The Bookseller by Cynthia Swanson

Author:Cynthia Swanson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

I don’t know exactly what to do. The glass-fronted door has no board over it, so I peer inside. It’s empty. All of our shelves, our countertop—everything is gone. The linoleum floor is bare; the Turkish rugs that we bought secondhand at a thrift store have disappeared. The posters on the wall announcing the latest books and movies—vanished. The door to the back room hangs open, but it’s too dark to see past it. But I know what would be there—nothing.

I turn toward the doorway at the side of the building. It leads up a flight of stairs to Bradley’s apartment above the store. His number is on the FOR LEASE sign; that means he must still own the building. Does he still live upstairs, too? I tread carefully up the stairs and knock on his apartment door.

No one answers for a full five minutes. I am about to leave when finally the door slowly opens. Bradley looks older here than he does in the other world. He is hunched over, his kind brown eyes behind their spectacles sunk deep into ashy sockets. It takes him a moment to figure out who I am.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” he says finally. “If it isn’t Miss Kitty.”

Hearing someone speak my name—my real name, in this unreal world—almost moves me to tears, and I blink rapidly a few times. “Bradley.” My voice cracks a bit. “It’s good to see you.”

He opens the door wider. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

I shrug. “I was . . . in the neighborhood, and I just . . .” I lower my eyes, look away, then back at him. “I thought I’d stop by.”

“Well, come in.” He opens the door the rest of the way. “I was just making tea. Would you like some?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Bradley.”

While he is in the kitchen, I look around. His apartment, I note with relief, has not changed. Same old gray sofa with the stuffing coming out, same tweed armchair by the window, pulled a little closer to the television set than I remember. Same small, battered wooden dining table with four chairs. Enough space, he always said, for himself and his three grandchildren to sit there at the same time.

Bradley appears, a teacup held shakily in each hand. I step forward and take one of the cups. Our hands touch; his are rough from the cold of winter and the depths of old age.

“Please, sit,” he says, pointing toward the table.

I take a seat, and Bradley sets down his tea and pulls out the chair across from me. “How are you?” he asks, settling himself. “And that nice husband, and the children—how is everyone?”

I smile and sip my tea. “We’re all fine, Bradley. Just fine.” I put down my teacup. “See here, I’m a bit confused, and I hope you can help me out. I’m not sure what happened or why we don’t have the shop anymore.” I look down at the floor. “And where Frieda is,” I say, looking up.

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