Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“You watched Star Trek ?” Patricia asks.

“Everyone who owned a TV watched Star Trek . It was on for years.”

“Not me. But Orion’s Belt is also mentioned in Blade Runner . Remember that? How does it go again. . it’s a beautiful passage.” He feels her eyes on him. Her face is bathed in darkness. “I’ve. . seen things you people wouldn’t believe. .”

“. . attack ships in flames off the shoulder of Orion,” Thomas continues, “I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. .”

“. . All those. . moments. . will be lost in time, like tears. . in. . rain.” Patricia rests her hands on her knees and sighs. “Isn’t that gorgeous?”

“You’re forgetting ‘time to die.’ That’s what he says at the end.”

She stares at the constellation again. “Oh,” she says, “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

“Oh, everything.” She sighs. “I think my buzz is gone. Sucked into outer space.” She scratches her leg. “There are mosquitos here. Can we go back?”

Grass crackles beneath their feet. “What do you think about Luke?” Thomas asks.

“He’s very sweet. And very young.”

“Why did you ask him to massage you?”

She stops to regard him. “You weren’t jealous, were you, Thomas? Were you jealous? You were . Ha! That’s too funny.”

“I wasn’t jealous. I just thought it was a little strange.”

She shrugs. “My neck was sore. And he said he was good at massaging. What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem.”

They start walking again. “Do you like being here?” Thomas says, taking her hand. “Or are you bored?”

“I’m not bored. I was irritated that you fell asleep during the game yesterday. I was mad at you. But I also didn’t care. By this morning my anger was gone. I’ve really enjoyed being with the ladies.” Patricia drops his hand and threads her arm through his. When they approach the house, the dog begins to bark. “Kristin told us a lot of stuff about your mother today.”

“What did she say?”

“That she was a wild and decadent person.”

“A wild and decadent person. What does she mean by that?”

“I suppose it means she wanted to be free to live life to its fullest. That’s how I understood it anyway. She rebelled against her educated, well-heeled family and took off with a charlatan no one liked. She burned all her bridges, Kristin said. So she couldn’t come crawling back when she’d had enough of the wild life. She was a proud person. All too proud, Kristin said.”

They come to the mudroom and the front door. Patricia squats down to rub Jupiter’s back. “That’s why she died alone.”

“That sounds like a rather theatrical interpretation. Did she tell you about her horoscope too? Or read tarot cards for her?”

“It wasn’t meant that way, Thomas.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s dead.”

“Yeah, she’s dead all right. But what does that explain?”

“I don’t know. Jenny was happy to hear about her. Even though she cried. There’s so much grief buried inside her. Kristin gave her one of your mother’s old necklaces. Hard to believe she was only thirty-two when she died. .” Patricia looks at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Give it a rest, Thomas. Every little thing pisses you off. Can’t you be happy for anyone? Is that what’s wrong? Are you miserly?” Patricia straightens up and rests her hands at her side. “Well?” He doesn’t respond. Just stands there. “Are you stingy with your feelings? With your family? Do you have a patent on the correct ‘interpretation’? Do you see yourself as some kind of police officer for this family? Huh? Is that it?” She looks at him, and he glowers at her, so she shakes her head. “So much for a romantic stroll under the stars. There’s very little that’s fun with you anymore. Do you know that? There’s just bad luck around you these days.” She goes inside and slams the door. But she pauses there, her hand resting on the knob. For a moment she doesn’t move, as if considering going in or out. Then she returns.

“Thomas,” she says. Her voice is different, low and compact.

“Yeah.”

“What’re we going to do?”

“We can’t argue inside, that’s for sure.” He nods at the brightly-lit windows.

Her arms droop at her sides, all energy drained from her. Under the sharp light of the bare bulb dangling in the mudroom, she looks rumpled, worn out. She gives him a wounded or sad look, he can’t tell which. Then she turns and goes back into the house. This time she doesn’t return. Thomas sits on the stoop smoking another cigarette. Frogs croak nearby. Midges and moths flit around the bulb above him. His legs are sore following the hike. His butt, too. He doesn’t have an answer to Patricia’s question. He gazes at the stars one last time, thinking: That’s how it is , though he doesn’t quite know what that means. Doesn’t understand it. But that is how it is. I am tamping this half-smoked cigarette out on the flagstones. I am throwing the butt into the grass. I am turning around and lifting first one foot, then the other. I am walking up the stairs, I am putting my hand out, I am touching the doorknob, I am opening the door. The hinges squeal. I am stepping into the entryway. It smells a little sour in here. I am breathing. I am breathing. I am breathing.

“Was it nice out there?” Kristin comes downstairs just as Thomas closes the door. He nods. “I need to use your bathroom,” he says, passing her going up. The walls on the second floor are pitched at an angle, and it’s hard for him to stand erect. Up here there’s a large bedroom with a king-sized bed, an acid-washed cabinet, dim light thrown from a single wall lamp above the headboard of the bed, and a view of the lake. The twins’ dinky rooms, plastered in pink, are teeming with knick knacks, unmade beds, heaps of clothes, school-books, and old toys on the floor. The one is apparently as disorganized as the other. He locates the bathroom at the end of the hall. It’s messy in here, too: wet towels on the floor, overturned bottles of shampoo and soap in the shower, a plastic basket filled with rubber ducks and miniature ships — which the twins must have outgrown years ago. He does his business and washes his hands, then looks at himself in the mirror. He looks overheated, sunburned, the whites of his eyes seem yellowed — maybe it’s the light. A few tiny nail clippings are stuck to the hand soap. Despite treading carefully, he bangs his head against a ceiling beam on the way down the hall. Pain jabs his skull. The steep stairwell. Someone let the dog back in the house, and it greets him with a wagging tail, then follows at his heels through the kitchen to the living room, where Thomas hears voices and the twang of a guitar. Maya’s the one playing it, testing it out haltingly. Then she hands the guitar to Alice and Alice begins plucking chords to an old Bob Dylan tune. Her singing voice is light and pure. Kristin, Helena, and Jenny sing along, and the girls clap in rhythm, and then Patricia starts singing too, and Maloney. His voice forms the humming foundation to Kristin’s alto and the others’ sopranos. Luke’s the only one not singing along. He sits quietly on the edge of the cot watching, uncomfortable and rigid, as though he’s embarrassed at the boisterous, unrestrained cheerfulness. Rocking back and forth on her stool, Helena raises her arms above her head, lets them sway to and fro. Thomas settles into a kitchen chair and waves awkwardly to Patricia. She smiles wearily at him. Luke gathers his hands on his knees and leans forward, hiding his eyes beneath his hair. And Jenny says, “Can you believe we still remember every single lyric of those rotten old songs. Thomas used to play guitar too, it sounded horrible. Isn’t that right? You couldn’t play at all. He’s tone deaf.”