Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  “I said it was simple. I want to have this baby, and you don’t. So we can’t live together. And besides,” she looks up at him, “I’ve also realized that we’re two very different people. You were raised in an entirely different environment, and, to be totally honest, I think there’s some kind of cultural divide between us.”

  “A cultural divide? What the hell are you talking about? It’s low of you to bring my childhood into this. That’s really punching below the belt, Patricia.”

  “Call it whatever you want then.” She props her legs up on the sofa and wraps her hands around her knees. “That we’ve ‘grown apart.’ Or that you have something inside you that . . . that I can’t deal with.”

  “That you can’t deal with?”

  “Bottom line is, I’m moving out, and I’m going to have a baby, and you aren’t.”

  “And what if it’s mine? If I’m the father?” He hears his voice, hoarse and all-too shrill. Aggressively, he ashes his cigarette on the floor. “What then? Huh, Patricia? What will you do then?”

  She stands, and continues packing. “I’m taking the sofa,” she says. “You can have the dining table and the chairs.”

  He snorts and walks out of the living room. Irritably puts on his clothes. The espresso machine sizzles and bubbles on the stove; he pours a cup and drains the coffee in one mouthful, though it burns his throat. He has no appetite anyway, only anger. But then he remembers what he’d decided last night, to relax; he stares at the river, focuses. He thinks about the store, the store, the grand opening, Alice, and soon he feels better. He calms down. He doesn’t want anything to do with that baby she’s carrying. That’s how he’s got to think of it, as an impossibility, it’s impossible for them to be together, and it’s her decision, that’s the reason, he’s got to hold on tight to that. He brushes his teeth. He returns to the living room and says, “Don’t take all the towels. And I want the bed.” She nods. They glance at each other. A brief second of something that reaches all the way down inside them, a togetherness, but also distance, as though they’re standing on opposite shores of a lake, recognizing with sorrow that they cannot cross it, no matter how much they might want to. “Where are you staying now?” he says tiredly.

  “With Jules and Tina.”

  She bends down and closes the box. He says, “Take the cat with you. I’ll put it down if you don’t.” She sighs and yanks tape across the box flaps. “I really will.”

  It’s not until he’s down on the street with his keys in his hand that he realizes his bicycle is still wherever he left it yesterday. He can’t even remember the name of the street.

  Although he tries to resist, the thoughts still slip through when he plucks a package of letter paper from the basement a little past lunchtime. Did Patricia call Luke because she wanted him to help her move? Or is there another reason? And what does “I’ve met different men” mean? What the hell does it mean? How many men has she met? And did this begin a while ago? Has she been unfaithful to him before? He’s never heard anything about this Kamal. What the hell, why would she end their relationship just because he made one mistake, forcing himself on her that day? Didn’t he have a right to? Weren’t they living together? Fucking stuck-up bitch, pampered whore, she didn’t have what it takes. He’s about to boil over with a black slush of hatred and jealousy. But also: Hey! We’ve been together for five years. Isn’t that worth something? He swells with indignation. He wants to deck her. To punch her in the belly, smash that fucking demon that’s growing inside her, a parasite in her flesh. Slap the shit out of her, put her in her place. His nostrils quiver, his breathing constricts. He tries pushing the thoughts away, the same way he pushes boxes from one place to another. Back to the actual: that he’s blameless. But the baby. The cause of their break-up. A small, stubborn blob of mucus in Patricia’s uterus that is stealing her from him. He stands silent, completely drained, empty. Ashamed of his violent fantasies. And yet a moment later, with all his might, he wallops an empty box with his clenched fist. His hand pierces the cardboard, leaving a hole. He kicks the box. Then Maloney sticks his head through the hatch and asks if he’s hungry. Annie’s going to bring sushi on her way back from The Other, which is what they’re calling the new store. “The food’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Once the boxes are organized, Thomas crawls up the steep stairwell and plops into the boss’s chair in the office. Maloney’s on the phone with a salesman. When he ends the call, Thomas says:

  “Patricia’s gone. And pregnant. She wants to keep the baby. And I was at the emergency room yesterday. With heat exhaustion. I can’t remember where I left my motherfucking bike.”

  Maloney looks at him without comprehension. “What are you saying?”

  “Patricia’s moving out.”

  “But why?” He sits on the rickety chair opposite Thomas. “What happened?”

  Thomas shrugs. “I suppose it’s because she wants to keep the baby, whether the dirty fucking rapist is the father or not. She’s packing her things. She’s rented an apartment.”

  “When did you find all this out?”

  “Yesterday. Before I went to the emergency room.”

  “Thomas,” Maloney says. His face looks as though it’s going to fall apart, concern and sadness consuming him. “I don’t even know what to say. Are you all right? I mean, was it serious? Since you went to the hospital?”

  Thomas shakes his head. “I just fainted. I forgot to drink water. Listen, I don’t want to make a big show out of all this with Patricia. Don’t want everyone knowing about it right now. By and large, there’s not fuck-all to say about it.” He studies his hands. “Maybe it’s a good thing.”

  “What’s a good thing?”

  “That she’s moving out.”

  A short silence. Maloney regards Thomas, and Thomas considers his own large, knuckly hands, which resemble his father’s to a tee. He looks up again. “What’s most important is making sure The Other is off to a good start. Which reminds me—I need to order wine . . .” He reaches across the table for the telephone, but Maloney puts a hand on his. “I’ve already done that,” he says. “I spoke to the cabinetmaker too. I’ve decided to get involved in all this. Jenny convinced me. You can’t do it all by yourself, especially now, when . . . fuck, I’m really sorry, Tommy.”

  “What did you order? Sancerre?”

  “Ten bottles. He said it tasted like grass and vanilla. Sounds pretty damn good, eh?” Thomas gives him a mistrustful glance. “What did you say about your bike?” Maloney asks. “You don’t think she’ll come back?”

  Flushed and out of breath, Annie comes through the door wearing a yellow summer dress and carrying two large paper bags. “Sushi!” she says, setting the bags down. “It’s looking really nice over there, now that the floors have been stained.” She smiles at each of them. “Peter!” she shouts. “Food!” It’s as if The Other has put everyone in a good mood, as if the place makes everyone expansive and happy. He’s never heard Annie shout so enthusiastically. I want to be happy and buzzing with joy too, Thomas thinks, lifting a maki roll with his chopsticks. He glances at everyone. They’re absorbed in their sushi, Peter desperately trying and failing to snare something with his chopsticks. Maloney uses his fingers, Annie carefully dips a piece of salmon in soy sauce. Sitting in the midst of a community, Thomas feels a little better than when he stood in the basement fifteen minutes ago. And the new store tugs at him. He feels a powerful urge to see the freshly stained floor. He decides to stop by on the way home. On the way home. It feels as though he doesn’t have a home at all anymore.

  The floors are shiny as a mirror, and dark—just as they should be. Luke and Alice are putting away the painting supplies: the façade is done, it’s white with a faint trace of green, which, to his enormous satisfaction, really creates a connection to the color of the walls inside the store, as he’d hoped and believed it would. Standing in the doorway, Thomas regards his new place, so clean and humble, as though it’s waiting to be moved into, like a bridal c
hamber, or a bride on fresh, clean sheets the very first night of her marriage; he imagines shelves and cabinets and the products that will soon neatly fill them, all the life that will be here. Alice puts a hand on his shoulder. She’s standing behind him, and seeing what he’s seeing. She’s been such a quick learner since she started; it’s easy for her, the customers like her. She understands the business intuitively, but she also has a strong aesthetic sense, which he imagines she inherited from him. She’s grown with the tasks, and he’s already convinced her to quit working for the escort service now that she’s got a real salary. She’s also begun to write poetry. She’s thinking about signing up for an evening writing class. Thomas looks at her. “It’ll be great,” she says. Her hair has grown out, it’s standing straight up, black and thick. The little stud in her nose reflects the sunlight. Everything happens so fast at that age. Thomas remembers himself as a young man going through a melancholic, apathetic, insecure, aimless phase that became, in a very short time (after he met Maloney), energized: a feeling of freedom and independence, to have a goal. Alice has a goal now. She’ll stand behind the counter in this store, and some day maybe she’ll take it over. He hasn’t told her that, but it’s the plan. Lindström, Maloney, & Farrokhzad. To be eighteen years old and shake the past off you with a carefree shrug. That’s how it felt. And that’s how Alice looks now, as if she’s shaken off her mother, her father, and her entire childhood in one simple motion: cleansed and free. “Thomas,” she says, “How’s Patricia? Is she back to work?”

  “Yes. And she’s well.” He almost says more, but stops short. Alice eyes him expectantly. “She’s doing really great, in fact,” he says.

  “I don’t understand how anyone could get over something like that. It’s amazing.”

  “Yeah. But she’s strong. You two wanna grab a bite?”

  Thomas locks the door, and they find a tiny joint nearby that serves small dishes and salads. There are only four tables; they sit next to the window. The heat’s so intense that none of them are especially hungry. It’s almost 7:00 P.M. Thomas orders cold beers all around. Luke and Alice chat, and suddenly, watching Luke, who’s partly turned toward Alice, seeing his back in the threadbare white T-shirt—the smooth skin of his upper arms, the tattoo of the heart pierced by a sword, his moist, sweaty hair that’s nearly the same color as tiger pelt, his sonorous voice, and his big hand now lying heavily on the table—it swells in Thomas again: this mad desire, prickling and stabbing and dizzying, but only for an instant, like lightning or a shooting star, a powerful flash. Then it’s gone. Thomas clears his throat. “I want to pay you two for your work,” he says. “How many hours did it take?”

  Luke shakes his head and pops a wedge of lime into his beer bottle with his thumb. “I don’t want anything. I told you this was a favor.”

  “C’mon, Luke, I’m sure you can use a little extra cash?” But Luke shakes his head stubbornly.

  “Besides, it’s only small change,” Luke says, sipping his beer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . .” Luke cocks his head and looks at Thomas. “I mean that the hourly wage for an under-the-table painting job is pretty low.” He breaks into a big smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Thomas says, confused. “I guess so.”

  “If I’m going to make money,” Luke goes on, leaning back in his chair, “then I want to make big money.”

  “And how will you make big money?” Alice asks sarcastically, rubbing her eye. Her hand is speckled with white paint.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  Alice: “If a person wanted to earn a lot of money, that person must start small, then save in order to loan more and . . . invest. Am I right?” The expression she gives Thomas is one of earnestness.

  He nods. “Yes. The rich are rich because they are stingy enough to save. And save more. And take advantage of the system.”

  “Exactly,” Alice says. She challenges Luke with a stare.

  Their food arrives. Grilled chicken for Thomas, hamburgers for the others. Alice holds her burger with both hands, takes an enormous bite, and asks: “What do you plan to do then, Luke? Tell us.”

  “Wait and see,” Luke says, shoving a French fry smothered in ketchup into his handsome mouth. Thomas looks at Luke, and Luke meets his eyes before narrowing his own. “Are you looking forward to the opening?”

  Thomas nods.

  “Does it have anything to do with fishing?” Alice tries, biting into a pickle.

  “Ha!” Luke laughs with food in his mouth. “I don’t think you can get rich doing the kind of fishing I do. Besides,”—and now his grin is gone—“I’ve actually been saving money. Just not enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Alice asks.

  “Impressive,” Thomas says, chewing a piece of tough chicken that activates his gag reflex. He holds it in his mouth a moment before he finishes chewing it and swallows.

  “Come on, Luke,” Alice nudges him, “what is it?”

  There he sits in the evening light, suntanned, with all his freckles and his amber-brown eyes. His curly, disheveled hair—now long and paler from the sun—falls over his eyes. His scent reaches Thomas’s nostrils, this mysterious aroma of flowers blended with many other smells: sweat, dirt, sourness, something almost bitter. Once again he feels this knot of desire.

  “But . . .” Alice scrutinizes Luke.

  “You might as well let it go,” Luke says.

  “You’re so weird,” Alice says, swishing beer around in her mouth. Luke rocks back in his chair, a self-confident expression etched onto his face. “Well,” Thomas says, “then I would like to say something.” He simply can’t keep his mouth shut. “I might as well say it now. You’ll learn sooner or later anyway. Patricia and I have split up. She won’t be coming on Tuesday. I just wanted you to know.”

  They stare at Thomas, dumbfounded, but there seems to be something cheerful in Luke’s eyes too, a flash, and then it’s gone. And maybe that’s something Thomas imagines because he’s so attracted to him. Because yet again he’s unbelievably attracted to him, and it feels like that time in the car, after they’d visited Luke’s mother, a powerful urge to force himself into his body, behind what’s visible, wanting to be consumed by him; Luke exudes and discharges steam, that’s how it feels. He drops all four legs of his chair back on the floor now, precise and elegant; he looks so damn appealing, and there’s this unpredictability about him—which almost scares Thomas. “There’s nothing particularly spectacular about it,” Thomas says. “We’ve agreed that it’s the right thing to do. It’s a mutual decision. I guess you could say we’ve grown apart.” He knows how stupid this cliché sounds, this pathetic lie. “That’s the way it goes. And she’s also pregnant.”

  Alice sets her fork down, gasping. “What did you say?”

  “She won’t get an abortion. We don’t know who the father is. In any case I don’t.” Alice continues to stare at him, her eyes wide, and she is silent, almost contrite. Then she looks down at her hands and scratches at the paint. A short silence. Luke watches Thomas light a cigarette. He’s barely touched his salad.

  “Does it make any difference?” Luke says slowly. He dries his hands meticulously with his napkin. “I mean, a baby’s a baby, right?”

  “Luke!” Alice pushes her half-eaten burger away. “You can’t say that! Jesus! Put yourself in Thomas’s shoes!”

  Luke smiles. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t mean it like that.” Yes, you did, Thomas thinks. That’s exactly what you meant, and why did you say it?

  “I was just being funny.” Luke grins.

  “But it’s not funny!” Alice shouts, gesticulating wildly.

  “But hey,” Thomas says. His eyelids narrow to slits, and deliberately he takes his time before adding, “Patricia mentioned you’ve promised to help her move?” Luke glances at him quickly, and Thomas continues, “That must mean you already knew we split up. She must have told you? Why didn’t you say anything?” The silence isn�
��t awkward, but hard and intense. Thomas pins Luke with his eyes without blinking.

  “What?” Alice looks at Luke. And then at Thomas. “What is this?”

  “No,” Luke says at last. “I didn’t know anything. She just asked me if I would help with some boxes. I thought she meant the museum or something. You know, old catalogues and whatnot.” Thomas keeps his eyes drilled on Luke. “It sounds strange,” he says. And Luke can’t look at Thomas anymore. He turns away. “I just wanted to help.”

  “It doesn’t really matter to me,” Thomas says. “You should help her move.”

  “I just wanted to help her. Like I’m helping you paint.” Luke looks at Thomas, now with a child’s open, innocent face. And then abruptly he needs to leave. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, and offers his hand formally to Thomas. Does he feel a tiny bit of shame now? Discomfort? Did Thomas catch him red-handed? In any case Luke hustles away, without a glance back, even when Alice thumps on the window with her knuckle as he walks past. “Do you think he was lying?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bizarre.” She stretches the “a” in the word and her eyes widen. “But that wouldn’t be like him. He’s never lied to me. He’s all about honesty.”

  “You two still aren’t dating?”

  “No!” Alice smiles warmly. “And we won’t, either. I haven’t even kissed him or anything. I’m seeing someone named Eli now.”

  “Eli? What happened to Ernesto?”

  “That’s over. A long time ago. Eli also writes, like me.”

  Thomas regards his niece, pretty and straight-backed and covered in paint.

  “Imagine that, Alice—you writing poetry.”

  Then Alice wants to go home, too. She’s tired. She still lives with Luke’s friend, but he’s never there, she says, so it works out nicely. She wants to find her own place, now that she actually has a regular paycheck. Thomas counts his money and pays her generously for painting. “Buy a dress so you’ll have something new to wear at the opening. It brings luck.”