The window was ajar!
That was more than I had dared hope for. Now I could hear their voices down on the terrace without their knowing I was here. If the window had been closed I would have revealed my presence when I opened it.
Dad’s voice rose and sank in the calm manner it did when he was in a good mood. Now and then I caught Mom’s brighter, gentler voice. From the living room came the sound of the radio. For some reason I had the impression that my grandparents were asleep, each in their separate chairs, their mouths open and their eyes closed, perhaps they often sat like that in Sørbøvåg when we visited them.
There was a clink of cups outside.
Were they clearing the table?
Yes, because afterward I heard the flip-flop of Mom’s sandals as she walked around the house.
At once I wanted to have her for myself! Then I would be able to tell her first!
I waited until I heard the door below being opened. Then, as Mom came upstairs carrying a tray of cups, dishes, glasses, and the shiny coffee pot with the red lid atop a garland of clothespins that Yngve had made at Mom’s arts and crafts workshop I went out onto the landing.
“Are you inside in this hot weather?” she said.
“Yes,” I answered.
She was about to walk past, but then she stopped.
“Is there something the matter?” she asked.
I looked down.
“Is there?”
“The TV’s busted,” I said.
“Oh no,” she said. “That’s a pity. Are Grandma and Grandad in there?”
I nodded.
“I was just about to go and get them. It’s such a fantastic evening. You come out, too, come on. You can have some more juice if you want.”
I shook my head and went back into my room. Stopped inside the door. Perhaps it would be wisest to join them outside? He wouldn’t do anything if they were there, even if he found out I had broken the TV.
But that in itself could make him even more furious. Last time we had been to Sørbøvåg everyone had been sitting round the dinner table, and Kjartan had been saying that Yngve had had a fight with Bjørn Atle, the boy on the neighboring farm. Everyone had laughed at that, Dad too. But when Mom had taken me to the shop and the others were having a midday nap, and Yngve had gone to bed to read a comic, Dad had gone in, lifted him up, and shaken him about because he had been fighting.
Nope, the best would be to stay here. If Grandad or Mom said the TV was broken he might lose his temper while he was sitting there with them.
I lay back down on my bed. My chest trembled uncontrollably; another flood of tears was set in motion.
Ohhhh. Ohhhh. Ohhhh.
He would be coming soon.
I knew it.
Soon he would be here.
I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and tried to pretend nothing existed. Only this darkness and this breathing.
But a feeling of defenselessness overcame me, and I did the opposite, knelt on the bed and looked out of the window, at the flood of light falling across the landscape, the glowing roof tiles and glinting windowpanes.
The door downstairs was opened and slammed.
I cast around wildly. Got up, pulled the chair from under the desk, and sat down.
Footsteps on the stairs. They were heavy; it was him.
I couldn’t sit with my back to the door and got up again. Perched on the edge of the bed.
He thrust open the door. Took a step inside and stopped, looked at me.
His eyes were narrow, his lips clenched.
“What are you doing, boy?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said, eyes downcast.
“Look at me when you talk to me!” he said.
I looked at him. But I couldn’t. I looked down again.
“Something wrong with your ears as well?” he said. “LOOK AT ME!”
I looked at him. But his eyes, I couldn’t meet them.
He took three quick strides across the floor, grabbed my ear, and twisted it as he dragged me to my feet.
“What did I tell you about switching on the TV?” he said.
I fought for breath and was unable to answer.
“WHAT DID I SAY?” he said, twisting harder.
“That I … that I sh … sh … shouldn’t do it,” I said.
He let go of my ear, grabbed both of my arms, and shook me.
“NOW LOOK AT ME!” he yelled.
I raised my head. Tears almost blurred him out.
His fingers squeezed harder.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from the TV? Eh? Didn’t I tell you? Now we’ll have to buy a new TV and where will we get the money from? Can you answer me that, eh!”
“No-o-o-o,” I sobbed.
He threw me down on the bed.
“Now you stay in your room until I tell you otherwise. Have you understood?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re grounded tonight, and you’re grounded tomorrow.”
“OK.”
Then he was gone. I was crying so much I couldn’t hear where he went. My breathing was jerky, as though it was moving up a staircase. My chest was trembling, my hands were trembling. I lay there crying for twenty minutes perhaps. Then it started to ease. I knelt on the bed and gazed out of the window. My legs were still shaking, my hands were shaking, but it was loosening its hold on me, I could feel, it was as though I had entered a quiet room after a storm.
From the window I could see Prestbakmo’s house and the entire front of their garden, which bordered ours, Gustavsen’s house and the front of their garden, a bit of Karlsen’s house, and a bit of Christensen’s at the top. I had a view of the road as far as the mailbox stand. The sun, which seemed to become a touch fuller in the afternoon, hung in the sky above the trees on the ridge. The air was perfectly still, not a tree or a bush stirred. People never sat in their front gardens, that would be “displaying yourself,” as Dad would say, making yourself visible to all; behind the houses was where all the garden furniture and the grills were in this neighborhood.
Then something happened. Kent came out of the door of Karlsen’s house. I saw just his head above the parked car, the coruscating white hair gliding along like a puppet in a puppet show. He was gone for a few seconds, then he reappeared on his bike. He stood up on the pedals, jerking them backward to brake, shot out onto the road, and built up a pretty good speed before braking hard and swerving and coming to a halt in front of Gustavsen’s house. He had lost his father, who had been a sailor, two years ago. I could barely remember him; in fact, I had only one image of him, once when we were walking down the hill, it was sunny and cold, but there was no snow, I was holding my small orange skates with three blades and straps to attach them to your shoes, so we must have been on our way to Lake Tjenna. I could also remember when I found out that he had died. Leif Tore had been standing by the line of concrete barriers that separated Nordåsen Ringvei from Elgstien, just outside our house, and had said that Kent Arne’s father was dead. While he was telling me we looked up at their house. He had been trying to pull someone out of a tank that was being cleaned, it had been full of gas and they had fainted, and then he, too, had lost consciousness and died. We never talked about Kent Arne’s father when he was there, or about death. Another man had just moved in, whose name, strangely enough, was also Karlsen.
If Dag Lothar was number one, then Kent Arne was number two, even though he was a year younger than us and two years younger than Dag Lothar. Leif Tore was number three, Geir Håkon number four, Trond number five, Geir number six, and I was number seven.
“Leif Tore, are you coming out?!” Kent Arne shouted in front of the house. Soon after he emerged, wearing only blue denim shorts and sneakers, got on Rolf’s bike, and they cycled down the hill and were gone. Prestbakmo’s cat lay motionless on the flat rock between Gustavsen’s and Hansen’s properties.