Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

Thomas chain smokes in the kitchen, still undressed, clammy and shaky, cold-sweating in the brutal heat. First the shock and then it can’t be true . Out to look at the test again. Back to the kitchen. Later comes an overwhelming fear, but most of all this: Patricia never said a word. She must’ve known for some time. But she hasn’t felt the need or the duty to involve him in such a big and dramatic event. Something so significant . Something so frightening. But then the thought comes to him like a revelation: Of course she’ll have an abortion. Immediately he feels calmer. Of course she will. There’s not a woman in the world who’d run the risk of having a kid possibly conceived during a vile, violent assault. He sits down. And remains seated for some time. And yet another encouraging thought strikes him: Of course that’s why she hadn’t said anything, she’d decided to have an abortion without anyone finding out. She’d wanted to protect him, and as he considers this, he feels a strong sense of tenderness and relief. Poor Patricia. He slurps his cold coffee. He gets dressed. Poor, poor Patricia. “You poor thing,” he mumbles. “That’s why you’re so quiet and tired.” Now I understand everything . The tension between them, her insatiable appetite, and chubby cheeks — he’d wondered about that — this gradual roundedness , her swollen breasts. She’s just pregnant, she must be feeling awful. Almost invigorated, he devours a banana and crackers with ham before gathering his things. A text message dings on Patricia’s cell phone, and he can’t help but read it. It’s a reminder for a gynecologist’s appointment at the hospital today at 4:30. His heart thumps. She’s having an abortion today. That must be the explanation. Tenderness swells in him again. Christ, he thinks, I’m going out there to hold her hand. I won’t let her lie there all alone with her shame. Her terrible, painful shame. Under no circumstances. He imagines her loneliness: Patricia alone and pale in a hospital bed, suppressing tears. The more he imagines how awful her loneliness must be, the more his shrinks. He notes the name of the doctor and the department, then puts the dirty dishes in the machine. He feels a sudden urge to scrub the entire house, clean the windows, arrange bouquets of aromatic flowers in every room. And he’ll do laundry this weekend. He’ll empty the fridge and clean it. We’ll start afresh, he thinks, it seems so easy and obvious. This is an opportunity, a real chance to show how much he cares for her; she needs him now, and he will dote on her, tend to her needs, take care of her. His fear and his anger are gone. As he dries every surface of the kitchen with a cloth, as he strips the old bedclothes, he feels strong and purposeful. He takes out the foul-smelling trash when he finally leaves the apartment. It’s 9:15, and the sun’s already brutal and intense.

Thomas crosses the city on his bicycle. Traffic is sluggish and irritable. Cars are snarled up, and honk at each other without restraint. Rush hour is draining in such weather. His pants cling to his thighs, his swollen feet — slick with perspiration — slide in his shoes, and his eyelashes grow wet as sweat trickles continuously from his hair and forehead. Though he keeps wiping away the sweat, his hands are damp, too, and it doesn’t help much. When he turns down the street where the new store is located, he sees Alice and Luke sitting on the stoop drinking Cokes. They’re both wearing shorts and faded, paint-splattered T-shirts. The roar of the growling floor polisher slips through the open door. While the floors are being polished, Alice and Luke have been painting the façade, the two window partitions, and the entrance. Tomorrow the floor will be stained and varnished. He climbs off his bike and leans against the wall, breathing heavily. The new awnings provide some shade, but zero protection from the heat. “How’s it going?” He almost has to shout above the noise. “You’ve got a lot done already!”

“It’ll just need one more coat once the paint’s dry,” Luke says, looking up at the masonry. “We’ll be finished tomorrow.” They polished and puttied nicely before they began painting. When the floors are done, only minor details will remain. The cabinetmaker figures he’ll be able to install the shelves and cabinets by the end of the week. The first shipment of products will be delivered on Monday morning. “It’ll look awesome,” Alice says, setting her drink down. “That light-green color over there, it’s practically transparent, like water in a pool or something. It’s a good thing you chose that instead of the creamy one. That would have been asinine.”

“It’s a whitewash. That’s why it’s almost transparent.” Thomas sits beside her and takes a pull of her Coke. “Jesus Christ — it’s hot,” he groans. But Alice and Luke don’t seem to be bothered by the heat or the humidity. A thin film of perspiration beads their faces, and they have that special kind of paleness that comes from being in this kind of heat, and it only makes them more attractive, as if they too were painted with whitewash. But their eyes are bright and lively, and they seem energized. They crawl up on the ladders again and continue working. Thomas goes inside to talk with the craftsmen. Particles of fine, yellow sawdust from the floorboards cling to the panels and the baseboard. Inside it smells of fresh paint and new wood. He thinks of Patricia, how he’ll squeeze her hand, stroke her hair. He takes a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the aroma he’s longed to smell: The new store . Just as he’d imagined it. With his eyes closed, he runs his hand over the countertop. It’s smooth and a little oily from the last treatment. The register’s in place. He bought it for almost nothing at an auction; it’s from the 1920s and pretty as all hell. He scans the bright room, absorbs it all, before walking into the back room, where the men are in the process of polishing the floor. They shut off the machine when they see him.

“A package came for you a few hours ago,” one of them says, a young man with sideburns.

“Will you be done polishing today?”

The young man nods, the older man scratches his head.

“We’ll tally up the totals the day after tomorrow, once you’ve stained and varnished,” Thomas says. “I’ll pay cash. The cabinetmaker’s coming Saturday morning. I expect the varnish to be dry by then. Remember to give it five coats, as we agreed. I can tell the difference between four and five coats, just so you know.” The young man gives him a crooked smile. “We’ll stain soon,” he says. The older man snaps on the machine again.

The package contains a ceiling lamp with an enormous, rounded screen of plastic enveloped in linen. It looks like a globe, overcast with clouds made of slender threads or fibers. When there’s a bulb in it, he thinks, maybe it’ll look like a huge belly with a fetus inside, the skin stretched taut over a small light. Thomas shudders at the thought and goes back to Luke and Alice. “Have fun. Call me when you’re done for the day.”

“How’s Patricia doing?” Alice asks.

“Good.”

Luke sweeps his broad brush back and forth across the wall. “Tell her we said hello,” he says, smiling.

“Lock up when you’re done!” Thomas shouts as he traipses down the street. Alice waves.

Maloney’s apparently talking to Jenny, a private and tender conversation consisting mostly of sounds and sighs, but also “I love you” and “I can’t wait.” When Thomas clears his throat, Maloney ends the call, looking rather foolish with his idiotic grin. They start the day’s tasks. Over the course of the summer, Peter set up the store’s website. He seems very glad to be entrusted with the responsibility of webmaster. Thomas designed the site himself, and now he asks Peter to post the announcement of the new store. During the summer there are fewer customers. They drink coffee on the stairs after lunch. Annie and Peter chat about their literature group, Maloney texts with someone — no doubt Jenny. Thomas wonders whether he should take flowers with him, for Patricia. Maybe it’s inappropriate. But he wants to make sure there are fresh roses for her when they get home. She loves white roses. He sighs in relief. He thinks: The nightmare will be over soon . It’ll be like old times with him and Patricia. Everything’s behind them now: his father, the money, the break-in, the rape. All that shit, over. When Alice and Annie are comfortable running the new place, he’ll invite Patricia on a trip. He’ll propose to her. Maybe they can even have a baby. And he’ll suggest that they move, so she won’t have to be confronted every single day by the place where she was assaulted. Because of course she shouldn’t have to. First thing tonight he’ll begin looking for another apartment. Thomas stretches his legs, buzzing with anticipation at this new life, which seems so light, and he thinks about how everything that he wished for at the beginning of the year has slowly become reality: a new store, Alice as part of the new store, Jenny less bothersome and lonely — now that she has Maloney — and his revenge on his father complete. After all, he’s the one who paid for it all, in cash, with crisp new bills, and Thomas hopes Jacques turns in his grave every time Thomas spends some of the money. A new apartment, maybe with a balcony, maybe larger than the one they’re in now, which should be put up for sale as soon as possible.