Falling Sideways (12 page)
Sara started smoking hash when Jytte was only eleven and moved away just a couple of years later, and she rarely came back to visit anymore. She lived in a collective in Århus, had shaved her head bald, and worked in a tattoo-and-piercing studio. Jytte was afraid she was taking harder drugs now, too.
Little Helle reminded her a bit of Sara, and Jytte was determined to try to redress the balance in any way she could by lavishing her affection on the girl. She stroked the back of Helle’s hand with one finger as they walked, and Hanne chattered away, oblivious to the inequity that her sister was victim to—just as Jytte had been oblivious to Sara’s unhappiness for many years. Helle responded to Jytte’s caress on her hand by reaching up with her own free hand to lightly nip with her fingers at the tiny golden hairs at Jytte’s wrist. It was sweet. Cozy.
The Montessori kindergarten was a part-time institution. Jytte would have to return at two to pick up the girls again and then get back home before Karen did, because Karen had let her borrow her own house keys until Adam got the new ones for her. She wondered why Karen didn’t just let
her
have the new keys made. Didn’t she trust her?
There was plenty to do between now and then, but Jytte took her time at the kindergarten, helping the girls off with their jackets and getting them settled. They were placed in separate rooms, which Jytte thought was a good thing, especially since she noticed that one of the pedagogues, Gunilla—a tall, dark-haired girl with very big hips—tended heavily to favor Hanne when the girls were together, constantly shushing Helle and telling her to let her sister speak. Jytte had disliked Gunilla on sight. Gunilla was only a couple of years older, but she acted so high-assed. She literally
was
high-assed; her legs were too long for her body. Jytte had noticed that homely girls were sometimes unkind to other homely girls. It seemed so unfair, so ridiculous, to be less kind to people because of the way they looked. She was very glad that Helle was not in Gunilla’s room. The pedagogue in Helle’s room seemed much more sympathetic. She was also prettier. Jytte wondered if she found her more sympathetic because she was prettier, but she didn’t think so.
From the Montessori, Jytte walked briskly up toward Gentofte Street so she could shop at the ISO supermarket there for the things on the list Karen had given her. In her backpack she had two folded plastic bags that she had retrieved from being used for garbage; it offended her to have to pay good money for new plastic bags that would later be used for garbage. Even if Karen herself didn’t seem to care, it offended Jytte’s sense of thrift to spend six crowns on two trash bags. It was also bad for the environment. Even if Mr. Kampman was a big director and made a lot of money—probably more than a million a year, maybe two million—there was no reason to waste.
She didn’t like Mr. Kampman. He seemed to her terribly happy with himself, even if he also seemed to think he hid that away pretty neatly. You could see in his smile how full of himself he was. Jytte’s chemistry fit perfectly with Karen’s right from the start; Karen was cozy and friendly, always had time for a chat or a cup of tea at the end of the day, and was interested in hearing what Jytte had to say about the cute things the twins had done that day or her appraisal of possible problems developing.
Once, when Mr. Kampman was not there, Jytte had seen Karen leaning out the kitchen window smoking a cigarette. She’d jumped when Jytte had come up behind her. Palm on her chest, she’d said, “This is our secret, right? I
am
quitting.”
Poor woman, was she afraid of her husband? “I smoke myself,” Jytte had said. “But not in front of the twins, of course.”
She wondered if Mr. Kampman bullied Karen. Also, she was pretty certain that it had been he who got his wife to change her mind about letting Jytte live in. Even if it was nice having her own room away from them, it would have been nicer if she had been allowed to decline the room herself, which she probably would have done anyway, maybe.
She had an idea what was behind it. Mr. Kampman was probably afraid she’d snatch their precious Adam from the cradle. That wouldn’t be difficult. The way he looked at her. And the bulge under his blanket there today. She smiled at the thought. He was cute, too. In a way, he seemed like the little brother she’d never had, even if he was almost a year older than her. But when she saw that bulge under the blanket, the feeling that came over her was not exactly sisterly.
Jytte knew about boys. She had two older brothers, and she knew what they did with themselves and just about any girl who would let them, too. Last summer, her brother Bertil had been in bed with two girls at once right down in the basement room when their parents were away for the weekend. Bertil hadn’t known that Jytte was home. She’d sneaked down and watched through the stairway railing and seen them there, three of them under the blankets together, giggling at first and then getting quieter and then making other noises that were exciting, and they didn’t have their clothes on, either. Shirts and pants and socks had been thrown all around. Underpants, too.
When she’d seen Bertil later, she’d said to him, “Bet you had fun today, huh?” and looked him right in the eyes.
His face had turned red. “We were just messing around.”
“That was obvious.”
“Don’t you start getting any ideas, Jytte. We were just playing around. Don’t you start thinking about trying anything like that, you’ll ruin your name.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she’d said. “I’d be afraid of being tickled to death, the way you three carried on.”
And his face had turned red again, beet red.
She had already been with two boys, scored them both, but one at a time. They had been older, too, but she was braver. Johan, a great big baby-faced farm boy. And Peder Ehler, who worked as a bellboy in the Hotel Romantic in Tønder. She liked it, too, even if it wasn’t as much fun as she had expected. But she kept thinking it might be more fun with someone else. And she could tell by the way a lot of boys looked at her that she would have plenty of chances to try.
Adam locked his bike and shoved it into a slot in the bike rack, circled around the side alley of the schoolyard. Old Hellerup High School. God, he hated it.
A lot of kids were in the yard, standing in groups, sitting on the backs of benches. Three boys from his homeroom kicked a soccer ball back and forth, and a bunch of girls were lighting up cigarettes over by the shed. He recognized one of them as a girl who had laughed about Hansen, the one who had asked about his shampoo. She had two rings in her nostril and a chrome stud in her chin. Sandemark was there, too, leaning up against a wrought-iron fence, back to it, long-faced, his arms draped out to either side as though he thought he were Jesus Christ on the cross.
Like to crucify you, you cocksucker.
Three or four of his friends were ranged around him, talking loudly, laughing, sucking up to him, while he never showed any expression at all on that long face.
Ugly snaggletoothed cocksucker
.
Adam wanted to charge him. Just get it over with. Charge in swinging his fists, punch the ugly face bloody. What if he wasn’t fast enough, though? He pictured Sandemark blocking easily, punching back, faster, harder, everyone saying,
Fucking Kampman’s gone nuts!
Or just laughing at him.
“Hi, Adam!”
He turned to see a smiling girl from his history class coming toward him. She was short and a little plump, with a squared, slightly underslung jaw that looked cute, and her smile was so bright that it lit up her eyes and her smooth round cheeks, and her short blond hair glittered in the sun. He knew her name, Nina, but didn’t feel like saying it, so he just said, “Hi.”
“I just can’t stop smiling,” she said.
He couldn’t figure out what she meant, and he couldn’t figure out if you were supposed to keep looking in someone’s eyes when you talk to them, and if so for how long, so he looked from her eyes to her nose to her mouth and worried that he might look sneaky, shifty-eyed. She seemed suddenly so much prettier than he had ever noticed, smiling at him. He was confused. He smiled back.
“It is hard to stop smiling once you start,” she said. Then: “I have met someone.”
When he didn’t reply, she added, “A boy. He is so kind and nice. I cannot stop smiling.”
“Great.”
“He is not from here,” she explained, as though he’d asked. “He is from Øregaard. He plays the trombone.”
“Great.” It occurred to him then that she must have felt very lonely to be so very happy now about meeting some guy who played trombone. He wondered if he would have had a chance with her, if only he had guessed that.
The bell rang for next session and the students started straggling toward the building entrances, taking last hasty drags of cigarettes, gathering the soccer ball. Sandemark glanced at Adam with a smirking nod, and Adam realized suddenly that he was finished here. Done with it. He watched the other students drifting toward the door as the second bell rang, and they started moving more quickly. He stepped backward away from them, gripped by a certainty that suddenly seemed so obvious, irrefutable. He gripped it tight to him.
To seal the pact, he stopped at the refuse can near the side alley, slung his backpack from his shoulders, and zipped it open. He turned it upside down and watched his school books drop into the heaped paper and bottles and McDonald’s wrappers there, sinking, settling, one with covers bent back like the wings of a bird.
Karen parked the Toyota down the street from the clinic, where she would not be seen. Martin knew her boss, Flemming Vesterberg, and she didn’t know how much they talked together. Martin had arranged the receptionist job here for her. It was good to get away from the house, from the twins, from Adam and Martin and all of it for a few hours every day. Flemming’s wife had a job that Martin had arranged for her in the Tank.
Flemming was nice enough—maybe too nice—but she worried sometimes that he might “report” back to Martin about her, or to his wife, who might pass it on. Not that she did anything to report on, but, well, there was the smoking. She didn’t want him to see her smoking. Martin was always harping on that, too.
Aside from the damage to your health, it’s a sign of weak character. It’s like saying to the whole world, I am a weak person; I have no control over myself.
Anyway, she
was
quitting. She didn’t smoke nearly as much as she used to. And when this pack was finished, she planned on not buying another. Maybe.
She snapped open her bag, dug into the bottom for the squashed, near empty ten-pack of Prince Silvers. They called them “Silver” now because of some law that didn’t allow them to be called “Extra Ultra Lite” anymore. Plastered across the front of the pack in a black frame—like an obituary—was the warning “Smoking is extremely harmful to you and your surroundings.” And on the back: “Smoking reduces life expectancy.” She had seen others, too: “Smoking can kill” and “Smoking leads to hardening of the arteries and causes heart conditions and stroke” and “Smoking can cause fertility problems.” It seemed smoking was responsible for just about all the evils of the world now. It had gotten to be embarrassing even to buy cigarettes. Maybe they would pass a law that would require you to say to the shop clerk:
I am an idiot. May I have a pack of Prince Silvers, please?
And if you didn’t:
Sorry, madam, but you didn’t say you were an idiot. The law requires …
She poked her finger into the packet—only three left—and fished one out. It was slightly bent. Delicately she straightened it, then rolled down the driver’s-side window and lit up with the flame of a blue plastic lighter. Just as she inhaled, a big yellow bus rolled past, fuming exhaust into her face, and a spasm of coughing gripped her lungs, causing her to whoop and gasp for air, almost ruining the pleasure of the cigarette. She leaned her head out the window, breathing deeply and slowly until her lungs settled.
Then she smirked, thinking,
Bus Yellow, Extra Ultra Heavy
. She had read somewhere that inhaling the carbon monoxide from the traffic in any medium-large city was equivalent to smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. But of course, you couldn’t say that. That would be like supporting terrorism or something.
So why smoke even more, voluntarily?
would be Martin’s response.
Anyway, she knew he was right. It was a stupid, harmful habit.
She drew on the cigarette, filling her mouth, then inhaled it deep into her lungs. God, she loved smoking. She would never be able to quit. But she had cut way down. She had read in the Sunday papers that the sign of real addiction was when the first thing you did when you woke was go for a cigarette. Karen’s first cigarette was more than an hour after she got up, longer if Martin was home. Of course, she had to admit that one of the first things she
thought
about when she woke was a cigarette. Her first of the day were the two she had here in the morning before work, then two at lunchtime (she came back out to the car for them), and two or three in the evening before Martin got home from the office. Compensation for his working so late every night.
If only she had his willpower. He’d be able to quit just like
that
. Except he was too clever to have ever started in the first place. How could a person have such self-control?
Even in bed he had control, the way he built her up. She liked it that way. His hands were so strong and just a little hard with her, touching all her soft places just a bit hard, like letting her know he knew where she was soft, had access, could, almost did, then didn’t, so he got her all built up for it before he got on top of her, and he was in such good shape that he could balance there, dancing in and out, so fast, with his eyes locked on hers always. Fierce, he looked; she liked that, another side of him—no, the same side, only revealed now, all the polite control and smiles stripped away with his clothes.
She drew on the cigarette again, pulled the smoke down to the bottom of her lungs, excited by her thoughts. Not as often anymore as it used to be, though. Once a month. Twice at most. Couldn’t really expect more.