Milk (3 page)

 

Hair

 

M
ette
is standing on the scale brushing her teeth. Frands is watching the needle tremble in rhythm with her movements. She steps off the scale, her back to him, and goes to the sink. He sees her expressionless face in the mirror. In her left hand she gathers up her hair, bends forward, and spits a jet of pink foam into the sink. Then she puts down the toothbrush and looks up. Frands' first impulse is to avoid catching her glance in the mirror, but he forces himself not to.

—Mette, he says.

She walks past him and into the hall.

For a moment, he's left with his own reflection. Then he follows her into the bedroom. She's already in bed, her face to the wall. He stands at the window looking out. A car is parked under a streetlight and he can see two people sitting inside. He can't tell whether it's anyone they know.

—Mette?

—Stop saying my name.

—Listen to me, he says.

—I
have
forgiven you. Let's not talk about it anymore.

—Okay, he says.

Frands sees the neighbor's daughter exit the car and walk toward the house. Before she opens the front door, she turns and waves. The car starts and slowly begins to roll away. Lights snap on in the house, and he follows her journey from room to room. Finally, the only light on in the house is on the top floor, to the right.

—Then sleep well.

—Where are you going? she asks.

—I'm just going to have a drink. Then I'll be up.

Frands goes downstairs and sits on the couch. The bottle of cognac is on the coffee table. He warms the glass in his hand for a while before he drinks. The liquid feels soft in his mouth. There's a slimy gray clump in the center of the table, residue from the washing machine's filter. He pulls a long black hair from the clump and lays it beside the others Mette has already pulled out. He drains his glass and refills it. It's warm in the living room.

He takes his glass and the bottle and goes out to his studio. He sits on a stool. Through the skylight he can trace the outline of the pear trees' upper branches, which reach over the house. There's no moon, yet a small glow of light is still thrown though the large window frames. He can see his granite towering in the center of his studio, unfinished, more stone than sculpture. And he can see all of the small figures—Mette calls them children—many of them just as unfinished.

Frands stands and goes out to the yard. Yellow apples lie in the grass. He walks into the garage looking for something to sit on and finds an old recliner. With some effort he hauls it outside. He sits facing the house and takes a nip from the bottle. He lets his eyes wander over the house's whitewashed façade. Even in the half-dark it seems stained and porous, and he can see spots where the plaster has been cracked by frost. The real estate agent had talked for a long time about how charming the house was. An artist villa, he'd called it. With space for children. It was exactly what they were looking for, Mette had said.

Frands lets his eyes wander up toward the bedroom, sees the curtains have yet to be drawn closed. Just then there's a noise in the shrubbery behind the garage. He glares into the tangled darkness. A short while later the neighbor's cat pops out from the bush further up, near the house. He tries to lure the cat to him by hissing at it, but it crosses the yard and disappears in the tall grass on the other side.

When he glances up again, he sees Mette in the window. She stands completely motionless, her arms resting at her side, gazing out as if she's in a trance. Frands gets the feeling she's staring at a point far in the distance. He considers getting up or waving, but the longer he waits, the more awkward it feels. Ten minutes pass, maybe more, then she steps back and draws the curtains closed. Relieved, he sinks back into the chair. He can hear the train rattle toward the city. He lifts the bottle and leans his head back.

Frands has almost emptied the bottle when his eyes slide shut. Immediately, the image of his neighbor's house appears in his mind. He sees the windows light up one after the other and hears the daughter humming while she walks through the house. Her humming rises in intensity as she walks, grows more disharmonious, uneven; halfway up the stairs she breaks into song. By the time she snaps on the light in the last room, she's screaming.

 

T
he sky is getting light when Frands opens his eyes. With difficulty he rises from the chair. He can feel the cold in his bones and makes his way, stiff-legged, toward the house. He grabs the doorknob and realizes it's locked. He takes a few steps backward and looks up toward the dormer. The curtains are still closed. Then he remembers which way he came. He walks around to the side of the house where the door of his studio is ajar.

Mette doesn't react when he crawls under the duvet. He has kept his clothes on and stares up at the ceiling; the light in the room is pale and gray. Slowly he warms up.

—Is it someone I know? Mette asks suddenly.

Frands hesitates a moment.

—No, he says.

—What's her name?

—Kate, he says.

—Is she beautiful?

Frands hesitates again.

—Yes, he says. She's beautiful.

 

 

Unsettled

 

T
obias
had sent five poems to his old teacher. They were very short and had been published in a literary journal. One of them was about the moon: a man had been unfaithful to his wife and he cursed at the moon because he felt guilty every time he looked at it.

A few weeks later his old teacher called him. He had moved, he explained, and invited Tobias to come visit him.

When the day arrived, Tobias borrowed his sister's car and drove away from the city. It was in the afternoon. The sun was low on the horizon, and the cars cast long shadows. On the highway he drove west, and after twenty-five miles he changed direction heading north and continued on increasingly smaller roads. He had studied the map carefully and found his destination without great difficulty: it was a little white house that lay at the foot of a hill.

He parked the car to the right of the house, and Erik came out and greeted him. They shook hands and remained standing a moment looking out over the fields. Erik was tall and thin; Tobias only reached his shoulders.

—It's beautiful here, Tobias said. His teacher turned his head and smiled at him. He was tanned. His eyes were narrow; his blue irises hung in a net of small veins.

—Come on in, he said.

In the kitchen the table was set, and they sat down. Erik poured tea and offered Tobias a piece of honey cake from an oval plate. Tobias caught a glimpse of his poems on the counter in front of the breadbox.

Erik asked what he was up to, and Tobias explained that he'd dropped out of the university; that he was at work on a collection of poems. Erik told him he'd retired five years earlier.

—I was lucky, he said.

He'd retired because of back problems, but a year later he'd had an operation.

—I got a chance to start a new life.

He went on telling Tobias how he'd found the house, and how the deal was made; Tobias drank his tea and glanced now and then at the breadbox.

After some time, Erik rose and placed his cup in the sink.

—Let me show you around, he said.

The house was sparsely furnished. In the living room there was a loveseat and a coffee table. The second floor was divided into two rooms of equal size. In the first a bed stood along one wall; in the other a telescope was set up under a skylight.

Tobias put an eye to the telescope and looked up into the blue spring sky.

—There's too much light, Erik said.

They put on their jackets and went out to the driveway.

—I'm planting flowers.

Erik made his way to the southern end of the house. There was a cardboard box with white and blue petunias inside, five of them already planted.

—Pretty, aren't they?

—Sure, Tobias said. Absolutely.

On the eastern side of the house was a little garden with a few fruit trees, and bordering the garden was a low stone wall. The grass was yellow, in some patches almost white. They went through an opening in the stone wall and walked along a path that ran near the foot of the hill. Tobias asked Erik what had happened to his book collection.

—I've sold it, Erik said, calmly.

He explained how he'd tried to donate it to several libraries, but none of them had any room for it. He'd made an offer to the county that they could buy his house and move the library there, but they'd politely declined. So he'd sold the collection to an antiquarian, and it had taken two men a whole week to empty the house.

They came to a green building behind the hill; it resembled a garage or a barn. The path edged closely past it, and Erik stopped and shoved the door open. He turned on the light. The room was about twenty by twenty feet, and, in the middle of the recently swept floor, underneath fluorescent bulbs, there was a ping pong table.

Tobias looked at his teacher.

On either end of the table lay a paddle; under one of the paddles was a ball.

—Do you want to play? Erik asked.

Tobias went over to the table. He took up the paddle and felt its weight in his hand. Erik had taken position on the opposite side of the table. He stood ready with the paddle and ball.

—Okay, Tobias said.

Erik played. His serve was short and low, and Tobias sent it directly into the net.

—1-0, Erik said.

He served again. This time Tobias struck the ball over the net, but it came back immediately.

—2-0, Erik said.

The third time Tobias managed to hit the ball a few times, but then Erik smashed the ball past him.

—3-0.

On the fourth and fifth serves Erik aced him, and then it was Tobias's turn. Erik stood in the same place and returned his serves.

—0-6.

—0-7.

—0-8.

—0-9.

—0-10.

—10-0, Erik said. Before long he'd won the match. Then they changed sides, and the same performance was repeated. Once or twice Tobias tried to start a conversation.

When they were out in the daylight again, Tobias was dripping with sweat. Erik closed the door, and Tobias looked at him.

—It was here when I moved in, he said.

The hill was behind them now, and they continued past the fields. Erik pointed at a utility pole where he had seen an owl. He pointed at a large farm a good distance away.

—That's my closest neighbor, he said.

They passed a cluster of tall trees, and then they came to a small lake. On the bank was a boat landing, but no boat.

They stood in silence and stared across the water.

—Lay down, Erik said.

Surprised, Tobias looked at him.

—You've got to see between the second and third boards.

Tobias glanced from the boat landing to Erik.

—Go ahead, Erik said.

Reluctantly, Tobias lay down on the cold landing. The green boards were slightly damp. He positioned himself so he could see between the second and third boards.

It was like looking through a piece of clear glass. The bottom was covered in rotten leaves. There were tangles of vegetation, and Tobias could see a long translucent string with small black eggs inside. He could see a yellow-brown mussel. Where it had inched along, it had left behind a thin, white trail in the sand. He raised his head and looked at Erik. Erik stood on the shore of the lake staring beneath the dock; he didn't look up, and Tobias sensed that Erik wanted him to be patient. So he stared at the water again.

He looked at the mussel. It had not moved. He traced its trail across the sandy bottom and then looked at the black fish eggs. A school of tiny fish flickered through his field of vision. They hovered right below him; they were almost transparent and their fins were tinged with red.

At that moment a huge fish glided beneath the dock. Tobias couldn't see the whole thing at once: only its gills and part of its back. Its skin was light green and dotted with yellow spots. It moved a bit, and a large round eye the size of a quarter came into view.

Tobias pulled back instinctively. He turned to get Erik's attention, but Erik wasn't there. Tobias got on his knees and scanned the lake. Then he bent forward slowly and looked at the water again.

The fish was still. Tobias stared at the black iris and the yellow-green circle around it. The eye didn't blink. He could make out a number of small, spiked teeth in the front of its mouth.

He rose. He moved onto the path searching for his teacher.

—Erik, he called.

No answer. Tobias walked along the sodden path.

He went to the other side of the lake and stood a moment looking toward the boat landing.

He called out again.

When he returned to the boat landing, the sky had begun to darken. He made his way back the same way they had come. He saw light in the neighbor's house; he shivered a little when he passed the darkened barn.

There were no lights on in Erik's house. Moving swiftly, Tobias went up to the front door. He grabbed at the doorknob and discovered that it was locked. He tried again; then he turned and walked to the car. He leaned against the driver's side door.

He couldn't have fallen in the lake, he thought.

He remained standing. In a little while the moon rose behind the hill. It was almost full and seemed unnaturally large. The light was so strong that he could see the box of flowers at the end of the house. He could see the stone wall and the path that led to the barn. The moon spilled light into the car, and Tobias spotted something white on the front seat. He opened the door and gathered up the five pages. They hadn't been touched. There were no corrections, no commentary. They hardly even appeared to have been read.

He climbed into the car and sat down.

He watched the house. Through the window on the second floor he could make out the telescope. He couldn't see Erik, but he knew he was there.

Then he started the car.