My carrots are just about done now, so I’m taking it easy. Mama’s are almost done, too, and the same with Alvar and Sigrid. Only Grampa’s got a whole heap left. Right now, Mama’s over by the chaff-cutter trying to get her hands on some of them. But this is only making Grampa really mad. He’s telling her to leave his carrots alone, he’s gonna chop them himself, damn it, and that’s all there is to it!
“So, you’re just going to go on chopping carrots when your sister gets here!” says Mama. “Is that it?”
She makes a grab at a bunch of them, and Grampa stabs at her with his knife. She’s got one of Alvar’s shirts on and the sleeve gets ripped. So now she’s just standing there, looking at Grampa like he’s not all there in the head.
“You just watch your step, Daddy!” she says. “Or else you’ll go and do something real crazy, something you’ll regret the rest of your life.”
This makes Grampa pretty sheepish for a while. And now all of a sudden it’s real quiet in here. There’s only the rain dancing on the roof, and the knives cutting away at carrot tops. Finally, I can’t keep quiet any longer.
I say, “Alvar, tell what it’s like on the Atlantic.”
And suddenly Alvar looks all deep in thought.
“On the Atlantic,” he says. “On the Atlantic, the waves are as big as houses.”
And I’m thinking to myself, “What kind of houses? Little red ones like ours? Or big yellow ones like the school teacher’s?” Because when I think about waves being as big as houses, then I guess they must look like houses, too. The whole Atlantic is just one big county with waves of two-story houses and little red shacks. And over the waves, here comes Mama’s aunt, just riding along. But actually, she’s not riding anymore. We got a letter from her the first day she came ashore, and for the next four days Grampa was out on the bridge about ten times an hour to check and see if she wasn’t out there, coming down the road. But no, we didn’t see or hear from any Aunt Maja.
But then one day another letter came that said we should expect her inside a week. Her brother-in-law was going to drive her up here in his car. Mama read the letter out loud after supper, since Grampa went into the bedroom to lay down for a bit. When she finished reading she got so angry that she ripped it up into little pieces, screaming “Of course, since we’re the poorest in the family, we’ve got to wait to be the last!” And her, she’d be damned if she was going to lift a single finger to make this house nice for when that old bitch got here.
So nothing’s been done to make it nice for Aunt Maja. Which is kind of funny when you think about it, seeing we practically haven’t talked about anything else since we first got her letter last spring, the one that said she’d be coming in the fall.
Me, I figured we’d have a real party, the kind of party that would make all the people in the village just stand around with their mouths hanging wide open. But now I guess it’s nothing but a big flop. It makes you feel like cutting your thumb off and throwing it in with the carrots so that Sigrid and Alvar will find it in the spring and say “Do you remember when Arne cut his thumb off? It was the same day Aunt Maja came from America.”
“In three hours that sister of yours is coming,” Mama is saying to Grampa right now, and boy, does she sound hot. “Three hours, and you just sit there on the chaff-cutter acting like it’s neither here nor there. You’d think since you haven’t seen each other in twenty years you’d at least go and have a shave.”
“If I can’t set on the chaff-cutter, then the hell with it!” he says. “Both here and there! If you got a sister that’s so high and mighty that she can’t come and see her only brother ’cept but in a car, and that can’t bear to see him if he’s setting on a chaff-cutter, then the fucking hell with it! That’s what I say. Both here and there!”
Now Sigrid’s laughing so hard that she has to get up and go into one of the stalls again. And Grampa’s so upset that he drops his knife, and now Mama’s taking all his carrots and chopping them in a flash. I stick my knife in its sheath and head out to the yard. I look out on the road to see if the car’s coming, but it’s still way too early. Next I go over to the gate and carve my name in the wood. I’ll never forget this day when we were chopping carrots, when it was raining and the rain turned to sleet, and when the aunt from America was coming here to stay.
I go and sit on the daybed in the kitchen, looking at the Atlantic in the atlas. But there’s not much to see. I don’t see even one single wave. So I can’t be sure whether Alvar was lying or not. Anyway, now I hear a big ruckus outside and when I look out the window I can see Alvar and Mama coming through the yard with Grampa between them. He’s struggling against them, but it’s not doing him a bit of good. They get him through the gate and then up on the porch. In the doorway he braces himself against the frame and then kicks the door. But they manage to get him into the kitchen, anyway, before they finally let him go.
“Now we’re going to wash you,” says Mama. “And I mean right now!”
Alvar goes and stands by the door so that Grampa can’t bolt out, and Mama runs water into a washbowl from the big tank. Then Alvar goes over and pulls the work-shirt off Grampa. Beneath it, he’s only got on an old t-shirt which comes right off, too, because he’s so sweaty from the fight. Underneath that, he’s all yellow and skinny-looking. He struggles against them some more, but they get him over to the sink, anyway.
“Arne, come here!” Mama yells. And it’s such an angry voice that I know I don’t have much choice.
“Soap his back!” she says.
And I don’t have much choice but to do that, either, even though it’s not very nice, because Grampa really doesn’t smell too good. I soap his back so that you can’t even see it through the lather. Then Mama scrubs it off with a rag. Alvar’s just holding him, and Sigrid’s sitting over on the daybed, grinning. Next Mama takes the soap and scrubs his neck and face and ears, and he just keeps on huffing and snorting, but he still can’t break loose. Finally, Alvar dips his head down into the washbowl so that Grampa gets water in his throat and starts coughing like he’s about to choke to death.
“Alright Daddy, now all you need is a shave,” says Alvar, as he rubs Grampa dry with a towel. Mama comes over with a clean shirt and slips it over his head. Then Alvar leads him over to the table and sits him down on a stool. He grabs the shaving mirror off the dresser, takes out the straight edge from the drawer, strops it, takes a mug of hot water from the tank, and sets it on the table. He puts an old newspaper on the table, too, just in front of Grampa, and ties a towel around his neck to keep that new shirt from getting soiled.
“And I want you to be on your best behavior,” says Mama as she chases a moth through the kitchen. “No spitting on the floor while she’s here.”
Alvar soaps Grampa’s face, then takes the razor and starts scraping.
“Hold still,” he barks. “Or you can do it yourself!”
Grampa just sits there, looking at himself in the shaving mirror. And at last I guess he must figure he looks pretty horrible, because then he starts to sob a little.
“I ain’t seen her for twenty years,” he says. And his face gets so scrunched up from all the sobbing that Alvar cuts his cheek.
“Didn’t I tell you to sit still!” he barks again.
“Not for twenty years,” Grampa goes on. “I was fifty-three then, and she was thirty-three. Me and the woman went down to the station with her. We gave her lilacs and a dozen eggs. The three of us cried so much the train pretty near left without her.”