by Reif Larsen
During a winter playdate with Bryan, she and Maureen huddled on a bench at the playground, watching their parka’d boys attempt to crawl up the red tubular slide, a Sisyphean task that was defeating them.
“He really is gorgeous,” said Maureen.
“Who?”
“Radar,” she said. “Where did you get him? I mean, where’s he from?”
Charlene panicked.
“Originally?” she said, punching at her thighs.
For the first time in many years, she thought of T. K. lying naked in her bed in Hell’s Kitchen. She wondered where he was. The great torment of a life unlived. What if things had gone much differently for her? What if life could be ironed out smooth, like a shirt?
The boys finally made it to the top. They came down the slide knotted together, squealing with gravity’s delight. Radar raised both of his hands to his mother and said, “We come down, we slip down!” He proudly put his arm around Bryan.
“He’s from Minnesota,” she said to Maureen, watching her son. “His parents died in a fire. They were Congolese.”
As soon as she said it, she realized what a terrible thing she had just done. She instantly wanted to rewind time, to take it all back. But she did not. She left her words hanging there in the frigid air, waiting to see what would happen next, like a child standing over a shattered bowl.
“Oh!” Maureen said after a moment. “I wouldn’t have thought. Minnesota! It must’ve been so cold for him.”
“Yes,” said Charlene. “It must’ve been.”
The lie sprouted roots. Charlene began telling everyone that Radar had been adopted after a tragic fire in a Minneapolis apartment building. Sympathy was garnered. At first, Charlene hated herself for saying it, but then she became used to it. She slowly shifted from feeling guilty about the moral culpability of her fiction to being afraid of what Kermin would do if he ever found out.
One afternoon, she went to pick up Radar at day care, only to find him crumpled and sniffling in a corner. His eyes were red from crying. Her heart dropped.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“Matt said some hurtful things,” said Alison, the teacher.
“I knew it! I knew it,” said Charlene. “Who’s Matt? He’s the one with the haircut, isn’t he?”
“We’ve had a conversation, and Matt’s apologized to Radar.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t know what he was saying. He’s so young. He’s just repeating words.”
“What did he say?”
“He called Radar a monkey.”
“What?!”
“We’ve let him know that names can be very hurtful, even if he didn’t mean for it to be hurtful.”
“He meant for it to be hurtful.”
“Matt’s a good kid.”
“Matt’s a shithead,” said Charlene. “You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, do you?”
She took Radar to get a chocolate-and-vanilla Softee swirl, his favorite. He had a habit of trying to put his mouth around the whole ice cream when he first received it—not to eat it, but just to see if the act could be done.
When they arrived home she saw a letter lying on their doormat. The envelope was covered in several colorful stamps and featured a return address in Oslo, Norway.
“What is dat?” Radar asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Someone wrote us a letter.”
She debagged in the hallway and opened the envelope.
27 May 1979
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Radmanovic,
Please excuse the presumptuous gesture of writing to you directly. You don’t know me but I have been following the case of your son since his birth, though from some considerable distance. Several aspects of the case intrigued me as a scientist, writer, and teacher, but until now I have thought it best not to intervene. After giving it some thought, I have had a recent change of heart and deemed it my duty to inform you of an opportunity that may interest you.
In the very north of Norway, there is a community of physicists and artists called Kirkenesferda that have been experimenting with certain electrical shock treatments. This is not their primary business, but among other things, they have discovered a way to profoundly alter the colour of someone’s skin using a precise, one-time treatment. The results have been quite extraordinary.
I cannot guarantee success nor can I absolutely guarantee the safety of the procedure, for it has been sanctioned by no health or governmental organization, but I assure you, these people are exact in their studies and have looked into this matter with great detail. Should you be interested in making a trip to visit this camp, please let me know and I can put you directly in touch. I have a relationship with Leif Christian-Holtsmark, the founder, as I used to be a member myself.
Most Kindest Regards,
Brusa Tofte-Jebsen
Charlene put down the letter and stared out the window.
“What dat man say?” Radar said. “Hello? How are you?”
They had just done a unit on letter writing in day care, in which they had written to Santa Claus to let him know he could park his reindeer outside their school, next to the turtles, when he was not using them.
“He said . . . I’m not sure what he said. It’s from Norway.”
“What’s Norway?”
“It’s by the North Pole.”
“Santa write that letter?”
“Not Santa. Someone else who’s not Santa.”
“Who not Santa?”
“Brusa,” she said. And then: “Kirkenesferda.” Trying out the name to see if it sounded real. A community of physicists and artists who have been experimenting with electrical shock treatments? In the Arctic? It couldn’t be real. But then why would someone invent all of this? As a joke? Was this some kind of weird racist joke? No—it was just too preposterous to make up.
She folded the letter and placed it in a drawer in the kitchen, next to the glue and the spare lightbulbs, as if its proximity to the accessories of domesticity might calm its contents.
When Kermin came home that evening, they sat down to an unsuccessful rendition of zucchini-cumin ragout. Charlene’s acute sense of smell had not translated to prowess in the kitchen; her untuned olfactive sensitivity had encouraged a kind of wild and hopeless inventiveness that Kermin and even little Radar usually accepted in resigned silence. This evening, however, Radar, high-chaired, seemed unwilling to play his part. He carefully and deliberately expelled his ragout back onto his plate, giving the eerie impression that he had just ejected something internal and potentially vital.
“Radar!” said Charlene. “Be polite. Chew with your mouth closed.”
Radar shook his head and pushed a hand into his regurgitations.
“Do you want to go to bed without any food? Eat like a big boy, please.”
“We got a letter from Santa,” Radar announced.
“You did?” said Kermin. “What did Santa say? Is he still take suntan in Miami?”
“Noooo,” Radar said, shaking his head. He turned to Charlene. “What dat he say?”
“Nothing. Santa didn’t write to us,” she said.
“He did!”
“Eat your food, please.”
“I don’t want it!” he said and pushed his plate off the table. It shattered on the floor, releasing a puddle of ragout viscera.
“Radar!”
She grabbed his arm, hard—too hard. He began to cry.
“You’ve lost your chance to sit at the big persons’ table because you’re acting like a baby,” she said. “Are you a baby?”
“No!” he wailed.
“Then why are you acting like one?”
“You’re a baby, stupid shitty!” he yelled.
She slapped him. It was the first time she had hit her own child.
Afterwards, the palm of her hand—the place where her skin had come into contact—felt as if it were bleeding. Radar’s eyes went wide with fright, there was silence, and then he began to wail with everything he had.
Kermin looked at her in surprise. She was having trouble breathing. She was overtaken again by the feeling that she had stepped into the life of another. Kermin picked up Radar and took him upstairs to his room.
“You shouldn’t have hit him,” Kermin said when he returned.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You are okay?”
She noticed her hands were shaking. She wiped them on a napkin. “He had a tough day at day care. They were calling him names.”
“Okay.”
When he said nothing more, she said, “They called him a monkey, Kerm.”
“He doesn’t look like the monkey.”
“Of course he doesn’t look like a monkey!”
“They are children. They don’t know what they are saying.”
“No, they know exactly what they’re saying,” she said. “I can’t stand that place. Every time I go there, I want to burn it down.”
“Don’t do that.”
“We’re paying a small fortune—”
“We are not paying.”
“—to have our child tortured by snobby little white kids. I can’t go back. I cannot go back. I’ll quit my job if I have to. I can take him.”
“You can’t quit. We need money.”
“We’ll make money, Kerm. I’ll ask for more from my parents if I have to.”
He picked up his knife from both ends, as if it were a fragile specimen. “I think soon I will close my shop,” he said.
“Close? Why?”
“They are raising the rents.” He shook his head. “No one likes these small television anymore.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure they ever did.” She reached for his hand. “We’ll make it work. We can try something new.”
“What new? What can I do? I cannot do anything.”
“That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You’re brilliant, Kerm.”
“In this place, brilliant does not matter. It is lucky asshole who wins. Like Edison. He electrocutes the elephant and says, ‘Screw you, Tesla.’ And he wins. Tesla is brilliant, but he lose. He talks to pigeons and dies like the poor man.”
“But with all the things you know? You could do so many things . . .”
“I am not electrocuting the elephant.”
She looked at her husband and then she got up, opening the drawer and retrieving the letter.
“Promise me you won’t be mad,” she said.
“About what?”
“Maybe we’re the lucky ones,” she said and handed him the letter.
Kermin read in silence. Charlene watched him. His faced betrayed no hint of expression.
“What is this?” he said finally.
“I thought maybe it was worth looking into.”
“Looking into what?”
“If there’s something that maybe can be done, then I think it’s our duty . . . to see what we can do.”
He got up suddenly and went to the trash can. He had already opened the lid before Charlene leaped up and grabbed him.
“Don’t!” she pleaded.
“It’s done. I told you. I don’t want any more of this.”
“Don’t do it, please!” she said, holding on to his arm.
“It is done, Charlene.”
He tore the letter in two, three, four pieces. She looked on in horror as he dropped the remnants into the trash.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was in the trash can collecting the fallen pieces, her hands covered in yolk and the thin, wet husk of an onion. She came back to the table and reassembled the sheets. A stain like a sunset.
They sat with the torn-up letter between them for some time.
“Please,” she said quietly. “It’s just to ask for more information.”
He had picked up a radio and was working the dials, though no sound was coming from its speaker.
“I need to,” she said. “I need to . . .”
“What?” He turned on her.
“I need to—”
“What exactly do you need to do to our son?” He was shouting. She shrank back. She had never heard him shout before. “I would like you to tell me this, Charlene. I would very much like you to tell me this.”
His face was pink; she could see the whites of his eyes. He looked as though he wanted to kill her, to bash her brains out with his radio. She felt herself adjusting to a world that included such anger.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please. It’s just to find out information.”
“Information? What fucking information could you possibly want?”
“We don’t have to do anything. Just find out. I’ll feel so much better if I just find out.”
The radio suddenly sparked to life. A symphony materialized, much too loud. Charlene winced and put her hands over her ears.
“Kermin!” she yelled. “Shut it off!”
He twisted a knob, but the sound did not go away. An element of whining static was introduced into the whirlpool of woodwinds and strings.
“Kermin!”
The dial turned, and noise engulfed the signal. Static devouring the notes of music. A great wave coming toward them.
“Kermin!” She grabbed at the radio and stabbed wildly at the power button. “Turn it—”
The silence left behind was long and strange, as if the world had been emptied of all sound.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”
“God gave us this. We did not choose,” he said. “He chose us. We raise him like this. That is our duty.”
“But maybe this letter is a sign—”
“We are not going to make him into some kind of freak, Charlene!”
“He’s already a freak,” she said quietly.
They stared at each other, wondering at the truth of her words.
“Don’t ever say this,” Kermin said quietly. “Don’t you ever say this about my son.”
• • •
SHE COULD NOT SLEEP. She lay in bed listening to the occasional hush of the passing motorist. Wondering where they were going at this hour. Wondering if they, too, could not sleep. At a certain point, she realized it was no use. She got up and made herself some peppermint tea. At the kitchen table, she wrote Brusa Tofte-Jebsen a letter. Dear Mr. Tofte-Jebsen, I am so glad that you . . . and the rest. When she was finished and the envelope was sealed, she felt a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Three weeks went by before she received a cream-colored envelope covered in lithographed bear stamps.
24 June 1979
Dear Mrs. Radmanovic,
Greetings. I have spoken with Leif and everything has been arranged for your visit. Enclosed you will find three roundtrip airline tickets to Kirkenes. Don’t worry, Kirkenesferda has offered to cover the cost of your transport. Leif said he will meet you at the airport.
May I just say that I am so glad you are taking this chance. I am sure you will not be disappointed. Unfortunately, I will be unable to join you at the Bjørnens Hule but I will make sure to get a full report.
Kindest Regards,
Brusa Tofte-Jebsen
What had been merely a declaration of interest had apparently turned overnight into a trip to Norway. The departure date listed on the tickets was in two weeks. She still had no idea what went on at this place, but Brusa’s reply served as confirmation enough.
She was just beginning to get excited about the whole venture when, that same day, the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, she found herself staring at a man who resembled something of a disheveled bellho
p. He was wearing a burgundy suit and a strange, ill-fitting, fez-like cap that slumped awkwardly down the slope of his forehead, despite the chin strap meant to keep it in place. The man did not look excited in the least to be wearing such an outfit. Before she could say anything, he handed her an envelope and said, “Telegram,” then he walked away.
“Wait. What is this?” Charlene said, holding the envelope up. A shy but curious Radar was peeking out from behind her leg.
“It’s a telegram, honey,” the man declared, as if this were the most obvious fact in the world. Then he tromped down their steps and mounted his bicycle, which he had left lying across the sidewalk, leaving Charlene to stare in wonder.
“What’s a telly-gram?” Radar asked when they were back inside. “A letter?”
“It’s like a letter,” she said. “But it’s sent by machines.”
She would’ve thought it was all a dream if not for the envelope still in her hands. She brought it to her nose. The paper smelled of oily, metallic parts and oddly . . . cinnamon. Telegrams were confusing documents. Their words had traveled great distances, and yet the physical paper had not. This cinnamon scent was Jersey-borne.
She opened the telegram in the kitchen.
Per Røed-Larsen. The name seemed oddly familiar.
“What dat machine say?” Radar asked.
“It said—well, I’m not sure what it said.” She flipped the telegram over, but there was nothing more.
• • •
THAT EVENING, while they were watching television, Charlene brought out the airplane tickets.
“I didn’t ask for these, I swear. I just asked for some more details,” she said. She sat down on the floor in front of his armchair.
He scrutinized the tickets for a long while, turning them over in his hands as if he were judging their authenticity.
“But isn’t that nice of them? They’re paying for us to come. It must be expensive.” She was readying herself for his explosion—to pounce on him in case he decided to try and tear up the tickets.