would happen?’
He sits down on the stool, right next to his mother’s slippers, which have a little ball of fluff in the middle.
‘Leo – I’ll take care of this.’
‘That will only make it worse! Don’t you get that?’
She’s not hugging the mattress any more, she’s hugging him.
‘Their
full
names.’
He shakes his head and his forehead scrapes against her chest.
‘Well then.’
She steps up on the stool again, lifts the mattress and throws it on the floor.
‘I can take care of this better by myself! Stay out of it!’
‘You can start by taking off those ridiculous bandages.’
‘I have to practise!’
‘Now, Leo.’
‘Pappa said so. I have to practise!’
‘And I’m saying you have to stop.’
He doesn’t say anything else. Not one word. He stays silent as she finishes vacuuming and when Felix comes home and when they eat their snack at the kitchen table, and when she asks them to put on their coats, because they’re going to go and pick up Pappa like they usually do, and then go to the supermarket as usual.
He’s still silent in the car.
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, Felix and Vincent in the long middle seat, and Pappa’s paint stuff is in the back. Mamma is driving, dropping off, picking up – it’s something she does often. They’re going somewhere, and usually he loves this, being together in the car, it’s probably the best thing of all.
It only takes a few minutes to drive from their neighbourhood of high-rise blocks to a neighbourhood of single-family homes. They stop in front of one of the homes and load what Pappa has left outside the gate – the brushes, scrubbed clean and smelling strongly of paint thinner, rollers lying in plastic bags, cans of paint and wallpaper paste – while Pappa finishes talking to an older lady and gets an envelope from her.
Leo is also silent when he moves to the back seat, when Pappa sits down next to Mamma, kisses her on the cheek. Pappa is so happy, laughing in the same way he and his client were laughing a moment ago, when she said that in May there’d be more work, that they’d need the whole house repainted. Pappa looked at Leo when she said that, and Leo had known why: he’d need more arms and legs for such a big job.
‘Your hands, son? How are they?’
Leo feels his unwrapped knuckles with the palm of his hand.
‘Leo? I asked you a question.’
‘They—’
Mamma interrupts him.
‘I took it down today.’
Pappa turns towards her, his face unchanged.
‘What?’
‘I took it down. That old mattress we used to sleep on when we first met.’
Now. Now it changes. His cheeks tighten, his lips become narrower. Mostly, it’s the eyes. They’re on the hunt.
‘What did you say you did?’
‘I don’t think we should discuss this in the car, Ivan.’
‘What exactly are we
not
going to discuss in the car? That our son’s face is black and blue and he needs to be able to protect himself?’
‘Please, Ivan, can’t we talk about this later? Can’t we just go shopping, go home, have a normal Friday night? Let’s talk about it in the morning.’
Pappa’s silence makes them huddle closer together in the back seat. And he already smells like the black wine he started drinking during the last hour of the job.
‘I’d practised enough. Pappa, you know—’
‘Show me your hand.’
Leo holds out his right hand.
‘Soft.’
Pappa pulls on it, pushes it.
‘Way too soft.’
Leo doesn’t look at Pappa, he looks at Mamma in the mirror, her eyes trained ahead on the cars exiting the car park they’re about to enter, outside Skogås shopping centre.
‘But I’m ready now. Pappa? Nose and chin, and then my whole body and—’
‘You’ll be ready when I
say
you’re ready.’
Everyone climbs out. And it doesn’t feel good. Leo hears loud voices outside the entrance to the shopping centre, glances at Pappa. He knows Pappa hates those voices. So he lingers a little longer.
They’re sitting exactly
He sits down on the stool, right next to his mother’s slippers, which have a little ball of fluff in the middle.
‘Leo – I’ll take care of this.’
‘That will only make it worse! Don’t you get that?’
She’s not hugging the mattress any more, she’s hugging him.
‘Their
full
names.’
He shakes his head and his forehead scrapes against her chest.
‘Well then.’
She steps up on the stool again, lifts the mattress and throws it on the floor.
‘I can take care of this better by myself! Stay out of it!’
‘You can start by taking off those ridiculous bandages.’
‘I have to practise!’
‘Now, Leo.’
‘Pappa said so. I have to practise!’
‘And I’m saying you have to stop.’
He doesn’t say anything else. Not one word. He stays silent as she finishes vacuuming and when Felix comes home and when they eat their snack at the kitchen table, and when she asks them to put on their coats, because they’re going to go and pick up Pappa like they usually do, and then go to the supermarket as usual.
He’s still silent in the car.
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, Felix and Vincent in the long middle seat, and Pappa’s paint stuff is in the back. Mamma is driving, dropping off, picking up – it’s something she does often. They’re going somewhere, and usually he loves this, being together in the car, it’s probably the best thing of all.
It only takes a few minutes to drive from their neighbourhood of high-rise blocks to a neighbourhood of single-family homes. They stop in front of one of the homes and load what Pappa has left outside the gate – the brushes, scrubbed clean and smelling strongly of paint thinner, rollers lying in plastic bags, cans of paint and wallpaper paste – while Pappa finishes talking to an older lady and gets an envelope from her.
Leo is also silent when he moves to the back seat, when Pappa sits down next to Mamma, kisses her on the cheek. Pappa is so happy, laughing in the same way he and his client were laughing a moment ago, when she said that in May there’d be more work, that they’d need the whole house repainted. Pappa looked at Leo when she said that, and Leo had known why: he’d need more arms and legs for such a big job.
‘Your hands, son? How are they?’
Leo feels his unwrapped knuckles with the palm of his hand.
‘Leo? I asked you a question.’
‘They—’
Mamma interrupts him.
‘I took it down today.’
Pappa turns towards her, his face unchanged.
‘What?’
‘I took it down. That old mattress we used to sleep on when we first met.’
Now. Now it changes. His cheeks tighten, his lips become narrower. Mostly, it’s the eyes. They’re on the hunt.
‘What did you say you did?’
‘I don’t think we should discuss this in the car, Ivan.’
‘What exactly are we
not
going to discuss in the car? That our son’s face is black and blue and he needs to be able to protect himself?’
‘Please, Ivan, can’t we talk about this later? Can’t we just go shopping, go home, have a normal Friday night? Let’s talk about it in the morning.’
Pappa’s silence makes them huddle closer together in the back seat. And he already smells like the black wine he started drinking during the last hour of the job.
‘I’d practised enough. Pappa, you know—’
‘Show me your hand.’
Leo holds out his right hand.
‘Soft.’
Pappa pulls on it, pushes it.
‘Way too soft.’
Leo doesn’t look at Pappa, he looks at Mamma in the mirror, her eyes trained ahead on the cars exiting the car park they’re about to enter, outside Skogås shopping centre.
‘But I’m ready now. Pappa? Nose and chin, and then my whole body and—’
‘You’ll be ready when I
say
you’re ready.’
Everyone climbs out. And it doesn’t feel good. Leo hears loud voices outside the entrance to the shopping centre, glances at Pappa. He knows Pappa hates those voices. So he lingers a little longer.
They’re sitting exactly
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