Love and Other Lies

by Ben McPherson

A new stand-in, a man, stood on the lawn in front of the house. There were marks on the ground, silver crosses made with duct tape, numbered from 5 through 16.

  “Where’s Vee?” I said.

  Elsa looked anxiously toward the empty chairs where she and Vee had been sitting. “She was there just now.”

  Paul Andersen said something to his brother. John Andersen raised his arm, pretended to fire a shot. The men laughed.

  The birdlike judge walked toward the men’s defense team. She spoke to the huddle of lawyers, though she kept eyeing the men. There was a long pause.

  Elsa was gripping my arm tightly. “Is it bad that I want those men dead?”

  “I know what you mean,” I said.

  “What was I expecting, right?”

  The simplicity of the scene made the whole thing so much worse. The standing figures; the taps to the shoulder, to the leg, to the temple, to the right lung. And throughout it all the Andersen brothers, eyes bright and chests puffed, all fighting-cock bravado and private jokes, as they made small corrections to the positions of the shooters, of the victims.

  Elsa let go of my arm. “Oh.” She jumped across the rope, began running toward the chairs. I looked up, confused. There was Vee, and there was Bror, with his wild hair and his gray robes.

  A voice, very close. “Hello, Cal Curtis.”

  I looked around. It was Tvist, smiling, carrying three cups of coffee in a triangle he had made of his hands. “Like one? You’d be doing me a favor.”

  I reached forward, took the cup nearest Tvist’s fingertips.

  “Stupid way to carry hot drinks.” He bent his knees, put down the two remaining cups, shook spilled coffee from his right hand onto the pristine snow.

  Paul Andersen’s voice, saying no, not like that, like this.

  Seven paces. Not eight.

  Tvist was standing now, sipping experimentally from his cup.

  “Why aren’t those men handcuffed?” I said.

  “We don’t deal in gestures. No one here is in any danger.”

  We stood watching the men. I saw that Paul Andersen remembered every step, every shot, every face that passed before his gunsights. I felt how he savored the memories, how he breathed in the disgust in the faces of the survivors, of the bereaved. I knew that there was in him an enjoyment of the precision of the killing. In his brother too.

  “And meanwhile . . .” said Tvist, gesturing beyond the huddle to where Bror stood talking to Vee. I looked at Bror, saw how his hand rested on Vee’s back. I felt Tvist’s eyes on mine. “For a man who dislikes white supremacism, you’re surprisingly relaxed about its advocates. Old friends?”

  “That man is emphatically not a white supremacist.”

  “He’s clever. He hitches it to progressive causes. But he is widely quoted and shared. By white supremacists.”

  I looked him square in the face. “Found any trace of a network?”

  “No . . . But has he mentioned female emancipation to you yet? Sustainability? A general suspicion of the police?”

  Bror had noticed us, could see that we were speaking about him. He smiled, raised a hand in greeting.

  I said, “He has shown us great kindness. He listens. It’s nice to feel someone is on our side.”

  Tvist made a little scoffing sound. “That comment about fruit flies. That’s the real Bror.”

  “He never linked it to immigration.”

  “Perhaps because he knew other people would?”

  Elsa was picking her way across the snow toward Bror. He caught sight of her, took his hand from Vee’s back, smiled very broadly, stepped toward Elsa. They hugged. He was turning away, was saying something to Vee. Vee began to speak. Elsa put her hand on Vee’s shoulder, shook her head, smiled.

  I turned back to Tvist. “There’s this thing you do,” I said. “You sow doubt. About good people.”

  “I sow doubt?”

  “I mean, yes, Bror is odd,” I said, “and yes, his sexual politics are a little off. But so what, if he’s spreading hope?”

  Tvist considered this. He gave an exaggerated frown. “And what if he’s using you?”

  Elsa was crouching down now, speaking directly to Vee, while Bror looked down upon them, smiling his benevolent smile. He gestured to one side, and there were Arno and his mother, approaching across the snow. Vee stood, held out a hand to Arno, who eyed her suspiciously. Bror said something to the boy. Arno stepped forward, still holding his large, leather-bound book. A Bible. Bror put his left hand on Arno’s shoulder, his right hand on Vee’s.

  “Man’s doing what he can to help,” I said. “Seems unfair to write him off as a racist.”

  “Oh?” Tvist turned to me. “How easy would Norwegian racism be for you to discern?”

  “Given that I’m not black?”

  “People speak more freely in their own language.” Tvist smiled sadly, as if my question disappointed him. “Perhaps that is hard for an outsider to understand?”

  For a moment I wanted to apologize. I valued this man. Those moments we shared in the morning as we handed over our children at the kindergarten felt like something close to friendship. But he was a master at placing blame elsewhere.

  Vee was pulling her coat tight around herself, walking toward me across the snow. I waved. Vee waved back. Tvist watched her, that same sad smile playing across his lips.

  “So is it true,” I said, “that you had the Andersens’ license plate, and that you took no action?”

  “That was an abrupt and rather journalistic turn.”

  “And you don’t much like journalists?”

  He considered this. “You feel let down. When you experience a loss of this magnitude, you look around you for someone to blame.”

  “There you go,” I said. “Deflecting a question . . .”

  He shrugged, smiled, took a slug of coffee, smiled again.

  Always that same smile.

  I took from my pocket the color copy of the Post-it note.

  Tvist glanced at it, handed it back. “How useful it must be,” he said, “to have a friend in the police.” There was no hint of warmth in his smile now.

  “That is not how I came by it,” I said.

  “And yet there is no other possible source.” He crouched down, picked up the last of the coffee cups. When he stood up, his dark, dark eyes were so close to mine that I could not bring them into focus. He smelled of lip balm and expensive cologne.

  “Nothing personal, Cal, but perhaps you should not be so seduced by other people’s agendas.” And with that he was walking away.

  I looked across at the Andersen brothers. The two men were staring at Bror and at Elsa. John Andersen was whispering in his brother’s ear. I could see in Elsa’s face that she sensed them looking. I could feel her unease.

  “Dad.”

  Vee crossed elegantly beneath the rope in a single fluid move.

  I stepped toward her. “Hey, Vee.” I reached out, drew her to me.

  Vee turned in my arms, looked toward her mother. Bror was smiling at Elsa, all charm, arms thrown wide, shielding her from the gazes of the Andersen brothers.

  “So, that guy Bror . . .” I said to Vee.

  “Yeah, why is Mum pushing me toward him?”

  “Is she?”

  Vee’s eyes narrowed. “What did you arrange?”

  “Why would you think we arranged something?”

  “You raised me cynical. Suddenly I’m supposed to be, Ooh, breathing techniques?”

  “Look how he’s helping Arno. You see that, right?”

  “I guess . . .”

  “Would it hurt to be a little happier?”

  Vee rolled her eyes. “Can I please go for a walk? There’s literally nothing to do here.”

  I looked at the chairs, at the ropes, at the court officials, at the armed police. What harm could it do?

  “Sure, love. Go for your walk.”

  Paul and John Andersen stood where they were, watching my daughter go. They turned to each other a
nd laughed. Then John Andersen made a gun of his fingers and sighted up on Vee.

  In the depths of my soul I wanted him dead too. But I put the thought from my mind. Because we are not that kind of family and I am not that kind of man.

  The Spectator

  Twenty-Four

  The spring months were the making of Franklin. Once a serious baby—old-mannish, heavy-jowled—with the coming of the spring he had lightened and lengthened, grown supple and strong. This June morning he had escaped the confines of his diaper, thrown it from his crib to the wooden floor beyond. He had climbed the bars that held him, lowered himself gently down, run naked through the apartment, all limbs and untamed hair.

  “Wheee!”

  Vee shouted back at him, “Wheee!”

  Franklin skidded to a stop on the kitchen floor, arms high. He swayed, became serious, fixed his gaze upon his sister.

  “Wheee?”

  “Yeah, Franklin,” said Vee. “Wheee. Right, Dad?”

  “Yeah, honey,” I said. “Wheee!”

  “Wheee!” said Franklin.

  We were a family again, no longer simply individuals adrift in our own grief.

  These precious moments when Vee would allow herself to be young. Lately she had put aside childish things, had become so very adult.

  “Wheee!” shouted Franklin.

  “Yeah, guys. Wheee.” Elsa was standing in her nightgown, hair across her face, knife beside her, pressing oranges through the squeezer.

  My eyes found hers. We had made it through the year. We had given each other space. Moving forward, I thought, separate, but together.

  Faithful as ever.

  “What?” she said.

  We stared at each other, each surprised to find the other smiling. There was a lightness today, even in this god-awful place, an ease between us that could not be denied.

  A bark.

  A dog loped up, stood at the garden door looking in. An Irish setter, daft-faced, russet-coated, out of breath.

  Franklin waved, shouted, “Do’!”

  Another setter joined the first. The two dogs stared in, drool spilling from their pink-black gums, panting heavily, amazed to find four pairs of eyes staring back. They dipped down, inviting Franklin to join the chase.

  “Vov!” shouted Franklin. “Vov!”

  The dogs barked in reply, then sprang from the garden and out to the path. Franklin stood in the doorway, watching them go. In seconds you could see them in the parkland far beyond, leaping and tumbling over each other, dizzy in the gathering heat.

  Licia was on the front page of Posten today, along with the ninety-one who had fallen on Garden Island. A tiny square image in a grid of faces. A memorial, on the first day of the trial. Her image was ringed in red; a note explained that she was missing, presumed drowned.

  “Let me see that,” said Elsa.

  I handed her the paper.

  “They used the one from her Instagram,” I said.

  “I always liked that picture.”

  Five counts of attempted murder. Ninety-one counts of murder. One disputed charge of murder, which the defense moved to have struck. Because we did not have Licia’s body. And for that reason, I thought, we had hope.

  Elsa handed the paper back to me. Her hand brushed mine. Something passed between us: some understanding beyond the words.

  The winter had not unmade us. We had grown strong, it seemed, each in our own way. No one dared use the word closure, but at breakfast that morning there was an expectant energy. My wife; my daughter; even tiny Franklin, as he pushed his Tripp Trapp chair to the head of the table, climbed into place, took a banana in his right hand, and squeezed till the sides split.

  “Here, little friend,” I said. “Let me get that for you.”

  I reached across, peeled the banana, handed it to my son.

  “Bann,” said Franklin. “Banan.”

  Anyone looking in through that window, I thought, would say we had it pretty good.

  We stood outside the apartment building, the four of us.

  Elsa laced her fingers into mine. She searched my eyes, smiling.

  “What?” I said.

  She drew away, looked at me again, smiled.

  Vee stood on the tips of her toes, threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

  Elsa put her bag down on the tarmac path, lifted Vee off her feet.

  “Hey,” said Vee.

  “Still my little girl,” said Elsa, laughing.

  “Put me down.”

  The bag on the path. Stiff-sided, gray, the strap a simple wide loop.

  “New bag?” I said.

  “Mum,” said Vee. “Mum, I mean it, put me down.”

  Elsa lowered Vee to the path. She turned to face me. “New bag. Yes.”

  The eye contact: So deliberate. Calculated, almost.

  “Hope that’s okay,” said Elsa. Money was tight, she meant, though she wouldn’t say it in front of Vee.

  I looked down, caught Vee looking at us. I looked at Elsa.

  Elsa’s smile: It was good, but it wasn’t quite right. Her eyes flicked to a tree farther down the path, then flicked back to mine.

  I said, “What would you call that color?”

  “Battleship gray.”

  “I like your new bag.” Unusual choice, I wanted to add. A Mom bag. Not really your style.

  Elsa and Vee waited outside while I dropped Franklin at kindergarten. I handed him his lunch box and his water bottle, which he dropped into a large plastic crate.

  “Hei, Franklin!”

  Franklin stood on the threshold of the Red Room, looking in, unsteady. Then he ran to Leni, let himself be swept into the air, wriggled around in her arms so he was facing me, and smiled.

  “Hey, Leni,” I said.

  “Just wanted to say good luck,” she said.

  I nodded. “Thanks. Good to know Franklin’s in safe hands.”

  “Sure.” Her ponytail swished reassuringly as she carried him from the room.

  On the way out I saw Tvist coming toward me, carrying Josi.

  “Hello, Cal Curtis,” he said evenly.

  Josi turned to look at me. I looked at her, smiled. Her face lit up. “He’o, Ca’ Cu’is.”

  “Good luck today,” said Tvist.

  “See you there,” I said, watching after him.

  Scanners at the courthouse. Shoes off. Keys and belt in a plastic tray. Standard precautions—the familiar routines of the modern world.

  We walked across the slate floor toward the wooden staircase. Vee hung back.

  “Want us to save you a seat, honey?”

  “I’m good.”

  On the floor outside the courtroom a chaos of tape marks and cables and tripods. Men and women in sober suits standing in pools of light, speaking test-words into microphones, joking quietly with the crews behind the cameras.

  Elsa held my face in her hands. Around us people flowed toward the court.

  “Handsome fuck,” she said.

  My phone vibrated. I took a step away, pulled the phone from my pocket.

  Dan.

  I held my phone up to Elsa.

  “I’ll find you a seat with translation,” she said, serious suddenly. “Say hi.”

  We looked at each other. “Courage,” she said, very quietly. I nodded. Courage, love.

  I raised the phone to my ear. “Sorry, Dan.”

  “Three things. One: I’m calling to wish you guys luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Two: I want to let you know I have options.”

  “Options?”

  “If you need to back out.”

  “I do not need to back out.”

  “I want you to promise—”

  “What’s the third thing?”

  “The third thing is a piece of advice. Do not engage with these people.”

  “Sure, Dan, whatever you say.”

  “I’m serious, Cal. These are not people you want anywhere near the inside of your head. Do not look them in the
eye.”

  A wall had been built for the trial, a three-sided glass box ten feet high. They stood there behind their wall, these men who had murdered so many people’s children, so many people’s brothers and sisters, in their nondescript black suits, their hair unbleached now. Mousy.

  I saw Tvist take his place in the front row.

  You do all this for these men, Tvist: your airport scanners, your glass walls, your special officers with their submachine guns. Yet you couldn’t protect our children.

  Tvist turned, as if he sensed my eyes on him. He caught my gaze and smiled. I turned away, surprised at my own anger.

  In the back row of the courtroom Vee sat with some girls I didn’t know, holding hands. All adult dresses, minimal makeup. I tried to meet Vee’s eye, to ask her if she was okay, but she was lost in conversation.

  Elsa curled her fingers into mine.

  The men stared out at us from behind their bulletproof glass. Two officers approached them.

  The Andersen brothers held out their hands. The officers removed the cuffs.

  There they stood, massaging their wrists, surveying the room. They turned to each other. Why were they not separated?

  A look passed between them. Each man folded his right arm across his heart. They turned again to face us, stared out again at the faces in the courtroom. Slowly, in unison, each unfolded his right arm, clenched his fist, fixed his gaze on the press at the back of the courtroom.

  A frenzy of cameras.

  A salute. A white power salute. The men exchanged a look, smiled, adjusted their pose. Their fists clenched a little tighter, their right arms extended a little farther. Amplifying the signal.

  Elsa was gripping my wrist. The sinews in her arms and face were tight.

  “I know,” I said. Courage, love.

  I heard a laugh in the row behind. An actual laugh, ringing bell-clear across the court. I turned to see a girl of Licia’s age, dark-skinned and pretty, sitting among friends. The girl covered her mouth as she met my eye, appalled at her own reaction. The men turned toward her, anger in their gaze. They had not expected laughter. The tiny female judge spoke, asking for silence. The girl nodded an apology.

  Beside me I felt Elsa turn too. She and the girl exchanged a look. Elsa put a hand over the girl’s and smiled; the girl smiled back, glad of the support.