Punishment aka What Is Mine

THIRTY-FIVE

Even though Aksel Seier had never really felt happy, there were times when he felt satisfied with life. On days like these he felt he belonged; that he was grounded in the history that existed between himself and Harwich Port, between him and his gray, cedar-clad house by the beach. Rain darkened the broken asphalt on Ocean Avenue. His pickup truck humped along slowly toward the house, as if he was still not sure that he wanted to go home. The gray of the sea met the gray of the sky, and the intense green of the oak crowns that leaned heavily toward each other to create a botanical tunnel for part of the road was subdued. Aksel liked this sort of weather. It was warm and the air felt fresh as it brushed his cheeks through the open car window. The pickup bumped into the driveway. He sat there for a while, leaning back in the front seat. Then he grabbed the keys and got out.

The flag on his mailbox was raised. Mrs. Davis didn’t like Aksel’s mailbox. Her own had been decorated with rosemaling by Bjorn, who claimed to be Swedish and sold mock Dala wooden horses to stupid tourists on Main Street. Bjorn couldn’t speak Swedish and had black hair and brown eyes. But when he painted anything, he stuck to blue and yellow. You had to give him that. Mrs. Davis’s mailbox was covered in coltsfoot flowers dancing on blue stalks. Aksel’s mailbox was completely black. The flag had once been red, but that was a long time ago now.

“You’re back!”

Sometimes Aksel wondered if Mrs. Davis had a radar in her kitchen. She had, of course, been a widow for many years and didn’t work-she lived off the meager life insurance payout she’d gotten when her husband disappeared at sea in 1975-and therefore was able to dedicate her time to making sure she knew how everyone was and what was happening in the small town. Her efficiency was impressive all the same. Aksel couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been welcomed home by the lady in pink.

He held out a bottle in a brown paper bag.

“Oh dear! Liquor? For me, honey?”

“Maple syrup,” he said gruffly. “From Maine. Thanks for taking care of the cat. How much do I owe you?”

Mrs. Davis didn’t want any money, not at all. He had barely been away. Wasn’t it just four days since he left? Five? It was no problem. It was a pleasure to look after such a beautiful and well-trained cat. Syrup from Maine. Thank you so much! Such a beautiful state, Maine. Fresh and unspoiled. She should take a trip there soon herself; it must be twenty years since she last visited her sister-in-law, who lived in Bangor. She was the headmistress of a school there, very smart lady, even though she could be a bit liberal with the strong stuff. But that was her business and had nothing to do with Mrs. Davis, and wasn’t he originally going to go to New Jersey?

Aksel shrugged his shoulders in a way that could mean anything. He grabbed the suitcase from the back of the pickup and walked toward the door.

“But you’ve got mail, Aksel! Don’t forget to check your mailbox! And the young lady who visited you last week, she came back. Her card is in the box, I think. What a sweet girl! Cute as a button.”

Then she looked up at the sky and tripped back to her house. The rain hung like pearls on her angora sweater and was about to make her hair flat.

Aksel put his suitcase down on the steps. He didn’t like getting mail. It was always bills. There was only one person who wrote to Aksel Seier, and her letters came every six months, one at Christmas and one in July, loyal and regular as always. He looked over at Mrs. Davis’s house. She had stopped under the eaves and was waving enthusiastically at the mailbox. He gave in. He strode over to the black box and opened the front. The envelope was white. It wasn’t a bill. He tucked the letter under his sweater as if its contents were illegal. A business card fell to the ground. He picked it up and glanced at the front, then put it in his back pocket.

The air in the house was stuffy and a sweet smell mingled with the dust that made him sneeze. The fridge was suspiciously quiet. When he slowly opened the door, the light didn’t go on and illuminate the six-pack that stood alone on the top shelf. On the shelf underneath was a plate of stew, covered by a repulsive, green film. It was no more than two months since Frank Malloy had repaired the fridge in return for an embroidered sofa cushion that he took home to his wife. There soon wouldn’t be much left to repair, Frank had said. Aksel should treat himself to a new fridge. Aksel took out a can of beer. It was tepid.

The letter was from Eva. But it was the wrong time of year for letters from Eva. Not before July. The middle of July and a few days before Christmas Eve. That’s the way it should be. That’s how it had always been. Aksel sat down on the chair under the shark lamp. He opened the envelope with a pewter letter opener decorated with a Viking pattern. He pulled out the sheets of paper with the familiar handwriting, unclear and difficult to read. The lines sloped slightly down to the right. He unfolded the letter, smoothed it over his thigh, then held it up close to his eyes.

By the time the can of beer was empty, he had managed to get through it all. To be absolutely sure, he read the letter again.

Then he sat there staring out into space.