Sleet: Selected Stories

It happens one summer afternoon to me and Siri and Sixten. There’s a firestorm raging on the sun this summer, so hot and dry the yellow grass burns underfoot. Still, we’d rather let it burn our soles than wear our wooden shoes. The river is down, the well running dry, and on the horizon the woods are ablaze, a great plume of white smoke forming the one and only cloud in a clear summer sky. The grain withers in the heat and the dusty fields smolder each time there is the littlest breeze. The road is full of cows nuzzling muzzles to the gravel, lowing desperately from thirst. They should be in the woods, but there’s no water there, so they’ve come drifting back homeward in the middle of the day, their bells clanging sorrowful chimes in the heat. That same morning we’d driven them into the woods ourselves with pride, cowboys with birch-switch whips saddled clumsily on oversize bikes we’ve borrowed from the men. We let them back into the yard as we begin hoisting up pails of water from the well.

Just a bit later, as the cows are crowding around the troughs near the well, we look out over the manure heap between the stable and the barn and see a beautiful shiny car making its way down the road in the distance, a long train of dust rising behind it. We love to watch fine cars drive past. So to get a better look we run out to the shoulder of the road and line up just outside the gate, the three of us there step together at attention. The shiny hood gleams. The engine hums. On the roof is a great silver trunk. We once rode in a car. It was to a funeral. As the car gets closer, we can see from the plate that it’s from Stockholm. We’ve never been there, but we’ve heard about it. And then just as the car is practically on top of us we suddenly hear the sound of hooves against gravel. We have forgotten to close the gate and Rosa, that stupid heifer, comes clomping right out into the road. We stand there stunned and petrified, bearing dumb witness to what we can’t keep from happening. The Stockholmer at the wheel probably does all that he can do to avoid it, but then — scratch! — the cow’s horn scrapes the fine lacquered finish right off the door.

We ought to run now. Our leg muscles clench in anticipation and we want to bolt, but we can’t. It’s like we’re paralyzed, nailed in place, our eyes locked on the car as it skids to a halt right in front of us. The trailing cloud of dust settles, and then there’s nothing left to hide behind. The scratch from Rosa’s horn grows and grows under our gaze. A long moment passes without as much as a squeak. The scratch swells. We’re not doing anything, but we break out in a sweat all the same. Through the car window the Stockholmer is probably staring at us, though we can’t bring ourselves to raise our eyes to his. Our gaze sinks lower and lower, losing itself in the gravel under the car. Then the Stockholmer climbs out. He’s tall and is wearing a white suit. The car door slams. Now he moves out to the middle of the road and just stands there in his white shoes, which is all we can bring ourselves to look at. We have never seen shoes like them before. As they step around the car in the gravel, a wisp of dust whirls up. And suddenly they turn away from us.

It’s not until then that we dare to look up at him. The Stockholmer turns his back to us and crooks his head so that he can get a better look at the scratch. He says nothing, just throws his back to us. That’s what’s so odd, so hard to grasp. It’s like we’re not there. The Stockholmer moves two steps back in our direction, so that he can have a fuller view of the scratch, we figure. And still we’re not there. He nearly steps on us. We have to duck away a bit to the side and scrunch right up along the fence to keep from getting stepped on. We’re terrified as usual that a trashing is coming our way, but what we fear even more, what terrifies us most of all, is the possibility that the Stockholmer won’t even acknowledge us, that somehow we don’t really exist.