Sleet: Selected Stories

A moment later, when the record was over, she turned to Håkan.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if we played it one more time. I’m sure it could stand that much.”

They listened to it another time. And later on, when they took off their clothes for the evening, she put it on yet another time, somewhat unknowingly, as if it had happened on accident. In the middle of the night Håkan awoke from a rainbow dream. The room was empty, but from the kitchen he could hear his own unfamiliar voice. He fell back to sleep with her song in his ears. The next night they heard the record four more times, and each time somewhat unintentionally.

One Friday in March they stepped off a train in the village. It smelled of smoke and melting snow. No one met them at the station, but Håkan’s mother told him that was only natural, considering all the preparations they had to make for the party. It was slippery on the road, and they had to walk a very long way. Håkan wanted to carry the suitcase, but she wouldn’t let him. However, along the way she began to feel palpitations and was no longer able to manage it on her own. From there on he would have to carry it — but only if he was very, very careful. Inside was the record, wrapped up in thick layers of newspaper, like a poor man’s only eggs.

No one was standing on the porch when they got there. They had always done that when his father was alive. Håkan and his mother stepped right into the kitchen. At the table sat his grandfather with a newspaper spread out in front of him. His aunt was standing by the stove, stirring a big pot. His grandfather looked up from the paper and his aunt let the ladle slip from her hand.

“If it ain’t the widow,” said Håkan’s grandfather. “What you got in the bag? Not a present, I’ll bet.”

He went back to his reading, as if he had already forgotten they were there. Håkan’s aunt nodded to them and then took up the ladle again. They stood abandoned in the middle of the room. Håkan watched his mother’s eyes wander nervously about the kitchen, from the potted plants to the copper pots and pans. It was the fifth year she looked like a widow, dressed in black, thin and alone. Suddenly she looked down at Håkan with a conspiratory pleasure in her eyes.

“It’s a surprise,” she said.

But only Håkan heard her.

“You can start with the floor in the living room,” said his aunt. “And Håkan, he can go out to the woodshed.”

Late in the evening Håkan’s mother came out to him in the woodshed. She put her hand on the axe, sat down on the chopping block, and ran her fingers through his hair. She said nothing. She was dressed like a scrubwoman. She brushed the wood chips off his shirt.

That night they slept on the same couch in the tiny back room. When they were finally alone, late in the evening, she unpacked the suitcase and stood for a while under the lamp, holding the record tenderly in her hands.

They were up early the next morning, stringing garlands from the living room ceiling. A little while later the church organist stopped by with a few of the local farmers, and they presented Håkan’s grandfather with a silver-handled cane. They sat in the living room, drinking coffee and brandy. As they were getting ready to leave at ten o’clock, a few of the men helped Håkan’s grandfather over to the couch. Just then Håkan’s aunt turned to his mother.

“And what about your surprise?” she asked bluntly.

“We’ll wait till tonight,” his mother replied. She gave Håkan a quick wink.

That night the relatives arrived in cars from Uppsala and Gävle. The farmers who lived a long ways off came in yellow horse-drawn wagons. The bank clerk came and the store manager came, and in a short time the house was filled with laughter, talk, and the smell of food. Håkan stayed out in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and drying glasses. His mother ran between the living room and the kitchen with warm food and china. At one point, the store manager made a speech which tempted them out of the kitchen. They stood in the doorway, listening and watching. The store manager was already a little drunk and his voice seemed to lose itself in his throat. With a little trouble he pulled out a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and presented it to the septuagenarian. Håkan’s grandfather wept in silence, a few small tears dropping stealthily into his brandy snifter. Next one of the tenant farmers talked, and then the bank clerk and the relatives from Uppsala and Gävle. Håkan’s mother nudged him in the side suggestively; soon it would be their turn.

The store manager had brought along a phonograph. It was sitting on the dresser next to the radio. Without drawing any attention to himself, Håkan smuggled the record over there. When they met in the dark, empty hallway, his mother whispered to him.

“Wait till after the coffee,” she said. “I’ll give you a nod.”