Milk (6 page)

 

Chairs

 

M
artha
woke early. She sat up halfway in bed and gazed through the darkness. She could make out the television and the writing desk on the other side of the room, and then she knew where she was.

She set her feet on the floor and went into the kitchen. She washed herself at the sink and started the coffee. She stepped out into the cold hall, opened her dresser, and found a blouse and a skirt.

When the coffee was ready, she sat at the table in the living room. She glanced at the bed; it was hard to get used to it standing right there. She looked out the window, and could just make out the bare branches on the tree outside.

She drank her coffee and warmed her hands on the cup. Slowly the tree emerged from the darkness. She saw the rough bark at the base of the trunk, and she could see how the trunk split into thinner and thinner branches. Those at the top weren't any thicker than a finger.

She thought about a book she'd once given Isak.
To Draw is to See
, it was called. She remembered that he'd drawn the tree. He'd also tried to draw her hands. That was the hardest, he'd said. He himself had had large, blocky hands with raised blue veins; the pencil had looked small between his thick fingers.

Martha rose and searched the bookshelf. She studied the brittle spines carefully, but she didn't find the book. Then she heard the mail slot click and she went out to the entryway. She picked up her newspaper and headed back to her chair at the window.

After she'd read the newspaper, she walked through the kitchen and out to the hall. She opened the lid on the commode, but closed it again immediately. Instead she went to the stairwell. She clutched the banister and moved slowly up the stairs. She rested in the chair on the landing, but felt neither dizzy nor out of breath. She continued up, and soon she was able to sit down on the cold toilet seat and urinate in peace.

When she'd washed her hands, she moved across the hall to Thorkild's room. She opened the brown, glass-fronted bookcase and began searching. The books were covered with a thin layer of yellowed dust, and many had no spine; they'd been read and reread by children and grandchildren; she pulled the books out so she could read the titles on the first page. She was reminded of how Isak had sat on the porch with
The Postman Always Rings
Twice
,
The Woman in the Lake
, or
They
Shoot Horses, Don't They?
She grabbed the threadbare copy of
Postman
and began reading. She read the first page standing up, then she sat on the chair at the side of the bed. She read about Frank and Cora and their strange passion, and though she was repulsed by the violence, warmth rippled through her body.

Frank and Cora had just rid themselves of her husband when Martha heard the key in the door. She felt a little lightheaded.

—Mrs. Jakobsen, your lunch.

—Thank you, she replied. Be a dear and set it on the table.

—Where are you?

Martha stood and moved to the top of the stairs.

—Here.

—Let me give you a hand.

John placed the aluminum tray on her bureau. Before she could protest, he was on his way up the stairs. He was a rather large, ruddy man, and Martha felt a little uncomfortable in his presence. He followed her down the stairs all the way to the dining table in the living room, and then he retrieved her meal. With a smile and an almost tender “Goodbye, Mrs. Jakobsen,” he left. Martha shook her head. She stood and went into the kitchen to get a plate and silverware.

After lunch, Martha climbed the stairs again, this time with a longer rest on the way. She picked up the book and thumbed through it from the back to the front. The edges were nearly yellow, dog-eared, with a few brown spots she couldn't identify. On the title page something caught her attention. It appeared there'd been a dedication at one time. The paper was a little more delicate, in some places almost transparent. She held the page up toward the light; she could just read a few words: “My beloved,” “Soon,” “Karen.” It was her sister's handwriting. Martha examined the other side. The book was published in 1934, two years after she and Isak were married. She sat down.

She remembered her sister's red-eyed, almost aggressive condolences following Isak's death. And before: how she became nervous whenever he stepped into the room. She remembered the softness in Isak's voice when he said: “Karen, so nice to see you.” And first and foremost, she remembered the summer Thorkild was born, how Karen kept her house while she was at the hospital. Martha squeezed the book between her hands. On the dust jacket, she read how this was a story about “impossible love, burning desire, and unavoidable destruction.” Was there a reason she'd never felt the urge to read it? She'd outlived both of them, but their secret had almost survived her.

After a while, she stood, closed the rattling glass door of the bookcase, and began her backwards descent down the stairs with one hand on the banister, the other on the book. She rested at the landing. That's the way it is, growing old, she thought: one moves from chair to chair.

She sat at her writing desk with her back to the window, and there she spent most of the afternoon. The darkness drained through the window on the opposite wall and turned the sofa, dining table, bookshelf, and bed into nothing but points and lines around her. Finally, she switched on the table lamp.

She opened the book and began reading. She read about the court case and how Frank and Cora were acquitted; about Kennedy, who tried to blackmail them; and then about the accident in which Cora was killed. When she read the ending, where Frank was found guilty of Cora's murder, she had no doubts: it was unjust. Frank would never do such a thing.

Then she closed the book and looked around the room. Outside it was completely dark, and the curtains needed to be drawn. No, she thought as she rose from the chair, I'm not jealous. Then she turned and drew the curtains closed. She headed for the window on the other side of the room.

 

 

Milk

 

I
had
just lit a cigarette. The flame didn't really take, so I pursed my lips and puffed. As I puffed, I happened to emit a small whistle. Wanting to hide that it was by accident, I added a few notes. It was the beginning of a theme, I repeated the notes a few times, and suddenly the rest came by itself. I couldn't quite remember which piece it was. The melody grooved back and forth across my lips. There was
pizzazz
in it, the kind that could put you in a good mood. I let the cigarette smoke itself and whistled away.

I was standing beside the window and suddenly felt the need to take a walk. It was gray and windy outside, and I had no errands to make, but I felt such an urge to get out. I turned to Emma sitting at the dining table reading a magazine.

—I think I'll go for a walk.

She glanced up quickly, then down again.

—It's raining, she said.

—I know, I said.

—You'll get wet, she said.

—Yeah, I said.

I'd stopped whistling, but the melody hung on the edge of my lips.

—What's wrong, Olaf? You'll get sick if you go out, you know that.

I turned back to the window.

—Yeah, I said.

 

I
had
my coat on, ready to go, when Emma stepped into the hallway.

—You'll catch pneumonia, she said.

—Give it up, I responded with a sharpness in my voice that surprised us both.

 

I
waited a bit for the elevator. As it crawled up from the first floor, I could see the numbers light up one by one. It made a rusty clang, and the doors opened. I stepped on and pushed L, but the elevator continued upwards. At the 12
th
floor it came to a stop, and a short, fat man stepped on. He smelled ripe, of body odor and beer. I've not grown handsomer with age—I'll admit as much—but I maintain a certain level of hygiene. I could see that my disgust was reciprocated; he was just as annoyed as I was at having to share the cramped space. As the elevator lowered us down the shaft, we didn't exchange a single word. About halfway down I thought of my theme. I hummed it carefully, and after a few irritated sideways glances from my companion, I began to whistle. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and cleared his throat, and I simply whistled louder. Six floors down the doors opened, and we got off. The little man hurried away.

Outside, rain fell lightly. The cars in the lot were gleaming, their colors clean and sharp. Large puddles of water lay on the lot; here and there were grates in the curb, and I could hear the water gurgling beneath my feet. The weather was good for a walk, the risk of meeting someone minimal; for someone my age the risk is minimal to begin with, but in this kind of weather it's as good as zero. I followed the sidewalk along the parking lot, past the neighboring block, past the playground, and past the supermarket with the red signs.

I'd reached the last block when the rain started coming down hard. I walked along a narrow drainage ditch; there was a bank on the other side of the ditch, and on the other side of the bank was the freeway. Through the rain, I could just hear the cars whizzing past. The path I walked on was muddy, and I moved forward in short steps and with my vision focused on the ground. The rain made my neck and back cold. When I stopped to orient myself, I discovered something strange. The water in the ditch had changed color. It had a white sheen. At first I thought it was because of the stream, but as I continued along the path, I noticed how the water became increasingly murky.

After I'd walked around 300 feet, I came to a pipe poking out of the bank. The white liquid was spewing here; the liquid running from the pipe resembled undiluted paint. I managed to squat down and put a finger in the water. I held it up to my nose, and because I couldn't smell anything, I tasted it cautiously. It was milk. I bent forward and put my hand under the pipe, pulled it out, and drank. I don't usually drink milk, not since I was a child have I done so—not even in my coffee—but it tasted fresh and good. I stood and continued walking. My knees ached, but I ignored the pain. I didn't feel like going home.

The noise grew progressively louder the farther up I went. I climbed the broad steps one at a time, making short pauses along the way. The railing was slick with rain, but it was better than no support. I reached the top and moved out along the narrow bridge. There was no one here, no one except me. From here, I had a complete view of the freeway. A number of emergency vehicles were parked there: two rescue vehicles, three ambulances, and a police car. Lying across both lanes was a sixty-foot tanker truck. Its oval, steel tank was leaking in several places, and milk was gushing out. A smaller car had driven into the overturned tanker, and two rescue workers were cutting passengers out of the car. A passenger of a third vehicle was quickly covered with a blanket and rushed to an ambulance.

I had only stood there a few minutes when I heard footsteps from the other end of the bridge. My mood grew no less hostile when I saw who it was. It was my brother Albert. I cursed at myself: I should know better, I thought, Albert has always had a nose for accidents. I looked away, stiffly ignoring him when he came over and stood right beside me.

Down on the freeway, the rescue team had taken a few steps back with their cutting torches, and the ambulance crew began lifting the driver from the vehicle. I saw a woman lifted out and put on a stretcher. There was not a drop of blood anywhere; her clothes were coated with a dull, wet film. Her face and hair were white as a sheet or a statue. I started whistling. It soothed me. I could tell that it made Albert uncomfortable, but that didn't stop me from doing it. I whistled the same theme as before, a splendid piece, it gave me air, gave me an unaccustomed strength, an unaccustomed feeling of freedom. Meanwhile, I stared at the milk gushing out onto the road, and at the rescue workers who now stood smoking, their welder's goggles pushed up on their foreheads, wet, completely soaked with milk and rain.

—I know that piece, Albert said suddenly. It's Mozart.

I immediately stopped whistling.

—No, I said.

Albert waited for me to be more specific, but I had nothing more to say. It was apparently impossible to keep anything for yourself in this world.

Then he changed the subject:

—It doesn't look good, eh.

The last of the ambulances drove off under a sky of gloomy, blue-black clouds.

—But they're in God's hands, he continued. That's a consolation.

—Do you still believe in that crap?

The words rushed from me.

—Yes, Olaf, I do. Even you are in God's hands, whether you want to be or not.

I stared out over at the freeway and tried to control myself.

—Tell me, he went on calmly. Don't you hope for a life after this?

The water dripped from my nose like a tap. My coat was heavy with rain, but I barely felt it.

—No, I said. I'm hoping for a place to be alone. A grave, for example.

Albert put a hand on my shoulder.

—You're all too proud, Olaf, that's no good.

I removed his hand from my shoulder.

—You don't know me, I said.

Then I walked away.

 

 

Fling

 

T
hey
drove in silence. Martin glanced at Anne, who looked out the window at the countryside. Her hair was a little blonder at the tips, she was suntanned, and he could see light traces of salt on her skin. Close by the fields flitted past, farther away they formed patterns of yellow and green. He gazed at the car's clock and then at the road again.

They were driving back to the city.

Martin slowed down and signaled for a left turn.

—There's something I'd like to show you, he said.

They turned onto a narrow country road that led between hills. Martin smiled and stared at the road, Anne looked at Martin, then at the clock.

The rye-covered hills rose up on both sides and forced the road into large, winding turns. Anne put a hand on the back of Martin's seat then let it drift up his neck and into his hair, which was stiff from the salt.

After a few miles the hills disappeared from the road, and a flat area of fields and small orchards spread out before them. They drove over a creek, past a cornfield, a pine farm.

—This is it, Martin said.

He turned left down a narrow gravel road. The grass was high between the tracks and brushed the car's undercarriage.

They coasted into the driveway and parked next to an old truck with crates of fruit stacked on the trailer bed. On the right was a whitewashed farmhouse, to the left a shed with a rusted pipe sticking up from the roof.

Martin and Anne got out of the car. The air smelled of apples and smoked fish.

—We used to come here quite often when I was a kid, Martin said.

He went up to the farmhouse.

—Let's see if anyone's here.

At the side of the house there was a little garden and behind that an orchard. The grass was tall and green, even though it was late summer.

Anne remained standing in the middle of the driveway.

Martin knocked on the door, which had a square window shaped like a diamond. He peered in, but the room behind the door lay in darkness. He waited a moment, then returned to Anne.

—Let's look over here, he said.

Martin walked towards the shed. The door was ajar, and he looked in. Long rows of trout hung under the ceiling. The walls of the little room were smeared black, and the light from the door opening didn't reach the back wall. The fish gleamed with oil, the skins golden and brown, the fins almost black.

—Have a look. This is where they smoke them.

Anne came over and stood next to Martin. She put her arm around his waist.

—That's trout, he said.

—Is it?

—I hope somebody's here. Maybe they're in the back.

Martin turned and worked himself free of her arm.

They walked down a short path that began to the right of the shed. The ground was damp, and there were nettles on either side.

At the end of the path were the fishponds, five of them constructed in rows with several feet of grass between each. Martin and Anne could see all the way down to the end.

They moved to the edge of the first pond and looked into the water. The surface was calm, mirroring the sky's moving clouds; it was only after their eyes had adjusted to the light that they could see down into the dark water. The fish stood still. Once in a while there was one that moved, and the silver-colored fins and white belly shot a spark of sunlight back up through the dark-green water.

—Trout, Martin said. Let's see what's in the next one.

Anne stayed where she was and looked down into the water.

—Martin, she said.

—Yeah?

—Let's go. I don't like this place.

—Hold on a minute.

Martin walked to the edge of the next pond. Here the fish were packed in tighter. He strained his eyes to see the bottom, but he couldn't.

Then he went back to Anne.

—That was trout too, he said.

—I don't know what it is, she said. I think it's too quiet here.

—That's all right, he said.

They walked back along the path, and this time she walked ahead of him. Martin snapped off a long blade of grass and tickled her arm with it just above the elbow. Anne drew her arm back. He tickled her again, and again she moved her arm away. Then he tossed the grass down.

They came out on the driveway and walked over to the car. Anne stopped suddenly. There was something on the hood of the car: a plum, a fat purple plum. Martin walked over. He picked up the plum and looked around. There were no trees nearby. The door to the farmhouse was closed, and the door to the smokehouse stood half-open, as before.

—Come on, Anne said. Let's go.

Martin set the plum on the truck's running board and unlocked the car. They sat down and closed the doors.

—Must've been some kids, Martin said.

They drove back along the gravel driveway and then onto the asphalt road. They drove past the pine farm, past the cornfield, and over the creek and in between the hills. Finally they were on the main road.

—Martin, Anne said, after they'd driven for a little while.

—Yeah?

—I don't think I can keep this up much longer. We've got to do something soon. We've got to make a decision.

—Yeah, Martin said.

He looked at the dashboard clock and then again at the oncoming road. A moment later he turned and looked at Anne.

—Yeah, he said.