The Number 7 Page 11

  Pontus batted his eyes around the table.

  “We don’t talk about those things here,” Leif informed him calmly.

  “Well, Hitler may be the best thing to happen to Sweden since—”

  “Pontus, I swear to God, if you’re going to sleep under my roof, you are forbidden from speaking that name in my house!” Leif erupted and Pontus nearly fell out of his seat.

  Gradually, Leif unclenched the fist he’d pounded on the tabletop.

  “Once I earn enough, I’m headed for America.” Pontus unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a small satchel hanging around his neck. From the bag he produced a worn red ticket for the White Star Line. A one-way fare from Göteborg to Liverpool to Boston. He held the ticket to his nose and sniffed greedily.

  “Where did you get that?” Lasse asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “A friend of mine gave it to me,” Pontus shrugged, tenderly folding the ticket and replacing it around his neck. He winked at Gerhard across the table. Gerhard looked away, remembering the letter in his own pocket.

  “And what will you do in America that you can’t do here?” Leif inquired.

  Pontus waved his brother off. “The details can wait.”

  The meal continued. No one spoke. Gerhard opened his pocket watch wondering when he could steal away with Lasse. He needed to show him the letter. They needed to talk about its contents. Would he understand its implications?

  “Gerhard, Agnes Landquist and I are going to the shore later. She was asking about you. You should come with us.” Lasse flashed Gerhard a mischievous, knowing glance before adding, “We’re going swimming.”

  A vision of Agnes Landquist, beautiful curves tightly wrapped in a white cotton swimsuit, flashed quickly in his mind. He hadn’t seen Agnes in a long time. He wanted to go, but he was too afraid. He didn’t want to compete with Lasse for her affection. He didn’t want to lose.

  “I have to go to the station,” Gerhard lied.

  “But it’s past the workday, surely—”

  “We received a letter today,” he cleared his throat, hoping to change the subject. “From Lukas Österberg with the city council.” Gerhard reached in his pocket and pulled out the envelope, handing it to Lasse. “Neither of us needs to complete our mandatory military service next year.”

  Leif wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What?”

  “Österberg wrote to say our duties to serve Sweden are more valuable right now in Trelleborg.”

  “What did I tell you?” Pontus grunted in between chews.

  Leif’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ridiculous.” He threw his napkin on his empty plate. “So Sweden will be helpless should the Germans decide to invade? And what of the Soviets?”

  “But you heard the German foreign minister in Stockholm,” Pontus interrupted, “Hit—I mean, Germany will respect our neutrality.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Pontus,” Leif snorted angrily. “The English and French have already declared war. Sweden should be prepared!”

  For the second time that night, Pontus waved his brother off, unconvinced. Anna’s head bowed as she slowly ran her fingernail over the hem of the napkin in her lap. Her shoulders slunk into her body. She reminded Gerhard of an owl caught in the afternoon thunderstorm. He squinted to see her as she seemed to disappear into the shadows of the room. He looked over and waited for his brother’s reaction to the letter. He watched as Lasse’s eyes scanned the page, but in the end, Lasse handed the letter back without a response. Whatever his thoughts—his feelings, his disappointment, his relief—Lasse kept them locked away. Discouraged, Gerhard excused himself from the rest of the meal, his dinner only half-eaten.

  XVII.

  I tossed the phone back in its cradle. I’d tried desperately to interrupt my grandmother’s storytelling, but her voice carried on without pause. I had questioned, spoken over her, and eventually tried yelling into the receiver, all to no avail. It was as if this story had been orated to tape. But there were no batteries, no power source. How was the phone running? How had my grandmother done it? This wasn’t a conversation—it was a dictation.

  I began to wonder how many phone calls came when I wasn’t around to answer them. Did they come when I was at school? Did the story continue when I couldn’t answer? Or did I hear only what Grandma wanted me to hear? What did she want me to do? I tried asking her.

  “Grandma, what is it you want me to do?” But she never answered.

  The word in the halls Tuesday morning was Jennifer Adams wanted to “have a chat” with me, and I knew most people were hoping for fisticuffs. By late morning, the rumors had reached the powers that be, and Jenn and I were both called to the principal’s office before lunch.

  We were welcomed to sit in cheap armchairs—she in her designer jeans and I in my ratty sneakers—in the main office and wait for the principal to arrive. Staring ahead into empty space, Jenn applied a thick coat of shiny lip gloss; I bit my lip nervously. For five minutes, she didn’t look at me once. I opened my mouth to begin some sort of explanation before thinking better of it. What did I owe her? God, it was stupid.

  The principal came in, handed us copies of the student handbook, and referenced us to the pages “Assault, Threat of Force, and Bodily Harm.”

  “There are rumors,” the principal began, taking a seat behind her desk. She seemed tired and far away. “There are rumors that the two of you need some sort of mediation. Let me just say, it would behoove you both to work this out—whatever the issue—amiably. Do you think you need to speak to a counselor?”

  “No, ma’am. Louisa and I really have no idea why we’re here. I mean, I don’t even know her,” Jenn offered first.

  I just sat there. Funny, I thought, she doesn’t know me, but she knows my name.

  The principal stared at us, assessing our threat level. She tapped her fingers on her desk and arched an eyebrow. The clock ticked noisily from the wall. Everything dragged.

  “So you have nothing to talk about?” She glanced my way. “Louisa?”

  “I guess not,” I sighed looking at Jenn. She continued to ignore me.

  “Fine. Just keep those”—the principal nodded toward the handbooks—“and remember the expectations of you here at WHS. You can go back to lunch now.”

  Out in the hallway, once we were out of earshot, Jenn at last turned toward me. She stood a small distance away, but her shoulders leaned in as if some invisible force held her, preventing her from clawing my eyes out.

  “You’re a horrible person,” she sneered accusingly. “You should just hear what the school is saying about you!”

  “Oh? What are they saying?” I challenged defensively.

  “They say your dad is getting it on with the town witch and that the two of you cast spells together,” her voice was high-pitched, and she pronounced each syllable succinctly between her front teeth. “It’s positively ghastly. No wonder your sister wants to kill herself!” She jeered before storming off.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to have the next spell cast on you!” I spit back feeling my knees nearly buckling under me. As I steadied myself against the wall, Jenn’s apathy echoed down the hall with her heels. Greta, I sighed, slowly unclenching the fist I didn’t realize I’d made.

  Sitting with Gabe in Photography, I was still fuming with anger. I sat rigidly in my seat, looming over the table like a crow.

  “Why did you tell everyone about Friday night?” The words forced their way out through my clamped jaw.

  Gabe gazed across the table from me while winding the film in his 35mm. He’d gotten his hair cut. His ears stuck out from his head.

  He shrugged.

  “You know I’m public enemy number one, right?” I scoffed.

  Mr. Franz was making his way around the class, sending tables of students to the darkroom to develop their film.

  “Sorry about that,” he looked like he really was. “Jenn can be kind of . . . intense.”

  I stared at him waiting for more of an explanation.
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  “Jenn and I were never going to happen. You provided a way for me to let her know that.” His camera clicked. His roll was done.

  “I provided a way? So I was just an opportunity?” I was beginning to feel sick.

  “What? No.” Gabe looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Table four,” Mr. Franz called.

  I took my camera and retreated to the darkroom. Gabe grabbed his camera and followed me, catching up.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, Gabe, it’s okay. If you needed a scapegoat, I can be that. It’s cool,” I shrugged casually, nearly choking on the lump in my throat. I’d fallen for it. The mums, the eyes, the cookies. I was a fool. Real smooth, Lou.

  There were three of us in the darkroom: me, Gabe, and a short boy whose name I could never remember. Something about the darkness made us feel like we had to be quiet, like we were in a library or a catacomb. The short boy was practiced at this. Before I could copy his movements, he was spooling the first few inches of film onto a plastic reel, placing it carefully with a developing tank into the double-zippered changing bag, and shoving his hands into the sleeves to process the film. Jeez, he moved fast.

  “Listen, Louisa,” Gabe said, trying to whisper so low he wouldn’t disturb the boy.

  He fumbled for my elbow but I jerked away, still feeling pretty humiliated. I was thankful we were in the darkroom and could barely see each other’s faces. Gabe was standing close to me and I’m sure I looked pathetic. I focused my energy on trying to open the back of my camera. But my fingers kept fumbling and I couldn’t figure out how to work it. The harder I tried, the more I struggled. Finally, Gabe reached around my waist and found my hands where they clutched my camera. With his hands on mine, he helped me unfasten the casing of the camera and remove my film. He was so close to me and his hands felt soft on my fingers. The curve of my arm fell in place with his, and hurt as I was, I wanted to lean back and let him hold me. As I slowly turned around to face him, our noses nearly touching, the short kid opened the doors to the classroom, flooding the darkroom with light.

  “Hey!” I yelled, squinting my eyes at the blinding light.

  Gabe withdrew from behind me and held up a hand to block the brightness. “You could have exposed my film!”

  “Jerk,” I muttered under my breath.

  Gabe and I were left alone in the darkroom. At any moment table five would come barreling into the room.

  “Louisa, I really like you. I told everyone in school about Saturday night because I really like you. And I knew it would get to Jenn and then she’d back off. I’m sorry if people started talking,” Gabe explained, hurriedly. “But you gotta know,” he laughed, his hand groping for mine and clasping it earnestly, “Jenn’s got nothing on you.”

  Before I could process his words, Gabe’s other hand shyly brushed up the length of my arm and came to rest gently on my neck, under my hair. It was such an intimate place to touch. It felt so foreign but so . . . oh. He leaned his face down to mine, and as our lips were about to touch, table five opened the darkroom door. Gabe backed away in surprise. Kiss number two averted. I bit my lip anxiously. No one seemed to notice how tense my posture was or how Gabe hadn’t even unloaded his film. I left the darkroom, unprocessed film in hand, feeling rather undeveloped myself.

  By the week of Christmas, I hadn’t received any more phone calls from my grandmother, and I started obsessing over when the next one would come. I tried to remember every detail of every call to conjure up some clue I’d overlooked. Maybe there was no end to the story. I spent some evenings down at Rosemary’s cottage, frustrated. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to divulge too much of the truth to Rosemary. I didn’t want to tell her about the phone or the specifics. But I did want her to explain it all, and I got discouraged when she couldn’t. I wasn’t being fair. After the second week with no phone call, I realized I needed to leave my neighbor alone.

  I set up my own makeshift headquarters in the attic. It didn’t surprise me at all that neither Dad nor Greta noticed when I snuck away up the dark back stairway. These days it seemed as if each of us was consumed in our own pursuits. Since Greta ran away, it was as if Dad burrowed into himself deeper than ever. The conversations about Grandma and Grandpa ceased. He’d retreated back into his shell, and I wasn’t welcome to snoop around. So I poured over old artifacts by myself searching for further proof of my grandparents’ existence.

  I lined the attic floor with open books I’d checked out from the local library. Scattered around the old desk were maps of both the Brandywine Valley and of Sweden, pamphlets I’d borrowed from the Chester County Historical Society, and printouts from their microfiche machines. I’d found a scanned copy of the deed to our house with Grandma and Grandpa’s signatures and a solitary photograph of Grandma from a local newspaper dated 1977. She’d attended a seminar about some of the older buildings in the county at the Historical Society titled “If Walls Could Talk.” When I found the photograph and printed it out, I circled her face with a blue marker and highlighted her name, Eloise Magnusson.

  The longer I stared at her young face, the more I discovered similarities in my own features. She parted her hair in the same way I did, her brow furrowed like mine, and our cheekbones had the same distinct pronunciation. There was no mistaking that I was her granddaughter, and she stared out from the photograph with some satisfaction, as if to introduce herself to me. Her eyes were pale and wide as if to say, “You found me, at last!” It was a bittersweet discovery I couldn’t share with anyone.

  In Photography class, I occupied myself with the photo essay project, bringing in pictures of my mom and my grandparents. I used some class time to study Gerhard’s photos: the background, the people, the clothing, the expressions, each and every small and unassuming nuance. I needed something to help me figure out the next chapter of his story.

  The photo research also gave me time to revisit old pictures of my mom. I loved cataloging Mom’s fashion trends: the perms and high-waisted pants of 1985, the short Princess Diana hairdo of 1987, and the navy-blue frocks she loved to wear during both her pregnancies. One picture in particular, I lovingly and intentionally selected for the essay: Mom in shiny aerobic tights, leotard, and bunched leg warmers doing a Jane Fonda leg lift on the floor, with me in front shadowing her stretch. It was one of my favorites, not only because it represented Mom as a dancer, but because of the expression on her face. She was looking forward, hand on her hip, leg in the air, and her eyes were so bright. She stared beyond the camera at Dad. I could almost hear her comment before the picture was snapped, “Isn’t it amazing she’s ours?”

  I was sad to turn in the completed project. I didn’t have my answers yet. Gabe could tell I was preoccupied. He was in competition for my attention, and he seemed hell-bent on being the victor.

  “What’s up with you, Louisa?” Gabe asked as we entered the lunchroom on Friday before break, but I just kept walking. “Listen,” he stopped and grabbed my hand, forcing me to look at him. “My parents are taking me skiing on Monday. It would be awesome if you could come.”

  I smiled for the first time in a long while. Where had I been for the past weeks? I needed to realize Grandmother’s story was a past that I couldn’t change. Standing in the school hallway with winter break upon me, and Gabe’s hand wrapped around mine, I snapped back into the present. It felt good to feel sixteen again.

  Rosemary phoned that evening to say she’d made soup with some rhubarb she’d preserved from her own garden last summer. She asked if we wanted to come down and try it. I told her I’d never had rhubarb soup, but that I’d extend the invitation to Dad.

  He’d been spending his free evenings repairing the siding on the house, but his working hours were dwindling as winter’s darkness crept earlier each day. He had already nailed some of the loose boards, and he decided come spring he’d start repainting the wood. The house would remain its original orange color, but he’d change the door to moss green. Just like in North
Carolina.

  “Rhubarb soup, best served warm and mashed with cream,” Dad shouted to me as he climbed down the ladder. “How does she know about rhubarb soup? Rosemary—” he smiled, reaching the bottom of the ladder. “She’s really something.”

  “Maybe it’s her psychic powers,” Greta mocked from the doorway.

  Dad ignored her. Would they ever speak to each other like normal people again?

  Greta and I both declined the soup. Instead, she offered to take me shopping for ski pants. She’d been skiing before, but I never had. I didn’t even know skiing had its own pants, so I was shocked at the variety of ski apparel and accessories. And I was especially stunned at the cost of it all. Greta loaned me $99.00 for the pants—put it on her new debit card—a charitable gesture I was surprised to receive. She was usually pretty selfish when it came to her money. Dad had opened bank accounts for both Greta and me when Mom died. Most of the money we couldn’t touch until we graduated high school, but Dad did give us a meager monthly allowance and urged us to try to limit our expenses.

  “Thanks for the loan, Greta. I’ll get you the money as soon as I can get to the bank,” I said. I held the door open for her as we left the store. “Can I buy you a cup of tea as thanks for now?”

  As soon as we walked into the dimly lit coffee shop, I spotted Chris behind the front counter. Two young girls giggled as they accepted ceramic mugs from my friend. Somewhere inside me, a thin harp string of jealousy hummed as Chris smiled flirtatiously back at the girls.

  We approached the counter and Chris grinned knowingly at me, “Hiya, Lou.”

  Greta looked at me for an introduction. I was hesitant to give one: not because I thought Chris was her type, with his clumps of waxy curls, his tie-dyed wardrobe, and his unshaven whiskers. Greta liked her boys older, in polo shirts and khakis, with gleaming white smiles. I was hesitant to introduce them because I was afraid Greta would outshine me. She had it all. Tall, blond, beautiful. What was to prevent Chris from falling head over heels for my doe-eyed, buxom sister, leaving me by the wayside?