Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  For a moment the two men stare at each other like tomcats. Mistrustful, searching. Is there a reason to be watchful?

  “Mixed up in what?”

  Frank shrugs. Thomas changes his tack:

  “How’s the bar going? Business good?”

  “Sterling.” Frank maintains Thomas’s gaze.

  “And your dry cleaning? Did you find your dry cleaning?”

  “I did.”

  “And what about Luc? Or Luke. He still helping out?”

  “Here and there. The boy’s got many irons in the fire.”

  “What does he do anyway?”

  Frank pulls his hands from his pockets and straightens up. “Ah, this and that, y’know. He fishes.” Frank finally looks away, uninterested.

  “Fishes?”

  “Yeah. Mostly eel, I think. He’s got traps in a couple of places.”

  “That’s not something you can make a living on, though, is it?”

  “No, it’s mostly just one of his hobbies. That’s why he gives us a hand from time to time. Among other things.” He glances at his watch. “I gotta get going, I’m meeting someone. Nice to run into you.” Frank offers his nicotine-stained hand. Thomas clutches it and holds on tightly. The skin is chapped and cold.

  “So you have no idea who could’ve come by my store? C’mon, Frank.”

  “Absolutely no idea.” Frank turns and strolls calmly—practically leaning backward as though an invisible servant is bearing the weight of his torso—down the street. Thomas watches him go. Sees him stop at a mechanic’s and speak to a young man in overalls, who’s lugging tires off the sidewalk and into the shop. The two men disappear together into the darkness.

  Patricia shows up at 4:15, silent and pale. She climbs into the car without a word. Frank’s presence lingers with Thomas as they drive northward out of the city. Patricia says nothing. She can’t decide what she wants to listen to on the radio, so she keeps switching channels. At first he tells her everything about the break-in, but she offers no commentary. They eat apples; she remains silent. Around 5:00 they stop at a gas station and get coffee. He puts his hand on her arm and she doesn’t remove it. A small opening. He remembers that he wanted to buy something for the twins. He wanders around the store and winds up choosing two large bars of milk chocolate and a video game. He buys enough cigarettes to last the weekend. Patricia has brought a supersized bottle of Rioja. “Good,” he says, “there’s quite a few of us.” She looks away. Standing in a patch of sunlight, she rises onto her tiptoes in her flat, sand-colored sandals.

  “I’ve bought another store,” he says. “I get the deed on Wednesday.”

  She eyes him indifferently.

  “Why?”

  “Alice is going to be the manager.”

  “But you haven’t even talked to her about it?”

  “I did. Sort of. Briefly. And I plan on talking to her about it this weekend.”

  She smiles derisively. “You’ve begun smelting before the iron’s hot, haven’t you?”

  “If Alice isn’t interested, don’t you think someone else will be?” She just glares at him, at such length and with such condescension that it irritates him. “It’s a major opportunity for a young person,” he says testily.

  “Is it now?”

  “Yes, you’re damn straight it is.”

  “Relax. Not everyone wants to be a part of the paper business.”

  “Paper business? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Can you try to act normal the next few days? To be honest, it’s hard to be around you.”

  “As far as I can see, you’re the one who’s making it hard. You’re distant.”

  “And you’re not allowed to smoke at a gas station.”

  He flings his cigarette away huffily.

  “Listen,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to have a branch and the opportunity arose. Now we’ll have to see about Alice.”

  She turns away. “I don’t understand where the money’s coming from.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean by that? That sounds suspicious.”

  He unlocks the car. “I’ve been saving up, Patricia. And I bought the new store for a song. It’s very simple.”

  She sits beside him and pulls a nail file from her purse. He starts the engine.

  “Where?” she says, her tone still indifferent.

  “Really close to where I grew up. In that neighborhood.” He turns on the blinker and merges onto the highway.

  “Ha! How sentimental of you. You won’t have any customers in that area. Who do you think will buy envelopes and fountain pens out there? Frank and his friends?”

  He angles the car into the outer lane and accelerates. “There are tons of students.”

  She shakes her head and continues to do so for what seems like forever.

  “Stop being so negative, for fuck’s sake!”

  He punches a clenched fist against the wheel.

  A terrible silence. Then she speaks, her voice low and tense, “You know what. Why don’t you just let me out here? I really don’t want to be with you. First you practically assault me, then you neglect to tell me something as important as having a break-in at your store, and now this. I’ve tried to communicate with you for a long time, Thomas. In an ordinary way, the way ordinary people do. But you never even ask how I’m doing anymore. We never talk. There’s no connection. It seems like you just don’t give a shit. And you don’t want a baby with me, either.” Her voice rises now: “What I’m saying is that you don’t want to talk to me, and you don’t want to have a kid with me.” Then she shouts, “What do you want from me? And slow down for Christ’s sake! You’re driving like a fucking idiot!”

  Thomas grits his teeth and leans forward. He maintains his speed. Patricia emits an angry, animal-like noise and blares the radio as high as it will go. Booming heavy metal from years ago swells the air around them. They zip past green fields and darker wooded areas. Grazing sheep. Beef cattle. Red barns and listless windmills. There’s no wind. A murder of crows alight from a treetop and glide across the landscape like black ships in formation. He snaps off the radio. Patricia stares demonstratively out the passenger window, her back to him. Ten minutes later he says, “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself together. I promise. We’ll have a nice weekend.” And when she doesn’t respond: “I just can’t deal with any more problems, Patricia.”

  “You’re the one creating them,” she barks in a deep, intense voice.

  “I love you. I fucked up, but I love you. You have to believe me.”

  The landscape begins to rise. Hills and cliff formations and the mountains’ snow-capped peaks farther ahead. “Look,” Thomas says. “It’s beautiful out here. It’s been too long since we’ve been out of the city. Please forgive me?” She sighs. “Please? Babe?” She looks at him. This is again followed by silence, but slowly that silence grows milder, the atmosphere gradually cooling; he smiles at her, realizes that she’s regarding him. She says, “You’re a strange man, Thomas.” He says, “You think so?” She nods. He says, “I’ve missed you.” She sighs again. He says, “I love you.” Some time passes before she says, very quietly, “I know.” And like that everything changes. He lays his hand tentatively on her thigh. “I’m actually looking forward to being with all those goofballs,” she says in her normal voice. Relieved, he reaches for her hand and puts it on his knee. A few seconds later her hand glides a short distance up his thigh. He braces it between his legs. The hand rests there unmoving, warm and feathery-light. She doesn’t remove it. His dick throbs against her palm. He’s the one who removes her hand, but he does so in order to run his hand up under her dress. He fingers the lace trimmings of her panties. She breathes heavily. “I want you so bad,” he whispers. “You’re an asshole,” she moans, when he slips his hand under the thin fabric. “Not now.”

  “When?” She’s warm and wet. He can almost smell her fragrance notes filling the car.

  “Then pull over,” she
whispers. “I hate you, Thomas.”

  He goes out of his way to avoid seeming aggressive. But she’s aggressive. As she straddles him on the narrow backseat, she slaps him hard in the face with the flat of her hand.

  She shakes him and thrusts her groin against his until it almost hurts. She tears at his shirt, and a button pops off. He thinks he smells something strange on her. Maybe she’s got another man’s sperm in her, maybe another man’s touched her skin. This arouses him. “Have you been cheating on me?” he whispers. Afterward the thought is in no way arousing. Afterward she pulls her skirt to her knees and smooths it with her hands. She lets him kiss her. He kisses her face, forehead, eyes, mouth, her flushed cheeks. But she’s strangely detached now.

  They leave the forest road and the half-darkness between the trees. A squirrel scuttles up a tree trunk. The car smells thickly of sex and sweat. He turns on the air conditioning and drapes his arm around her neck. They listen to pop music and chew gum. She fishes perfume from her purse and sprays Thomas with it. “Now you smell like a woman,” she smiles. Then she starts to laugh, and she can’t stop herself. Leaning forward, she cackles until she begins to tremble. He laughs along, but he doesn’t know what’s so funny. Yet the bad atmosphere has completely disappeared by the time she, hiccupping, settles into her seat once more and rubs her eyes. “Oh” she says, “Oh, you slut. Everything’s so bizarre!” A half-hour later they turn off the road and continue along poorly paved country roads, until they reach Helena and Kristin’s driveway. A long, curving gravel track surrounded by pine trees on either side and leading to the farm with the big barn. From up here, you can see the lake on the other side of the grove, which slopes down behind the buildings. And beyond that, marsh and beeches; and farther still, the scattering of fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. A mountain chain in the distance. Smaller mountains closer by. The closest neighbor lives sixteen miles to the east.

  While they’re removing their luggage from the trunk, Kristin, wearing wooden clogs and an apron, comes outside through the back door. She gives them each a hug and squeezes Thomas’s chin. “Let me get a good look at you. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. And you?”

  “We’ve been so looking forward to seeing you all.” She smiles with an almost quivering tenderness. Her eyes gleam wetly. She swallows. “Jenny’s in the kitchen drinking tea with Helena, Alice, and that guy, what’s his name again?”

  “Ernesto? The musician from the funeral?”

  “No,” Kristin says. “The other one.”

  Thomas glances at the house. A soft light emanates from the window in the twilight.

  “What other one?”

  “You have sheep?” Patricia asks, snatching up the travel bag. Thomas follows her gaze over the field that borders the road. Sheep and lambs graze peacefully. A trace of mist envelops them, dreamlike.

  “You better believe we do. Helena makes yarn from the wool, you know. We’ve got hens, too.” She walks ahead of them and calls back, “We’ll actually be eating a couple of them for dinner!” Thomas and Patricia glance at each other, slightly apprehensive. “Hens,” he whispers, wrinkling his brows. Patricia smiles broadly. Her eyes sparkle with a sudden light. That’s exactly how she looked when I met her, he thinks, when I fell in love with her, the freedom she radiated, the confidence. Now it feels as though she’s taken a step away from him and lives in a secret world that he doesn’t have access to. But she’s so beautiful. She sparkles. Her hips sway from side to side when she walks; he can see her leg muscles straining. He holds his breath. They reach the stairwell, where the twins are standing gawkily behind Kristin’s impressive figure. Jenny and Helena emerge from the kitchen, and the hallway’s now full of people. They embrace and say hello. Thomas fishes the chocolate bars and the videogame from the plastic bag he got at the gas station, and the twins give him their bashful thanks before vanishing up the stairs with the gifts. Patricia hands Helena the wine bottle. “That’ll come in handy,” she smiles. And then Thomas catches sight of Luc’s face. He’s standing behind Alice, a hand on her shoulder. Thomas grows cold, and doesn’t hear what Kristin tells him. “Do you?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

  “Do you like especially spicy, dark wine?”

  “Not particularly . . .” he says. He hangs his jacket on a hook. The group—still chatting, a large clump of clothed flesh—glides into the kitchen, where a fat-bellied teapot rests amid some sort of arrangement with tea lights in the center of the long, scrubbed, white oak table. There’s an aroma of food. A small, plump dog with a dirty pelt wags toward them. It leaps up on one person, then another. “Go lie down, Jupiter!” Kristin shouts. Jupiter waddles sadly over to his basket near the wood stove. An incredibly homely dog. Patricia stands next to Helena in the kitchen and talks to her, one hand resting on her back. From behind, Alice wraps her arms around Thomas. “Uncle Thomas,” she says affectionately. “Here we are.” She lets go of him, and he turns. Luc offers his hand. He takes it hesitantly. “So you’re here too,” Thomas says slowly. “Luc.”

  “Luke!” Alice smiles. “I call him Luke.”

  “Yeah, it was really nice of Alice to invite me. And when I heard about the lake, I jumped at the chance. I’d like to catch some pike. It’s the perfect time for the males.”

  “But not the females?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re carrying eggs now. They swim close to shore to spawn when it’s a little warmer. So if we hook the ladies, we let them go.” He smiles at Alice. She nods and smiles back. A private smile, Thomas thinks with a growing sense of hysterics. He tries to get Patricia’s attention, but she’s got her back to him, gesticulating eagerly as she talks with Kristin. Thomas turns to Luke again.

  “You brought your fishing pole?”

  Luke nods. “Sure thing. If we’re lucky we’ll also get some perch.” He looks extremely relaxed in his chocolate-brown sweater that fits perfectly with his eyes and his characteristically thick, unruly hair. Alice gazes at him with admiration.

  “So we’ll have some fish balls for lunch on Sunday,” she says.

  “If you catch anything, that is.” Thomas says. But now Kristin’s tugging at him. “Sit down and have yourself a nice, relaxing cup of tea. You two must be terribly exhausted. I hear that you’ve had a break-in at the store. That sounds just awful, Thomas.”

  She leads him to a settle bench, where there’s a ceramic mug filled with mint tea and a seat beside Jenny waiting for him. Kristin sits opposite them.

  “There you are, you kids. Look at you now.”

  There are red splotches on Jenny’s neck. That doesn’t bode well.

  “We were just talking about Mom,” she says, looking down at the table.

  Jenny scrapes at the fingernail polish on her left pinky. There’s clattering in the kitchen. Alice and Luke have begun washing lettuce for the salad, while Helena stirs what’s in the pans. Patricia’s got a dishtowel around her waist. She’s skinning almonds.

  “Alice really wants to learn more about her grandmother,” Jenny says, almost a whisper.

  “Well,” Kristin says. “I know it’s not easy for you, Jenny. But it’s understandable, this need of hers. And by now you two must be ready to talk about her. My God, it’s been so long.” Kristin pushes a bowl of dried fruit across the table toward Thomas, but he has no desire to eat withered apple slices or small, shriveled-up figs.

  “And now that Dad’s dead . . .” Jenny looks at Thomas, her eyes wet.

  “But Jenny. He was gone before he died.” Thomas smiles at Kristin.

  “I remember how anxious you two always were whenever you visited me in my apartment with the roof terrace. Remember? We used to eat ice cream up there when you came by during the summer. Jenny didn’t like strawberry ice cream. Do you remember that, Jenny?”

  “But why did we see you if Mom didn’t want to see us? Did she even know we were visiting you?” Jenny interrupts fervently, raising her hand to her mouth.


  “Of course she knew,” Kristin says. “Our father was furious that she wouldn’t see you. There was a lot of drama. But he was already an old man by then, you know, and Jacques had custody, so there honestly wasn’t much we could do. Like I said before you got here, Thomas, Agnes was at a very low point when she left. And I never saw much of her after that, either. She refused to come back. She believed that distance would make it all go away. Don’t you think I tried to convince her to come back? Of course I did, but it didn’t help. I was so young. And I only saw her a few times during those years, with the exception of when she was dying. And then it was always me who visited her—”

  “Did you bring pictures of us with you?” Jenny cuts in.

  “Yes. But to be honest, she didn’t want to see them.”

  Sobbing soundlessly, Jenny lowers her head.

  “That’s how it was, Jenny. It didn’t have anything to do with you two. It was all about Jacques and your mother.”

  Automatically Thomas reaches for Jenny and pulls her close, as he has so many times before. Her tears don’t affect him. What matters is only that he make her stop crying. Alice approaches with a washcloth in her hand and large, worried eyes.

  “What’s wrong with Mom? Why are you crying?”

  “It’s just all this about our mother,” Thomas says. “She’ll be okay in a bit. Right, Jenny?”

  “Yeah,” Jenny sobs, drying her eyes with her sleeve. Thomas makes eye contact with Alice; she nods and heads back to the dishes.