Rock, Paper, Scissors. Naja Marie Aidt

face in many years. Outside it was cold, but the western sky was soft pink, golden. The bushes shivered when they walked toward the road. Thomas had taken the package containing his father’s possessions from the cell; they’d just handed it to him, without asking whether he wanted it or not. He could have chucked the whole thing in the garbage can on the way home, but the package now lay at the bottom of the bedroom closet, on top of his shoes. He’d first realized he had it when he got home. Later he’d opened it and found the pathetic dirty magazines, the notebook with telephone numbers sloppily scratched in, and the watch with the worn leather strap—which the old man had owned for as long as Thomas could remember. Every time he raised his arm to smack him or Jenny, or just raised his arm threateningly, pretending he was going to hit them—which was almost worse than the punch itself—he’d seen the reflection of light on the face of the watch and tried to tell what time it was. As a way of shielding himself. Like whistling when you were being beaten. Or reciting a verse in your head when you were being yelled at by the teacher, in front of everyone. Later he sang pop songs to himself, but around his sixteenth birthday nothing worked anymore, and so he began to fight back. Though he was taller and bigger than his father by the last year he lived with him, his father was almost always superior, except the one incredible time when Thomas had managed to haul him down to the floor and sit on his chest staring directly into his eyes, hissing: You will never hit me again, you bastard. He was agitated by so many emotions that he nearly lost his breath. As well as a strong desire to cling to his father’s body, to feel his arms around him: tears, love. Their father had only smiled and shook his head, clucking his tongue. And Thomas stood and walked to his room. The next day he ran away from home.

      Wind rips at the enormous white tarpaulins covering the façade of the adjacent building. He still has no desire to return to Patricia, but he can’t stay out here. A woman opens a window on the second floor. He meets her glance for a moment, then her face disappears behind a checkered cloth that she shakes out vigorously. Crumbs and fluff billow in the air like snow. He takes the elevator up and carries the grocery bags into the apartment. The bathroom door opens, and Patricia exits with a towel around her head. “I’m sorry,” he says.

      “Every time you walk through that door you say ‘I’m sorry’.”

      “I know,” he says.

      “Did you go to the store?”

      “Just picked up a few things.” He turns and grabs the bags and walks down the hall. He gives her a quick peck on the cheek as he passes by; she smells like fresh laundry, but there’s also this hint of earthiness, of wet soil, which he always finds off-putting. He sets the bags on the kitchen table and checks his cellphone. Jenny has called several times. She’s sent three text messages: “please can’t you help me?” and “I’ll take it to the shop then” and a half-hour ago: “aunt k called.” He hears Patricia setting up the ironing board in the living room. With the phone in his hand he opens the bedroom door. It’s cool and dark in here. He sits on the bed. His clock ticks faintly. He doesn’t want to call. After a short time, Jenny answers, out of breath: “What do you want?”

      “What’s up with the toaster?”

      “It doesn’t work.”

      “Why are you obsessed with it? Why do you want that old piece of shit? Why are you harassing me?”

      “Am I harassing YOU? I think you’re harassing me. Why won’t you help me?”

      “Don’t waste your money taking it to the shop, that’s crazy. Don’t waste your money on him.”

      “He’s dead. It’s my toaster now.”

      “Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds, Jenny?”

      “Should I hang up now? Stop it, Alice, I’m on the phone!”

      “What’s she doing?”

      “Badgering me for money. Won’t you just look at it?”

      “Only if you tell me why you’re so obsessed with it. Why didn’t you take a painting instead? Or Grandma’s dishes?”

      Patricia stands in the doorway, a stack of creased shirts over her arm, and looks at him sharply. Then she leaves.

      “Because,” Jenny sighs, her voice softening. “That is, because, you know, it meant a lot to me when I was a child. When we made toast. We lived on bread, Thomas. It was magical to me, it could make plain things interesting. Toasted bread was fragrant and tasty, especially if we had butter or jam. I know it’s nostalgic. But it’s a good memory. For me, at least.”

      Now it’s Thomas who sighs. “A good memory. Do you really mean that?”

      “Yes.” Long silence. “I’d like to hold onto that good memory.”

      “It sounds like you’ve taken a course on positive thinking.”

      “I haven’t. I’m just thinking that I might as well make the best out of it.”

      “Out of what?”

      “Well—I don’t know. Everything.” They fall silent. He hears Alice clattering in the background, and a television. Jenny clears her throat.

      “Okay,” he says. “I’ll look at it. Will you be home in an hour and a half?”

      “I’m always home, Thomas.”

      They hang up, and he sits staring at his shoes. Then he stands and walks back to the kitchen. While he puts his groceries in the fridge, Patricia comes in. She says, “You seem very strange.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Because that’s what I think.”

      “Are you trying to start a fight?”

      “No.”

      “Have I done something wrong?”

      “No. But you seem strange.”

      “Oh, Patricia. Stop. I’m just not quite myself.”

      “How so?”

      “Restless. Odd.”

      “What do you mean ‘odd’?”

      “Claustrophobic.”

      “Claustrophobic? Do you want to talk about it?”

      He looks out the window. “I’m going over to Jenny’s soon. I promised I’d help her with something.”

      “I’m going with you.”

      “You don’t have to do that. I won’t be long. We can see a film later.”

      “Don’t you want me to come with you?”

      “That’s not what I meant.”

      “Well, then I’m coming with you.” Patricia gives him a look, challenging him to tell her she can’t come. Her eyes bore into his. “It’s been a long time since I saw Jenny and Alice.” Thomas glances at the floor. And so Patricia gives up her ironing and goes with him. The sky’s blue, and the green river water reflects the treetops and the silhouettes of houses. The train screeches slowly southward, out toward the suburbs that form a broad and frayed ring around the city: public housing high-rises and wide swaths of rundown row houses, body shops, storage sheds. Huge factories surrounded by barbed-wire fence, smaller industrial plants. A junkyard here, a warehouse with a big wind-swept parking lot there, a lumberyard, then more of the tall cement towers where people are crammed together beneath ceilings thick with asbestos, the best of which have access to a boxlike balcony. Though she’s now on a sugar-free diet, Patricia has bought an apple pie. She squeezes his hand. They walk through the streets where young men hang out in front of delis and fast food joints. A whiff of beer and smoke wafts from the bars; they pass the shopping plaza with the movie theater, where people stand in line at the ticket window. A gaggle of women scowl at Patricia when she stops to pick up her silk scarf. The elevator rocks threateningly. It snails its way up to the eighth floor. It smells of piss here.