Sleet: Selected Stories

Lord God! The size of Lydia! I just can’t understand how she could let herself go like that. She’s gotten so fat since Mamma’s burial that she can barely get through the door. But in she comes anyway and plants her legs right in front of the old man’s bed, saying, “If you can’t get the clock going, Ulrik, then we can get Nils to do it. I’m sure he can sort it out. Nils is so good with mechanical instruments.” Nils being her fella, of course. She’s gotten so important she can’t call him Nisse like everybody else. Next time I see her, if I ever do again, he’ll probably be Mr. Johansson. Ulrik and I look at each other. If nothing else we’re in agreement over that: that clock’s gonna stay just the way it is — ain’t no way that clock’s getting wound again, least not till the old man is laid to rest.

I hear someone rustling up food in the kitchen. Turns out the farmer up the road has sent his oldest girl over to help Ulrik out for a few days, and I can see now that she’s a looker. Like Frida when she was at her best. I put my hand on her arm, sort of gently, while she’s standing there at the stove flipping pancakes, but Lydia’s eyes practically burn right out of her skull when I do that. The woman is too much. The girl don’t sit down to eat with us at the table. Instead she looks through a magazine off in the corner. A little brännvin wouldn’t be out of place with the meal, but the radio fella, he don’t look much like he’s up for it, so I decide to keep the thought to myself. Nobody says a word while we’re eating. Seems like nobody’s got the nerve. Finally I say it’s a hell of a nice car Nils has got for himself.

And Nils, he lights right up at that. So a little nip might not be out of the question after all. But then that goddamn Lydia pisses all over that fire before it has much chance to catch. She thinks I’m trying to pull his chain or something.

“Not all folks spend every last penny they make on liquor,” she says. “That’s why some people can afford to get nice things now and then.”

That one I just have to take on the chin, even though I haven’t said a single thing about drinking since I set foot in the house. I’ve been shamed before, plenty of times, but never in front of an outsider like that. That’s a hell of a way to treat your own! The girl don’t look up from her magazine, but she took it in alright. You can tell. So here I’m getting an early taste of what kind of hell it’s gonna be to be stuck here a whole evening with this crew. I could fire back at Lydia and ask her who it was that sent the old man money for dipping tobacco for eight long years, who it was that sent Mamma dresses when she was in need. And if anybody feels like taking account, I’m more than ready to draw up the ledger. But it ain’t worth riling things up like that. It would never end.

After dinner I head down to where Ulrik stashed the wreath box in the cellar. There’s a few more of them on the cellar floor. Ulrik’s own and Lydia’s. And Lena, she sent one too. Not like I want to be small about it or anything, but the one Lydia and Nisse bought is a shitty little excuse for a wreath. Couldn’t even spend some money on a decent ribbon, from the looks of it. Ulrik’s is a real farmer’s wreath, but that just goes to show what you can get around the village here compared to the little market town. Lena only sent flowers, but they’re pretty ones. Can’t hold that against her, stuck in a sanitorium for almost half a year now. She’s got no way of paying for a wreath. There’s nothing here from our little brother Tage, but I’m sure he’ll be carrying his with him when he comes on the night train tonight. Then there’s Mamma. I’m probably the only one that’s thought about her. I got her a little bouquet of flowers. I take it out of the box now, ’cause I mean to bring it to her at the churchyard this evening. From the bag I grab a three-quarter-pint bottle of brännvin, the good stuff, and stick it in my jacket. Not like I’m going to visit Doughboy or anything, but you never know what old friends you might run into when you’re out and about, and it’s nice if you have a little something you can offer them.

When I get back upstairs they’re all sitting there at the table like they’re in church. The poor neighbor girl is washing up with nobody lifting a finger to help her. So I grab a dish towel to help her dry stuff off. “Don’t bother with the charade,” Lydia says. “So many stories about you have made the rounds hereabouts, there ain’t a self-respecting girl in the parish would accept the kind of help you’re ready to offer!” And this girl counts herself among the pure of heart, I guess, ’cause her face flushes deep red, and she yanks the towel away from me with a short “No thank you!” And I’m left standing there like an ass. God only knows what they’ve been saying about me while I was in the cellar.

Anyways, I tell them I’m heading off to pay Mamma’s grave a visit with my flowers. But I can see right away this troubles Lydia.