Kjersti Skomsvold - The Faster I Walk The Smaller I am

I spent the rest of Advent in a chair knitting itty-bitty earwarmers. I could almost see the baby playing on the green rug at my feet, and if the baby wanted to go outside, I could watch from the kitchen window.

But late on Christmas Eve, right before we were about to walk around the Christmas tree, “Aunt Flow” finally turned up, accompanied by an unbearable stomach cramp. I threw the white dress down the garbage chute and stopped baking, and soon my old dress hung from my shoulders and then it swallowed me. It swallowed me more and more, and when our Constitution Day rolled around in May, I was much smaller than Epsilon.

“Smoked ham and scrambled eggs, Mathea.” I heard Epsilon put the platter on the night table before he sat down on the chair by the bedside. I opened my eyes. There was a balloon hanging from the ceiling. “I bought it on Karl Johan Street,” Epsilon said. “Oh,” I said. He was wearing his suit and he sat with his elbows on his knees, hands folded. “Aren’t you going to ask?” he said. I didn’t know what he meant. Then he said, “You always want to bet on everything. How long do you think it’ll stay on the ceiling?” “Epsilon, I’m too tired,” I said. There was a breeze coming in from the window. I was cold and pulled the cover up to my chin. “I think it’ll last a week,” he said. “Or, no, I’m going to say two. What do you think?” “I don’t know,” I said. “More or less?” he insisted. It felt like I was going to have to contend with that balloon forever. I sighed: “More.” “So if I win,” said Epsilon, “then you have to have dinner with me in a nice restaurant, and afterward we’ll go to the theater.” I closed my eyes. “I couldn’t.” “But that’s what I want,” Epsilon said. “What do you want if you win?” I didn’t answer. “You can think about it,” Epsilon said. I turned over on my side, so he wouldn’t know that I was crying again. Behind me I heard him spread the napkin on his lap and pick up the silverware.

Neither of us mentioned the balloon again, even though it hovered right over our heads like a speech bubble in a cartoon and I imagined it was full of incomprehensible signs. The day before I was due to win the bet, I finally decided what I wanted. I didn’t know how I was going to manage, but I got up and took a knitting needle out of my pine box. The air left the balloon like a sigh of relief. When Epsilon came home from work, I was ready to go out. I’d pinned my hair up with a clip and pinched my cheeks. He stared at me bewildered as I stood in the hall with my shoes on, all ready to go. My coat had gotten so big on me. “You won,” I said. A deep sob came from Epsilon’s throat, he’d probably held it in for far too long.

I smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead with my fingers. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Thank you,” I said and glanced down. He kissed my head. I caressed his shoe with the tip of mine.” “Did you get new laces?” I asked. “No,” Epsilon said. “Oh,” I said. And then we began to laugh.

I don’t remember the dinner or what we talked about, maybe we didn’t talk much. I also don’t remember what we saw at the theater. But it doesn’t matter.

Even though we had turned a corner, the pain didn’t go away, and after that hardly a day went by that Epsilon didn’t have some kind of greeting from me in his briefcase.

It’s impossible not to notice that the trees in front of the church are budding. Soon it will be Constitution Day again. I remember a small, curious girl who marched with the Lutvann school band. She marched behind the main body of the band, which was playing, and in front of the beginners’ band, which trailed silently after. She carried a long, thin poll with a plastic doll on top. The doll was dressed in a brown uniform and had a hat with an orange tassel — a miniature replica of the girl and the rest of the beginners. I don’t know why they’d stuck a doll on a pole, what the point of it was, but the girl looked proud as she could be. I imagined her marching over a hilltop, or past the big cars parked on the side of the road, and how she would struggle to hold the doll up as high as she could.

This year I’ll march across the palace square and wave to the king. He’ll pick me out of the enormous crowd. His guards will come running and take me by the arms: “The king wants to see you on the castle balcony.” “What, me?” I’ll ask and look up at Harald or Haakon or whatever his name is, and he’ll stand and nod. “Yes, you. No one else but you.”

I bang my knee hard on the metal edge of a shopping cart. I glance around, but luckily no one’s looking. The pain is like a spike in my perfumed knee. I shake my fist at the cart as I go into the store.

Now at least I know his name, I think on the way home. “Åge B. isn’t here,” I say aloud and it feels totally natural.

“I’LL GET IT,” Epsilon said. As usual, though, the Gallup people only wanted to talk to the person in the house with the most recent birthday. “Do you really think that’s fair,” I asked, “when that person is me fifty out of fifty-two weeks of the year?” Reluctantly, I went to the telephone, there was no good way to get out of it.

I heard a story one time about some rich Americans who, after reading Poe’s story about the woman buried alive, demanded that telephones be installed in their coffins, although I could’ve told them this was a wasted effort, because no one ever calls. I’ve realized it’s up to me, and so I dig the most recent telephone book out of my collection to find “Martinsen.” But who am I kidding, I never even made it onto the school attendance lists. On the last day of school, when the principal was handing out the report cards, I stood with the other students as they were called one by one, until finally I was standing alone. “Who are you?” the principal asked.

I imagine my name won’t be on my gravestone either. It’s a pity, really, because I like my name better and better with every day that passes.

“Mathea Martinsen,” I said and held out my hand. The new neighbor proudly folded down the canopy of her baby carriage. “And this is little June,” his mother said, beaming at the father. “Oh,” I said, “a woman in today’s obituaries had the same name.”

“Did you notice they all have the same hair color?” I asked Epsilon afterwards. “Could be,” Epsilon said. “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I said.

“Martin Martinsen,” I read in the telephone directory. “Mary,” “Mary,” “Mary,” when did Mary get to be so popular? “Mary” and “Mathea Martinsen” are both listed. My eyes begin to well up, because I’m really there after all, so why doesn’t anybody ever call? No one ever calls. What’s more, my name is listed twice, but the second one has the wrong address, so I can tell it isn’t me, and how can someone else be named Mathea Martinsen, I’m Mathea Martinsen. Or, maybe the other woman is the real Mathea Martinsen. That’s probably it. Still, I almost feel like I’m a part of the totality, as Schopenhauer described it, and after staring at the asterisk on the bottom left of the telephone, I’m finally able to dial my own number. Luckily, it’s busy. I’m a very busy person, “pressed for time” is my middle name.

I’ve taken an important step in life, and now I have to take one more. You can’t stay still because then you’ll go into hibernation and before you know it your life has slipped through your fingers. I need to call Information and ask for Mathea Martinsen in Haugerud, maybe Information keeps statistics as to the most requested and most loved person in the nation, a Top Ten Requested Numbers, and I shouldn’t just sit here moping around because my name isn’t on the list. I should do something about it.