“Knowing you, you’ll want to be on top,” Epsilon said. “No,” I said, even though I meant yes. So Epsilon climbed unsteadily to the top bunk. He’d been scared of heights ever since he climbed a ladder and discovered that going up is much easier than coming down, which must be because our eyes are closer to our hands than our feet, Epsilon is an extreme example of this. Finally, I realized that I had to put an end to this madness, so I let him descend from above and sleep next to me — but there was just something wrong with me. If I’d known this sooner, it would have spared me a lot of worrying. When the neighbor girl told me that sperm can sneak up inside you and get you pregnant when you least expect it, I was determined that this would never happen to me, so I bathed wearing all the underwear I owned, one pair pulled over the next. Maybe I was so determined not to get pregnant, it was impossible to change my mind later on. So, Epsilon and I got a Dalmatian instead.
We argued back and forth about whether his name would be Black or White. “Why not something a little less racist,” I suggested. “We’re forward-thinking people. Let’s call him King, after Martin Luther King. We can set an example.” So we called him King, and that went fine until the first Negro moved to Haugerud. Instead of sniffing the man in passing like he did everyone else, King went crazy. He barked and growled and threw himself at the poor guy. We assumed it was a one-time thing, but then it happened again and again. Apparently our dog was the narrow-minded type, and even though we liked him, we decided we shouldn’t call him King, so we named him after Epsilon’s uncle. We called him Stein, which means stone. Appropriate, when you consider the way he died.
It was early fall and Stein and I were walking to Lutvann like always. I had plenty of meringues in my pocket and every once in a while I’d toss him one, since that was the only way you could get him to keep going. Finally, we sat by the water’s edge; Stein liked to watch the waves lap at the shore. Epsilon thought Stein must be intelligent since he’d sit and grin whenever Epsilon started in about statistics. At long last, someone who appreciates averages. Stein sat with the same thoughtful smile whenever he watched the water. “There’s a lot of math in waves,” Epsilon said. That day there wasn’t much wind, so I threw stones in the water to give Einstein something to think about, and before we knew it we were surrounded by a school class, dogs are kid magnets. There was nothing to be done, escape was impossible. “Look at the fat dog,” a plump kid said, the plump ones are always the loudmouths. “Can it swim?” another asked. I didn’t know what to say, Stein had never shown any interest in swimming. The kids laughed and I was embarrassed on Stein’s behalf, so I whispered, “Swim, Stein, swim,” but he just grinned at me. Time for a meringue. I stuck my hand in my pocket and reached for the little bag. Stein was immediately alert, but the bag was empty. We’ll see how smart you really are, I thought, before I took two or three quick steps and made an exaggerated throwing motion toward the water. Stein jumped straight in the water; a couple of children got wet, which was fine with me, and he began to swim. Usually the meringues didn’t go too far, because throwing a meringue is like throwing a cotton ball, but maybe he was fooled by my running start, as by now he was ten or twenty meters out. When would he realize that I’d just thrown air? I was worried. “Where’s he going?” one little girl asked. Soon all I could see was the white and black head bobbing up and down and then Stein was gone. “He’s gone,” the fat boy said. The kids looked from the water back to me, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I pretended everything was fine.
After a few minutes, the kids turned around and left, but I watched the water until evening came on and the sun went down. Then I walked home and told Epsilon that Stein had left us. “The possibility of that happening must be less than ε, if ε equals a microscopically small quantity,” Epsilon said when I told him how it happened.
I bake and wonder how I’m ever going to go to the gathering, because even if I’m not disabled, I’m definitely old, no one will expect to see me there, and one of the worst things you can do is disappoint someone’s expectations.
A diligent life has run its course, a busy hand has worked its fill, your long labors are at an end, your loyal heart is finally still.
I don’t like lying on my back at night anymore, I feel like a corpse, especially when I put my legs together, which I almost always do, and fold my hands across my chest. The feeling of being in a coffin is uncomfortable, so now I usually lay on my stomach with my legs splayed. I have flexible hips.
Sometimes I go to sleep, but I wake up when the telephone rings. I’m not brave enough to answer it, but Epsilon tells me to answer it, because it might be important. And then I find out it was only a dream.
~ ~ ~
THE BIG CLEAN-UP is today, my neighbors are standing right over the time capsule, that’s nice, it’s like I’m there, too, even though it’s not really the same thing at all. They’re talking and laughing, which is strange, because aren’t they there against their will? I figured the mood would be glummer, but apparently some people must enjoy forced labor.
The rolls are on the kitchen counter, I’ve set out the jam jars, but I can’t bring myself to go down. What should I say, here I come with rolls and jam? That just sounds pathetic. Of course, I could claim a little corner of the lawn and pick up trash, there’s plenty of that lying around, but what if someone saw me, they wouldn’t recognize me and maybe they’d think I was someone from another building complex who’d come to destroy the flowerbeds, so my own complex would look like a better place to live and be known as Groruddalen’s best co-op. There aren’t a lot of old people there, although some of them definitely look over-the-hill, even more so than me, and anyway it’s probably good to have a bent back if you’re picking up trash. One man is missing a leg, but he’s a real champion with a rake, he hobbles here and there, back and forth, even though he could’ve stayed at home: “Sorry, I only have one leg.” I wish I only had one leg.
The one extraordinary thing I can brag about, though, is that I was struck by lightning once, but can I really brag about that? It was the lightning that struck me, after all, and not the other way around. And because of that, Epsilon saw me for the first time. He must’ve been born with some superhuman power that made it possible to notice me. The fact that we ended up together is thanks to him rather than me.
Still, I was good at sorting playing cards into their various suits. So I shuffled them—“seven times is the correct number of times to shuffle a deck,” Epsilon said, “neither more nor less”—and I was also quick at sorting them by number and color. “You’re good at sorting cards,” Epsilon said. That warmed me to the bone and I “accidentally” dropped the cards on the floor so I could sort them again. I was also good at starting new rolls of toilet paper, I could unstick the first sheet without tearing it. “Epsilon,” I’d call out when I knew it was time to begin a new roll. “Are you done on the toilet?” Then I’d go in and start a new roll, voilà! perfection, before tearing off seven sheets for him, the statistically correct number, neither more nor less.
When Epsilon was at work and I was alone in the house, I didn’t do much of anything. I didn’t have any children to watch and I only cleaned superficially. Every once in a while I’d wash my eyes out with a shot glass of water, but now that I think about it, I didn’t do nearly enough, and nothing mattered anyway.
I watch June’s mother and all the other neighbors working outside, and I wish I were under house arrest. Trapped in my home, like Aung San Suu Kyi. I could never set foot out of doors, and all I’d ever see were the walls, floor, and ceiling of my own apartment. There would be nothing I could do about it, my life would never change. The world, though, would demand my freedom. Amnesty International would campaign, people from every country would write letters of protest, they’d hold demonstrations and chant rhyming slogans: “Let there be no doubt, we want Mathea out,” with special emphasis on the rhyming words. But nothing would work, and wouldn’t it be nice to have an excuse.