Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Whitman. Walt Whitman. You don’t know it?”

Thomas shakes his head.

“It’s one of my favorite poems,” Luke says softly. “If I can put it that way. I recited it to myself at Jacques’s funeral. It played on a continuous loop in my head. It’s calming, I think, or something like that.”

So he does have a favorite poem, Thomas thinks. Then he considers the poem’s meaning. He inches away, and Luke sets his feet on the cement floor again, then leans forward and braces his hands against the edge of the bench.

“Maybe he thought about it too,” Thomas says tentatively. “Jacques, I mean. When he realized he was dying.”

Luke shrugs. “I don’t think so. He just died. Collapsed.” Then, with more urgency, he leans backward and slides his arms along the bench, one of which settles right behind Thomas’s neck. He says: “You know that prison guard at the funeral was the one who kindled Jacques’s interest in poetry? He loaned him a book. Many years ago. Later he helped him order books from the library.” He looks at Thomas. Half his face is in shadow, the rest glows in the flickering orange-yellow light of a candle. The other candle has gone out.

“So a convict and a guard were both held in the vast, life-enriching clutches of poetry?” Thomas says. He can’t help but laugh, briefly and hoarsely. “That’s too funny!” But Luke doesn’t think it’s so funny. He presses his lips together, tilts his head back, and gathers up his hair.

“Well, there’s no doubt who the winner of this round is,” Thomas says, conciliatory. “Not to mention the first. You’re really good, I’ll give you that. I’m happy that Jacques gave these poems to you — that he gave anything to you at all.” Thomas regards Luke, searching for some sign in his face, in his eyes, something to reveal who he is, and who his father is. But there’s nothing to see. Thomas gets to his feet. “Are you coming?”

Luke shakes his head. “I’m going to sit here a while,” he says quietly. “If I can have another of your cigarettes?”

“Just don’t burn the house down,” Thomas smiles. “Goodnight, Luc. Good to spar with you.” Luke flinches at the sound of his real name, but he doesn’t respond. “I didn’t offend you, did I? What I said about the clutches of poetry?” With small gestures, Luke indicates that Thomas didn’t offend him. Then he smiles tiredly, lowering his chin. And as Thomas begins to go, his headache throbs with merciless precision. He’s not drunk anymore, but apparently he’s already got a hangover. It must be 3:00 in the morning. He ambles through the house, then cautiously outside, into the wind. This time he finds the barn door without any difficulty. Shortly afterward, he’s lying on the saggy air mattress beside Patricia, listening to the peaceful sounds of bodies sleeping near him. The sleeping bag warms up quickly. Patricia grinds her teeth. No way he’s my brother, he thinks, and now it seems insane that he’d convinced himself of the opposite only a moment before. He can feel in his bones that he has no genetic connection whatsoever to Luke. No kinship. Not even a sliver of a doubt. Calm now, he rolls onto his side. Takes a deep breath. I’ve dived into a sea of bobbing people, he thinks sleepily. I’m bobbing in a sea of people. Right before he falls asleep, he’s suddenly gripped by panic. What if Luke really burns the house down? But of course he won’t. And the wind whistles and howls.

By the next morning the wind has died down, and the sun’s shining through an almost cloudless sky. Thomas wakes to the sound of bleating sheep. He looks at the clock—9:00 A.M. Though he tries to fall asleep again, he can’t. He’s nauseated and his mouth is pasty: a dry taste of dog food and vomit. But he didn’t vomit. And luckily his headache is now more of a dull throb than actual pain. Patricia’s getting dressed. Pulling her blouse over her head, buttoning her skirt in the back. Thomas sits up. The others have left their bedrolls. Jenny and Maloney have carefully folded their blankets and towels. “Morning,” Patricia says. “You look like an old man.”

“I feel like an old man,” Thomas mutters, turning his face away. She walks off. He gets to his feet. His clothes reek of smoke. When he goes out to the yard, the light’s very bright. He squints at the sun and stands there a moment; everything seems bleary, flickering. Finally he regains focus. The sheep stare at him. They’re gathered in a large, bleating mass on the other side of the fence. On the patio, Kristin sits dressed in a bathrobe and sunglasses, drinking coffee with Jenny, Maloney, and Helena. And now Patricia steps out of the sunroom, a mug in her hand. Thomas O’Mally Lindström cuts across the lawn, planting his big feet step by step in the wet, dewy grass, his arms swinging listlessly at his side, thinking about the poem Luke read last, the so-called “goodnight poem.” He wonders about it. He thinks about French fries smothered in thick mayonnaise, about burgers with enormous pickles. He notices the rowan trees’ feather-like leaves, a blackbird landing on a gnarled apple tree, Patricia sitting down and saying something to Kristin. Can feel the heartburn just under his ribs. The light like confetti when he slips under a shedding lilac. Finally he reaches the patio, and finds a seat beside Helena.

“Oh,” he groans. “I feel a little dizzy today.”

They discuss the good weather, the arrival of summer after an unrecognizable spring, last night’s competition, the long drive home. They laugh wearily at one of Maloney’s jokes, which falls flat, then they simultaneously zone out. Thomas gets coffee and buns smeared in butter. Maloney concentrates on spooning a bowl of yogurt heaped with a generous portion of sugar into his mouth. “Where are the girls?” Patricia asks.

“They’re still asleep,” Helena says. “Anyone want aspirin?” She looks at Kristin, grinning. Kristin grunts something unintelligible.

“Awr,” Jenny says, stretching. “That air mattress thoroughly beat me. . I’ve slept terribly. .”

Alice and Luke have gone fishing. Helena heard them rummaging around in the kitchen shortly after sunrise. They stand. Carry their mugs in. And the morning passes packing cars and cleaning the house. Sleepily, the twins descend the stairs at 11:00 A.M. and are promptly sent out to feed the chickens. Thomas walks down to the lake, but Alice and Luke aren’t anywhere to be seen. He shuffles back. The others are seated on the patio again. Patricia gets a sunburn rather quickly. She wiggles her toes with her legs up on a chair. Thomas lays a hand on her warm, naked shin. He can’t find his cigarettes. He discusses hiring Alice with Maloney once more. Maloney’s pretty much resigned to it. Jenny gets involved, she’s distrustful, but thinks that overall it’s a good idea. “If it has to be this way,” she sighs, “then I suppose this is as good as anything else.” Kristin opines that Alice ought to go back to school. Helena says, “Leave the girl alone now. She’s only eighteen.”

“Exactly,” Kristin snaps, her hangover clearly making her testy. “She should get an education, for God’s sake. Like everyone else!”

“Everyone else. .” Jenny says pointedly. “I don’t have any education.”

“Sure you do! You studied nursing!” Kristin sounds very irritated now.

“For one semester only. But I never finished. Nobody encouraged me to continue.”

“We did too,” Thomas says. “Don’t start that again.”

Appalled, Jenny stares at him with round, martyr eyes.

“But Jenny,” Helena soothes, “you’ve done all right, though. You’ve always had work.”

“But not as a nurse! Anyway, that’s not the point. Can’t you let Alice figure things out for herself ? Why do you need to get so involved?” Jenny’s on the edge of becoming hysterical.