Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“I sure do. We’ve got four hares and a deer in the freezer.”

“Not to mention a dozen pheasants,” Helena adds, nodding proudly at Kristin. “Kristin’s famous for hitting the target on every shot.”

Alice glances brightly around, from one to the other. “I’m so excited to be here with all of you.” Her voice is subdued and delicate.

“Oh, Alice, that’s so sweet of you,” Helena says, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “We’re excited to have you here with us. To Alice!” They toast, then dish more food onto their plates. They pass around the salad. “Great dressing, Luke,” and the bread — what an incredible texture. Kristin lights a candle on the windowsill, and Thomas is sent to the utility room to get more wine. He uses the opportunity to go outside and smoke. It’s pitch dark. The lamplight is dim, yellow. How dare Maloney show up unannounced. And Luke. What the hell’s he to make of Jenny and Maloney dating? Are they really dating? He called her hon . Thomas feels a faint anger, but only as a sad ripple through his body. Then the grief: No one told him anything. Not his sister, not his best friend. No one wants to confide in him. No one wants to share anything with him. He shivers in the evening cold. I’m lonely, he thinks. I am a lonely fool disconnected from reality. I’m an old, lonely fool who pushes everyone away. I’ve apparently pushed everyone away. Even Patricia. I’m a complete fuck-up. Here comes the self-pity, and it’s ugly. Damn, how it reeks. He grabs two bottles of wine from a shelf in the pantry, where it smells vaguely of onions and earthy potatoes. The kitchen is warm, humming with laughter and conversation. Thomas slides into his chair. Patricia rubs his knee under the table. “Are you okay?” she whispers. He nods, thankful for this little caress, and her smile. He spits an olive pit into the palm of his hand. “Time for coffee!” Maloney rises. “Precious coffee from ‘the neighbor.’”

“Let me help you,” Jenny chirps, wriggling after him. Alice and the twins collect the dirty plates and set them in the dishwasher. The two girls seem captivated by Alice. They admire her tattoo, and she lets them touch the tiny stud in her nose. They run their fingers over her bracelet. Thomas observes the skinny girls, Alice’s young woman’s body, their trim waists, their straight backs, Alice’s perfectly formed breasts under her T-shirt, the girls’ small mounds. They’re growing, he thinks, they’re transforming. But I’m not.

“Well, Thomas,” Kristin says. “Tell me how you’ve been.”

“I’m doing all right.”

“You look like a drowned cat, to put it bluntly.”

“Thank you.”

“Honestly, you look terrible. Have you been working too much?”

“No more than usual.”

“Is it the break-in?”

He shakes his head.

“Or did Jacques’s death affect you more than you thought it would?”

He shrugs his shoulders, irritated.

“But you’ve been more down in the dumps than usual,” Patricia says.

“What do you mean by that?” Even Thomas can hear how tense he sounds.

“You had to go to the doctor and all that. He had to go to the doctor. He was depressed. I can tell Kristin about that, can’t I, Thomas?”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my friend.” Kristin sizes him up. “Life isn’t for the faint of heart.”

“I’m not faint of heart. C’mon. You of all people know what it was like for us, what things were like. You know very well I couldn’t stand Jacques. I’m not shedding one tear over him, if that’s what you think. On the contrary.”

“Thomas. .” Patricia gives him a hard look. Kristin drains her glass and calmly puts it back on the table. “What I mean is that life is always full of challenges. Disappointments. Piss and shit. Pardon my language. But what I mean is, you might as well get used to it. No one will throw you a pity party. And especially not at your age. You’ve just got to get back in the saddle.”

“Back in the saddle!” Thomas leans back, shaking his head.

“We’ve been thinking about having a baby.” Patricia sounds suddenly drunk and shrill.

“That sounds really lovely,” Kristin says. “I didn’t think you even wanted to have children, Thomas.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible.

“When Helena said she wanted children, I was up in arms. I was terrified. I didn’t want kids. Even though I was a midwife and delivered newborns every day, I didn’t want any of my own. Now I can’t imagine my life without the responsibility. All at once I understood why I must die someday. It’s so simple: I’ll die so that they can live. And so their children can live. I know that sounds terribly clichéd, but it’s the truth.”

“It sounds holier-than-thou,” Thomas mutters.

Kristin flashes a resigned smile and exchanges a glance with Patricia. She gets up to help out in the kitchen. Patricia’s voice is friendly and firm. “You’re acting like a grumpy teenager. If you don’t get your act together, I’m going home. This is your own family, here, and yet you act like this. Why? I just don’t get it. And how can your mood shift so suddenly? We just fucked in the car. This is your last chance, Thomas.” She opens her eyes wide: serious, mouth closed. He nods. “Yes,” he says. She stands and walks to the kitchen, to the others. He pours more wine, all the way up to the rim of his glass, and drinks the tart, cherry-red liquid in big gulps. “Goddamnit, how can they serve this shit,” he grumbles, pushing his chair back. Then he goes out to the barn.

The wind has died down. Apart from the rustling leaves, it’s quiet. Standing motionless on the patio outside the sunroom, Thomas listens. Not a cloud in the sky. But he can’t see the moon. The darkness seems completely impenetrable. Then he senses something near the house. The cold air is moist and heavy to breathe. From where he stands he can just make out the barn around six hundred feet ahead, a behemoth. He feels uneasy. It’s as though something is tugging at his diaphragm, so that he can hardly stand still, as though something manic inside him is rapidly filling with air. Carefully he steps forward. The sheep are gray-white, hazy specks in what must be their pasture. A horse whinnies nearby. He sees the parked cars and some tall trees beside the main house. He tilts his head and glares up at the flicker of distant stars. A cat rubs itself against his leg. He jumps, startled, and stumbles forward until he reaches the decaying wooden barn. He follows its surface with his hands. Here’s the sliding barn door, but where’s the paddock door? He tries to recall where it is, but nothing comes to mind. The darkness is also in his head, and there’s nothing more to do than feel his way forward until he finds it. And so, like a blind man hunched over, his breathing raspy and erratic, Thomas O’Mally Lindström slowly circles the large, enclosed structure. He trips over a branch. His shoes sink into the mud. Splinters jab into his fingers and hands. An owl hoots close by. Something whizzes toward him, then suddenly changes direction. Bats. He bumps into something made of cement. Not until he’s halfway around the barn does he finally locate the door. It creaks when he pushes it open. In the middle of the room, there’s a large wooden stove with a glass front; a crisp orange fire crackles in it, giving off some light. He feels his way toward the switch and snaps on the fluorescent lights that dangle from the ceiling on thin steel wires. There’s the big loom, and the little one. Woven baskets stuffed with thick, soft balls of yarn, along with the various implements that are apparently used to process the raw wool. The straw-colored wooden floors are untidy, and smeared with dirt. A series of rectangular windows run the length of the barn all the way up under the roof beams, forming a kind of band of glass all the way around, except on the far wall where the sliding door is. The light in here must be amazing during the day, Thomas thinks, sitting on Helena’s weaving bench. He runs his fingers along the warp’s seam. Blue and purple shades, a flowing, expressionistic pattern. The fabric is coarse. This must be one of the large tapestries she’s known for. He slumps. The fire crackles comfortingly. Air mattresses lie scattered across the floor, two and two together, with a good distance between each pair; they’ve already been made, with sheets and pillows and even neatly folded towels on every one. When he was young he slept here quite a bit. He and Jenny. He and Maloney. He and various girlfriends: Danuza, Seline, Beatriz. Back then the old, musty hay was still on the floor and the carcasses of rust-bucket tractors hulked in darkened corners. Thanks to the gaps in the barn’s siding, mice and rats were a common sight whenever you woke at night and needed to piss. But the renovated space looks much different now, inviting and clean. They must have insulated the walls before hammering up drywall. Hard to believe they did it themselves. You can do so little for yourself, Thomas thinks, wading across the room to the nearest mattress. He slumps onto it, feeling like little more than a sack of clattering bones. Burying his face in the pillow, he smells the reassuring scent of fresh air and lavender.