Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  Later, Maloney struts through the back door wearing a yellow rain jacket. He’s whistling. By this point Thomas has made several appointments with real estate agents, and before Maloney has hung up his wet jacket, Thomas is out the door carrying Annie’s red and white polka-dotted umbrella. “Whoa, this place is CLEAN!” Maloney calls out. “That niece really worked the elbow grease.”

  Monotonously, the rain persists for the rest of the day, and Thomas tours many dismal properties; it’s as though all the life has been sucked from them, or perhaps life has sucked them dry, left them to gather dust. Back rooms yellowed by nicotine. Doors hanging crookedly on loose hinges. Stinking wall-to-wall carpets and small, stuffy bathrooms with rust-caked toilet bowls and leaky tanks. “All it needs is a loving hand,” says the young agent, his tie askew. “It’s quite a find at this price.” Thomas shakes his head and goes outside to smoke. The agent says that he’s got a few more places to show him, none of which were in the newspaper. Then suddenly, in one of the streets from his childhood, at 4:00 P.M., as his belly grumbles with hunger, he steps inside a property that calms his breathing—a long-since closed bookstore where he, as a boy, used to buy his notebooks and sharpen his pencils with the big pencil sharpener the bookseller had installed on the counter. It didn’t cost anything extra. The bookseller wore a gray smock, and his developmentally challenged son either ran errands or sat on a footstool behind the counter, singing. “What was it you said you wanted to buy a place for?” the agent croaks, “office supplies? I don’t want to be a party pooper, but I’m afraid there’s not a huge customer base for that kind of thing in this neighborhood.” Thomas leans against the wall. “There was a video rental here until recently,” the agent says, studying him curiously. “But the owner had a heart attack last summer. The store has been empty for almost a year.”

  “Who’s selling it then?”

  “His wife, I believe.”

  “Can I count on your discretion?”

  “Of course,” the agent nods.

  “To be blunt, I’d like to pay in cash.”

  “Aha.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Sure. That shouldn’t be a problem. Between you and me, she’s ready to give the place away, if you know what I mean.” The agent looks at him inquisitively.

  “Yeah?”

  “Cash settlement. Under the table, in other words.”

  “Interesting. And what about your share?”

  “We haven’t announced the sale anywhere, so I don’t have any special requirement. Let’s say five percent? Cash?”

  “And the paperwork?”

  “That can be arranged. But that’ll be in addition.”

  “Understood. But I’ll get the deed to the place and all that?”

  The agent nods. “Yes, we’ve done this kind of thing before. Or, rather, I have. I run this business by myself.”

  “Good,” Thomas says.

  The counter’s still there, solid and wide. But the built-in shelves are gone, replaced with a cheap metal variety. A pornographic poster hangs from a single nail and shows an enormous chocolate-brown breast and a pink mouth and tongue. The top of the poster has been torn off, the woman has no eyes. Several posters lie curled up on the floor. Thomas thrusts open the back room door that leads to a large rectangular courtyard with poplar trees and shrubbery. At the far end is a magnolia tree, weighed down by the rain. Here you can see the original floor, uneven planks blackened by too many layers of varnish. “There’s good light in here,” the agent mumbles, glancing at his watch. “I like it,” Thomas says. Except for the counter, there’s nothing special about this place. There’s a humble quality to the rooms; they’re simple, unadorned. Kristin once told him that the reason they purchased the farm was that it had “a good spirit dwelling in it.” He feels there’s one here, too. Thomas listens closely. Rain drums against the glass. The bookseller’s son was named Amando. He used to bite his knuckles whenever he was agitated.

  The agent pushes his glasses up. “I’ve heard there was once a pharmacy here. A long time ago.”

  “Last time I was here it was a bookstore.”

  “Well, I guess it hardly matters now,” the agent says. “Here’s my card. Call me whenever. I’m usually in my car and can come meet you pretty fast.”

  Patricia has left a message on his telephone. Her voice, stifling a sob, is angry. She asks him to come home immediately, says that she’s sick. Standing in the rain outside the old bookstore, he watches the real estate agent unlock his car. It’s Wednesday. The agent gets behind the wheel and starts the engine. It’s 5:00 P.M. Thomas lights a cigarette and calls Alice, who answers sleepily. He asks her if she’s interested in working at the store. In the beginning it’ll be just a few weeks, until they see how it’s going. He says that he’s planning to open a branch. She says nothing at first.

  “What did you say?”

  He explains it again, slowly, painstakingly.

  She asks about the salary. He says he needs to do some calculations.

  “I did get a job.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I have a job. I started yesterday.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “It’s just a job.” Alice sounds detached now, a little dismissive.

  “Were you sleeping?” he asks.

  “I was just resting.”

  “Will I see you at Kristin’s Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken to your mother?”

  “She called yesterday. She told me to bring a sleeping bag. Apparently we’re all sleeping in the barn.”

  They discuss whether she has enough money to get by for now, and she believes she does. “If not I’ll just borrow some from Luke,” she says. “Or his friend.”

  Another silence. Thomas is about to advise her against that, but decides not to. “Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” he says.

  He can tell she nods when her earring clatters against the telephone. He calls the real estate agent.

  “Are you still in the area?”

  “Ten minutes,” he says.

  He arrives a short time later, parking his car and climbing out. Thomas says he’s ready to make an offer. “That didn’t take long,” the agent smiles. He looks very satisfied. Thomas names a figure considerably lower than the asking price. He believes that he’s achieved something important, something meaningful, when the real estate agent, his exhaust pipes spluttering, drives off again.

  On the way home he picks up Thai food and white wine. Patricia slumps at the kitchen table in her blue dressing gown. Her greasy hair hangs over her eyes.

  “Do you have a fever?”

  “No,” she says, her voice quivering.

  “Then what is it? Are you sick?” He puts a hand on her shoulder. He grasps both of her shoulders and she shakes him off.

  “Get the fuck away from me.”

  “But you said you wanted me to come home? You just called.”

  She raises her red-rimmed eyes. “That was hours ago.”

  She gets to her feet, points at him, narrows her eyes. “Why did you do it? Why did you put your hand over my mouth? Why would you do something like that?”

  He looks out the window.

  “It’s perverse, Thomas. It’s fucking violent!”

  “I don’t know. I had a sudden urge. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You couldn’t help yourself. You had an urge! Don’t you hear how fucked-up that is?”

  He throws up his hands. “I’m sorry. But can’t you please forgive me?”

  Patricia takes a threatening step toward him. All at once she seems big and fierce, strong. “You’re acting so fucking strange, what the hell’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.” Clenching her jaw, she shakes her head and returns to her chair.

  “Of course I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It was overpowering.”

  “Yeah, let me
assure you that it was!” When she lunges to her feet, the chair knocks over backward. “You assaulted me. You’re destroying us!” She rushes away. Looks at him with disgust. “I’m leaving.”

  “But I bought food . . .”

  “Eat it yourself!” She goes down the hallway and slams the bathroom door. Shortly afterward he can hear the water running. He knocks. “Patricia? Can I come in?” But she doesn’t answer, and the door is locked. He goes back to the kitchen. He picks up the chair and sits down. Her cup from yesterday morning is still on the table. Her lipstick has left marks, two red wings on the white porcelain. He watches the sparrows that are once again lined up in a row on the roof across the street. The river: white-green, milky. Some flies buzz around the fruit bowl. He stands up and tosses a half-rotten pear into the trash. A long time passes. Then she’s standing in the doorway in a beige jumpsuit. She’s applied a thick layer of makeup. Her eye shadow is dramatic, dark, gray-black. Her skin is dulled under a coat of powder. She’s wearing her silvery shoes, her party shoes.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  But she only stares at him, sharp and angry, her hands at her sides. “That’s none of your business.”

  She turns on her heels. Then she’s gone, the door banging shut. The cat leaps on the kitchen table and sniffs curiously at the box of chicken satay. He calls Patricia several times, but she’s turned off her phone. He tries to convince himself that she’s just out with a friend, but jealousy and fear gnaw at him, like maggots. Later, he drinks the entire bottle of wine, and even later he stares walleyed at the sales sheet for the old bookstore, and even later than that he reads Celan: “Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown / we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night / we drink and we drink it / we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined . . .” He reads Celan, loses himself, images of his father in his cell: his profile, the sharp nose, these words in his mumbling mouth, in his consciousness, his back arched, his face close to the book. He shivers, he stands at the window, he lights a cigarette. He thinks: One could jump. One could fall. As easy as anything, could dig a grave in the breezes. He lurches back, startled. He lies down under the rumpled sheets on the unmade bed; the cat’s sprawled at his feet. Water swishes through pipes, the poems jumbled and harrowing his mind. He curls up and sleeps, just as unsettled and troubled, and doesn’t awake until there’s clattering in the kitchen early the next morning: Patricia has returned.

  When they sit across from one another in the kitchen drinking coffee, it’s as though they’re each hovering in their own worlds. He’s held her tight, she’s pushed him away. In vain he’s tried to get her to say something, anything. She reeks of booze. Maybe she didn’t even sleep last night. Her makeup is cracked, her eye shadow smeared. He boiled eggs, she took only one bite. Now she’s got egg yolk on her chin. The morning is warm and humid. She hasn’t said anything about where she was, he hasn’t asked. A ceasefire, Thomas thinks optimistically, letting his eyes wander across the light-blue sky. But what kind of war is this? There are butterflies in the pit of his stomach because he doesn’t understand, and he’s so desperately trapped in the present that he instantly forgets. He jerks his head. What is this? What do you mean? What does she mean? Not a cloud. Blinding sunlight. Rooftops, ships, tiny cars far below, people. An airplane ascending, slowly diminishing in size, carried off by the jet stream. Patricia stirs her teaspoon in her cup.

  “You’re coming with me to Kristin’s tomorrow, right?” he says.

  She glowers at him.

  “Why are you so mad at me? I said I was sorry. Are you drunk?”

  She says nothing.

  “I’m getting ready to buy a new store. I want to hire Alice. Show her the ropes.”

  She looks at him, but her expression is cool and distant.

  “Do you have the money for that?”

  “Looks that way.”

  She shrugs. “Well, good luck then.”

  “Patricia,” he says. “Patricia.”

  The silence is thick and dense, as if it’s squeezing them each into their own corner. She stares at the shelf lined with glasses. So he says, “Want to go swimming tonight?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Want to come with me?”

  “I don’t know.” She sounds a little hoarse now. She sighs. Her eyes remain fixated on the glasses. He follows her gaze. The cat meows insistently, rubbing itself against her legs. Then it leaps onto her lap.

  Leaning forward, Thomas lays a hand on her arm. “Patricia? Don’t you want to be with me?” She lifts the cat and drops it, so that it falls to the floor, meowing.

  He says, “Let’s meet at the little beach at 5:30. Okay?”

  She rises slowly and gets ready to go. She brushes her teeth and washes her face at the kitchen sink. Her perfume lingers in the warm, unmoving air: cedar, vanilla. The stench of alcohol. She doesn’t say goodbye. She steps into her heels. She slams the front door behind her. As he clears the kitchen, he feels the sobs welling in his throat. He packs two towels in a bag, he feeds the cat and gives it some water. The cat’s tail swishes back and forth as it eats, its front legs bent slightly; it stares at him, affronted. He hustles outside and down to the street. His head pounds, his throat’s constricted, his vision’s blurry. Fucking Christ, he thinks, wanting to slap himself silly. Get your ass together. It feels like walking on sludge, on wet sand, he sinks in, lights a cigarette, leans against a wall, and rubs his head. He can’t go any farther, the humidity’s extraordinarily high; he clenches his fists. Get yourself together, man. Unlock your bike and get on the fucking seat, unless you’ve decided to die in the middle of the street. But maybe that’s exactly what you’ve got in mind. A grave in the breezes. You’re digging your own fucking grave. Pierced by fear. And he begins to move, the urge to sob subsides, biking through a city shimmery with heat. The peonies are in bloom, the roses, the rhododendrons, the bougainvillea, like glimpses of purple and cyclamen in parks, against the walls of houses, on patios, on balconies. Everything has exploded during the night.

  But as soon as he’s turned the corner, he sees it. Maloney’s standing outside the store talking to a policeman, his face a shiny red hue, his expression gloomy and agitated. A cruiser is parked on the opposite side of the street, and a second officer leans against the vehicle talking on a cell phone; his black shoes gleam in the sunlight, and he taps one foot. The store’s front window has been smashed. Glass shards have rained on the sidewalk. A small crowd has gathered: a group of snot-nosed teenagers wearing backpacks, some older women. Annie and Peter are standing together a little ways down the street; they look like two frightened children who’re hiding, leaning or tipping toward each other. Annie’s practically on her tiptoes.

  Maloney strides toward Thomas, who is frozen in place with his bicycle still on the road. Maloney’s warm, tangy breath right in his face: “It’s all smashed. Everything. I’m telling you . . . even the office computer and our mugs. Our coffee mugs are smashed, the yellow one and the other one.” He stops talking and sucks air through his nose. “The one with the little duck. Your mug! And the candlesticks—everything.” Maloney’s lost in thought. Thomas begins to laugh hysterically. “The one with the duck!” But the laughter dies in him as quickly as it’d begun. Maloney’s face is lit up with fright. The policeman signals to his colleague standing at the car and heads into the store, glass shards crunching under his feet. A car honks repeatedly. Maloney pulls Thomas onto the sidewalk. The second officer, still on his cell phone, walks past them and positions himself in the doorway.

  Thomas asks, “Was anything stolen?”

  Maloney looks down, wide-eyed. “I don’t know.” Then he looks up, angrily. “I just got here, for fuck’s sake, how would I know?”

  They peer through the doorframe, motionless, quiet, seeing heaps of paper and cardboard. All their goods have been pulled from the shelves. The chandelier dangles crookedly as if someone tried to shoot it down. “A dog walker called
the cops.” Maloney takes a deep breath. “Early this morning.” Thomas nods. Maloney throws up his arms, almost contemptuously. “They were already here when I arrived!” Thomas nods again. “But it’s a good thing they’re here, Maloney.” Maloney gives him a flustered glance, then his eyes dart every which way. The officer sweeps his hand across the countertop. “Palvino?” he says. The second officer reacts. “There’s a mark in the countertop,” says the officer inside the store. He shouts to Thomas and Maloney: “Do you know anything about this?” Thomas feels dizzy.

  “We sure as fuck don’t!” Maloney says. “We don’t go around carving into our own countertop!” Palvino says, “Watch your language, please.” “Sorry,” Maloney mutters. The officer turns once again to Palvino: “It looks like a symbol of some kind. Done in a sloppy and clumsy way. Come have a look.” Palvino slinks into the semi-darkness. Thomas’s heart thumps in his chest. He gulps for air, his dizziness intense. His eyes flicker, and he’s forced to lean against the wall for support. Who carved into his countertop? Who? I’m going to faint now. But he doesn’t. The register has been broken into, coins are scattered across the floor. The officers talk quietly among themselves. Soon they come outside, and the officer who is not Palvino pulls off his latex gloves. Maloney says, “This is my partner, Thomas Lindström.” Thomas extends his hand. The officer’s handshake is brief and firm.

  “Kagoshima. I’ve called for assistance.” He turns to Palvino: “Go ahead and put the tape up now.” To Maloney and Thomas, he says, “You’re not allowed inside until we’re finished. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait to tally up your losses.” He gives them a measured, friendly smile.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Maloney asks sheepishly, following his reprimand from Palvino.