by Milk
—You were sleeping soundly.
—I was in fact. It felt great to sleep in.
Maria’s hands continue down to his chest and pry a button on his shirt, and one hand slips underneath. Jess can feel her belly against the back of his head. Then she bends forward and he can feel her breasts. She nips softly at his ear.
—Maybe we should hold off on the coffee for a little while? she says.
—Maybe we should, he says.
Rose
We lay in our beds counting the miles. Lightning flashed and I could see Morten against the far wall. I saw his lips moving and could tell he was counting to himself. Before anything happened, lightning flashed twice. Then came thunder, a whole series, gradually drawing closer, and then an abundance of lightning and the rain drummed against the roof. Morten’s voice sounded weak:
—There are too many. I can’t tell which thunder goes with which lightning.
I could hear in his voice that he was about to cry, and I thought he might start asking a lot of questions. Like where Mom was, almost a week had gone by now, and why didn’t Dad come home, and Grandpa—who was supposed to look after us while Grandma was out searching—where was he?
—Can I lie next to you? he asked.
Through another bolt of lightning I saw his pale face and took pity on him.
—Okay, I said.
Then he crawled out of his bed and into mine. He lay close to me, motionless and quiet.
Not long after, he fell asleep.
We didn’t see Grandpa until late morning the next day. We were sitting at the kitchen table eating toasted cheese sandwiches when a blue Rover pulled into the driveway. It was the second Rover this week. Two nights earlier he’d driven a red one. A moment later he stood in the door.
—Why aren’t you two in school?
His cream-colored suit was wrinkled, and what was left of his hair formed a wooly halo atop his head.
—We don’t have any milk money, I said.
—Where have you been? Morten asked him.
Grandpa pawed through his jacket and found two ten kroner coins, which he handed to us.
—Now get going, he said.
I could tell that Morten was about to ask again, so I elbowed him.
—Come on, I said.
The teacher smiled wearily and a little sadly at us as we snuck into the classroom and slid into our seats in the back. As soon as we sat down I saw Rose turn her fresh pink cheeks and look at Morten, who stared at his desk, embarrassed.
For some reason, we were spared that day. Every now and then the teacher glanced at us, but passed us over and made others read aloud and calculate math problems on the chalkboard. As usual, Morten wrote letters to Rose. He never dared give them to her; he was never quite satisfied and crumpled them up one after the other as he wrote new letters, which would also end up in his bag. Sweet flower, my Rose, prettier than anyone. That’s how all the letters began. I sat staring at her long hair and felt warm all over.
We got to go home early, but we stayed to see if anything fun would happen. Tommy told a story about his cousin, who’d gotten a pair of pointy-toed cowboy boots with iron tips. He had worn them on the first day of school, and had booted one of the small kids right in the ass so hard that the little muscle that sits up there popped and the boy’s intestines had fallen out.
Instead of riding home, we went into town. At the grocery store we each bought a water pistol with Grandpa’s money. Afterwards we rode past Rose’s. A whole row of girls’ bikes was lined up outside, but there was no one in the yard or behind the windows in the big house. For a while we stood leaning against the picket fence. Suddenly the curtain was thrust back, and fat Lilly’s face appeared. I gave her the finger, and she disappeared, but immediately the curtain was pushed back and a line of new faces appeared. Rose wasn’t there, I made faces at them and waited for her to show up. I peered down the street, first toward the train tracks and then toward the grocery store. When the coast was clear, I yanked down my pants. I pulled out my dick and stuck it in between the white slats. The curtain wavered, and more faces appeared, all watching me pee with my arms folded over the fence, my dick jammed between the slats. When I was done, I pulled my pants back up and drifted over to my bike.
Morten had already ridden off. He kept a few hundred feet ahead all the way home and wouldn’t stop, even when I yelled at him.
When I got home, his bike lay in the driveway.
Grandpa sat in the kitchen eating a toasted cheese sandwich and drinking one of Dad’s beers. He wore the same cream suit and didn’t look any better than he had in the morning. Five or six empty bottles were arranged next to one of the table legs, and beside another, five or six unopened bottles.
—There are more in the freezer.
He took a bite with his all too white teeth and nodded at the fridge; the door was ajar. I wasn’t hungry so I went upstairs to see if Morten was up there reading his comic books; that’s what he normally did after school. It was none of my business, but for whatever reason I couldn’t let him be. Maybe it was because of Rose, maybe it was because he was my brother, or maybe it was because of what happened—or what didn’t happen. All we were doing was waiting. Morten wasn’t in his room, so I went downstairs again.
The blue Rover was in the driveway. All the doors were locked, but the right front window was not rolled all the way up. I put my hand then my whole arm inside and down to the door lock. The radio was one of those kinds that could be turned on without the key, so I sat for a while listening to the radio and forgot all about Morten. It was late in the summer, and there were stubbly fields in every direction. In other years Dad had allowed us to drive down to the bog and back. The first years he’d helped us with the gears, but after a while we did it ourselves.
I snuck from the car and went into the kitchen. Grandpa sat still on his chair draining beers, which he picked up from one table leg and set down at the other. The keys lay on the table between us.
—Where’s Morten? he asked. Didn’t you come home from school together?
—He’s sitting in the car, I said.
Grandpa stood, a little shakily, but he stood.
When he’d gone out the door, I grabbed the keys and followed slowly behind. We met halfway.
—I don’t want you two messing with my car, he said.
Then he disappeared inside the house again.
Morten fanned his arms wildly as I drove across the yard. I stopped the car and picked him up.
—Did he let you drive it?
—Yeah, I said.
We continued down through the yard and into the field. We had just come out onto the stubble when I caught sight of the neighbor’s dog. It was sniffing around on our side of the property line. It had once bitten Morten, so I turned sharply to the right and started after it. At first it stood staring at us dumbly, but then it took off running along the dirt road on the other side of the property line. Morten said something or other as I continued into the neighbor’s field, but I ignored it. The dog was right in front of us, with its tongue wagging from its chops, bolting away, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left of us. I jerked the steering wheel from side to side; it was not something you did unless you had such a dog in front of you. We had reached a good way across the field, so far that nobody could’ve seen us from home. That’s when I looked at Morten. He opened his eyes wide and covered his face in his hands. I looked ahead and saw the creek. I heard Morten shout something I couldn’t make out, and I could tell from the steering how the front wheels had lost contact with the ground. Suddenly we hung suspended in air, floating, but only for a moment. Then we landed on the other side of the creek. I caught the wheel in my gut, but Morten braced himself against the dashboard, so nothing happened to him. The front of the Rover didn’t look so pretty, but the motor still ran.
The dog hadn�
��t made the jump across the creek, and now it strutted on the other side, big and dumb and aggressive. We sat for a while catching our breath.
—What do you think Grandpa’s gonna say? Morten asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and put the car in gear. We rolled through the grass until we found the road.
On the main road we turned right, driving away from town. We were going at a good speed when we reached the driveway to the disused gravel pit. I hit the brake, but the car braked funny and went off course. I got the car stopped and backed thirty feet; then we drove down into the pit.
We made a few passes down there, but we didn’t see Tommy or Tommy’s brother or anyone else.
—Tommy’s full of shit, Morten said.
Tommy had told us how his big brother from 10th grade and two of his friends and three girls sometimes went out to the gravel pit. Tommy had snuck down there once and seen his brother’s white ass on top of one of the girls.
—Just because they’re not here now doesn’t mean they weren’t here, I said.
—I don’t believe him, Morten said, especially that one about the cowboy boots.
We drove up to the main road and again away from town.
We had driven for about fifteen minutes when we spotted Dad’s car rounding a curve and heading toward us. Morten ducked and I leaned on the brake. The car jerked to the side, but Dad was already far beyond us.
—Did you see if Mom was with him?
I shook my head.
I turned the Rover around and followed slowly behind. When we got to town, Dad’s car was parked at the grocery store. Mom sat in the car, but she didn’t see us. Morten shouted,
—Stop, damn it! Mom’s with him.
I kept driving. Morten punched my shoulder, but I didn’t stop. Then he sank back in his seat and fell silent, and that’s how he sat the rest of the way home. We cruised into the driveway, and everything looked calm. I parked the car exactly where it had been parked, then we got out and stood there uncertainly, not knowing if we should go in. Morten went first. Grandpa wasn’t in the kitchen. Empty bottles crowded one table leg, and on the table there was an opened newspaper and half-eaten toast. We found him sleeping on the couch in the living room. At that same instant we heard Dad’s car crunching on the gravel. Maybe it was because of the Rover, but Morten wasn’t eager to go outside and greet them. We stood reluctantly in the doorway as they came inside. Dad held Mom’s suitcase, and Mom carried the bag of groceries. She looked tired. First she hugged Morten, then me.
—Aren’t you glad to see your mother again?
—Where have you been? Morten asked.
Her eyes flickered.
—Now we’ll see how well you’ve looked after the house while I was away. Where is your grandfather? Grandma went home. She’s waiting for him.
When he saw all the bottles in the kitchen, Dad cursed. Then he went in and woke up Grandpa. As Grandpa went out and saw the Rover, he pointed at Morten and said that he’d made a mess of it. Dad told him he must’ve done it himself while he was drunk.
After dinner we watched television, and it was good to see that everything was as it used to be. We were allowed to stay up longer and watch a movie, but at 11:00 Dad said it was time for us to go to bed.
At first we could hear them shouting at each other. But then it grew quiet. We lay in the dark along each wall.
—Morten, I whispered.
He didn’t respond.
—Are you asleep?
Then I heard him crying; it was hollow and dry, as if he was trying to hide it. For a while I just lay there, waiting.
—I’m not interested in Rose, I said. If you want her, she’s yours.
He kept going. It sounded like he could neither cry nor quit. I climbed from the bed and crawled over to him. When I lay down I got his elbow in my stomach. I caught my breath, then crawled back to my own bed.
X-Ray
Carl and Sonja huddle together around the small table. The kitchen is warm, and it smells of fresh coffee and toast. Carl sips his coffee; Sonja has drunk most of hers.
—What time do you need to be there? she asks.
—11:00, he says.
She rises and picks up the coffee pot.
—More?
—No thanks.
She pours coffee for herself, and he reaches for a piece of toast.
—Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? she asks, returning to her seat.
—I’d rather go alone, he says. He coats his toast with orange marmalade.
She opens her calendar and finds the day: January 11, 1994.
—I had the same dream last night, Carl says.
She looks up.
He immediately regrets having told her about it.
—It bothers me, she says. I don’t like the fact that you’re going by yourself.
—It’ll be all right, he says. I’m not nervous.
He lays his hand on hers. She looks at him. Her eyes seem larger.
—Are you sure? she asks.
—Yes, he says. I’m positive.
When Sonja has gone, Carl carries the newspaper upstairs. He lays his bathrobe over the armrest on the blue chair and crawls under the still half-warm duvet. He begins to read. He skims the news, glances at the TV program, and picks up the culture section. There’s an article about Rembrandt that captures his attention. Chiaroscuro. He chews on the word a bit.
After reading the article, he rises from the bed and goes into Sonja’s den. He pulls the encyclopedia volume that covers Q to Sve from the shelf, and returns to the bedroom. He reads the entry about Rembrandt. It lists a number of his masterpieces; the year in which they were painted is written in parentheses, along with their current location: Stockholm, Dresden, Haag, or Amsterdam. Carl regrets never having made the time to visit any of the museums named. As a young man he’d often gone to Rotterdam, and from there it would have only been an hour and a half by train to Amsterdam. Today it’d no doubt be even faster.
Carl looks at the painting that is reproduced in the encyclopedia. Its title is written in small letters under the black and white print: Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph. The painting shows an old, long-bearded man wearing a little headdress; he sits halfway up in bed extending his hand. Two small boys stand at the side of the bed; one is blond, the other dark. The old man gently touches the blond child’s head. The children’s parents stand behind them.
It occurs to him that even though the motif is sad, the scene is depicted with a tenderness reminiscent of happiness. Maybe it is because Jacob has lived so well and so long, so long that he can barely get up from the bed, so long that he has had grandchildren. Maybe also because the pillow that awaits Jacob’s head looks so pristinely white. Carl’s eyes rest on the pillow, then travel across the gray nuances in the painting’s middle section to the mother’s face and neck. From here they move toward the center, toward Joseph. His expression is gentle, sad, his eyes are looking down, possibly in the direction of the children; he stands near the bed, so close that it looks as though Jacob rests his forehead against his cheek.
Carl puts the book down and sticks his hand under his pajamas to probe his belly. He massages it carefully in large, circular strokes. Then he rises and goes to the bathroom. He undresses, puts out a towel, and gets in the shower. The water runs down his body, swirls into the drain, soapy and gray.
Then he hears the telephone ring.
Carl lets it ring. He turns up the cold water and turns down the warm water and can feel his skin tighten and tremble. He turns off the shower and steps out. He grabs his towel and dries his face carefully, then his belly. He can trace his own form in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. With his hand he clears a space for his face, but the mirror quickly steams up again.
After he has dressed, he goes downstairs and sits by the telepho
ne. Outside, it has begun to snow. He dials his son Jesper’s number; Jesper lives with Maria and her son, Jonas. The telephone rings a few times before someone answers.
—Hello, Carl says.
He can hear breathing on the other end of the line.
—Hello, he repeats.
—It’s Jonas.
—Well, hi there, Jonas. It’s Carl.
—Hi.
—How are you?
—I got chewing gum today.
—Aren’t you lucky. What does it taste like?
—Like chewing gum.
—But you’re doing okay?
—Uh huh.
—Is Jesper or your mother home?
—No.
—What’s that mean? Are you home alone?
—Who is it? he hears Maria say in the background.
—Nobody, Jonas says, mouth turned from the receiver. Goodbye, he says.
—Bye, bye, Carl says.
—Jonas! Maria shouts.
There’s a clicking as the receiver is hung up. Carl smiles and looks out the window. The snowflakes are large and downy and fall from the heavens in straight lines. He watches them settle into fine layers on the naked earth. He sees how the flakes are sifted through the branches of the chestnut tree, forming a complex pattern of snow and darkness on the ground beneath the tree.
Then he looks at his watch and rises from his chair.
Carl has been sitting in the waiting room for almost a half-hour before the doctor’s assistant peers her head through the door.
—Carl Skov.
He stands and follows her down the hallway. Examination rooms are on both sides of the hall. At the far end a door is open on the right, and she leads him into the room.
—Have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.
Carl sits on a brown plastic chair and looks around. In one end of the room there is an examination chair with stirrups made of stainless steel. A white paper slip covers the black cushion. On the table beside Carl is his insurance card and a form he’ll have to sign. Next to that is a file with his medical records and a big yellow-brown envelope, which he can see has been opened.