Death of a Nightingale

Magnus had met someone else. Nina listened distractedly to his careful and considerate explanations, the great respect he had for her as a person and a colleague, how happy he had been that they had been able to help each other through a difficult time, and so on. The concern lines on his friendly dog’s face were incredibly deep.

The window was open, and a scent of loam and rain and spring in the air drifted into the apartment’s tiny kitchen. In the evening darkness, you could hear the protracted metallic noise from a freight train passing down on the tracks. Nina poked at the rice from the Thai food he had brought—chicken cashew—while she considered how long she needed to let him talk before she could decently interrupt him.

“I’m handing in my notice,” she finally said, when the considerate explanations showed no sign of ceasing.

He was jolted, and in his confusion he pushed his glasses into his hair. They were crooked, she noticed, and made the blond Swedish locks stand straight up.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I mean … I’m sure we can figure it out, and if we can’t, then I’m the one who’ll look for another job.”

It took her a moment to realize he thought she was giving notice because of him.

She couldn’t help laughing. That didn’t make him any less confused, she could see.

“Magnus, damn it,” she said. “We’re not exactly Romeo and Juliet, are we? I’m not planning to keel over dead on your grave.”

“Jag förstår inte,” he said, suddenly slipping into Swedish in his total perplexity. “I don’t get it.”

She spelled it out for him. “I’ve thought about it for more than a month,” she said. “And I’ve made my decision, so all you need to do is say ‘okay’ and ‘too bad’ and then wish me luck in my new future.”

“But why?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I can explain it. Partly it’s because I’ve come to realize that I’m no longer the same person I was when I took the job. I can’t keep defining myself as the one who has to save everyone else.”

He took off his glasses and started to polish them with a corner of his shirt. He observed her for a long time, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Then he smiled.

“And here I sat explaining and explaining,” he said. “Were you listening at all?”

“Some of the time.”

“Okay. I’m … I’m going to miss you. In several ways. What do you want to do next?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’re not applying for another of those hellhole missions you used to do, are you?”

She shook her head. “That would be a step in the wrong direction, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she, your new love?”

“Do you really want to know, or are you just being polite?”

She snorted and took a sip of her wine instead of answering.

He got up. “Do you have a date in mind?” he asked.

“May first. But I’ve done a lot of overtime, so it’ll actually be in a couple of weeks.”

He gave her a long hug on the way out the door. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

“You too.”

WHEN HE HAD left, she felt a relief so intense, it was almost as if she were weightless. As if her feet’s contact with the kitchen floor was a completely voluntary condition. She went over to close the small window overlooking the railroad tracks, then remained standing, looking down at the lamps along the park path, where a lone jogger came running, slap, slap, slap, along the asphalt ribbon under the blooming trees. She took her cell phone out of her pocket and called Morten’s number.

“I quit my job,” she said without preamble.

It took awhile for him to answer. “What does that mean?”

“How hard is it to understand? I’ve given notice at the Coal-House Camp.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Nowhere! I just thought … I could find something where there would be more time for the kids. Something less hectic.”

There was a faint click. He had hung up.

She stared at the telephone. Didn’t understand. She had thought he would be … maybe not exactly happy, but less cranky. Less annoyed with her.

The telephone rang. Now he was the one who didn’t say hello.

“Why now?” he asked, and his voice was so angry, it shook. “Why not one of the approximately six hundred times when I asked you to? One of the times when it would have meant something?”

“I thought you would be …”

“Yes. Sorry.” He sighed. The anger left his voice as quickly as it had arrived. “Nina, I know it’s not your fault, or not just your fault. When I think about what happened with your dad, when I think about the fact that you were younger than Ida is now … I can’t begin to imagine how someone could make it through something like that in one piece. You are as you are, and … and there are many good things about that. But I don’t want to renegotiate our agreement and offer the kids the possibility of something more, just because you’ve suddenly had the idea that you want to be more of a mother to them. And besides …”

“Besides what?”

“No. We’d better talk about that another day, when I know more.”

“Morten. You can’t just say something like that and then leave it there.”

The relief had abruptly disappeared. There was nothing weightless about her whatsoever. What was he going to say? Something about the kids? He had spoken of moving, she suddenly remembered. That terrible Sunday. Far enough away to save the kids from your war zone. Was that it?

“Are you moving?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Nina, there’s no reason to talk about it now. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“They are my kids too,” she said and hated the meekness that had entered her voice. As if she wasn’t sure it was true.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.”

“Morten …”

“Good night, Nina. I didn’t mean to worry you. Forget it.”

SHE LAY IN her bed with the window open just a crack. The alarm clock’s large numbers shone in the dark: 2:12.

Okay, she said to herself. So it isn’t going to be as easy as you thought. So what? Aren’t you supposed to be the great crisis queen?

The clock’s digits changed with a barely audible click—2:13.

She rolled out of bed, slowly and deliberately, and padded barefoot into the hall, to the closet where the toolbox was. She chose the bigger and heavier of the two hammers and placed it on the kitchen table. The next step was to carry one of the kitchen chairs into the bedroom so she could take the clock down from the hook on the wall.

There was no reason to get glass all over the place, so she wrapped a kitchen towel around the clock before she placed it in the sink and calmly and methodically proceeded to smash it.

She didn’t know how long it took. Nor did she know what time it was when she went back to bed awhile later and eventually fell asleep.