Hell Fire (2 page)

He went back to the window and stared out at the driving snow. “Let Mom make it through the storm,” he prayed to Jesus, wherever he was. “Because I'm sitting here all alone waiting for dessert. There's only the two of us. You have to look after us!”

He went to see Shiba in the kitchen, pulled her tail hard again, and then laughed when she shot up and ran into the living room. She scooted under the sofa and collapsed, panting.

“Stupid dog,” he said and laughed again. “You don't fight back. Haven't you got any teeth?”

Then he sat back down with the crossword, sucking on the end of the pencil. The clue
cease
made him uneasy because the word had only three letters.

Forty-five minutes had passed and his mother had not returned. He grabbed his cell phone and tapped in her number with his fat fingers. But all he got was a voice saying, “The person you are calling is unable to answer the phone right now.” He paced over to the window again and stared out at the heavy white snow. The sun only managed to produce a pale modest light. He knew that his mother would send him out to clear the snow later, and if there was one thing he hated, it was clearing snow. He tried her number again, but once more heard the disembodied voice telling him she was unable to answer the phone. It was fifty minutes now. This is it, he thought in desperation. She's driven off the road and crashed into a tree. She's sitting with her nose buried in the airbag. For a moment, he considered throwing on his jacket and walking along the road to look for her. But then, as he stood there by the window, anxiously wringing his hands, he saw her car swing in through the gate. The headlights shone into his face and he ran out into the hall and down the front steps.

“You said three-quarters of an hour,” he complained. “I was scared.”

“Don't be such a drama queen,” she chided. “I can't answer the phone when I'm driving, and I was almost home.”

“Did they have cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes,” she said. “I got two packages. See, here you are, plenty for you to enjoy. Put the milk in the fridge; I'll have to clear the snow from the steps. And when you've finished, you can come out and clear the rest.”

Inside, she counted out seven cinnamon rolls and put them on a plate. “You can have some more this evening. I think you're putting on weight, my love. I know that you're a big boy, but two hundred and eighty-six pounds is too much. Being overweight is dangerous, Eddie. The milk and cake settle in your arteries like clay. And then a big clot comes loose and is carried toward your heart—or your brain, for that matter—and then there'll be no more crosswords for you.”

“But I can have the rest of the cinnamon rolls this evening, can't I?” he asked.

“Yes, I promise,” she said. “But you do understand that I have to be strict, don't you? Someone has to keep an eye on you; we agreed on that.”

“We have to go to the shopping center,” he said. “I need new clothes. I want one of those sweatshirts I saw in the paper.
I Love New York.
”

That night he dreamed about chicks. Yellow, fluffy, and soft, running around on stick legs. He picked them up and dropped them in a pan with melted butter and garlic. He dreamed that they lay there simmering, then peeped and squeaked when he added boiling water. He woke up abruptly at the end of the dream, listening for sounds in his mother's room. Sometimes she talked in her sleep and other times she moaned. But mostly it was quiet all through the night. He didn't like it when his mom was asleep. When she wasn't there to look after him, when she didn't answer if he spoke to her, when she was out of reach, breathing in the dark.

He always woke up first and lay there listening for his mother, to hear if she was awake. He didn't move until he heard the toilet flush. Then he rolled out of bed and went into the living room, pulled open the curtains, and looked out at the new day he was now part of. He walked into the kitchen with one hand down his pants and the other opening the bread bin. He cut two slices of bread, spread on a thick layer of butter, and then reached for the sugar bowl. He wiped some crumbs from the vinyl tablecloth. His mother came out of the bathroom and saw him sitting there with the bread and sugar. Always the same thing: nag nag nag. How many times do I have to tell you to wash your hands before you eat? You haven't even been to the bathroom yet. Your hands have been everywhere.

Eddie kept his thoughts to himself. He knew that she often slept with a hand between her sweaty thighs; he could hear her moaning at night. I'm not a damn idiot, he said to himself. And even though his mother chased him into the bathroom to wash his hands, he felt superior. His mother looked out at the snow that was still falling thick and fast. “We'll take the bus today,” she said, looking at her son. “It's just as easy. And we really need to get you to the hairdresser's; you look like a girl.”

Eddie snorted. How could she say that? He was six feet and two inches tall and his voice was as coarse as a grater. There was no way he looked like a girl. His hair was curling at the neck, thick and brown and soft, but he didn't like it when the scissors snipped around his ears.

Soon after she was sitting on the bus seat beside him, with her hands folded around her brown handbag. “We'll go to the Suit Store,” she said with authority. “They have XXL. You really must stop putting sugar on your bread,” she added. “You'll get diabetes.”

He didn't answer. He sat on the seat beside her and breathed in the scent of soap. He liked sitting on the bus, swaying along with the low, drowsy humming of the engine and the smell of the new red plush seats. The smell of strangers he didn't need to interact with.

The Suit Store was on the second floor of the shopping center, so they took the escalator up. There were racks of sale items outside the store, all old stock that had been reduced.

“I want a pair of pants and a sweatshirt,” he said, loud and clear, to the young sales assistant who came over. “The pants have to be black. With lots of pockets, front, back, and on the legs. Not denim—it has to be some other material. I hate stiff clothes. Extra large, because I'm a big boy.”

The sales assistant smiled and showed her white teeth. Her skin was as dark as chocolate and her hair was black.

“You're not Norwegian,” Eddie said, more a statement than anything else.

“I am too,” she retorted. “My dad's Ethiopian, but I was born and brought up in Norway. Look, these pants have lots of pockets. Six in front and two at the back—how's that?”

“They're not black,” Eddie said, dissatisfied.

“No, but it's the closest I've got in your size. If the pockets are so important. We do have other pants that are black, but they're jeans. And you just said you didn't want jeans.”

“Ah well,” Eddie said. “I guess I'll be going home with dark blue pants today, then. To think you can't even satisfy such a simple request. And the sweatshirt,” he continued. “Black as well. Have you ever been to Ethiopia to look for your roots?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Don't be so nosy,” his mother interrupted. “Why don't you just go to the fitting room and try on the pants? I'll look for a sweatshirt. You shouldn't ask people where they come from—it's none of your business. How would you like it if people asked and went on about your origins?”

“I wouldn't mind; I'd like it,” he said. He pulled open the curtain and went into the narrow changing room. He took off his old pants and tried on the new ones. His mother came back with a sweatshirt she had found with
New York
on it. He didn't even want to try it on because he could see it would fit. Mass paid 720 kroner for the clothes and Eddie carried the bag out of the store.

They stood in front of the counter in Christiania Café on the first floor.

“You can have a sandwich and some pie,” Mass said. “I'm going to have waffles and jam. Listen, Eddie, you really mustn't ask people where they're from.”

“But Ethiopia's a nice place,” he said. “It's not anything to be ashamed of.”

They sat down at a table by the window. Eddie pressed his custard slice down on the plate, trying to break the top layer into small pieces.

“Do you remember when we came back from Las Palmas? Do you remember the Negro who fell on the escalator at Gardermoen?” he asked. “He broke both his legs. In several places. It was terrible.”

“You shouldn't say Negro,” Mass corrected him. “What made you think about him anyway?”

“Well, we have to go down the escalator too. We'd better be careful. Hold on to the handrail. I'll carry the bags.” He licked his lips.

“I'm going to watch
Tracker Tore
tonight. I wonder who he's going to help this time, and if they'll find who they're looking for,” he said. “It always starts me thinking about Gran and Granddad. And all the others on Dad's side. Where they came from. And everyone before them. And how they lived. And what they did.”

Mass took a sip of coffee. “But they're dead,” she objected. “It doesn't matter anymore. It's you and me now, and I think we manage very well.”

She ate some of her waffle. “Perhaps you should get a girlfriend,” she said. “After all, I'm not going to be here forever.”

Eddie looked up with a horrified expression on his face. “Why do I need a girlfriend when I've got you?” he exclaimed. “Were you upset when Dad left?”

“No,” she replied. “Not really. I think I was expecting it. He was a womanizer, Eddie, just so you know. He found someone else—someone much younger than me, of course. That's just the way men are. But then he got ill and died, so she didn't get much joy from him either. I don't know if they had any children; maybe they did. But we've talked about all this before, Eddie. There's nothing more to tell.”

“It sounds like you think it's all OK,” Eddie said, offended. “Didn't you think about me?”

“Of course I did. I just didn't want you to grow up with a father who didn't want us.”

Later that afternoon, Eddie sat on the sofa with the newspaper. He liked to read the deaths and obituaries, savoring them like candy. Lots of old ladies who tasted like camphor. Some, like all the little children, were as sweet as toffee. And some were stronger than Turkish pepper. It might be a murder or a suicide, or the many who lost the fight against cancer. His thoughts started to wander. Then he returned to the crossword. Corona, five letters, and the last one was “s.” He knew that Corona was a beer; he knew that it was a town. And it also had something to do with the sun. He looked it up on the Internet and discovered to his great surprise that it was also a virus. The things I know! he thought to himself happily. I've got my eye on the ball.

HER SON WAS ASLEEP
beside her, a damp lock of hair on his forehead. Four and a half years old, with big blond curls and small white hands with nails like mother-of-pearl.

“Simon,” she whispered, “are you awake? The day has begun and we have to get up.”

The boy wriggled and turned over; he wanted to carry on sleeping.

“I'll get up without you, then, and make the porridge,” she said with some resignation, putting one foot down on the floor. “With butter and raisins and sugar and cinnamon.”

What sounded like a sigh came from the child, as though the thought of buttery porridge had penetrated his sleep. She kissed him on the cheek; it was warm and covered in the finest down. Then she pulled on a thick sweater and crossed the cold floor into the kitchen. She poured some milk into a pan and added oats and a teaspoon of salt. And finally a handful of raisins. Then she went back into the bedroom and lifted the boy up from the bed. He opened his eyes drowsily and put his arms around her neck. He weighed next to nothing. She carried him into the bathroom and helped him get dressed while he leaned against the sink. Eventually he sat down at the kitchen table. And like every other morning, he threw a tantrum. “I don't want to go to daycare,” he screamed, banging his spoon on the table and making the porridge bowl jump. Bonnie felt like crying.

“But you'll have a great time,” she said as enthusiastically as she could. “You can play with Märta. And you might get hot chocolate with marshmallows.” She stroked his cheek. He kept on banging the table with his spoon. All he wanted was to be with his mother, and more than anything, he wanted to be back in bed under the warm comforter. Bonnie poured milk onto his porridge and sprinkled some sugar on top.

“I'll be home this afternoon, so we can have fun together then,” she said. “We can make a tent with the blanket and two chairs, and we can pretend you live in the tent. I can give you supper in there. That would be fun, wouldn't it?”

At daycare, the children each had their own picture by their coat pegs. Simon's was of a snail, carrying its little house around on its back, its tentacles standing up like two antennae. Simon sat down heavily on the pine bench as his mother took off his jacket and then his hat and scarf, mittens, and toasty boots. He collapsed in a little heap. He didn't have the energy to protest anymore; he knew that his mother had to go. She took him by the hand and led him to the other children, who were milling around.

This can't be right, Bonnie thought, leaving him with others. Being away all day. It should be him and me all day long. Her child next to her body, her child within arm's reach, so she could comfort him if anything should happen. They only had a meager three hours together in the evening. Her guilty conscience gnawed away at her, but she had to work. She was a home health aide who washed, scrubbed, and polished for old people; she vacuumed carpets, shook out rugs, and served food. Today she was going to Erna first, and Erna was always a challenge.