Hell Fire

2 December 2004

The snow finally came just before Christmas.

“Do you really have to go out?” Eddie asked. “There’s a storm blowing.”

They had said on the radio that it was icy and driving conditions were bad. They advised people to stay indoors because visibility was virtually zero.

Mass put her hand on his arm; her voice was calm and decisive. “Eddie,” she said kindly, “I’ve got winter tires. And I’ll drive like a snail, I promise. I want to come home to you in one piece. But I have to go to the store; we need food. Or do you want to try going without?”

Eddie shook his heavy head at the thought of having no dinner.

“You stay at home with Shiba,” she said. “What do you want from the store? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Eddie Malthe wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was the shape of a giant pear, with thin, spindly legs. He was wearing the same heavy boots that he always wore, which were narrow at the heel and broadened out toward the toes. He had the feet of a big goose. His hands were huge and white, with short, stubby fingers.

“Cinnamon rolls,” he said without hesitation.

“Cinnamon rolls it is,” his mother replied. “I’ll be off, then. And be nice to Shiba; don’t pull her tail. I know that’s what you do when you’re here on your own.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Eddie said, as he planned with glee to do just that. When he pulled her tail, Shiba always started to whine and scratched the floor with her long claws as though she was trying to escape.

“Remember your seat belt,” he said with authority. His mother pulled on her coat.

“And don’t forget your cell phone. If you run off the road, you must call the emergency services. That is, if you’re not unconscious.”

“Eddie, stop it. Now go and sit down on the sofa and I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour, no more.”

Eddie looked at his mother long and hard. “When you go out, it’ll get cold in the house,” he complained. “You know what it’s like. Don’t forget the cinnamon rolls. If they haven’t got them, get some cookies. Lemon creams.”

He stared out of the window. The glass was shiny and clean — his mother kept things neat and tidy. His eyes felt sore. He watched the car reverse out of the garage and turn onto the main road. The snow was coming down and swirling around in the wind, ending in great drifts on the roadside. He said a quiet prayer that everything would be all right. That his mother would come back unharmed with the shopping. The dog was sleeping in front of the heater with her head on her paws. He went straight over to her and pulled her tail hard, as he always did. Shiba scrambled to her feet, whining, and ran into the kitchen.

Eddie sat down on the sofa and picked up the newspaper. He turned to the second-to-last page, where the crossword was. He normally managed to solve it. It wasn’t that he was stupid. He found a pencil and started to read. Across, possessive, seven letters. He wrote the word jealous in the seven squares.

The heater was roaring, and the dog had settled down on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. She was an overweight, eight-year-old Labrador, and his mother had said she didn’t have long to live. Her body was full of lumps; he could feel them under her golden fur. She wasn’t insured, so they couldn’t afford to take her to the vet.

“We’ll just have to let life run its course,” his mother would say. “Nothing lasts forever, you know.”

“I know,” Eddie would answer. Then he’d think about his mother’s death because it was going to happen one day. And even though she was only fifty-six and he was twenty-one, it still terrified him to think about her demise and he got all hot and bothered. He often had to put his hand on his heart to calm it down. Romany, he read, and he got the fourth letter, “s,” from jealous. He wrote the word gypsy in the five squares. He always did the easy ones first. Then he looked at the clock on the wall and watched the seconds tick by. His mother would be back with the cinnamon rolls in twenty minutes. He could already taste them in his mouth. He really, really hoped they had some! And that they were good and fresh! Direction, five letters. Could be north. Or south. Either way, he had the next word for circle, five letters. It must be round. Then he got onto the more difficult clues and decided to take a break.

He went back to the window and stared out at the driving snow. “Let Mom make it through the storm,” he prayed to Jesus, wherever he was. “Because I’m sitting here all alone waiting for dessert. There’s only the two of us. You have to look after us!”

He went to see Shiba in the kitchen, pulled her tail hard again, and then laughed when she shot up and ran into the living room. She scooted under the sofa and collapsed, panting.

“Stupid dog,” he said and laughed again. “You don’t fight back. Haven’t you got any teeth?”

Then he sat back down with the crossword, sucking on the end of the pencil. The clue cease made him uneasy because the word had only three letters.

Forty-five minutes had passed and his mother had not returned. He grabbed his cell phone and tapped in her number with his fat fingers. But all he got was a voice saying, “The person you are calling is unable to answer the phone right now.” He paced over to the window again and stared out at the heavy white snow. The sun only managed to produce a pale modest light. He knew that his mother would send him out to clear the snow later, and if there was one thing he hated, it was clearing snow. He tried her number again, but once more heard the disembodied voice telling him she was unable to answer the phone. It was fifty minutes now. This is it, he thought in desperation. She’s driven off the road and crashed into a tree. She’s sitting with her nose buried in the airbag. For a moment, he considered throwing on his jacket and walking along the road to look for her. But then, as he stood there by the window, anxiously wringing his hands, he saw her car swing in through the gate. The headlights shone into his face and he ran out into the hall and down the front steps.

“You said three-quarters of an hour,” he complained. “I was scared.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” she chided. “I can’t answer the phone when I’m driving, and I was almost home.”

“Did they have cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes,” she said. “I got two packages. See, here you are, plenty for you to enjoy. Put the milk in the fridge; I’ll have to clear the snow from the steps. And when you’ve finished, you can come out and clear the rest.”

Inside, she counted out seven cinnamon rolls and put them on a plate. “You can have some more this evening. I think you’re putting on weight, my love. I know that you’re a big boy, but two hundred and eighty-six pounds is too much. Being overweight is dangerous, Eddie. The milk and cake settle in your arteries like clay. And then a big clot comes loose and is carried toward your heart — or your brain, for that matter — and then there’ll be no more crosswords for you.”

“But I can have the rest of the cinnamon rolls this evening, can’t I?” he asked.

“Yes, I promise,” she said. “But you do understand that I have to be strict, don’t you? Someone has to keep an eye on you; we agreed on that.”

“We have to go to the shopping center,” he said. “I need new clothes. I want one of those sweatshirts I saw in the paper. I Love New York.”

That night he dreamed about chicks. Yellow, fluffy, and soft, running around on stick legs. He picked them up and dropped them in a pan with melted butter and garlic. He dreamed that they lay there simmering, then peeped and squeaked when he added boiling water. He woke up abruptly at the end of the dream, listening for sounds in his mother’s room. Sometimes she talked in her sleep and other times she moaned. But mostly it was quiet all through the night. He didn’t like it when his mom was asleep. When she wasn’t there to look after him, when she didn’t answer if he spoke to her, when she was out of reach, breathing in the dark.

He always woke up first and lay there listening for his mother, to hear if she was awake. He didn’t move until he heard the toilet flush. Then he rolled out of bed and went into the living room, pulled open the curtains, and looked out at the new day he was now part of. He walked into the kitchen with one hand down his pants and the other opening the bread bin. He cut two slices of bread, spread on a thick layer of butter, and then reached for the sugar bowl. He wiped some crumbs from the vinyl tablecloth. His mother came out of the bathroom and saw him sitting there with the bread and sugar. Always the same thing: nag nag nag. How many times do I have to tell you to wash your hands before you eat? You haven’t even been to the bathroom yet. Your hands have been everywhere.

Eddie kept his thoughts to himself. He knew that she often slept with a hand between her sweaty thighs; he could hear her moaning at night. I’m not a damn idiot, he said to himself. And even though his mother chased him into the bathroom to wash his hands, he felt superior. His mother looked out at the snow that was still falling thick and fast. “We’ll take the bus today,” she said, looking at her son. “It’s just as easy. And we really need to get you to the hairdresser’s; you look like a girl.”

Eddie snorted. How could she say that? He was six feet and two inches tall and his voice was as coarse as a grater. There was no way he looked like a girl. His hair was curling at the neck, thick and brown and soft, but he didn’t like it when the scissors snipped around his ears.

Soon after she was sitting on the bus seat beside him, with her hands folded around her brown handbag. “We’ll go to the Suit Store,” she said with authority. “They have XXL. You really must stop putting sugar on your bread,” she added. “You’ll get diabetes.”

He didn’t answer. He sat on the seat beside her and breathed in the scent of soap. He liked sitting on the bus, swaying along with the low, drowsy humming of the engine and the smell of the new red plush seats. The smell of strangers he didn’t need to interact with.

The Suit Store was on the second floor of the shopping center, so they took the escalator up. There were racks of sale items outside the store, all old stock that had been reduced.

“I want a pair of pants and a sweatshirt,” he said, loud and clear, to the young sales assistant who came over. “The pants have to be black. With lots of pockets, front, back, and on the legs. Not denim — it has to be some other material. I hate stiff clothes. Extra large, because I’m a big boy.”

The sales assistant smiled and showed her white teeth. Her skin was as dark as chocolate and her hair was black.

“You’re not Norwegian,” Eddie said, more a statement than anything else.

“I am too,” she retorted. “My dad’s Ethiopian, but I was born and brought up in Norway. Look, these pants have lots of pockets. Six in front and two at the back — how’s that?”

“They’re not black,” Eddie said, dissatisfied.

“No, but it’s the closest I’ve got in your size. If the pockets are so important. We do have other pants that are black, but they’re jeans. And you just said you didn’t want jeans.”

“Ah well,” Eddie said. “I guess I’ll be going home with dark blue pants today, then. To think you can’t even satisfy such a simple request. And the sweatshirt,” he continued. “Black as well. Have you ever been to Ethiopia to look for your roots?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Don’t be so nosy,” his mother interrupted. “Why don’t you just go to the fitting room and try on the pants? I’ll look for a sweatshirt. You shouldn’t ask people where they come from — it’s none of your business. How would you like it if people asked and went on about your origins?”

“I wouldn’t mind; I’d like it,” he said. He pulled open the curtain and went into the narrow changing room. He took off his old pants and tried on the new ones. His mother came back with a sweatshirt she had found with New York on it. He didn’t even want to try it on because he could see it would fit. Mass paid 720 kroner for the clothes and Eddie carried the bag out of the store.

They stood in front of the counter in Christiania Café on the first floor.

“You can have a sandwich and some pie,” Mass said. “I’m going to have waffles and jam. Listen, Eddie, you really mustn’t ask people where they’re from.”

“But Ethiopia’s a nice place,” he said. “It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”

They sat down at a table by the window. Eddie pressed his custard slice down on the plate, trying to break the top layer into small pieces.

“Do you remember when we came back from Las Palmas? Do you remember the Negro who fell on the escalator at Gardermoen?” he asked. “He broke both his legs. In several places. It was terrible.”

“You shouldn’t say Negro,” Mass corrected him. “What made you think about him anyway?”

“Well, we have to go down the escalator too. We’d better be careful. Hold on to the handrail. I’ll carry the bags.” He licked his lips.

“I’m going to watch Tracker Tore tonight. I wonder who he’s going to help this time, and if they’ll find who they’re looking for,” he said. “It always starts me thinking about Gran and Granddad. And all the others on Dad’s side. Where they came from. And everyone before them. And how they lived. And what they did.”

Mass took a sip of coffee. “But they’re dead,” she objected. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s you and me now, and I think we manage very well.”

She ate some of her waffle. “Perhaps you should get a girlfriend,” she said. “After all, I’m not going to be here forever.”

Eddie looked up with a horrified expression on his face. “Why do I need a girlfriend when I’ve got you?” he exclaimed. “Were you upset when Dad left?”

“No,” she replied. “Not really. I think I was expecting it. He was a womanizer, Eddie, just so you know. He found someone else — someone much younger than me, of course. That’s just the way men are. But then he got ill and died, so she didn’t get much joy from him either. I don’t know if they had any children; maybe they did. But we’ve talked about all this before, Eddie. There’s nothing more to tell.”

“It sounds like you think it’s all OK,” Eddie said, offended. “Didn’t you think about me?”

“Of course I did. I just didn’t want you to grow up with a father who didn’t want us.”

Later that afternoon, Eddie sat on the sofa with the newspaper. He liked to read the deaths and obituaries, savoring them like candy. Lots of old ladies who tasted like camphor. Some, like all the little children, were as sweet as toffee. And some were stronger than Turkish pepper. It might be a murder or a suicide, or the many who lost the fight against cancer. His thoughts started to wander. Then he returned to the crossword. Corona, five letters, and the last one was “s.” He knew that Corona was a beer; he knew that it was a town. And it also had something to do with the sun. He looked it up on the Internet and discovered to his great surprise that it was also a virus. The things I know! he thought to himself happily. I’ve got my eye on the ball.