Milk(25)
Thomas had stood and waded through the shallow water a few steps ahead. Jon followed.
They hadn’t brought any towels. They grabbed their clothes and ran toward the house. The sand on the path was cool on their feet, and there was a smell of heather and resin in the air. They sprinted across the yard.
The towels hung on a clothesline drawn between two birch trees. They dried quickly, and pulled on their underwear and T-Shirts.
Before Jon opened the door to the house, he glanced at Thomas.
—Look, I’m sorry…
—It’s all right, Thomas said. No need to apologize.
—We’re going home tomorrow, Charlotte and I.
—Okay.
Jon opened the door and walked into the low-ceilinged living room.
—Sleep well, he said, before they parted.
Jon crawled into bed beside Charlotte. She turned in her sleep and clutched his thumb. He arranged his duvet and blanket with his free hand, and gradually he warmed up. From the bed he could make out the photograph of his father, which was hanging on the wall. The photo, set in a thin silver frame, had been taken down by the beach. He was wearing an Icelandic sweater and was looking directly at the camera. Before long Jon heard the bed squeal in the room next to his; then he heard a low, rhythmic moan. He couldn’t decide if it was coming from Vivian or his brother. After a while he realized it was coming from Vivian.
Chairs
Martha 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.