The Boy at the Door

by Alex Dahl

  A scraggly brown bird shot up from where it had been sitting on the recycling bin outside, and was rapidly devoured by the dreary, bulbous fog that came drifting towards the house from the sea. The temperature was just below zero, and a fine layer of ice crystals had settled on the road, the trees, the rocks that grow into steep crags at the back of the house, even the postbox. I felt wildly, irrationally angry, and were it not for the fact that Luelle was skulking around the house somewhere, pretending to dust, I would have flung something to the ground like I sometimes do. Instead, I did what I also sometimes do – I poured a generous measure of vodka into a water glass and sipped at it while I began making arrangements for the children.

  It wasn’t so much that I minded the idea of a date night, more that I felt generally unhinged and should have liked a moment to myself, rather than having to put on a show for Johan. For him, it would only involve showing up, but for me it would be bikini line, nails, lashes, self-tan – the whole works. And it made me angry that Johan seemed to think I could just pick up the phone and magically place three children, one of whom is a traumatized rescue-child who was raised by junkies until a month ago, with eager babysitters with one day’s notice. Lucky for Johan, Cathinka Tandberg had little choice but to accept when I asked her to take the girls for a sleepover – she knows that’s the price she has to pay for me to turn a blind eye to the fact that her Porsche Cayenne is unfailingly parked in next door’s driveway every Tuesday and Thursday mornings. For hours. I don’t think her husband would see the funny side if I were to WhatsApp him a picture. I couldn’t exactly ask her to take Tobias as well, though, so there I was, faced with yet another way to adapt to this new life. I texted my mother and asked her to take him, even though she isn’t exactly my first choice for child care, and must admit I was surprised when she responded saying she’d ‘love to’.

  *

  It’s almost six p.m. and I’ve just taken Tobias to my mother’s. Like yesterday, today was another disgusting, stormy day, but my mood has nonetheless been significantly better. I even walked into town today, right past where Anni was found dead, without even particularly thinking about that wretched woman. I bought a new pair of sexy wine-red leather pants, which I will put on before Johan comes home. Whatever it is he wants to discuss with me, I’m going to make sure his mind is firmly on sex.

  After dropping Tobias off, I slowly reverse back out of my mother’s driveway – I can barely see three feet behind the car, it’s raining so hard. For a moment, this feels like that awful night a month ago, when Tobias and I ran through the crashing rain to that dreadful little shack and found it empty. I turn the wheel all the way and maneuver the car back onto the road, and the headlights sweep across the kitchen windows. I see Tobias standing there, a small, dark silhouette looking straight out towards me in the car. I pause for a moment and wave at him, but he doesn’t react. He must be able to see me, but I flash the lights twice in case he didn’t. I wave again, but he turns around and walks slowly away from the window. A flash of cold in my stomach, sharp like a blade. Why is he acting like this? He’d seemed happy enough to be invited to my mother’s house for a sleepover so ‘she could get to know him better’. Could it be that he knows I lied to him? I’ve told so many lies. I simply can’t remember all of them, and some lies I’ve told so many times they have solidified in my mind, replacing whatever may originally have been true, meaning I genuinely can’t tell what’s true and what is not. Everything I told Tobias was a lie. I don’t have a cocaine addiction and I most certainly never bought a single gram of the white lady from Anni. My husband is not a homosexual, as far as I know. Why would I tell such blatant untruths to an eight-year-old? Because I would have told him anything – absolutely anything, no matter how outrageous, besides the truth. I worry that he might crack under pressure and speak to someone. And I’d much rather be caught out as a drug addict married to a gay man than as what I really am.

  I drive home slowly, but even so, the road blurs and trembles in front of me – in spite of feeling better today I have had two of my special pills, and a very large glass of wine in the tub while the kids had dinner with Luelle. She was pleased and rather surprised to be offered a night off, and didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll just stay in my room and watch a movie,’ she said when I asked what she planned to do.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, you must get out more. Have some fun. Spend the night away. I insist.’

  ‘But... but, Madame, where?’ she asked, almost frightened at my insistence, and it occurred to me that she wouldn’t know a soul in this country. In the end, I booked her a room at Farris Bad in Larvik with Johan’s credit card and actually drove her there after she’d fed the kids. She couldn’t believe that I’d pay for her to stay the night at a fancy spa. Thank you, thank you, she kept chanting from the back seat where she sat next to Tobias. This is how far I’ll go to get the hired help out of the house when I my want personal space. And date night is important, Johan is right. It’s essential to keep that fire burning, they say. Still, my heart sinks a little at the thought of the evening ahead; we’ll sit sipping champagne across from each other in soft candlelight, my homemade lasagna, Johan’s favorite, on the table between us. I’ll do that thing I know Johan likes; I run my index finger along the rim of the wine glass, then suck on it as though I’d caught a stray drop, meeting his eyes just when I do.

  When I get home, Johan is already there, flung across the sofa like an unselfconscious dog. He looks ruffled, tired and old, but I can tell he makes a real effort when I walk in by brightening his expression, sitting up and smiling. I’m annoyed – I’d wanted to change before he got home.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ he says and pulls me down towards him on the sofa. I resist, but give him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Just going to change. The lasagna is in the oven. I’ll be back up in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother. You look hot as all hell. Come and sit with me.’

  ‘No, honey. I want to change out of this. I’ve been wearing these jeans all day; I look a total mess.’ Johan’s grip on my hand tightens slightly and he pulls at me again, harder this time. I land across his knees and he pulls me close, rubbing his nose against my cheek, though I’m still struggling to get away.

  ‘Hey. Hey, look at me. Stop trying to be perfect all the time. Just... just be with me.’ Johan holds me really tight, and strokes the back of my head, like a baby’s, until I stop struggling and am forced to just lie in his arms. I count down from a hundred, and surely that must be enough cuddle time, even for Johan. I get up.

  *

  By the time I get back upstairs with a full face of make-up and my new leather pants, I can tell by the way Johan moves about the kitchen that he’s annoyed.

  ‘The food’s burning,’ he says.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘It is burning. Can’t you smell it? Where does that woman keep the oven gloves?’

  ‘Honey, I’ve turned it down to eighty degrees. It isn’t burning. Now, why don’t you pour us each a glass of wine and we can sit a moment by the fire before we eat?’ I slip my arm around Johan’s waist and smile brilliantly up at him, feeling like myself again. He looks a little weary, but leans in to kiss me.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ he asks, pulling away just before our lips meet and slightly narrowing his eyes.

  ‘I had a glass of wine in the tub earlier.’ Johan doesn’t say anything, but he lets me go, and begins to open a bottle of champagne on the counter. We sit opposite each other in front of the fire, sipping gingerly at the animated bubbles popping in our glasses.

  ‘I... I thought we should talk,’ begins Johan, and though I’m staring at him hard with an expression intending to convey seriousness with an undertone of sultriness, I can’t read him. My mind runs wild with different scenarios. He looks a bit sad; weathered, like life’s been tough on him, which is hardly the case. He also looks slightly annoyed – he keeps clenching his jaw, making
a muscly lump appear and disappear on his cheek. Is there someone else? I try to envision Johan with her; inching his way down a taut stomach, whispering in her ear, laughing in the dark, intertwining his fingers in hers, kissing her hard and joyfully. I focus on keeping my hand holding the flute completely still. He does travel a lot. London, Singapore, Frankfurt, Zürich – he could have a whore in every town and I’d never know about it. Unless he told me.

  I take a big gulp of champagne, feeling the bubbles rise and pop at the back of my throat. Another thought briefly crosses my mind. What if my lie to Tobias is actually true? What if Johan is gay? I glance at him sideways, and take in the smooth, soft skin; his kind, mild eyes; the slightly vain hair carefully brushed back from his face and held down by expensive French hair oil. Could it be that when I said to Tobias that Johan is gay, it was because I subconsciously suspected deep down that he really is? I try to envision him with a man; wrapping his arms around a strong, tall figure from behind, nuzzling a broad neck, closing the gap between them entirely. This image is strangely unsurprising, like I’ve thought it before, or dreamt it, perhaps. My husband is gay. That’s it. How could I not have realized this before? Perhaps I just didn’t want to know. I wonder if he has a boyfriend, someone he exchanges suggestive messages with, someone who makes him smile, someone he thinks about when he’s in bed with me. This must be the reason he stays with me. He doesn’t want to be outed, and I can understand that. Johan is a gentle soul, someone who craves a normal life; he just wouldn’t have the constitution for an all-out, flamboyant homosexual lifestyle. But on the side... I take another huge gulp of champagne, emptying my glass, and though I can feel Johan’s eyes on me as I place the empty glass on the marble table with a loud clang, I avoid looking up at him. I need a moment to think.

  I suddenly wish the kids were somewhere in the house, sleeping or playing quietly; unnoticeable but necessary, like good bacteria in the gut. Johan would never broach any big subjects with me when the kids are around.

  ‘Cecilia,’ he says, and I take a deep breath before looking up, smiling coolly, then gazing longingly at my empty flute. He takes the hint and refills my glass. I take another big gulp and when I finally look at him, he’s studying me carefully, like you would a very rare and potentially dangerous bird. ‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’ I nod, finding that no words will come. I want to ask him for how long he’s known, whether he has a boyfriend or just many casual acquaintances, and I guess I’d also quite like to know whether he really enjoys our sex life or if it was all just a show. I suppose I should be furious; God knows what illnesses he may have subjected me to over the years if he really has involved himself in gay sex, but then, I know I am hardly the person to be angry about this – it’s hardly like I was always careful myself in those early years. I force myself to look at him and not look away again, even though it hurts, and I almost want to laugh out loud at the irony of it.

  ‘What... what would you like to talk about?’ I whisper. Even as he opens his mouth to speak, I will him to stop. There really is no need to bring all this out into the open. We have everything – the perfect life together; why fuck it up? He can be as gay as he wants as long as he keeps it quiet. Or maybe we could share this, somehow? After all, lots of couples do, and it’s hardly like I’m a prude. We could find another couple and swap partners – perhaps there are even others in Sandefjord who are into that kind of thing. I wouldn’t mind experimenting more with women, and I definitely wouldn’t mind the other guy. We could have dinners together, perhaps even go on holiday with them – it will be just like our other couple friends, but with lots of hot sex. Most likely, Johan is into both anyway, it’s not like he could have fully faked everything he and I have been to each other over the years. Or could he?

  ‘Do you know what day today is?’

  ‘It’s... uh. November twenty-first?’

  ‘Yup. What happened on November twenty-first, Cecilia?’ I look back up at him for clues, and his eyes are shimmering in the soft light from the open fire.

  ‘Oh,’ I whisper, and Johan begins to nod, then laugh.

  ‘On November twenty-first, I married the love of my life,’ he says, raising his champagne flute in a toast, touching his glass gently against mine. Oh God, thank God, it’s just our anniversary! Of course Johan isn’t gay. Why would I even think such a thing! The craziness of this past month must be taking me over entirely.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I am sorry, but at the same time, I’m feeling angry and confused and even a little scared. How could I have forgotten?

  ‘Did you forget?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just... I just wasn’t sure if that was what you wanted to talk about... You seemed so serious there for a moment.’

  ‘I am serious.’ Johan fumbles around in his pocket before pulling out a small, square box, placing it on the table in front of us. ‘Open it.’ Though the box is unwrapped, my fingers struggle with the smooth, soft leather. I wrench it open, and inside is an exquisite square-cut pink-sapphire ring, flanked by diamonds, set in a thin rose-gold band.

  ‘It’s the one you loved so much. In New York. Do you remember?’ I nod, and this time the words won’t come because I’m crying, and I wipe hard at the tears because I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening with puffy eyes and mascara streaks.

  ‘Cecilia, I’ve been thinking about this. I think we should renew our vows. Things have been... difficult – no, not difficult, but off-course – for a while now. I’ve had to travel more than usual this year, the girls have been really testing, then everything with Tobias happened. I want us to have something amazing to look forward to.’ Johan slips the ring on my finger, where it slides around, too big.

  ‘We’ll get it taken in,’ he whispers, and kisses my cheek, wet with tears, and then he must realize that my tears aren’t entirely of the happy kind – I find myself sobbing and unable to stop. Johan doesn’t flinch, just pulls me very close against his chest so that I can hear his heart beat, and I try to focus on the feel of the ring on my finger instead of all the other images rushing through my mind. Little boys alone in dark, abandoned houses. Long, limp hair rippling in dirty, dark water. Black splotches of blood on the ground. A thin, brown body shivering in steamy air, pool water studding his skin, loneliness emanating from him. Arms covered in cuts, perforations and scars, reaching for me through murky water. Johan running, fast, away from me. Me, floating in a bubble about to burst. When did my thoughts become so dark? Is my perfect life being slowly torn apart by one wrong turn after another?

  ‘Shh,’ says Johan.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  ‘We should eat. The food... it’ll burn.’

  ‘Baby, it’s on eighty. It won’t burn.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  ‘For... for crying. And for being so awful.’

  ‘I love you.’ At this, I pull away and look at Johan even though my face is, without a doubt, completely messed up.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, the word catching in my throat and dislodging another bout of tears. Why, why.

  ‘You want to know why?’

  I nod.

  ‘I love every little thing about you, baby, right down to your bones. You’re funny and spirited and kind. You’re a great mother and the best wife anyone could wish for.’

  ‘I’m not perfect. I...’

  ‘Shhh. Thank God you’re not perfect.’

  His words don’t offer me much comfort; au contraire. I’ve always felt that much of my time and energy goes into putting on a bit of a show in life, and I’ve assumed Johan, eventually, would realize this and leave me for someone less empty inside. I have fretted endlessly about this, and spent vast amounts of energy making sure his eyes never strayed from me. In spite of me doing absolutely everything to prove to Johan that I really am the perfect wife, I couldn’t be sure it was working. Once, back in the day when I didn’t outsource
that kind of thing, I was ironing his shirts, and he stopped me, putting a warm hand over mine. You don’t have to be so perfect all the time, Cecilia, he said. Come watch a movie with me. And that was precisely the problem; nothing could have stressed me more than Johan telling me to stop being perfect. Being perfect is the only way I have a chance at stopping him from seeing how incredibly replaceable I actually am.

  ‘Wait there,’ I say, unpeeling myself from Johan’s embrace and unsteadily getting up, walking towards the door. ‘I got you something, too.’ Downstairs in my wardrobe, I sit down on the floor and put my head in my hands. I feel empty from all the crying, even emptier than usual. I feel so confused. How do people know what’s true and what isn’t, even inside themselves? I dig out a small bag from an expensive boutique in Oslo. I bought it a while ago as one of Johan’s Christmas presents, but it’s not like he knows that, and I’m sure as hell not going to admit to forgetting our anniversary. Upstairs, I refill our champagne glasses and hand him the little bag. He peels the tissue paper apart, and again, I’m struck by how pretty Johan is, his soft skin more like a girl’s than a forty-year-old man’s. His face lights up sweetly as he takes in the monogrammed Gucci cufflinks.

  ‘Thank you, honey,’ he says, reaching for me again, but just then, the phone rings. It’s past nine, and recent events have certainly taught me not to expect good news when the phone rings unexpectedly.

  ‘You need to come,’ says my mother, her voice thin and trembling. ‘It’s Tobias.’

  ‘What is it? Has he run away?’ Why is it that every time I seem to sit down to dinner, that kid runs off?

  ‘No. He’s here. But, Cecilia... Oh, Cecilia, he’s hurt.’