junkies who shoplifted a half hour’s worth of bliss in the local grocery store, teen punks from the projects who reigned free—knocked down old people who were on their way to the bank to pay their rent. Stockholm: Mecca of thieves, drug dealers, and gangs. Horndog water hole. Hypocrite playing field. The welfare state’d breathed its last, labored breaths sometime in the eighties, and no one gave a damn. The only place where the two worlds seemed to meet was at the state-run liquor store. One side was looking for upscale, boxed wine for a dinner party, the other was looking for a quart of hard stuff for the night’sbooze-out. But soon there’d probably be two different liquor stores, too—one where only the dutiful citizenry was welcome and another for the rest. Class warfare in the liquor-store line. Thomas thought about his dad, Gunnar. He’d passed away from prostate cancer three years ago, only sixty-seven years old. In a way, Thomas was glad his old man didn’t have to see this shit. He’d been a real working-class hero, a man who’d believed in Sweden.
But someone had to clean up. The question was just if it was his responsibility. He doubted the system too much. Broke the rules too much. Shit, he felt like some bitter detective in a sleepy Swedish crime thriller. Whining about society and solving crime. That wasn’t really his thing, was it?
“Maybe we should get a little greenhouse? What do you think, Thomas?”
He nodded. Woke from his reverie. Heard the pain in her voice. How she longed for him to soften. How their problems might be solved through him. He loved her. But the problem involved both of them. They couldn’t have kids. Angst squared. No, fuck, cubed.
They’d tried everything. Thomas’d stopped drinking for several months, they tried to have sex as often as they could, Åsa popped hormones. Two years ago, they got close. Huddinge Hospital worked miracles. Åsa got his stuff injected directly through a catheter—artificial insemination. Weeks went by. The pregnancy went according to plan. They passed the twelve-week line, when most people start telling others. When it should be safe. But something went wrong—the baby died in the fifth month. They had to cut Åsa open to get it out. In his fantasies, he saw how they plucked out the dead fetus—his child. Saw arms, legs, a tiny body. He saw a head, a nose, a mouth. Everything.
He wanted it so badly. A must, something that’d seemed given. A condition for the good life. Adoption was always a possibility. They’d get approval. Childless, middle class, stable, orderly—at least on paper. Ready to love a little one above all else. But the idea didn’t jibe with him—Thomas didn’t like the thought of it. His entire body itched with resistance. Sometimes he was ashamed of the reason. Sometimes he stood by it, straight-backed. It wasn’t right. Not at all. But the reason he didn’t want to adopt was that he wanted a kid that looked like him and Åsa. No Chinese, African, or Romanian. He wanted a kid who would fit into the kind of family life he wanted to build. Go ahead, call him a racist. A prejudiced ass. A Neanderthal. He couldn’t care less,even if he obviously didn’t go to work and broadcast his feelings on the issue—he’d never adopt anything but a Nordic child.
Åsa wouldn’t forgive him.
Their house was too small to fit a family, anyway. In Tallkrogen. Twelve hundred square feet in white-painted wood. Split level. The hall, the kitchen, a guest bathroom, and the living room were on the first floor. Upstairs: two small bedrooms, a small TV room, and a bathroom. They used the TV room as an office/gym. An exercise bike and a padded bench. A couple of free weights, a barbell in a cabinet along with binders, a sewing machine, and a couple of dress patterns in a pile. An office chair that Thomas’d been allowed to take home when they reorganized the precinct. Otherwise, empty. Thomas didn’t like to collect junk.
He
But someone had to clean up. The question was just if it was his responsibility. He doubted the system too much. Broke the rules too much. Shit, he felt like some bitter detective in a sleepy Swedish crime thriller. Whining about society and solving crime. That wasn’t really his thing, was it?
“Maybe we should get a little greenhouse? What do you think, Thomas?”
He nodded. Woke from his reverie. Heard the pain in her voice. How she longed for him to soften. How their problems might be solved through him. He loved her. But the problem involved both of them. They couldn’t have kids. Angst squared. No, fuck, cubed.
They’d tried everything. Thomas’d stopped drinking for several months, they tried to have sex as often as they could, Åsa popped hormones. Two years ago, they got close. Huddinge Hospital worked miracles. Åsa got his stuff injected directly through a catheter—artificial insemination. Weeks went by. The pregnancy went according to plan. They passed the twelve-week line, when most people start telling others. When it should be safe. But something went wrong—the baby died in the fifth month. They had to cut Åsa open to get it out. In his fantasies, he saw how they plucked out the dead fetus—his child. Saw arms, legs, a tiny body. He saw a head, a nose, a mouth. Everything.
He wanted it so badly. A must, something that’d seemed given. A condition for the good life. Adoption was always a possibility. They’d get approval. Childless, middle class, stable, orderly—at least on paper. Ready to love a little one above all else. But the idea didn’t jibe with him—Thomas didn’t like the thought of it. His entire body itched with resistance. Sometimes he was ashamed of the reason. Sometimes he stood by it, straight-backed. It wasn’t right. Not at all. But the reason he didn’t want to adopt was that he wanted a kid that looked like him and Åsa. No Chinese, African, or Romanian. He wanted a kid who would fit into the kind of family life he wanted to build. Go ahead, call him a racist. A prejudiced ass. A Neanderthal. He couldn’t care less,even if he obviously didn’t go to work and broadcast his feelings on the issue—he’d never adopt anything but a Nordic child.
Åsa wouldn’t forgive him.
Their house was too small to fit a family, anyway. In Tallkrogen. Twelve hundred square feet in white-painted wood. Split level. The hall, the kitchen, a guest bathroom, and the living room were on the first floor. Upstairs: two small bedrooms, a small TV room, and a bathroom. They used the TV room as an office/gym. An exercise bike and a padded bench. A couple of free weights, a barbell in a cabinet along with binders, a sewing machine, and a couple of dress patterns in a pile. An office chair that Thomas’d been allowed to take home when they reorganized the precinct. Otherwise, empty. Thomas didn’t like to collect junk.
He
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