myself. The stacks are filled with best sellers, romances, books with colorful covers. I immediately spy the new anthology by J. D. Salinger, which we’ve heard is coming out in early 1963. In this bright new bookstore, Frieda has almost a full row of copies of the new Salinger on display, highlighting its mustard-colored cover, its title in simple, modern text with no other artwork. There are numerous copies of Seven Days in May, the military thriller that was just gaining momentum back in my real world. I spot a shelf stocked with another nuclear-war-themed novel, Fail-Safe. In the real world, Frieda and I have preordered twenty copies of that book, which is due for release any day now. Clearly, Fail-Safe is making its mark in my imaginary 1963. Maybe, I think with amusement, I should increase our order quantity, back in the real world.
I pick up a copy of the book that the two women were looking at, and one of them bought—The King’s Persons, by Joanne Greenberg. About dozen copies are lined up on the shelf. To their left, a small poster is propped up with an easel: NEWLY RELEASED! LOCAL AUTHOR! On it is a photograph of a rather serious-looking young woman, along with a glowing review of The King’s Persons from the February 17, 1963, Denver Post. I’ve never heard of this novel, nor of Joanne Greenberg, but I make a mental note to find out more about her when I return to real life. And then I smile inwardly; how entertaining it is to be able to predict the future—albeit an imaginary future—in such a vibrant, meticulous way! Perhaps if I let go more often in these dreams, simply rolled with them as I did at first, I would enjoy them more.
A large copy of a Henri Matisse paper cutout—its vivid black, blue, green, and yellow hues attracting my eyes—hangs between two tall bookshelves. I recognize it immediately; I even know its name, The Sorrows of the King. Matisse created this work in 1952, toward the end of his life, when he worked with cutouts instead of painting. I have no idea how I know this; I’ve never seen it before. It’s very to-the-moment, exactly the kind of thing Frieda would adore.
And then, suddenly, I realize that I have seen it before. A lithograph of The Sorrows of the King was displayed in the window of a gallery in Paris, when Lars and I were there on our honeymoon. I remember standing on the street with my new husband, my arm tucked into his, staring at it. Both of us were silent, overcome with the beauty of the simple figures, the colors, the blackness in the center. “It just stays with you,” Lars whispered. “Close your eyes, Katharyn, and you can still see it in your mind’s eye. You can still see the colors.”
I closed my eyes and squeezed his arm, taking it in. “Frieda would love this piece,” I said, opening my eyes. “I must tell her about it when we get home.”
Yes, I remember that.
I glance at the counter, where the shopgirl has finished ringing up the customer who was waiting earlier. I walk back over. “What a lovely store,” I say. “Have you worked here long?”
She shrugs. “A few months. It’s a nice place to work, especially if you love books.” She smiles again; she has a pretty smile, with very white teeth. “My friend who works at the Bear Valley Green’s told me about it. Said I should apply. So I did, and I was fortunate to get the job.”
“At the . . .” I shake my head, confused.
“Bear Valley,” the girl says patiently. “You know, the shopping center in Lakewood.”
I frown. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of it.”
The girl gives me a curious look. “Well, it’s one of our six.”
“Your six?”
“Six Green’s Books and News locations,” she explains.
What she says doesn’t register for a moment. “I’m sorry, did you just say . . .”