Hell Fire (11 page)

“I can push,” Simon piped up from the back seat, undoing his seat belt.

“No,” she said. “That won't work. We'll have to think of something else.”

She got out of the car to have a look and it wasn't good. Maybe she could put something under the wheels, but what on earth would that be? Some planks would have done the trick, but she didn't have any. Disheartened, she looked up the road as the seconds ticked by. Then suddenly she had an idea and disappeared into the house. She had two rag rugs in the hall, which she now rolled up and carried outside. Simon looked on from the back seat. He didn't like it when his mother was upset; it scared him. Bonnie unrolled the rugs and put them down in front of the wheels. She tucked them under as well as she could and then got back in. She said a silent prayer and put the car in gear. She could feel immediately that there was traction, but it wasn't enough. Twice she tried, but the rag rugs were just pushed away, so she got out of the car again. She got the shovel that was on the step and bent down and pushed the rugs as far as she could under the tires. She used all the strength she had, swearing and cursing to herself. She threw the shovel down on the snow and tried again. It worked on the third attempt and she whooped with relief.

Once she'd dropped Simon off at daycare, she drove at top speed to Jørgen's tiny apartment. Jørgen was a small round man but was in good shape. His cheeks were incredibly smooth and he had lovely thick hair, and was always immaculately dressed in pants and a shirt. He got up at five every morning and made breakfast, and he cooked himself a warm meal every afternoon. He went to bed at around eight, after the news, and as far as Bonnie knew, he always slept well. Jørgen had a daughter who was seventy-five, who was now in a home. She had dementia and needed around-the-clock care. Every Friday he went to visit her. He took a taxi both ways and sometimes brought flowers that she didn't even notice. Jørgen had eight siblings, but they were all long since dead.

Because the apartment was so small and easy to keep clean and tidy, Bonnie had plenty of time to chat with him when she was finished. He was always happy to tell her about his life and experiences. He had driven a car, an old Lada 1500 S, until he was well over ninety, and he had never been ill. When he was sixteen, he went to sea as a deck boy on the
Flying Dutchman.
There was a painting of the ship over the sideboard. A very amateur piece, but the details were no doubt correct. Lovely boat, Bonnie said when he got to that part of his story. Then Jørgen told her about the sea serpent he claimed to have seen in the fjord several times, with its glowing red eyes and shark-like fins. This was followed by the story of the wolf. A poor maid had given birth to a daughter out of wedlock, and they lived in a small hut in the forest far from any neighbors. She frequently trudged down to the nearest farms, wearing a long skirt that covered her skinny legs and bare feet. And as a rule she got work, so they managed to survive by eating berries, herring, and bread.

Jørgen paused here—as he always did—because he was getting close to the climax. Bonnie pretended to hold her breath, even though she'd heard the story many times before. Jørgen had his eye on her. He wanted to make sure she was listening.

One summer day when it was very warm, he said, she had filled a tub of water and put it out on the grass. She put the little girl in the water to cool off and went back into the house to make some food. As she stood in the kitchen, she heard the little girl scream. She ran out of the house to see what was wrong. To her horror, she saw that a great wolf had come sneaking out of the forest and pulled the little girl from the tub and was eating her.

“Oh my goodness,” Bonnie said, “that's terrible!”

“Isn't it?” Jørgen agreed. “The mother lost her mind and was never the same again,” he concluded. He twiddled his thumbs in his lap, very pleased with his story. He never tired of telling it to anyone who would listen. Bonnie always shuddered in a special way. Jørgen's words conjured up gruesome images in her mind, and even though she doubted that the story was true, it was still a glimpse into another time. She thanked him for his thrilling tale.

“You're so good at telling stories. I can picture it all so clearly.”

She got up and went over to the countertop, where he had left a modest shopping list for her. She drove to the grocery store and bought milk, bread, and cheese. She drove back, stopped at the mailbox, and took the newspaper and shopping into the house and put the milk in the fridge.

When she was finished for the day, she went out to the car and called Britt. She wanted to thank her for such a lovely evening and say that all was well. She told her about the episode with the car and said that she had to go home now and clear the snow. She picked Simon up from daycare, put on his winter clothes, exchanged a few words with Kaja, and then drove home to Blåkollen. She parked on the road, not daring to drive up to the house. She rolled up the rag rugs and took them back into the hall.

“Well, they've certainly been aired now,” she said to Simon. “You go into your jungle and I'll come as soon as I'm done.”

Clearing snow was never fun, but fortunately they only had a short driveway. It had never crossed her mind to buy a small snowblower. Not that she could afford one anyway—it was out of the question. When she had finished, she leaned the shovel against the wall and went inside. They sat on the sofa and read
Where the Wild Things Are.
As Simon was about to go to bed, the doorbell rang. This alarmed Bonnie because it was so seldom that anyone came. If it was a salesman, she'd have to turn him away. She put the book down on the table and went to open the door. To her astonishment, she found Britt standing on the front step. She was holding something heavy.

Bonnie stood with her mouth open. “What on earth have you got there?”

“I talked to Jens,” Britt said. “And he suggested we buy you a set of snow chains. Here you are. Now you won't get stuck anymore.”

THE WALKS WITH
Shiba got shorter and shorter, and every time Eddie went to the mailbox he was worried that he might bump into Ansgar. He would always make some sarcastic remark and Eddie was painfully aware that people talked about him. The slow, fat boy who lived with his mom. Shiba went no farther than around the corner, and then she squatted on the snow to do what was expected of her. He couldn't be bothered to pick up after her. He never did, and they gossiped about that too. He walked along the road hatching plans. He was always thinking about his dead father; in fact, he was always thinking about death, because it was such a great mystery to him. That one day all his thoughts would disappear, his body would be cold and white, and he would be buried in the ground. And that all the creepy-crawlies that lived underground would eat him. But clairvoyants can contact the dead, he thought. He decided that he would find one of those clairvoyants; he'd seen them on the television. He'd also heard stories about the dead visiting their nearest and dearest in the form of a voice or a gray light or a movement in the room. He hadn't heard anything from his dad, which disappointed him. It was as though he'd meant nothing to him because he'd never bothered to show himself. Not even once.

“How was she?” Mass asked when he got back. She was worried about the dog.

“Not good,” Eddie replied. He was standing in the hall with his jacket on. His heavy boots were wet with snow. Mass had said he should get them waterproofed.

“I have to borrow the car,” he said with force.

Mass looked at her son, alarmed. He practically never asked for the car. He didn't like driving; he had managed to pass his test, despite some hesitation, on the fourth attempt after fifty hours of driving lessons. And now he wanted to go out in the car, on the icy roads. Heavens above. She gave him the keys somewhat reluctantly and looked at him solemnly.

“You will take it easy now, won't you?” she said. “Where are you going? Are you just going for a drive?”

“I'm going to the church,” Eddie declared. “Up at Haugane. I like going there.”

Mass couldn't imagine what the point of that was, but then her son was a riddle that she only partially understood. “Don't be too long. And only use the low gears.”

He slammed the door shut and struggled with the gate, which was heavy and creaked at the hinges. Mass had folded the side mirrors in as she always did to get more room, as the space was tight. He put the car into gear and reversed out. Before he turned onto the road, he looked at the two side mirrors. He couldn't remember how to open them again, it was so long since he had last driven. He thought it was a button, maybe between the seats. After a bit of trial and error, he managed. He put on the left blinker and pulled out onto the road. Mass had had the snow tires put on, so he felt safe. Still he drove no faster than fifty and he was in control. It took him twenty minutes to get there. As he drove, he thought about his father, Anders, and how nice it would be if he were buried at Haugane. Then he could go to the grave every week with flowers and candles.

He parked outside the gate and sat for a while, staring out through the windshield. The church was quite small, a pretty whitewashed color with a modest spire. On the other side of the square stood a chapel with arched windows, and behind that, the parsonage with two large outbuildings and a big barn. The priest, Oscar Berg, whom he sometimes met in the store, lived in the parsonage, and was always friendly. He even remembered Shiba and always said to say hello to his mother. Eddie left the keys in the ignition. He had parked beside a Toyota, which he thought was familiar. On the wall beside the gate, he saw a green metal sign, “Commonwealth War Graves.” He went through the heavy wrought-iron gate and straight over to the ten military graves by the chapel. They were all pilots. He had often stood by their graves because there was something dramatic about their demise. He studied the white stones, each decorated with an eagle in flight and surrounded by a circle with a crown, and some words he couldn't understand.

Per Ardua ad Astra.
The pilots were British and had been killed on April 9, 1940, the start of the Nazi occupation. The oldest of them was thirty and the youngest only twenty-one, the same age as Eddie. Their planes had been shot down by the Germans. He thought about them coming here to save this little country in the far north. He walked from grave to grave, standing awhile in front of each stone, as though to honor them. I see you, he said quietly in his mind. Then he read the solemn words that were carved there.

What we know not now we shall know hereafter.

Memories live longer than dreams.

He giveth his beloved sleep.

His sun went down while it was yet day.

God gave and God had taken.

Then he turned his back on them and went over to the church. This one had been built in 1851, but there had in fact been a church there since the Middle Ages, dedicated to Saint Hallvard and Saint Margaret. Eddie had learned that at school. He'd done all right there actually, simply because he had a good memory. He walked on to the big tree by the water spigot. The tree had stood there for a long time, but now it was dying. The dry, thick trunk was hollow and opened up to the sky. He couldn't resist going inside; there was just enough room. He lifted his head and looked up, noticing heavy clouds that warned of more snow. As he stood there like this, musing, he heard footsteps crunching on the snow. A dark shadow appeared in front of the opening.

“Are you playing hide-and-seek, Eddie?” he heard.

Ansgar peered in at him with a mocking smile. Eddie pushed his way out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He didn't know what to say and his neighbor was clearly expecting an answer.

“Do you know someone who's buried here, Eddie?” he probed.

But Eddie didn't. His father was buried in Copenhagen and his maternal grandparents were buried at Geirastadir Church. He went there on Christmas Eve with his mother to light candles and decorate the graves with a wreath of pine branches, baubles, and cones. In the springtime, she planted pansies and watered and weeded to keep it looking nice.

“I've got an old friend here,” he mumbled.

Ansgar nodded, satisfied. “I see,” he said. “Well, it's good to have friends.”

Eddie wanted to get past him and away; he stepped down onto one of the well-trodden paths.

“How's Shiba?” Ansgar called after him.

“Fine, thanks,” Eddie lied. He walked with long strides around to the back of the church. When he ventured out again a few minutes later, the Toyota was gone. Damn him. Sticking his nose into everything. Idiot. I'm going to kill that bastard.

The old gravestones were always the best, tall and beautifully decorated. He studied the dates of birth and death, and worked out in his head how old they'd been. There were kneeling angels on some stones and little birds on others. On one of them, it just said Martin and Helene, with no dates. The stone was shiny and black, like an arrow into heaven. Waldemar Enger, who was buried not far away, had a beautiful text.
Peace be with your dust.
I want something like that, Eddie thought, and walked on. He found the grave of a baby boy, only three months old. What a sad story, he thought, but I bet they had another baby. He certainly hoped so. Charles Østbye, the old priest, had a healthy juniper bush leaning over his grave.

He went back to the parking lot and stood for a long time looking at the high birch trees that edged the church and chapel. Fourteen in all. Now they only sported sharp, bare branches, but in spring they wore a delicate green. He looked at the path that led up to the church, lined by eight maple trees on each side. He sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. This is where I'm going to be buried, he thought, and fantasized again about what would be carved on his gravestone.