The Parcel
When I woke up, I was lying in my own bed. Fred had gone and Mom was standing bent over my face, impatient. “How did it go?” she asked. “At the dancing class?” I sat up and remembered everything all at one go. “Peder’s coming to dinner,” I said. “Who?” “Peder!” Mom sat down on the edge of the bed. “Who is Peder?” And I never thought I’d speak the words I could now. “He’s my new friend,” I whispered. Mom smiled in a strange kind of way and was about to draw her fingers through my hair, but stopped herself. “Did you meet him yesterday?” “Yes, we came home together.” Mom sat there silent for a moment, the same smile on her lips. “And so you asked him for dinner?” “Yes. Friends do that.” Mom hesitated a moment, then got up and clapped her hands. “Then we have to get going and set the table!” She strode out and I lay back in bed. I heard her calling Boletta. “Come and help me, you old bag of bones! We’ve got guests coming to dinner!” And I lay there listening to the muted noise of saucepans and frying pans, the banging of cupboard doors and dropped lids, and the vacuum cleaner and the iron. And I began to get nervous; everything I looked forward to I was nervous about as well. And I thought (or perhaps I think this now), just as with rain, that which then was just a feeling, a doubt — that nothing is complete and totally whole — everything has a crack in it, be it joy, good fortune, beauty. There’s fracture in everything, something missing. Except in the completeness — and the uselessness — of that which is imperfect.
Mom opened the door. She looked bewildered. “Good Lord! Aren’t you going to school today?” I whispered under the quilt. “I think I’d prefer to stay at home.” Mom brushed away the hair from her brow. She was wearing rubber gloves and a big, white apron. “Are you ill?” “No, but you can say that I am.” Boletta appeared behind Mom and peered forward with red eyes and wrinkled mouth. “Let Barnum stay home. You can say in the note he’s got a fever.” “I don’t like lying,” Mom said. Boletta sat down on the bed and put her hand on my brow. “Oh, it isn’t a lie, my dear little Vera. Bar-nums been at dancing school and temperatures rise there! And anyway, he’s got a swollen eye. He’s been looking too much at the girls!” I was up already. “I can do the shopping!” I all but shouted. Mom pointed at me. “You’ll at least stay indoors. You can tidy your room and not get in the way.” She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Boletta hesitated a moment. “Your mom’s just so pleased,” she murmured, “that you’ve got a friend coming. But it isn’t easy for her to show it.” She drew her hand over my neck where there were still traces of Fred’s nails. “How was it yesterday at dancing school?” she asked, her voice no louder. “Yes, fine.” Boletta laughed, but mostly to herself. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m only a foolish old woman who wants to know what’s going by her.” I looked at her. “You’re not that foolish, Boletta,” I told her. “Thank you, Barnum. You’ve put my mind at rest.”
She hurried off in Mom’s wake, and I began tidying. I made up the beds. I put all my books in my schoolbag, put my pencils in their case, hid my insoles in the bottom drawer, blew the dust from M. S. Greve’s Medical Dictionary for Norwegian Homes, and opened the window and sneezed a few times. It was sunny outside. The sunlight cast thin shadows. Time passed. It stood still and passed at one and the same time. Not even time was whole. Boletta was already coming up Church Road. She had the pushcart piled with purchases — she could barely pull it behind her. I closed the window and began to feel nervous. I tidied Fred’s things too. I hid his knife, cigarettes and all his keys under his pillow. I put his pointed brown shoes in the closet, and I scraped the old bits of chewing gum from the edge of the bed and threw them away. I knew I shouldn’t do all this. I knew I shouldn’t touch his stuff. He’d drawn a line down the floor. I had to have permission to cross it. Fred didn’t need that. He went wherever he chose to. I hoped he wouldn’t come home for dinner. And yet I wished he would too, I wished he would sit with us — as a big brother. He could just sit there and not say anything — yes, preferably be like that, silent and mysterious, a proper big brother. But if Dad managed to get home, then it would be for the best if Fred stayed away — one of them would be enough. I heard Mom laying the table: the white cloth, the tall glasses, the napkin rings, the Chinese dinner service, the silver cutlery. Now the great past was being laid on the table, that which never became the future. I ran out to her. “Can’t we just eat in the kitchen?” “The kitchen! Now you’ve certainly got a temperature.” “Please, Mom! Can’t we just have a normal dinner?” She turned away from me; she was holding a plate in her hands and for a moment I didn’t know if she was going to throw it to the floor or put it neatly where it was supposed to go. “What do you mean, Barnum?” “That that’s the point! That everything’ll be like it always is.” Mom gave me a long look. “I don’t think you really mean that,” she said. Then she set the plate down slowly and carefully on the cloth.
Dad came at a quarter to five as if he worked normal office hours and we were a normal family. He stopped in the hall, heavy and stooped — perhaps he’d walked the whole way from Majorstuen again, or farther still. He could barely reach down to his own shoes. But then he straightened up again, his eyes darted this way and that, and he sniffed. He looked at me bemused as I stood waiting beside the clock, not for him but for Peder. And slowly he lifted his gaze from the shiny buttons of my blazer to the set table in the dining room, where the candles were already lit and fluttered in the draft from the corners of the windows. His face grew; a smile that hadn’t been there stretched it out and caused his eyes to disappear in their skin. “Well, I never,” he breathed. “Have you seen the like of that? Well, I never.” Mom carried a dish of potatoes past us and quickly turned to look at him. “Barnum has a visitor coming,” she said. “Get yourself ready.” Dad’s face tumbled somewhat, like a bonfire; his eyes reappeared. Perhaps he’d thought all this had been done for his benefit — an act of appreciation, a surprise medal. Smells drifted from the kitchen the like of which we’d never known — spices and vanilla and meat — there were recipes in foreign tongues, and Boletta sang ballads over the stove. Dad rediscovered his smile and turned to look at me. “A visitor? Have you met a girl already, Barnum?” “His name’s Peder,” I said. Dad went over to the cabinet and mixed himself a whiskey and soda in the heaviest of the glasses. He drank it slowly and swallowed three times. “Now I’ve gotten myself ready,” he said.
Five o’clock came. Peder hadn’t. Mom put a towel over the potatoes. Boletta kept the various pots warm. Dad got himself a second whiskey and soda, and his head tilted. He looked down at my feet. “Not wearing the new shoes?” he asked. “No, thanks.” “Did they not fit after all?” “I don’t like walking around in a dead mans shoes.” I just said it like that, as if the words came from somewhere else. I don’t like walking around in a dead mans shoes. Dads gaze would settle nowhere for a time, until he emptied his glass and stamped his foot. “Lets get around the table!” he exclaimed. We sat down. Dad stuffed his napkin between his top shirt buttons and was about to help himself. Mom laid her hand on his arm. “Well wait,” she said gently. Dad let his hands drop onto his lap; he looked around, and his eyes settled on me. “What’s the boys name, then?” he inquired. “Peder,” I told him. “Peder what?” I thought to myself, But he isn’t coming. He just said it to be nice, that he’d come to dinner, because his father was standing there listening. Perhaps he felt sorry for me too, that I was a moron, he isn’t coming, he’s tricked me. I’d been thrown out of dancing school in a dead man’s shoes and I was alone. “Peder,” I repeated. “Peder.” Boletta leaned over the table. “Hell come all right,” she said. “Hell come.” And right at that moment Fred appeared. He stood over by the door looking in at us. He shook back his hair and came closer. He was smiling, but his lips were thin. “Who’s dead?” he asked, and sat down on the empty chair. “That place is taken,” Dad said. “And nobody’s dead.” “Yes, now it’s taken. And you’re dead.” Fred filled his plate and began eatin
g. “No need to wait for me,” he said, and passed the dish to Boletta who just shook her head. “Barnum has a friend coming,” Mom said quickly. “A friend? Barnum?” Fred looked at me. Mom put her hand over his. “I didn’t expect you to be here, Fred.” Dad laughed. “No, indeed, who can expect that?” he said. “Fred being here.” Boletta had already set an extra place at the table between Mom and myself, and she pushed a chair into the gap. Fred stared at Dad. “And who can expect you to be here, huh? You blockhead.” Dad’s hand shook. “I am here. And you shouldn’t talk with food in your mouth anyway.” Fred chewed for a good while and turned to me. I hoped Peder wouldn’t come. I hoped he’d just said he would to be nice — I hoped he wouldn’t come. “So what’s happened to him?” Fred asked. “Your friend, I mean?” “He’ll come, all right,” Boletta said, and poured herself a glass of wine. Dad took the bottle from her and poured a full glass for himself too. “Perhaps the tram’s late,” I whispered. “Yes, it must be,” Mom said. “Hell be here soon, you’ll see.” Fred laughed. Dad said cheers. “Out there in the big wide world you can count on waiting exactly a quarter of an hour. And now it’s precisely quarter past five!” He piled his plate high and was on the point of taking his first bite when the bell rang. There was utter silence in the room; even Fred was still and seemed to freeze solid over the tablecloth. Again the doorbell rang. I all but overturned my chair and ran out into the hall and opened the door. It was Peder. He came in. He seemed pretty out of breath. “The top of Church Road,” he panted. “Goddamn.” “It’s pretty steep,” I said. “And you didn’t tell me what number it was.” Peder laughed. I laughed too. “So how did you find your way?” “Just asked where Barnum Nilsen lived,” Peder said. We turned toward the living room. There sat my family They smiled. Dad had put his helping back in the serving dish, and even Fred was smiling. They looked happy there between the candlesticks and the glasses, as if they were nothing other than happy. And this is how I saw them for the first time: Dad, already in the process of getting up from the chair that’s higher than the others, quickly brushing his hand over his smooth hair before making room for Peder, our guest. Boletta, moving the wine bottle to see better, a gray-haired and smiling grandmother at the heart of the family circle. Mom, in the process of getting up herself, looking suddenly younger than the average mother, blushing and holding out her hands as if she’s going to put her arms around Peder and embrace him. And Fred who keeps on eating, a pretty omnipotent big brother who doesn’t allow himself to be disturbed. This could go all right. “Golly,” said Peder.
He greeted Dad first, and Dad didn’t let go of his hand so easily. “Peder Miil,” Peder said, and bowed. “Miil? Is that with one i or two, Peder?” “Two,” Peder told him. Then he went around the table and shook hands with everyone — yes, even Fred — and finally we all sat down. “Thanks for inviting me,” Peder said. Mom and Boletta exchanged glances. They hadn’t seen the like of this. “But you came too late,” Fred said. “That doesn’t matter,” Mom laughed, and Boletta passed the serving dishes to Peder, and Dad poured his glass to the brim with orange soda. “Guests always come in time,” Dad said. “That’s what we used to say in America. So why can’t we say it here too!” Peder nodded and helped himself. “Bet Barnum forgot to say where he lived,” Fred said. Peder pushed the serving dish in his direction. “Unfortunately, the tram was late,” he said. Fred looked him up and down. “Barnum’s never actually had friends over,” he said. “You’re the first.” Peder turned to me. “So I’ve come late but in good time.” Everyone laughed, except Fred, and perhaps myself. There was quiet for a time. We ate. Everything was just as it should have been. We should have just sat there eating our boiled pork, smiling to one another and taking small sips of our drinks, giving each other kindly glances and perhaps making remarks about the weather, if indeed anything had to be said at all. This could go all right. “What does your Dad do?” Dad asked. “Stamps,” Peder answered. There was quiet once more. Dad took out a toothpick and fiddled about with it in his mouth. “Stamps,” he finally said. “Yes, he sells stamps. Once he’s bought them.” “Can you live off that?” Fred asked him. “Last year he sold a stamp from Mauritius for 21,734 kroner,” Peder replied. Dad waved his toothpick about in front of Fred like a shriveled pointer. “It’s called philately. If you didn’t know before. Philately!” Dad put the toothpick in his shirt pocket and helped himself to seconds. “I notice you’re looking at my missing hand, Peder,” he said all at once. And only now did I observe that he wasn’t wearing his glove; we’d got used to the gray color of the flesh wound. “I didn’t mean to,” Peder whispered. Dad raised his hand. “That doesn’t matter. But it’s a long story, Peder. These precious fingers were lost when I was clearing mines in Finnmark after the war.” Fred yawned. “The German, you know,” Dad went on, “is a precise fighter. But a cunning one too. This particular mine was suddenly lying awkwardly. And I got in its way. Now you know just about everything about my right hand, Peder.” “Have you been to America too?” Peder inquired. Dad was in his element. He’d happily have gotten up now and made a speech. He made do with laying down his knife and fork on the cloth. “Have I been to America? America’s my second home, Peder. And I dare say I’m more known over there than I am here.” I wished we could leave the table soon. I passed the serving dish to Boletta. “But how did you get on at Svae’s yesterday, boys?” she asked. Peder gave me a quick glance. “Yes, fine,” I said. “She mostly just talked,” Peder said. Boletta put down her knife and fork. “Talked? You don’t talk at dancing school. You dance!” “She said we should change our underwear if we were sweaty after dancing,” Peder said. How we laughed! Even Fred laughed. Dad had to get up and go around the table. He laughed and laughed. This could go all right. Dad finally sat down again. “In America we danced for several nights at a stretch,” he said. “Ill tell you we were sweaty then!” “Yes, Arnold,” Mom said hurriedly but Dad wasn’t about to stop there. “And those who kept going longest were the winners. There was hardly time to think about sweaty underwear!” Fred was staring at me the whole while. “What’s the old bag at the dancing school called?” he demanded. “Watch your mouth,” Dad told him. “Watch yourself,” Fred retorted. “Svae,” I breathed. Fred turned to me. “She phoned here yesterday” Peder looked down. I looked nowhere at all. I closed my eyes. It was dark in there. “Called here?” Mom said. “But why?” Fred mashed a potato with his fork and took his time. “She just wanted to say that they’re beginning at five-thirty next Thursday. Not at six.”
I opened my eyes again. Fred smiled, and right then the bell rang. Worry spread over his face that only I could see. He looked at me. “Have you made even more friends, Barnum?” I shook my head. The bell rang again, long and hard. Mom hurried out and opened the door. It was Bang the caretaker. He went right past her holding a parcel in his hands, as far away from himself as humanly possible. “Now I’ve had enough!” he shouted, and threw the parcel on the table in our midst “I got that in the mail today!” Mom came running after him. Dad got up abruptly and his chair overturned. “What on earth is this?” “Open it and see!” Bang all but shrieked, completely beside himself. I recognized the parcel. Dad folded back the wrapping and retreated. There lay my pyjamas. They stank something rotten. Mom hid her face in her hands. “Oh, God,” she groaned. Boletta went with her glass into the kitchen. Peder sat there frozen. I looked at Fred. What had he done? “What kind of disgusting behavior is this? What kind of behavior?” Bang stamped on the floor with his lame foot. “Whose pyjamas are these?” Dad asked, his voice strangely gentle. “Mine,” I breathed. He boxed my ears. Mom screamed. I nearly fell off my chair. Then he rushed around the table, stopped behind Fred and put his mutilated hand on his shoulder. “And what have you to say to all this, Fred?” “Nothing.” “Nothing? You had nothing to do with this revolting business?” “Nothing,” Fred said again. “Barnum shat in his pyjamas, and I threw them in the garbage.” Dad bored his stubby thumb into the flesh of his neck. ??
?And then the pyjamas went up to the caretaker’s all by themselves?” “How should I know?” Fred said. “Can somebody move that shit, by the way? I’m still eating.” Bang turned the parcel around, and there was his name and address, written in large and clumsy letters. “You can’t get out of it, you little guttersnipe! You couldn’t even manage to write my name properly!” Bang hammered so hard on the parcel with his finger that his nail all but went through the paper. Bnag was what was written there. Fred had written Bnag; Bnag the caretaker. It was more or less the same as signing the entire parcel with his own name and address, and leaving his fingerprints there in the bargain. And I saw him bowing his head, his cheeks flaming, raging. Dad hit him with his good hand — once, twice, three times — until Mom threw herself on him and made him stop. But Dad just shoved her away. “Apologize!” he hissed. “Apologize this instant, you idiot!” Fred just sat there. Something was running from his face. I don’t know what it was — tears, blood, saliva. Then he got up; he got up slowly, and he smiled. It’s the most horrible smile I’ve ever seen. He stood right in front of Bang the caretaker. “Sorry. Thought it was you who washed the pyjamas around here, Bnag.” Dad made to hit him again, but Fred caught his hand, held it a few seconds and looked all around, that same smile on his lips, and his eyes running over with oil. Things began to get dangerous. Then he let go and went off into our room. None of us said a thing, nor were we particularly hungry. My pyjamas lay like some stinking dessert in the center of the table. Mom was shaking so badly she had to sit down. Dad put his arm around the caretaker and led him over to a corner, where he produced his cigars and let him take his pick. I suddenly wondered what Fred would say when he saw that I’d interfered with his things and tidied up. But not a sound was to be heard from our room.