Sleet: Selected Stories

I flash him a small smile and get out. Doughboy’s place is looking pretty good now. New armchairs in the living room and there’s new clay tiles on the roof, he says, instead of that cheap shingling you see everywhere. And he picked up a gramophone somewhere in the city. Not from that prick Nisse, in other words. The cushion in the chair is so soft I sink damn near up to my ears when I sit down. Doughboy puts on a record and I figure it’s best to let it finish playing before I say anything. Only there’s a few songs on it, so it takes a while. Meanwhile he puts a couple glasses out on the little table and goes and gets a bottle of whisky from the cabinet. I don’t want to hold back my share, so I pull the little bottle of brännvin out of my jacket. His eyes open wide when he sees it’s the good stuff.

“Now, Doughboy,” I say. “Well, you see—”

But the words get stuck in my throat. I just can’t blurt things out and start talking about the old man like that. Maybe it’s better if I just sit here for a little bit and build up to it after I let things settle.

Up with your hand! And up it goes as Doughboy unscrews the bottle cap and leans forward to fill the glasses. I give him the sign, clear as day — stop! I did not come here to drink. So if Lydia is sitting around at home with that goddamn radio dealer, not to mention Ulrik and the neighbor girl, all of them clicking their tongues and shaking their heads, pissing and moaning about Knut going off to get liquored up with that whiskey-soaked Doughboy, then they can just think again! They’ve always had a low opinion of me, as if you can’t collect trash for a living and still be a decent person. Let them talk all the shit they want about me. What do I care?

“What?” Doughboy says. “You mean to say you ain’t even gonna have some of your own brännvin with me?”

“I’m not in the mood for it,” I say to him.

But then he tells me it’ll be quite a letdown if that’s how I plan to show my appreciation for his hospitality. Last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings, of course, ’specially not after all he’s done. I mean, looking after the old man like he did right after the accident. So I go ahead and agree to have a drink with Doughboy and cheer his health. But the glass he pours is awful big. So I won’t be having more than the one. Two at most.

It’s a pretty goddamn nice place he’s got! Done a lot with it since I was here last. Then he only had a heavy iron bed and a few wooden chairs. Wonder if he remembers the ten-crown note he owes me. Maybe I should ask about the old man now. Goddamn gramophone won’t stop blaring, though, so I figure I can hold off a little longer. That woman of his ain’t anywhere to be seen.

So I ask him where she is, just to get things going a bit before I bring up the old man. But Doughboy, he flies off the handle then.

“She left!” he tells me. “Didn’t leave me for nobody else. Went back to live with her folks, up there in Medelpad. Went around telling people all I did was drink after winning the lottery. And then one goddamn day, out of the blue — or one night, actually — I get home here and there ain’t nothing but a note on the kitchen table. Not a scrap of food in the house! Jesus Christ, I get so goddamn mad just thinking about it!”

Doughboy stops for a few seconds and his eyes fill up. “I’m all on my own now,” he says, and then he breaks down. Big as he is, he just looks at his hands and cries.

All of a sudden I feel pretty bad for him. He ain’t a bad fella. So I pour him a new glass. And I take a little for myself, mostly to keep him from getting bluer. All that about what happened to the old man — well, it’s just gonna have to wait. Not like I can trouble him with that right now. He’s got his head buried in his arms on the table. “Cheer up there, fella,” I say. “You and me ain’t seen each other since we buried my Mamma. So come on. Let’s have a drink together.” To comfort him, I take another slug, ’cause he really ain’t a bad fella, Doughboy, when you get right down to it.

“She even took the dog with her!” he says. “So who wouldn’t get furious?”

He’s got a point there. It’s a hell of a thing to go and take a man’s dog.

“You,” he says. “You’re lucky. Grieving for somebody who’s dead, that’s alright. But to grieve for somebody that’s alive. That’s about the worst thing I can think of.”

Well, so much for talking to him about the old man, least for the time being. He’s gonna have to settle down first. But that’s looking kind of hopeless right now, the way the tears start streaming down his cheeks.

“I think maybe we should just finish this bottle,” I say, trying to lift his spirits a bit. And then I empty out the rest of the brännvin and knock it right back, mostly to console him. It was a big shot, that last one, enough to do the trick for me. Not that I’m drunk or anything. The last thing I’m gonna do is give Lydia and the rest of them more ammo to snipe at me with.