forbidden to leave school grounds and forbidden to have candy at school. She had to stay after school, I believe; our teacher didn’t dare hit her, but made her sit and feel ashamed of herself.
She made us crazy. It was her fault. We were kids; we didn’t know better…
She tried to buy me. And the person who has to bribe is always lower down the ladder.
“Come home with me after school, Berit. I have a whole box full of Sandy Candy.”
“What about Jill?”
“Jill can come, too.”
It was that very house, the one down by the lake, and they had a dock that jutted straight out, and a large, fine boat. Her dad owned the whole Sandy concern.
“Flora’s not home,” she said.
“Flora… is she your mom?”
She shrugged.
“You’re mom’s dead, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she in the graveyard?”
“Yeah.”
“She was foreign, right?”
“She was from France. And when I am grown up, I’m moving there.”
“Could she speak Swedish, your mom?”
“Of course.”
“Can you speak French?”
“Pappa’s going to teach me. When he has time. But he has too much work nowadays. With the factory.”
When we got closer to the house, she told us to sneak in.
“In case Flora hasn’t left yet.”
She hadn’t left. We lay behind the big stone and saw her come down the stairs. She didn’t look like our mothers. My mom was old; I could tell when I saw Flora. She was nearly as thin as we were. She was made up like a film star. She had trouble walking on the gravel with her high heels; they sunk in. A car was waiting for her at the road. We saw her get into the back seat; the chauffeur held the door open for her and shut it again.
She didn’t notice us.
“She’s going shopping,” said Justine. “She loves going shopping.”
She had a key in a string around her neck. She had to stand on her toes in order to open the door. It seemed sort of disgusting to sneak into Justine’s house, as if we were doing something forbidden. As if she herself were doing something forbidden.
Her room was on the second floor. It looked like mine. Bed, desk, books. Some dolls and stuffed animals. She went down onto her knees and pulled a box from under the bed.
“Ta-da!” she said, and took off the lid.
The whole box was filled with small boxes of Sandy Candy.
“Go ahead. Help yourself,” she said.
We took four boxes apiece, Jill and me; that was all we could hold.
“OK. We’re going now,” said Jill.
Justine jumped up and blocked the door.
“Do you want to see the place my mom died?”
We looked at each other.
“OK,” I said.
“Follow me!”
It was next to the big window on the second floor.
“Here on the floor was where my mom died.”
“Why’d she do that?”
“Something broke in her brain.”
“Was your mom crazy?” Jill asked and giggled.
“No…”
“You’re crazy; maybe you got it from her,” said Jill.
“I’m not at all crazy!”
I glanced at the shining brown floor and tried to imagine how the woman who had been Justine’s real mother had lain there and breathed her last.
“Did you cry?” I asked.
“What do you mean, cry?”
“When your mom laid here and died.”
“Probably.”
She ran in front of us down the stairs.
“Want to see something else?”
“No.”
“Come on. Don’t you want to see something else?” “What?”
“In the basement.”
“What in the basement?”
She had already opened the door to the basement and started down the stairs.
Jill looked at me. “You go ahead.”
There was nothing special about the basement. A big oil heater, a clothes rack with sheets hung up to dry. A mangle by the window and a pile of square stones with empty flowerpots on it.
“What’s so big about the basement?” I asked.
She looked secretive. Her beret had gotten loose and was hanging by a few hairs. She opened the door to a smaller room.
“There!” she said and pointed.
There was a big washtub in the room, one that people used to boil laundry in. Nothing else.
“What about it? My grandparents had one of those.”
“Flora puts me in it sometimes.”
“Huh?”
“When she’s angry with me.”
“She puts you in that?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s she do that?”
“She puts water in it and says she will boil away my stubbornness.”
Prickles went up and down my spine, but it wasn’t sympathy or fear; it was something else, and it felt kind of good.
I’ve been thinking about this the last few days. Children seem to lack empathy. But do all children lack empathy? Or was it just me… or my home? I had nice, kind parents who treated me well. Maybe even spoiled me a little; they were very old when I was born. I was the only child; no other children to rub against. Of course you get a little spoiled in such a situation.
But even a child can choose her friends. She should have bothered someone else, not just Jill and me the whole time. She carried Sandy Candy boxes in her school bag; we could choose menthol or honey, and if we couldn’t choose, we got both. Oh, how we wanted to be rid of her!
I believe it was my suggestion that we go to the cemetery. It was a long way, the whole length of Sandviksvagen, if you went there directly and didn’t run through side streets.
She stuck to us like a leach. Jill and I talked to each other and pretended that she wasn’t there, but I knew that she was going to follow us and, in fact, I was counting on it.
It must have been late September or early October because the leaves were still green, but there was a snap in the air. We were wearing jackets and long pants and we had our school bags, which we always took with us. We were still very proud of them, and of being old enough to go to school.
The boxes of candy lasted until we reached the cemetery. “What are we going to do?” asked Justine.
