Chapter 23
The Puget Sound Book Company
101 South Main Street??Seattle, WA 98104
7/26/92
Dear Frida,
I know I just wrote to you, but I have big news. Sven and I let the cat out of the bag today. You’re not going to believe this. One of our co-workers, Josephine who shelves the kids books, started calling us the Golden Couple (not even facetiously, and she’s really facetious like Dorothy Parker). Everyone seems happy for us. Except the Middle-Aged Lady Poets, of course. And Dawn (she’s the one who scolded me for telling people to have a nice day). She wears caftans and has the New Age section, and when Sven told her I almost had my novel published, she said she wasn’t surprised it failed because I won’t have anything important to say until I’m forty.
I wasn’t happy he told her what happened, but I guess it was an accident. She’d said something rude about how I’m not on his intellectual level, so he told her how Little, Brown wanted my novel. Then she asked why it’s not in the store. That’s when he realized he put his foot in it and had to explain the whole story. I don’t get why she’s so mad at me. She’s married. I hate how she watches me out of the corner of her eye. Is it so impossible Sven likes me?
Confession: What if she’s right? He thinks so much more than the average human being. I’m pretty much an average human being. When we went to a revival of Annie Hall at the Neptune, there’s that scene where Alvy is talking about aesthetic criteria, and Annie thinks how she’s not smart enough for him. What if I’m not smart enough for Sven? His mind is (attention, please, for the perfect word): lithe.
…I had to step away. A suspicious-looking guy slunk into the back room. We’re on high alert because people are stealing The Anarchist Cookbook more than usual lately. Roy says maybe there’s going to be an uprising if George Bush gets reelected.
Where was I? I just wish my anxiety would go away. Sometimes when Sven and I are talking, I start to disintegrate. I swear I’m made of gauze. I can literally feel the air on my bones. Like when I told him your theory about the boat. He thinks it’s an excellent example of constructing happiness. He said I constructed a perfect life on the boat to keep me safe from the unpredictability, but since it’s not keeping me safe out in the world, how real could it have been? Stupid bees. They buzzed like crazy when I wrote that.
I get why he doesn’t understand my family. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you I met his parents. Talk about the polar opposite from mine. They had us over for dinner, and it started out okay. They were asking me about myself, do I have any hobbies, brothers or sisters, the usual parent questions. For some reason I told them how I played tennis in high school and whenever I looked up beside the court, Mom and Dad were there. Sometimes Mom still had paint on her jeans because she’d been working on our house (she was always working on the house), and Dad was usually in a suit because he came from work. Sven’s mom is a nurse. She smiled at me and said, “How nice. I moved to the swing shift once Sven got into school. I’ve never enjoyed being a mother.”
Who says something like that? Right in front of him! Who does something like that? Sven needed her. Diabetes is no joke. He has to check his blood sugar three times a day, give himself shots, and eat at specific times so he won’t pass out and die. The other night his blood sugar levels plummeted, and he started sweating and shaking. He practically shouted at me to get him a Snickers. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like when it was new to him and he was home all alone. I wonder if he ever constructed any kind of happiness to keep himself safe from that.
Love,
Kate