“What’s wrong with her?” somebody shouted.
“She’s mentally disabled,” I answered.
Everyone was silent. Ingrid looked at me.
“Is she crazy?”
I shook my head.
“She’s not crazy, she’s disabled,” I said.
“Why doesn’t she say anything?”
“She doesn’t talk.”
“She’s disgusting.”
Again there was silence. Ingrid kept her eyes on me; her mouth was half-open and a little saliva trickled from the corner of her lips. She waited to see how I would respond.
“Who said that?”
No one replied.
“Look, she’s dribbling!”
Ingrid regarded me silently, and I didn’t know what to say, I just stood there with my hands clenched, as if ready to fight. At that moment Nils came to the door and called us in, the group broke up, and Ingrid and I were left standing alone.
Later, after we went back to our desk in the classroom, Nils put his hand in his pocket and pulled out one of his snakes. Maybe it had been lying there the whole time, maybe it had been curled up in the leather bag on his desk. Everyone was startled. The snake was very dark, and not as large as the ones he had shown us before.
“Look at this,” he said. “I’ve had this with me the whole summer. It’s been so good, so good.”
Nils held the snake in the air by its tail and began walking along the rows of desks.
“Does anyone want to say hello to it?”
No one replied. The only sound was his footsteps crossing the room.
Nils came toward our desk, stopped there, and carefully put the snake on the desktop in front of Ingrid.
“Look how good it is,” he said quietly.
At first the snake lay very still, but then it began gliding slowly toward Ingrid. Everyone turned to stare at the snake as it wriggled forward.
“Ingrid isn’t afraid,” said Nils calmly. “Look, Ingrid, put out your hand.”
He took her hand and laid it flat on the desk. The snake immediately went closer, crawled along her fingertips, its tongue flicking, then lifted its head and continued across her palm and up her forearm.
“Ingrid isn’t afraid,” said Nils in a gentle, confidential tone. “Ingrid knows the snake is good.”
And that was true. Ingrid sat there with her hand outstretched as the snake made its way across her palm. She sat there without howling, while the snake slowly wriggled up her forearm. She wasn’t afraid, she seemed to know the snake was good and let it continue up her arm, but she didn’t look at it. She looked at me. She just sat looking at me, waiting for what I would say. When the snake came to the sleeve of her dress by her elbow, it turned its head and slithered back down her forearm, and it was heading toward the desktop when Ingrid suddenly put her hand on my arm. The snake stopped at once. It pulled back its head in a flash. I saw the flicking tongue and didn’t dare to move. Then the snake slowly wriggled off Ingrid’s hand. I closed my eyes, and felt it slither up my arm.
Afterward we walked the two kilometers home. I walked ahead, Ingrid a few meters behind me. Now and then I stopped to wait for her. Although it was late autumn, the sun was shining and the weather was quite warm. Ingrid was tired and thirsty, but her juice bottle was empty. She walked slowly, dragging one leg a little. Her shoes were covered with gray dust. She had looked at me expectantly, or perhaps it was devotedly, and then she had let the snake crawl up my arm. Before long we could see Lake Djupesland, then we passed Jon Båsland’s hayloft, and at last we saw the milk platform by the roadside.
“Come on, Ingrid!” I shouted. “We’re almost there now!”
I stopped at the crossroads and waited while she trudged the final distance. Then I saw she had wet herself, but I didn’t say anything.
That’s how we got home.
9.
A strange closeness had developed between us. Something in Ingrid seemed to soften, to open up and turn toward me. It was the same thing that howled in pain at times, and at other times understood everything I said. It had softened and turned toward me. She had wanted to give me the snake, she knew the snake was good, and I’d shut my eyes and let it happen.
We sat next to each other at the table upstairs, and she watched while I wrote. She saw what I did, then drew letters herself, and they became almost an A, almost a B. She did her very best. She gazed at me with her gentle eyes, and did her very best.
One day Ingrid took my hand and led me downstairs and out across the yard. I followed reluctantly.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
We entered the woods, following the path I had taken so many times before. Ingrid tugged and pulled at my arm with a laugh that almost couldn’t be called laughter, and soon we saw the lake shimmering beyond the trees. We made our way over outcroppings, dry moss crunching under our feet, and tramped through marshy areas that now had a brown sheen; the bog cotton was white, tousled, and utterly still in the autumn sun. Ingrid walked a few meters, stopped, turned around, waited, went on a few meters, turned around, waited. She continued like this until we reached the small beach. The lake was dead calm by the shore. Farther out, small ripples glittered in the sunlight. The sandbar was barely visible, and I saw it was flecked with white bird droppings.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
Ingrid looked at me and howled softly.
“Should we shout?”
She nodded, so I shouted. The sound echoed from the tall pine trees on the other side, but nothing happened, no bird was hidden among the branches. We were completely alone. A faint murmuring could be heard in the pine trees above us, almost like the day we sat there with Tone and Erling, and Mama swam out to the sandbar. I shouted several times, my voice seemed strange and unfamiliar as it was flung back and forth across the water. Ingrid howled, but not loud enough to cause an echo. I have no idea how long we kept on, I only remember that at some point I turned to look at Ingrid and she was taking off her clothes.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Ingrid sat down in the sand, took off her shoes, and drew her stockings below her knees. She looked up at me, then pulled her stockings off completely and placed them in the sand next to her shoes.
“We can’t go swimming now, Ingrid,” I said. “The water is ice-cold.”
But Ingrid did not stop, for once she didn’t pay any attention to what I said. I stood watching her, my dark shadow stretching across the sand and up a slope of bare rock. Although it was late September, the sun was warm on the beach. I felt it on my back and neck. Ants crawled into Ingrid’s shoes; a scattering of insects flew across the water, some came too close to the surface and small, indistinct rings spread out from where they lay helplessly on their backs. I sat down in the sand next to Ingrid, kicked off my shoes, and pulled my socks down over my toes. Ingrid stood up, drew her wool dress over her head, and threw it onto the rocks behind us. I took off my trousers and shirt, and when I stood there in only my underwear I felt the chilliness in the air. Ingrid pulled off her white wool under shirt, then leaned over, removed her underpants, and was completely naked. I hesitated for a moment. I looked at Ingrid. And she looked at me. I saw she was not embarrassed, and was not ashamed. She seemed completely free. So I did the same. I stood naked beside her, with an unreal, fluttering feeling in my chest. I felt as if I had slowly broken loose from myself, and I rose above the water, high above the forest. I saw the pale, transparent hairs on the back of her neck, how they shone in the sunlight, and goose bumps ran down my arms. Ingrid waded into the lake, and gave sort of a squeal when the water splashed up around her thighs. I waded out with her, our feet sank in the coarse sand, the water covered our ankles and calves and made them numb. It was icy cold. Much colder than I had imagined. We stood beside each other as the water grew calm around us. Twigs and swollen pinecones floating in the water washed against the beach. I began to feel a tingling in my feet, in my instep, and around my ankles. It was as if a
poison were spreading up my calves, knees, thighs. I looked at Ingrid, her tongue glistened and her breasts had goose bumps. Ingrid looked at me, and I was almost not embarrassed; it was good that she saw me, it was good in a forbidden way. We waded a little farther out, the water rippled around her thighs; our legs became strangely short under the water. I didn’t think about either Mama or Tone, or about anything else. I shivered and splashed with my hands, water sprayed up around us; sunbeams glistened in the drops and we laughed and laughed, and there was nothing but our laughter to be heard.
10.
Something had softened, something opened in the darkness and turned toward me. I stole up the stairs. In the upstairs hall, I stopped and listened. It was the middle of the night. All the doors were closed; I heard light snoring from Josef’s room. Jensen and Matiassen’s room was completely quiet. I went to the door of the siblings’ room, pushed down the handle. The door was unlocked, but at first I didn’t dare to go in. For a long time I stood staring into the room from the doorway. I heard the soft, shifting sounds of five sleeping people.
I cautiously lay down beside her. She was awake, her eyes were shining, but she didn’t make a sound. Ingrid lay staring at me; I felt that, even when I closed my eyes. I felt her warmth, I thought about Tone, I thought about the bird on the sandbar, and we lay like that for a long time without a word. I must have fallen asleep, but was awakened by someone walking across the room. Someone stood in the middle of the room looking at me. It took several seconds before I realized who it was. She looked different in the dim light; she was wearing a long nightgown, her hair hung loosely over her shoulders. I don’t think she saw that I was awake. I knew she was mentally disabled of course, but when Lilly stood looking at us that night she seemed to understand. I lay with my eyes almost closed, barely seeing her. Maybe she smiled; she radiated gentle love, and maybe I confused her with the angel in the meetinghouse, the one hovering above the man with the hoe. For a long time she just stood there looking at Ingrid and me. Ingrid was sound asleep next to me, I felt her breath on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes. Then Lilly sat down quietly on the edge of the bed. I heard her breathing, and then I felt her stroke my hair. Lilly gently stroked my hair, at first hesitantly, tentatively, but then the uncertainty faded away and she caressed me as if I were her child. In my mind I saw Ingrid howling, Erling wobbling his head, Sverre crying and soiling his pants, and Nils grinning as he always did. My mind pictured the whole flock of siblings walking toward the house in the glow of Matiassen’s lantern that winter evening. Mama went first, Papa was last, and I walked between Ingrid and Erling. Lilly stroked my hair. I don’t know how long she sat there, it felt like an eternity. She murmured something to herself. Maybe it was yes, maybe it was no, maybe it was just thank you.
11.
I was awakened by Sverre and Erling, who stood by the bed gaping at us; sunlight streamed into the room somewhere behind them, the dust sparkled, and Sverre laughed when he realized I was awake. I got up quickly, hurried downstairs, and put on my clothes. Papa was sitting at the kitchen table; he looked up, but didn’t ask where I had been.
I walked to school alone, my body still remembering the incident with Lilly. I didn’t know what it was, but something had happened, and when I came home that afternoon I ate in the kitchen and did my homework in the living room with Papa. I wrote at the table while he added firewood to the stove, where the couple held each other close and danced under the black sun. When Papa squatted down and opened the stove door, the flickering flames brought life to his face.
“Is Mama coming home again?” I asked.
Papa looked up and waited for a moment as the new logs caught fire, then he closed the stove door firmly, stood up, and walked across the room. He stopped by the table and looked down at my notebook.
“What have you written?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
I closed the notebook and looked up at him.
“Is she coming home again?”
Papa went over to the window and stood there for a long time. Outside, dusk had begun to fall, the leaves on the ash tree hung black and motionless. I heard mumbling from upstairs; it was Jensen, he had begun to talk with Our Lord again. I heard him ask a question, then everything was silent, and in that silence he received an answer.
“I don’t know,” said Papa. “I don’t know.”
12.
We were excused from school to help with the potato harvest. My fingertips grew sore, mold collected in all the scratches and grooves, and my hands looked like an old man’s. Now and then Josef came out on the front steps and stood there with his arms crossed, as if he were lord of the manor and had put the rest of us to work. Anna and Hans came to help, and I heard them speaking softly with Papa; I knew it was about Mama, because when I came closer they stopped talking. After we were finished, piles of potato tops lay in the field, and the remainder of the Virginia tobacco plants from the war still stood there with rustling leaves and rust-colored flowers that swayed in the breeze. Papa and Hans put the potatoes into wooden crates, harnessed the horse to the cart, and drove them into the hay barn. The crates were stored there, smelling of mold and dark autumn evenings when the first stars appeared above the ash tree.
I knocked on the door upstairs. Footsteps approached on the other side. Lilly opened the door.
“Where have you been?” she said.
“I’m here now,” I told her.
Ingrid came to the doorway. She looked at me, and I hardly dared to meet her eyes.
“Are you coming in?” Lilly asked.
“I was just going to say good night,” I replied.
“Good night,” said Lilly
“Good night,” I said.
She shut the door, and I just stood there; I think Ingrid and Lilly did the same. We stood there, all three of us, on our separate sides of the door.
The next day I knocked again. Lilly was clearly glad to see me. They were ready to eat and made room for my chair between Ingrid and Erling, and everything was almost the same. We sang the table grace, no one said anything while we ate, and afterward Lilly gathered up the empty plates. While she was down in the kitchen, Erling crawled onto his bed and looked out the window. I could tell that he saw something out there. He started to laugh, his head wobbled wildly. We all hurried to the window, and I saw someone walking slowly along the road. It was Papa, wearing his cap with fur flaps. He walked down to the milk platform, where he stayed for a long time. Lilly came back from the kitchen and stood behind us at the window.
“What’s he doing down there?” she said.
Before I had a chance to reply, the bus appeared at the bottom of the hill, gliding quietly, a veil of exhaust swirling behind it. We watched as it stopped at the milk platform, where Papa stood. Someone got out; Papa helped her, then went into the bus to get her suitcase, and the two stood there as the bus continued along the road. We all saw it. Mama and Papa stood down by the milk platform for a while before Papa picked up the suitcase and they began walking toward the house. It was Mama. She had come back. I didn’t know how long she had been away; it felt like a long time. Mama and Papa came walking across the yard, but something about Mama was different. She seemed tired. They stopped several times, and she leaned heavily against Papa while talking into his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and suddenly she straightened up and looked toward the house, directly at the upstairs window where the siblings and I were standing. She raised her arm and waved. I was afraid she would see me and I moved away from the window, but Erling laughed and waved back, Lilly did the same, and Sverre pounded on the windowpane.
I heard them come in the door, I heard Mama’s voice in the front hall, I heard her take off her shoes and hang her coat on a hook. Then I heard Josef get up from his bed and go downstairs, and I followed him to the front hall.
It was Mama standing there. But something about her was different.
She knelt down in front of me; her face was changed, and her eyes
were shining after the trip in the autumn air. She smelled of soap and exhaust fumes, and another, unfamiliar scent that was perhaps the sea. She hugged me, and the way she held me was both loving and determined. Then she picked me up, and I dangled in her arms for perhaps eight seconds before she carefully set me down on the floor.
13.
It wasn’t until the next day that I understood what was different. I saw it when I came into the kitchen in the morning. Mama stood by the counter slicing bread, Papa sat at the table eating. When I came in she turned toward me, and then I saw it.
It was like taking a deep breath.
And then.
That day a different life began. I spent less and less time upstairs with Erling and Ingrid and the others—my chair still stood by the table, but I ate downstairs with Mama and Papa. In the evenings I lay in bed listening to the new sounds in the house; Mama and Papa talked quietly on the other side of the wall, then Papa got up and went over to the stove, opened the door of the stove, and added new logs to the fire.
I awoke to a new day with sunlight from a dull autumn sky. Standing at my window, I saw the thin overnight layer of hoarfrost that had barely begun to melt on the fields’ plowed furrows. A bitterly cold morning. When the sun rose above the treetops the leaves on the ash tree began to fall. They loosened and dropped straight down, and during that short flight they dragged other leaves with them. By the end of the morning, the whole tree was stripped almost bare.
Not a word about where she had been.
Not a word about Tone. Not a word. Not a word.
One evening only a few days after Mama came home, there was a knock at the front door. Papa had just put firewood in the stove, and I saw the strip of light that stretched from the half-open door of the stove straight across the floor.
Across the China Sea Page 9
