Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

Frank opens his eyes wide, then clucks tolerantly. “Baseball bats?! That’s priceless. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Ha! Why would we attack you with baseball bats?! Two old rats like us! If we wanted something from you, don’t you think we could easily figure out how to contact you by normal means? You’re Jacques’s son .” Frank looks at Thomas with restrained disgust, his eyes squinting in his angular face. “Though it’s hard to believe.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to a mild pitch. “I’m really sorry to hear what happened. But listen: We don’t want to harm you. I believe I made that clear after the funeral. All we want is to be left alone to mind our own business. We don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

For a moment the two men stare at each other like tomcats. Mistrustful, searching. Is there a reason to be watchful?

“Mixed up in what?”

Frank shrugs. Thomas changes his tack:

“How’s the bar going? Business good?”

“Sterling.” Frank maintains Thomas’s gaze.

“And your dry cleaning? Did you find your dry cleaning?”

“I did.”

“And what about Luc? Or Luke. He still helping out?”

“Here and there. The boy’s got many irons in the fire.”

“What does he do anyway?”

Frank pulls his hands from his pockets and straightens up. “Ah, this and that, y’know. He fishes.” Frank finally looks away, uninterested.

“Fishes?”

“Yeah. Mostly eel, I think. He’s got traps in a couple of places.”

“That’s not something you can make a living on, though, is it?”

“No, it’s mostly just one of his hobbies. That’s why he gives us a hand from time to time. Among other things.” He glances at his watch. “I gotta get going, I’m meeting someone. Nice to run into you.” Frank offers his nicotine-stained hand. Thomas clutches it and holds on tightly. The skin is chapped and cold.

“So you have no idea who could’ve come by my store? C’mon, Frank.”

“Absolutely no idea.” Frank turns and strolls calmly — practically leaning backward as though an invisible servant is bearing the weight of his torso — down the street. Thomas watches him go. Sees him stop at a mechanic’s and speak to a young man in overalls, who’s lugging tires off the sidewalk and into the shop. The two men disappear together into the darkness.

Patricia shows up at 4:15, silent and pale. She climbs into the car without a word. Frank’s presence lingers with Thomas as they drive northward out of the city. Patricia says nothing. She can’t decide what she wants to listen to on the radio, so she keeps switching channels. At first he tells her everything about the break-in, but she offers no commentary. They eat apples; she remains silent. Around 5:00 they stop at a gas station and get coffee. He puts his hand on her arm and she doesn’t remove it. A small opening. He remembers that he wanted to buy something for the twins. He wanders around the store and winds up choosing two large bars of milk chocolate and a video game. He buys enough cigarettes to last the weekend. Patricia has brought a supersized bottle of Rioja. “Good,” he says, “there’s quite a few of us.” She looks away. Standing in a patch of sunlight, she rises onto her tiptoes in her flat, sand-colored sandals.

“I’ve bought another store,” he says. “I get the deed on Wednesday.”

She eyes him indifferently.

“Why?”

“Alice is going to be the manager.”

“But you haven’t even talked to her about it?”

“I did. Sort of. Briefly. And I plan on talking to her about it this weekend.”

She smiles derisively. “You’ve begun smelting before the iron’s hot, haven’t you?”

“If Alice isn’t interested, don’t you think someone else will be?” She just glares at him, at such length and with such condescension that it irritates him. “It’s a major opportunity for a young person,” he says testily.

“Is it now?”

“Yes, you’re damn straight it is.”

“Relax. Not everyone wants to be a part of the paper business .”

“Paper business? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Can you try to act normal the next few days? To be honest, it’s hard to be around you.”

“As far as I can see, you’re the one who’s making it hard. You’re distant.”

“And you’re not allowed to smoke at a gas station.”

He flings his cigarette away huffily.

“Listen,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to have a branch and the opportunity arose. Now we’ll have to see about Alice.”

She turns away. “I don’t understand where the money’s coming from.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean by that? That sounds suspicious.”

He unlocks the car. “I’ve been saving up, Patricia. And I bought the new store for a song. It’s very simple.”

She sits beside him and pulls a nail file from her purse. He starts the engine.

“Where?” she says, her tone still indifferent.

“Really close to where I grew up. In that neighborhood.” He turns on the blinker and merges onto the highway.

“Ha! How sentimental of you. You won’t have any customers in that area. Who do you think will buy envelopes and fountain pens out there? Frank and his friends?”

He angles the car into the outer lane and accelerates. “There are tons of students.”

She shakes her head and continues to do so for what seems like forever.

“Stop being so negative, for fuck’s sake!”

He punches a clenched fist against the wheel.

A terrible silence. Then she speaks, her voice low and tense, “You know what. Why don’t you just let me out here? I really don’t want to be with you. First you practically assault me, then you neglect to tell me something as important as having a break-in at your store, and now this. I’ve tried to communicate with you for a long time, Thomas. In an ordinary way, the way ordinary people do. But you never even ask how I’m doing anymore. We never talk. There’s no connection. It seems like you just don’t give a shit. And you don’t want a baby with me, either.” Her voice rises now: “What I’m saying is that you don’t want to talk to me, and you don’t want to have a kid with me.” Then she shouts, “What do you want from me? And slow down for Christ’s sake! You’re driving like a fucking idiot!”

Thomas grits his teeth and leans forward. He maintains his speed. Patricia emits an angry, animal-like noise and blares the radio as high as it will go. Booming heavy metal from years ago swells the air around them. They zip past green fields and darker wooded areas. Grazing sheep. Beef cattle. Red barns and listless windmills. There’s no wind. A murder of crows alight from a treetop and glide across the landscape like black ships in formation. He snaps off the radio. Patricia stares demonstratively out the passenger window, her back to him. Ten minutes later he says, “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself together. I promise. We’ll have a nice weekend.” And when she doesn’t respond: “I just can’t deal with any more problems, Patricia.”

“You’re the one creating them,” she barks in a deep, intense voice.

“I love you. I fucked up, but I love you. You have to believe me.”

The landscape begins to rise. Hills and cliff formations and the mountains’ snow-capped peaks farther ahead. “Look,” Thomas says. “It’s beautiful out here. It’s been too long since we’ve been out of the city. Please forgive me?” She sighs. “Please? Babe?” She looks at him. This is again followed by silence, but slowly that silence grows milder, the atmosphere gradually cooling; he smiles at her, realizes that she’s regarding him. She says, “You’re a strange man, Thomas.” He says, “You think so?” She nods. He says, “I’ve missed you.” She sighs again. He says, “I love you.” Some time passes before she says, very quietly, “I know.” And like that everything changes. He lays his hand tentatively on her thigh. “I’m actually looking forward to being with all those goofballs,” she says in her normal voice. Relieved, he reaches for her hand and puts it on his knee. A few seconds later her hand glides a short distance up his thigh. He braces it between his legs. The hand rests there unmoving, warm and feathery-light. She doesn’t remove it. His dick throbs against her palm. He’s the one who removes her hand, but he does so in order to run his hand up under her dress. He fingers the lace trimmings of her panties. She breathes heavily. “I want you so bad,” he whispers. “You’re an asshole,” she moans, when he slips his hand under the thin fabric. “Not now.”