by Milk
Carl looks out the window. On the lawn in front of the medical center a group of children are playing in the snow. They look comfortable in their quilted snowsuits.
—Hello, Mr. Skov.
The doctor slides the door closed and extends his left hand to Carl; Carl clasps it clumsily with his right. The doctor sits in the chair and skims Carl’s records. With thick, competent fingers he opens the envelope and pulls out a number of X-rays. He holds them up to the light and examines them one by one.
—So, Mr. Skov, he says. I think you’re going to have to change your eating habits.
—Is that so?
—There’s nothing wrong with you. The photographs here indicate that you are fine. If your stomach is bothering you, it is because of nerves or poor diet.
The doctor bends forward and picks up a piece of paper that is lying on a shelf to his left.
—Here’s a list of some things I’d recommend you eat.
Carl takes the paper and reads. Soundlessly he forms the words on his lips: carrots, celery, apples, whole-grain bread, fish.
—Do you have a lot going on these days?
Carl looks up.
—Not really. Nothing more than usual.
The doctor leans back in his chair.
—Something else bothering you?
—Not really. I can’t think of anything.
—Marital problems. Financial troubles? An illness in the family?
—No, nothing like that.
Carl thinks a moment.
—Well, he says. I keep dreaming of water.
—Of water?
—I dream of huge bodies of water. Almost every night.
—Any idea why?
—No, actually I don’t.
Carl looks down, and neither of them speak for a moment. Then the doctor smiles and shrugs.
—Every once in a while we have to accept some things we don’t understand.
—I guess so, Carl says.
The doctor leans forward clutching the form.
Carl reaches for one of the X-rays and holds it up to the light. His stomach and intestines are marked with a thin white line, the rest lies in darkness. He sees the children outside. Their snowsuits appear gold and crimson through the cloudy film.
—I just need you to sign here.
The doctor pushes the form and insurance card toward Carl.
Carl is still holding the X-ray up to the light.
—Are those your children? he asks.
The doctor looks at him, puzzled.
Carl puts the X-ray down. After he has signed, he picks it up again.
—May I keep this?
—Sure, the doctor says, looking up. But believe me, there’s nothing to see.
Phosphorescence
They sat on the keel of a dinghy that was lying on the beach. Thomas was leaning back, supporting himself with his hands, head tilted, gazing up. Jon looked straight off into the night. He could see the foam of the low surf, could hear the pebbles murmuring as the water moved back out to sea.
—I can’t find it, Thomas said.
—What? Jon said.
—The Big Dipper.
—Does it matter?
—Yes.
Thomas leaned forward and took the wine bottle from Jon’s hand.
—Have a little wine, Jon said.
Jon looked at the surf and Thomas leaned his head back.
They sat like that for a while.
—All the big things, Thomas said suddenly. For some reason, we can only approach them in images.
—What?
—Take the stars, for example. We can’t see them the way they are, we arrange them into constellations. It’s the same with death, or having a child. What can you say about it? But if you can find the right imagery.
—Yeah.
—Life is great, Thomas said.
—Maybe I’m not drunk enough.
—C’mon, stop whining.
Thomas handed him the bottle. Jon leaned his head back and looked for the Big Dipper as he drank.
—I can see two, he said. He pointed with the bottle. A small one up here and a bigger one there.
—No way, Thomas said.
Jon pointed again.
—God damn, you’re right.
Thomas glanced from one to the other.
—Maybe we should go inside and wake up the others. Tell them we’ve made an astronomical discovery.
—I think Charlotte wants to sleep, Jon said.
—Isn’t Vivian just fucking beautiful.
—Yeah, Jon said. She’s pretty amazing. You’re really lucky.
—Everything’s just a matter of luck. It’s all chance.
—Yes, Jon said.
—Charlotte is beautiful too. She’s a really nice girl.
Thomas stood and pulled his T-shirt over his head.
—C’mon, he said. Let’s go swimming.
He unzipped his pants and pulled them down all the way to his shoes. Then he sat down on the boat and untied his laces. A moment later he stood naked before Jon.
—Don’t you think it’s too cold?
—Not at all. It’s never been warmer.
—And don’t you think you’re too drunk?
—Hell no.
Thomas turned and ran toward the sea. Jon could see Thomas’ body standing out white against the dark water. Thomas ran until the darkness reached his knees. A ways out, the water was shallow. A splash. After that Jon saw Thomas in glimpses, a foot, a white arm, the upper part of his back. Then there was only the sound left, the rhythmic strokes and now and then a splash from his feet. Then even the sounds fell silent, drowned out by the beating of the waves and by Jon’s own breathing.
A moment later Jon got up and walked down to the water. Rocks and shells bit into his feet. He stared into the darkness. The moon gave the sea a thin, flickering sheen of light. Below the surface the water was dark, and seemed darker than usual because the lights played tricks with his eyes.
Some time passed.
Then he called out,
—Thomas.
—Thomas! he called out even louder.
—Thomas, he called out a third time.
All the way out by the third sandbank, an arm appeared.
—C’mon! There’s…The wind carried the last part of the sentence away.
—What? Jon shouted.
—Come on out here. There’s phosphor.
Jon pulled off his jeans. He shrugged off his white T-shirt, then his underwear. They landed on top of the pile a few feet from the water.
The water was surprisingly warm, even a bit warmer than the air. Jon saw a swarm of small, glowing particles at his feet; he bent down, and scooped up a handful of water, letting it fall. The phosphor flashed briefly, then fell into the darkness. He squatted down and drove his hand through the water; it took on a green sheen and looked bigger. He pulled it up and then put it back in again. Then he stood, took a couple steps, and began to run. He ran until he couldn’t anymore, and then let himself fall headfirst into the water, dived and crawled with long, calm strokes. For each stroke he turned his head, taking in air from the left and breathing out to the right.
On the second sandbank the water was too shallow for him to swim, and he got up and walked a few steps. He looked out towards the third sandbank but couldn’t see his brother. He hurled himself forward.
When he reached the last sandbank he let his feet sink down, and glanced around. Thomas was nowhere in sight. Jon spun around, ran an arm through the water, and swirled the phosphor. Just then, he felt something grab hold of his right foot. He fell backwards and felt the water gush up his nose and into his sinuses. A moment later he got back on his feet. He threw himself at Thomas and tried to dunk his head
under the water. Thomas got away from him and shoved a handful of water in his face. Jon threw himself forward again and this time he managed to grab Thomas’s hair with both hands. He pressed Thomas’s head under water and held it there a few seconds.
—Truce? he said, as he pulled Thomas back up.
—Truce, Thomas said, laughing.
Jon let him go and Thomas splashed him again.
—Stop it.
—What’s wrong with you? Thomas said, pressing his hands together and shoving saltwater against Jon.
Jon leapt forward and swam away underwater. He had barely emerged when Thomas was on him again.
Jon took two steps away from Thomas, then turned and smacked him across the cheek. Thomas grabbed his hand before he managed to pull it away. They stood motionless across from each other.
—Look at me, Thomas said.
—Sorry, Jon said.
—Look at me, Thomas said.Jon
—It’s not enough that I say I’m sorry?
—No.
Jon looked at him.
—Now tell me what’s wrong?
Jon exhaled and stared up at the stars. He glanced toward Thomas, fastening his gaze at a point just above his eyes.
—I don’t know.
—You don’t know?
—Maybe I shouldn’t have come.
—Why?
—I don’t know. I just shouldn’t have come.
Thomas still had a solid grip on Jon’s wrist. They stood opposite each other, the water reaching their chests. The water was dark and still, and the phosphorescence had subsided. They stood without speaking for almost a minute.
—Don’t you ever miss him? Jon finally said.
—Who?
—Who do you think?
Thomas let go of Jon’s hand.
—Of course I miss him, he said.
—I can’t help thinking of him now that we’re here.
—Why?
—I don’t know. Maybe because it was here he was happiest. That’s what everyone says.
—Of course I think about him, Thomas said. But not all the time. It comes and goes.
Jon drew a hand through the water and the phosphor sparkled.
—I’m freezing, Thomas said. Let’s swim back.
They swam slowly toward the beach, side by side with three or four feet between them.
Jon took a few powerful strokes, then let himself sink under the water. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the water out. He lay against the bottom, sand scraping against his chest. Soon after he surfaced for air.
Thomas had stood and waded through the shallow water a few steps ahead. Jon followed.
They hadn’t brought any towels. They grabbed their clothes and ran toward the house. The sand on the path was cool on their feet, and there was a smell of heather and resin in the air. They sprinted across the yard.
The towels hung on a clothesline drawn between two birch trees. They dried quickly, and pulled on their underwear and T-Shirts.
Before Jon opened the door to the house, he glanced at Thomas.
—Look, I’m sorry…
—It’s all right, Thomas said. No need to apologize.
—We’re going home tomorrow, Charlotte and I.
—Okay.
Jon opened the door and walked into the low-ceilinged living room.
—Sleep well, he said, before they parted.
Jon crawled into bed beside Charlotte. She turned in her sleep and clutched his thumb. He arranged his duvet and blanket with his free hand, and gradually he warmed up. From the bed he could make out the photograph of his father, which was hanging on the wall. The photo, set in a thin silver frame, had been taken down by the beach. He was wearing an Icelandic sweater and was looking directly at the camera. Before long Jon heard the bed squeal in the room next to his; then he heard a low, rhythmic moan. He couldn’t decide if it was coming from Vivian or his brother. After a while he realized it was coming from Vivian.
Chairs
Martha woke early. She sat up halfway in bed and gazed through the darkness. She could make out the television and the writing desk on the other side of the room, and then she knew where she was.
She set her feet on the floor and went into the kitchen. She washed herself at the sink and started the coffee. She stepped out into the cold hall, opened her dresser, and found a blouse and a skirt.
When the coffee was ready, she sat at the table in the living room. She glanced at the bed; it was hard to get used to it standing right there. She looked out the window, and could just make out the bare branches on the tree outside.
She drank her coffee and warmed her hands on the cup. Slowly the tree emerged from the darkness. She saw the rough bark at the base of the trunk, and she could see how the trunk split into thinner and thinner branches. Those at the top weren’t any thicker than a finger.
She thought about a book she’d once given Isak. To Draw is to See, it was called. She remembered that he’d drawn the tree. He’d also tried to draw her hands. That was the hardest, he’d said. He himself had had large, blocky hands with raised blue veins; the pencil had looked small between his thick fingers.
Martha rose and searched the bookshelf. She studied the brittle spines carefully, but she didn’t find the book. Then she heard the mail slot click and she went out to the entryway. She picked up her newspaper and headed back to her chair at the window.
After she’d read the newspaper, she walked through the kitchen and out to the hall. She opened the lid on the commode, but closed it again immediately. Instead she went to the stairwell. She clutched the banister and moved slowly up the stairs. She rested in the chair on the landing, but felt neither dizzy nor out of breath. She continued up, and soon she was able to sit down on the cold toilet seat and urinate in peace.
When she’d washed her hands, she moved across the hall to Thorkild’s room. She opened the brown, glass-fronted bookcase and began searching. The books were covered with a thin layer of yellowed dust, and many had no spine; they’d been read and reread by children and grandchildren; she pulled the books out so she could read the titles on the first page. She was reminded of how Isak had sat on the porch with The Postman Always Rings Twice, The Woman in the Lake, or They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? She grabbed the threadbare copy of Postman and began reading. She read the first page standing up, then she sat on the chair at the side of the bed. She read about Frank and Cora and their strange passion, and though she was repulsed by the violence, warmth rippled through her body.
Frank and Cora had just rid themselves of her husband when Martha heard the key in the door. She felt a little lightheaded.
—Mrs. Jakobsen, your lunch.
—Thank you, she replied. Be a dear and set it on the table.
—Where are you?
Martha stood and moved to the top of the stairs.
—Here.
—Let me give you a hand.
John placed the aluminum tray on her bureau. Before she could protest, he was on his way up the stairs. He was a rather large, ruddy man, and Martha felt a little uncomfortable in his presence. He followed her down the stairs all the way to the dining table in the living room, and then he retrieved her meal. With a smile and an almost tender “Goodbye, Mrs. Jakobsen,” he left. Martha shook her head. She stood and went into the kitchen to get a plate and silverware.
After lunch, Martha climbed the stairs again, this time with a longer rest on the way. She picked up the book and thumbed through it from the back to the front. The edges were nearly yellow, dog-eared, with a few brown spots she couldn’t identify. On the title page something caught her attention. It appeared there’d been a dedication at one time. The paper was a little more delicate, in some places almost transparent. She held the page up toward the light; she could just read a few words: “My beloved,�
� “Soon,” “Karen.” It was her sister’s handwriting. Martha examined the other side. The book was published in 1934, two years after she and Isak were married. She sat down.
She remembered her sister’s red-eyed, almost aggressive condolences following Isak’s death. And before: how she became nervous whenever he stepped into the room. She remembered the softness in Isak’s voice when he said: “Karen, so nice to see you.” And first and foremost, she remembered the summer Thorkild was born, how Karen kept her house while she was at the hospital. Martha squeezed the book between her hands. On the dust jacket, she read how this was a story about “impossible love, burning desire, and unavoidable destruction.” Was there a reason she’d never felt the urge to read it? She’d outlived both of them, but their secret had almost survived her.
After a while, she stood, closed the rattling glass door of the bookcase, and began her backwards descent down the stairs with one hand on the banister, the other on the book. She rested at the landing. That’s the way it is, growing old, she thought: one moves from chair to chair.
She sat at her writing desk with her back to the window, and there she spent most of the afternoon. The darkness drained through the window on the opposite wall and turned the sofa, dining table, bookshelf, and bed into nothing but points and lines around her. Finally, she switched on the table lamp.
She opened the book and began reading. She read about the court case and how Frank and Cora were acquitted; about Kennedy, who tried to blackmail them; and then about the accident in which Cora was killed. When she read the ending, where Frank was found guilty of Cora’s murder, she had no doubts: it was unjust. Frank would never do such a thing.
Then she closed the book and looked around the room. Outside it was completely dark, and the curtains needed to be drawn. No, she thought as she rose from the chair, I’m not jealous. Then she turned and drew the curtains closed. She headed for the window on the other side of the room.
Milk