Amat glances at him. Bites his lip and nods. Kevin’s dad leans over confidentially and whispers:
“That girl chose Kevin. But believe me, there’ll soon come a time when she’ll wish she’d picked you instead. When you’re playing in the A-team, when you turn professional, the girls will flock to you. And then you’ll understand that some of them can’t be trusted. They’re like a virus.”
Amat sits in silence, feeling the weight of the man’s hand on his shoulder.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Amat?”
The boy shakes his head. Sweat from his fingers is starting to stain the business card. The man takes out his wallet and hands him five thousand-kronor notes.
“I heard you might need new skates. From now on, whenever you need anything, you can just call me. We take care of each other, in this town and on this team.”
Amat takes the money and folds the notes around the business card, opens the door, and gets out. The man rolls down his window and calls:
“I know that tonight’s training session is voluntary, but it would be good if you were there. The team needs to stick together, right? People are nothing when they’re alone in this world, Amat!”
The boy promises to go. The man laughs, pretends to be angry and frowns, hunches his shoulders and growls:
“Because we are the bears, the bears from Beartown!”
* * *
The expensive car turns around and disappears out onto the road. A considerably cheaper car is parked at the other end of the parking lot, an old Saab with its hood open. Its owner, a young man in a black jacket with a bear tattooed on his neck, is leaning over it, tinkering with the engine.
He pretends not to notice either the expensive car or the boy it leaves behind in front of the apartment blocks. But when Kevin’s dad has gone, Amat drops something in the snow. The boy stands for a long time, staring down, as if he were trying to decide whether to pick it up again. In the end he wipes his face with the back of his hand and disappears into one of the stairwells.
The young man waits a minute before leaving the Saab and going over to pick up the five thousand-kronor notes from the ground. They’re crumpled from having been clenched in a sweaty palm.
* * *
The man puts them in the pocket of his black jacket.
* * *
Amat closes the door of the apartment behind him. Looks at the business card. Hides it in his room and fetches his skates. They’re too small, and so worn that the paint is peeling off them. He knows exactly what sort he could buy with five thousand kronor. All the children in the Hollow know the price of things they can’t afford. He packs his bag and goes out, runs down the stairs, opens the door.
The money’s gone. He will never be able to say for sure if that made him feel disappointed or relieved.
* * *
Peter is standing on a quiet street. He can see the roof of the rink from here. What is a home? It’s a place that belongs to you. So can it still be your home if you’re no longer welcome there? He doesn’t know. He will talk to Kira this evening, she’ll say, “I can get a job anywhere,” and Peter will nod. Even though he can’t get a job anywhere. They will talk about moving, and he will decide seriously to try to live without hockey.
He doesn’t notice, but when he starts walking again an old Saab drives past him.
* * *
Kira is taking the trash out. That’s her daughter’s job—they agreed on that when she got her guitar—but things are different now. Not even the summer will help cure her daughter’s fear of the dark.
There’s a smell of fresh coffee coming from their neighbor’s window. God, how Kira used to sigh about all the coffee when the family moved to Beartown. “Coffee, coffee, coffee, don’t people do anything but drink coffee here?” she grumbled to Peter, and Peter shrugged and said: “They just want to show that they’d like to be your friends. It’s hard to say, ‘Can I be your friend?’ It’s much easier to say, ‘Would you like coffee?’ This is a town where people . . . well . . . I don’t really know how to explain it. A town where people believe in difficult questions and simple answers.”
Kira got used to it. All the things they expressed with a drink in this place in the forest. Whenever they wanted to say, “Thanks,” or “Sorry,” or “I’m right there with you,” they would say, “Would you like coffee?” or “Can I get you a beer?” or “Two shots, please, on my tab.”
Kira drops the garbage in the bin. There are lights on in the neighbor’s windows. No one opens the door.
* * *
David leads the team out of the locker room, out of the rink. They’re training in the forest this evening. He gets them to do push-ups, and no one fights harder than Bobo. The boy who may not even get to play hockey next season—he’s too old for the juniors and too bad for the seniors, but he’s here of his own accord, sweating blood. David gets them to run, and Filip comes in first every time. Next season will be his biggest, the year when everyone else sees how good he really is. They will say that he is an “overnight success.” Sure, it’s only taken all his time since he was five years old, only taken everything he and his mom had. “Overnight.” Christ. It’s only taken his whole life.
David gets them to play tug-of-war, and Lyt almost dislocates his shoulder trying to win. And Amat? He doesn’t say a word to anyone, but he completes every exercise, does everything asked of him.
* * *
The club’s president is standing at the edge of the forest, close enough to see but far enough away not to be easily spotted. He’s sweating. When the big car stops down in the parking lot in front of the rink and Kevin and his dad get out, it’s the first time anyone has ever seen his dad attend a training session. Kevin is already in his equipment and jogs toward his team in the forest, and the cheers ring out among the trees as they greet him like a king.
The president remains standing on the edge of the tree line as David stands in the middle of his boys and shakes Kevin’s dad’s hand. The president’s eyes meet those of the coach across the distance, just for a moment, then the president turns and goes back to his office.
If Kevin had come into the rink, the club would have been forced to talk about principles and consequences. The president might have had to ask him to go home, “just until this blows over.” But he can’t stop the boys from training in the forest.
That’s what they all tell themselves.
* * *
In another part of town, outside a house in the Heights, Kevin’s mom takes the garbage out. She looks grey, from exhaustion as much as anything else, but new makeup has hidden the signs of crying. She opens the bin, her back straight, her gaze fixed. There are lights on in the windows all around.
A door opens. A voice calls out to her: “Would you like to come over for coffee?”
Another door opens, in the next house. Then another. Then another.
* * *
Difficult questions, simple answers. What is a community?
* * *
It is the sum total of our choices.
40
There’s an old saying that Sune loves: “What do you call it when a man goes out into the forest and other men follow him? Leadership. What do you call it when a man goes out into the forest alone? A walk.”
* * *
Peter walks into the house. Puts the milk in the fridge, the bread on the countertop, drops the car keys in a bowl. Only then does he remember that he’s left the car outside the rink. He wonders calmly if he’s going to find it burned out tomorrow, full of charred branches. He picks up the keys, removes the key ring they’re attached to, puts the keys back in the bowl, and drops the key ring in the garbage.
Kira comes into the kitchen. Stands on top of his feet, and he dances slowly, whispering in his wife’s ear:
“We can move. You can get a job anywhere.”
“But you can’t, darling. You can’t just get another job in hockey somewhere else.”
He knows. He knows that all too
well. But he’s never been more certain of anything than when he says:
“You moved here for me. I can move away from here for her.”
Kira holds his face in the palms of her hands. She sees his car keys in the bowl. For as long as she’s known him, all his keys have been on a bear-shaped key ring. Not anymore.
* * *
Ana is sitting on her bed; the room no longer feels like it’s hers. When her mom was at her angriest, when she was most hurt that her daughter hadn’t moved with her after the divorce, she said Ana was “a classic case of codependency.” That she was staying for her dad’s sake, because she knew he wouldn’t manage without her. Maybe it was true, Ana doesn’t know. She’s always wanted to be close to him, not because he understood her but because he understood the forest. That was her big adventure, and no one knew more about that than he did—there was no better hunter in the whole of Beartown than her dad. As a child she would lie awake in bed at night with her clothes on, hoping that the phone would ring. Whenever there was a car accident involving a wild animal anywhere in the district, which happened fairly regularly in winter, and the driver informed the police that the animal had disappeared into the forest, injured, it was Ana’s dad who they called.
His stubbornness and obstinacy and taciturnity were poor qualities in life, but perfect in the forest. “The pair of you can just sit here for the rest of your lives, then, never saying a word!” her mom yelled when she left, so they did. They just didn’t see anything wrong with it, that’s all.
Ana has very clear memories of always nagging her dad to take her with him at night when she was little, but she never got her way. It was always too dangerous, too late at night, too cold. And she knew that meant he had been drinking. Her dad always trusted his daughter in the forest, but not himself.
* * *
Adri is going around the kennels feeding the dogs. She can see Benji in the gym in the outbuilding; his crutches are on the floor while he’s on the bench press. He’s lifted ridiculous amounts of weight this evening, even allowing for the fact that he’s her crazy brother. She knows that the team is having a voluntary training session today; she heard in town that they were out running in the forest. And that Kevin was there too.
But she doesn’t ask Benji why he’d rather be alone. She doesn’t want to be that sort of nagging sister. She may not have been born here, but she’s still a Beartown girl. As tough as the forest, as hard as the ice. Work hard, keep your mouth shut.
* * *
Ana is standing naked in front of the mirror in her room, counting. She’s always been good at that. Top grades in math all her life. When she was little she used to count everything—stones, blades of grass, trees in the forest, tracks on the ground, empty bottles in the cupboard under the sink, freckles on Maya’s skin, even breaths. Sometimes, when she felt really bad, she counted scars. But mostly she just counted faults. She would stand in front of the mirror and point at them: all the things that were wrong about her. Sometimes that made it feel more bearable, when she had already said them out loud to herself before anyone at school did.
Her dad knocks on her door. He hasn’t done that in years. Since her mom left, father and daughter have had separate apartments, separate lives. She quickly gets dressed and opens the door in surprise. He’s standing in the hall looking bewildered. Not drunk-bewildered, not the sad, lonely man who used to sit up all night; he’s sober now. He reaches out his hand without touching her, as if he no longer knows how to say he cares. He says the words slowly:
“I spoke to some of the guys on the hunting team. The hockey club’s called its members to a meeting. There’s a group of parents and sponsors who are demanding a vote about Peter.”
“About . . . Peter?” Ana repeats, because the meaning of the words isn’t sinking in.
“They’re going to demand that the club fire him.”
“What? WHY?”
“The police weren’t called in until a week after the party. Some people are saying that . . . what happened . . . is . . .”
He can’t say the word “rape” in front of his daughter, doesn’t want her to see how relieved and happy he is that it wasn’t her. Scared that she’ll hate him for that. Ana’s fists hit the edge of the bed.
“A lie? They’re saying it’s a lie? And now they think Peter waited a week to report it to the police because he wanted to get at KEVIN? As if KEVIN’S the goddamn VICTIM HERE!?”
Her dad nods. He stands in the doorway for so long without knowing what to say that all he eventually comes out with is:
“I’ve made elk burgers. They’re in the kitchen.”
He shuts the door behind him and goes back downstairs.
* * *
Ana calls Maya a hundred times that evening. She can understand why she’s not getting any answer. Knows Maya hates her. Because precisely what did Maya predict? This. If she hadn’t told the truth, Kevin would only have hurt her. But now he’s hurt everyone Maya loves too.
* * *
The doorbell rings. Peter opens the door. It’s the club’s president. He looks so sad, so crumpled and sweaty and dirty, so drained and broken by stress that Peter can’t even bring himself to hate him.
“There’s going to be a meeting and a vote. The club consists of its members, and if they demand that the board dismiss you . . . then . . . it’s out of my hands, Peter. But you can be there to speak up for yourself. That’s your right.”
The girl walks into the hall, behind her dad. At first Peter holds out his arm, as if to protect her, but she calmly pushes it aside. She stands in the doorway and looks the president in the eye. And he looks back at her.
At least he does that.
* * *
It’s late when Benji’s crutch knocks on Adri’s bedroom door. He’s standing outside with his arms shaking from muscle fatigue. Adri only knows three phases of exercise in normal people: when you put up with the pain, when you learn to enjoy it, and when you start to look forward to it. Her brother is way beyond that. He needs the pain. Has become dependent on it. Can’t survive without it.
“Can you give me a lift?” he asks.
There’s so much she wants to ask, but she says nothing. She’s not that sort of sister. If he wants someone to nag him, he’ll have to call Katia or Gaby.
* * *
Peter shuts the door. He and Maya are standing alone in the hall. His daughter looks up:
“Is it the board or the parents who want to fire you?”
Peter gives a melancholy smile.
“Both. But it’s easier for the board if the members demand it. It’s always easier to let someone else take the penalty minutes for you.”
She puts her hands on his.
“I’ve ruined everything, I’ve ruined everything for everyone, I’ve ruined everything for you,” she sobs.
He brushes her hair from her face and answers calmly:
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. Never again. What could those bastards ever give me? An espresso machine? They can stick their espresso machine up their asses!”
She starts giggling, like when her mom tells rude jokes and her dad gets embarrassed.
“You don’t even like espresso. You used to call it ‘expresso’ until last year or something . . .”
He rests his forehead against hers.
“You and I know the truth. Your family and you and all decent, sensible people know the truth. And we’re going to get justice, somehow, I promise you that. I just . . . I just want . . . You mustn’t . . .”
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not! It never will be! You must never, ever think it’s okay, that what he did . . . I’m scared, Maya, I’m so scared that you think I don’t want to kill him, that I don’t want to kill him every minute of every day, because I do.”
The father’s tears trickle down his daughter’s cheeks.
“I’m scared too, Dad. Of everything. Of the darkness and . . . everything.”
??
?What can I do?”
“Love me.”
“Always, Pumpkin.”
She nods.
“Can I ask for something, then?”
“Anything.”
“Can we go out to the garage and play Nirvana?”
“Anything except that?”
“How can you not like Nirvana?”
“I was too old when they made it big.”
“How can you be too old for NIRVANA? How old ARE you?”
They laugh. How powerful that is, the fact that they can still make each other do that.
* * *
Kira is sitting alone in the kitchen, listening to her husband and daughter play in the garage. Maya is so much better than him now; he keeps losing the beat but she matches him to stop him feeling stupid. Kira is longing for alcohol and cigarettes. Before she has time to look for any someone puts a pile of playing cards on the table. Not the normal sort, but the children’s version they had in the trailer they rented when the children were small. Naturally, the children stopped playing because their mom and dad could never agree on the rules.
“Let’s play. I might even let you win,” Leo says, sitting down.
He puts two sodas on the table. He’s twelve years old, but he lets his mom hug him fairly hard anyway.
* * *
In a run-down rehearsal space on the edge of Hed, a single lamp is shining above a boy in black leather, sitting on a chair playing the violin. He’s still holding the instrument in his hand when someone knocks on the doorframe. Benji stands there leaning on his crutches with a bottle in his hand. The bass player tries to be fetchingly silent and mysterious, but his smile is having none of it.
“What are you doing here?”
“Went for a walk,” Benji replies.
“Don’t tell me that’s moonshine,” the bass player smiles at the bottle.
“If you’re going to live around here, you’re going to have to learn to drink it sooner or later,” Benji says.