Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

He must’ve dozed off. Because all at once he sits up with a grunt, his heart thumping; someone’s in the room. At first he can’t see anyone, then he catches sight of Luke beside the wood stove. He’s standing motionless, his back to Thomas, staring into the flames and doing something with his hands. But Thomas can’t see what. Luke spins toward him suddenly. “Hey, Thomas,” he says slowly, as though lingering over the sound of his name. “You already went to bed?” Luke’s holding a rifle in his hands. He aims it at Thomas. “Bang!” he says, laughing, low. “I saw a light out here, and I wanted to look at Kristin’s guns. They’re not exactly new. They’re practically antiques. It’s a wonder she can hit anything with them.” Luke disappears behind the stove and returns empty-handed. “There’s dessert. You want to go back in?” Thomas gets to his feet, stuffing his shirt into his pants. Luke steps toward him. Thomas feels weirdly threatened. Exposed. But then Luke hands him a joint. “You got a light?”

They stand in the darkness underneath the awning, beside the pantry. Luke lights the joint and tokes deeply before handing it to Thomas. “Why not?” Thomas mutters, still groggy after his nap. The fat, white smoke smells sweet and good, of herbs and fresh straw. Thomas coughs. It’s been a long time since he’s smoked pot. “So you and Alice are going for a hike tomorrow?” he asks, puffing on the joint again.

“Do you want to come with us?” Luke says, looking straight at Thomas. These alert hazel eyes, pupils black as coal. For a moment, Luke’s face is clearly visible in the light from the pantry. Then he draws back into the shadow again. “We’re heading up into the mountains.”

Thomas nods without thinking. “What time are you going?”

“Around ten, I think.”

“Are you and Alice dating?” Thomas asks, hastily and suddenly.

Luke turns and regards him. Then he chuckles. “Can’t say that we are. I think of her more like a cousin.”

“A cousin?”

“Yeah, something like that. She’s family to me.” Thomas can’t believe what he’s hearing. Alice sure as hell isn’t family to Luke. That’s an insult.

“What do you actually do? How do you make money?”

“Oh, all sorts of things, Thomas. For me that’s the only way to live. It takes many bricks to build a house, so to speak.”

Luke takes the joint from Thomas. Their hands touch for a split second. Luke’s fingers are long and slender, his skin warm. Thomas pulls his hand away. “And what does ‘all sorts of things’ mean?”

“It varies. I deal in this and that. I bartend off and on and. .”

“At Frank and Fatso’s?”

“There too. Yeah, why?”

“Just wondering,” Thomas says. Luke flicks the butt of the joint into the grass. From down in the grove come the sharp shrieks of birds, the flailing of wings. The sound grows louder. A desperate, hoarse screech, a commotion. “The owl’s hunting,” Luke smiles, his face once more within the patch of window light, but pale as a moon. Of course it’s the owl hunting, Thomas thinks, you don’t need to tell me. Fucking know-it-all.

“He hunts them down in the sky, he gives them a grave in the breezes. The sparrows,” Luke continues, his voice husky.

“What did you say?” Thomas stares at Luke’s half-turned face. “A grave. For the birds,” Luke says, “they don’t stand a chance. It snatches them in mid-flight. And then it takes their chicks.”

Thomas wants to say something more, something about the poem, something about his father, but he’s so edgy and nonplussed that he can’t utter a single word. Someone raps on the window from inside. Alice waves for them to come in.

Luke has turned and now looks directly at him. In a clear voice he says, “Did you bring good shoes?”

Thomas scrutinizes him, puzzled.

“Didn’t you say you want to go hiking with us?”

Luke waves at Alice and steps toward the door, but Thomas holds him back, gripping his shoulder. “One more thing.”

Luke pauses and turns his head.

“Your mother still alive?”

“Why do you ask that?” There’s something unpleasant about the way he says it, a kind of snarl.

“Just wondering.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to get to know you better, that’s all,” Thomas says, “now that you think we’re family. Now that you quote Celan.” Luke smiles as if he’s withholding a secret, his mouth closed. He glances at the ground. His lush eyelashes throw shadows on his cheeks. Alice raps again, this time impatiently. Thomas grips Luke’s jacket more firmly. “I knew Rose when I was a kid. She was just a young girl then.” He feels the pot’s effect now and, to his relief, his voice sounds gentle and friendly. Luke relaxes.

“Okay. Yes. She’s alive. But I have practically zero contact with her.”

“Because you don’t want to see her?”

“Maybe,” Luke says, grabbing the doorknob.

“Fatso must feel bad about that. He really likes his sister, doesn’t he?”

Luke doesn’t respond, and Thomas lets go of his shoulder. To Thomas, at the moment the door swings open the inside light appears to wash over them like a wave of ocher-colored desert sand. Alice’s smiling face is close to theirs. “We’ve got frozen custard,” she says, holding the door for them. He’s high and he’s hot. His skin prickles in an especially pleasant way, and he wants to laugh out loud. He glances down at himself and feels surprisingly happy: His legs move of their own accord, he’s gliding forward. He thinks of an old song and recalls every detail of the guitar solo that followed the first refrain — it’s as though the band’s playing right in his ears. A song from the deepest recesses of his mind, he thinks. Hard to believe it’s still in there after all these years.

Maloney dishes out the frozen custard, which Jenny has decorated with canned fruits. Coffee steams in mugs. The twins cling to their mother, but when Alice sits, they flock to her instead. She tugs one onto her lap and wraps her in her arms. It’s Nina; the girl blushes, her eyes beaming happily. Maya sits cautiously beside them, and Alice leans over and whispers to her, as if she wants to be democratic, as if she wants to share her caresses equally: It looks as though she’s asking her something. Maya nods and glances at the floor. An idiotic smile is now plastered on Luke’s face. He greedily shovels dessert into his mouth. His lower lip tugs downward, as if it’s trying to locate his chin, making the glistening red flap of skin behind his lip visible. Helena sits next to Jenny. Thomas can’t make out what they’re saying. What he hears instead is the clack of spoons on the porcelain. After shifting seats, Patricia’s now next to Kristin. “Where’d you go?” Maloney asks Thomas, getting his attention. “Were you out looking at the stars? Hey!” He lowers his voice, and leans across the table. “You look like someone seeing stars right now. What the hell, were you smoking dope?” And almost as a whisper: “Where did you get it? Is there more?”

“Ask Luke.”

Maloney shoots a glance toward Luke, who’s ladling more frozen custard onto his plate. He drops a hunk of canned peach onto the floor and leans over to retrieve it, but then gives up and focuses on his new portion instead.

“You could’ve invited me, O’Mally. What kind of friend are you?”

Thomas smiles goofily and wants to say something. But Maloney stares enviously across the long table and mumbles, “Goddamn, he’s sure got the munchies.” Luke dries custard from his cheek with his napkin. His red eyes meet Thomas’s, and he smiles from ear to ear. Thomas can’t help but smile back; it feels unnatural and false not to. The new softness in his face is irresistible.