Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Stop talking nonsense,” Rose says. “I’m doing fine.” Her head pitches slightly. “Mind your own business.” She looks at Luke. She narrows her eyes the same way he does. A cold and accusatory glance.

“We’re leaving. Come on, Thomas.” Luke hurries to the car. But halfway there he stops and spins angrily toward his mother. “I want to punch you, but I’ll do you the huge favor of leaving you alone. Fuck you,” he shouts, threatening her. “Fuck you, bitch!” And for one moment Thomas is afraid that he’ll actually attack her. His rage makes him ugly. His face is flushed red, his body tense as a bow. He’s frightening to look at. Luke yanks on the door handle, gets in, guns the engine, and begins to back out of the driveway at high speed. Thomas runs after the car and leaps in. Rose, hunched over, angles toward the house. The man comes outside carrying a case of beer: A man with a heavy case of beer in his hands, a sheepish expression on his face, the brilliant light above the warped roof of the house, and Rose, plopping down on the bench now, her back to them. Turned in his seat at a 90-degree angle, Luke keeps an eye on the road behind them. Cussing and swearing. They crest a small hill and barrel down the other side; the house is out of sight. Thomas is relieved to have escaped that place. As he studied Rose’s vacant eyes, his headache had returned with renewed vigor. The entire situation so horribly painful. So hopeless. He rolls down the window. Fresh air rushes in and mixes with their own odors. They reverse all the way to the road. Luke doesn’t say a word. He seems more embittered than angry now. After a while the atmosphere in the car becomes almost unbearable. Thomas tries to think of something to say, but it feels as though nothing can cleanse the air, so sullied as it is by Luke’s bad mood. And Thomas himself is shaken over seeing Rose in that state. Gone is the sixteen-year old, long-legged girl with baby fat. Fatso’s fun little sister, the nanny, who played crazy games with him while Jenny took her mid-day naps, who tickled him until he cried with laughter, who took them down to the street where she hung out with her friends, while Thomas sat on the stoop watching the older girls pass Jenny between them tying small bows into her hair. And later, during pre-pubescence: Rose, a radiant young woman the stuff of wet dreams. There was something different about her, something vibrant that no one else could offer, not anyone he knew anyway. But Rose is no more. Rose is a wreck. Life stinks, Thomas thinks, leaning back dejectedly in his seat. They’re back on the road again. Soon he sinks into a torpor-like state of sleep, headache, and old hangover. He dreams disconnectedly, of something that happens inside a spacious fancy apartment, a party it seems. Mashed up against the wall of a narrow corridor of raucous, boisterous people, struggling for breath, skin glistening with sweat. A strong whiff of secretions emanating from human bodies. Sizzling pork fat on a cast-iron pan. A hunk of meat splatting in the center of the pan. A fantastic aroma wafting from it. He arches forward, over the stove. Someone slaps him on the back. Snoring loudly, he wakes himself up. Three quarters of an hour have passed. Luke snaps on his turn signal and enters the highway. He’s driving too fast. He’s leaning over the wheel. “Fuck,” he says. And not a word more until they reach the city. But then it’s as if he relaxes. Loosens his shoulders and his jaw. Moistens his lips with his tongue. Breathes calmly through his nose. The tension inside the car slowly dissipates. Luke turns the radio on. And Thomas thinks almost happily: He’s back. They listen absentmindedly to a program about the prenatal care of penguin parents. Soon Luke glances at him, giving him a sad little smile. I am filled with love , Thomas thinks, shocked, as a geyser of heat rises in him. Thomas is overcome, hot as flames now — as if he’s been cleansed from the inside by an all-consuming fire — with a powerful and uncontrollable urge to find his way into Luke’s body: a finger between his thick lips, a finger in his ear. To push inside him from behind. To taste Luke, everything that can’t be seen with the naked eye. To seek a way into the parts of him that keep him alive. The same parts that help him taste, chew, swallow, digest, listen, smell, breathe, expel waste. It lasts only half a minute. Luke looks at him worriedly. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Should we stop somewhere and get some water? Your face is all flushed.” Blood roars in Thomas’s ears. He shakes his head. “No, it’s just the heat. It’ll pass soon.” But the heat from the shame that follows doesn’t pass right away. He imagines Patricia sprawled across her office desk, sees himself grunting behind her, then her tears. What is it? Is it violence? Is it him? Distractedly he stares at the suburbs as they race past: apartment complexes, football fields. Shame courses through him, and it’s not until Luke finally becomes talkative that it goes away.

“Maybe now you get why I can’t stand looking at my mom,” Luke says, and Thomas nods. He understands. “What kinds of drugs is she on?” “No clue,” Luke replies, “pills, no doubt. And lots of alcohol. She’ll die in her own shit.”

“Were you hoping she’d be better?”

“I don’t know.” Luke stares at the road. “No.”

“Was that how she was when you lived with her?” Thomas asks carefully.

“I don’t know. No, not quite that bad. But she’d often lie in bed for days on end. I was too young to comprehend what was wrong with her, I was just used to it. It started before we moved to the country, but it wasn’t this bad.” Luke speaks fast, frenzied. “I mean, she was drunk a lot and there were hangers-on at our house smoking bongs during the day, but she was young, and she was employed now and then. She managed.”

“But you moved in with Fatso when you ran away from home?”

“Yeah.”

“How old were you?” Thomas tries to piece Luke’s story together, but it seems to him there are holes in it.

“Twelve.”

“What you told us when we were on the mountain — all that about you and your friend getting lost — was that before or after?”

“After. Sometimes I went up there to visit her when I lived with my uncle. I still had a few friends there from when I was in school.”

“Did you miss her?”

“I guess so. But she lived with a psychopath. So things didn’t go so well. One time I kicked him in the head, and he had to be taken to the emergency room. After that I stayed away. Luckily he punched his ticket last year.”

Thomas looks out the front window. The sky is brightening into a soft yellow; it’s already late in the afternoon. “She was so full of life when I knew her. But that was a long time ago.”

“People change,” Luke says brusquely, scratching his arm. “Just like you say Jacques did.”

“Did I say that he changed? No, you’re the one who says that.”

“He changed for the better, apparently. That’s not the case with my mom.” Luke stares dejectedly ahead. Then he sighs. He pulls his sleeve down over the white, swollen mosquito bite on his arm. He shifts in his seat. “Fuck it,” he says, turning up the volume on the radio, which is playing reggae music.

“Are you really interested in helping remodel the new store?” Thomas asks following a short pause.

“Of course.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Of course you should be paid.” For some time there’s silence. The city begins to emerge: multiple interchanges and ramps leading traffic in different directions on several levels. One moment they’re above the city, seeing the river and downtown, the next they’re under it, on the same level as the poor devils who live right next to the highway. Gradually they merge into the chaos of streets, alleyways, and expansive boulevards. Though it’s Sunday, there’s a great deal of activity here compared to where they’re coming from. It’s overwhelming. And liberating. Thomas shudders. Why did Rose’s boyfriend, or whatever he was, have all those keys on his belt? What did he need them for? Maybe they’re keys to all the places he’s ever lived in his life. He didn’t exactly look like someone who had a job that required such a huge keychain. Strange. Keys to hell, Thomas thinks, smiling to himself. To the many chambers of hell. When they stop at a red light, he stares at a construction zone. A massive crane stands unmoving, its bucket floating high above the streets, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Some guard dogs are running around, barking. They pass the cemetery where Jacques is interned, in an urn somewhere. “Where do you live?” Luke asks. Thomas gives him directions. “You live in that part of the city?” There’s awe in Luke’s voice. They discuss the store. They exchange phone numbers, so Thomas can contact Luke if he needs to. A text from Alice beeps into Thomas’s cell: “See you tomorrow morning.” This perks him up. He remembers that he’d promised to call Annie and Peter about the so-called company dinner; he’ll text them instead. Luke turns down Thomas’s street. “The good life,” he says. “Can’t be cheap living here.” He can’t hide his envy. Luke glances curiously up at the buildings, ducking his head to see better. He parks in front of Thomas’s building. “Number 76?”