Last Rituals (36 page)

 

 

"What the hell…!" shouted Matthew, tightening his grip on the wheel to stop the car from swerving out of control. They slowed down and stopped by the roadside.

 

 

"Oh no, oh no," Thóra moaned. She looked at her watch. Twenty-five past twelve. They could still make it to Seltjarnarnes by one if they had no problems changing the tire.

 

 

"Stupid cheap tires," muttered Matthew as he struggled to remove the spare from the tailgate. At last it came free and they concentrated together on jacking the car up and changing the tire. Matthew took the burst tire and tossed it through the tailgate where it landed on top of Thóra's flight bag. She couldn't have cared less. It was rapidly approaching one.

 

 

They jumped into the car and Matthew roared off. "Wait here," Thóra said as they pulled up outside her house. She ran toward it, taking out her keys on the way so that the doorbell would not delay her. She rang with her left hand to let Gylfi know she was back while putting the key in the lock and opening the door with her right. "Gylfi!" she panted.

 

 

"Hi, Mom." Sóley ran out to greet her, all sunny smiles. If something had happened, it had escaped her notice entirely.

 

 

"Hello, sweetie. Where's your brother?" Thóra pushed her way past Sóley to look for her son.

 

 

"He left. I've got a note for you," she said, pulling a folded scrap of paper out of her pocket.

 

 

Thóra snatched the note from her. While she unfolded it she asked: "When did he go? And where?"

 

 

"He just left. An hour ago." Sóley had still not figured out the mystery of telling time. Gylfi could have gone a few seconds ago, or two weeks ago for that matter. "He went where it says here." A little finger pointed to the note as if to clear up any confusion with other pieces of paper.

 

 

"Come with me." Thóra saw that the address was in Seltjarnarnes, too, so thankfully it was quite close. "Let's go for a drive with the nice man." She threw one of Gylfi's coats over Sóley's shoulders, crammed her into some boots, and pushed her outside. Thóra swung open the rear door of the Jeep and swiftly helped her daughter inside. Then she jumped into the passenger seat and told Matthew to drive away. "Matthew, this is my daughter, Sóley. She speaks only Icelandic. Sóley, this is Matthew. He doesn't speak Icelandic but I'm sure you'll be good friends."

 

 

Matthew stole a glance into the back to greet the little girl with a smile. "Pretty, like her mother," he said, turning where Thóra indicated he should. "Same taste in clothes too."

 

 

"Here—then first right. I'm looking for number forty-five," Thóra said, still agitated. The house soon came into sight. It was easy to recognize because walking up the drive was Gylfi. "There, there," Thóra gasped, pointing to her son. Matthew sped up a little and pulled up alongside the sidewalk outside the house—the driveway was already full. Thóra recognized Hannes's car. She flung open the door the moment the car stopped. "Sóley, you wait here with nice Mr. Matthew."

 

 

Gylfi did not look round until his mother had repeatedly called his name as she ran toward the house. He had reached the front door where he stood slouching after ringing the bell. "Hi," he said morosely.

 

 

"I was delayed." Thóra was panting. She put her hand on her son's shoulder. "What's going on, darling? Who lives here?"

 

 

Gylfi looked at her with an expression of absolute desperation. "Sigga's pregnant. She's only fifteen. I'm the father. Her parents live here."

 

 

The front door opened as he finished speaking. Thóra stood frozen to the spot, her mouth gaping. For some reason her eyes were glued to the iPod her son was wearing round his neck, perhaps because she had been looking at it when the world collapsed around her. If the enraged middle-aged man who opened the door had not been blue in the face, he would surely have laughed at her moronic expression. "Hello," he said to her, then looked at Gylfi, narrowed his eyes contemptuously, and said: "You too." But those two words were obviously not to be mistaken as a welcome. Their implication was more along the lines of:
Get lost, you deflowerer of the young and innocent daughters of worthy citizens
.

 

 

Politeness won out from force of habit and Thóra gritted her teeth into a smile. "Hello, I'm Thóra. Gylfi's mother."

 

 

The man grunted but invited them in. They took off their shoes under his watchful gaze as he leaned menacingly in the doorway. Thóra had the impression that the man expected Gylfi not to stop at the daughter of the household but to burst in and ravish the mother for good measure.

 

 

"Thank you," she said to no one in particular as she walked in past him. She had both arms on her son's shoulders, guiding him along in front of her—in case the man tried to go for his jugular. They walked straight into a large open-plan living room where three people were seated: Hannes, whom Thóra recognized from the nape of his neck; a woman of roughly her own age, who stood up when they approached; and a young girl who was sitting in an armchair with her head bowed in total resignation.

 

 

"So, you made it at last," the woman half shrieked. Oh, Lord, may the unborn child inherit my deep alto, Thóra prayed silently. She tried for a second time to squeeze out a smile. Her hands did not leave her son's shoulders.

 

 

"Hannes," Thóra said, looking at her ex-husband. She tried to signal that he should do his duty now and allow her to join him where he was seated. But instead of signaling back "message received," he glared back furiously. "Hello, Sigga," she said in the friendliest voice she could manage to the young girl, who then looked up. Her eyes were puffy, with heavy tears glittering in each corner.

 

 

Gylfi finally shook off Thóra's grip and ran over to her. "Sigga!" he moaned, clearly moved at the sorry state of his beloved.

 

 

"Oh, great!" snarled the mother. "Romeo and Juliet. I'm going to throw up."

 

 

Thóra swung round to face her. She was seething with rage. Two youngsters had made a terrible mistake and this woman had the nerve to mock their fate, even though one of them was her own daughter. Thóra rarely lost her temper, but it happened now. "Excuse me, but this is difficult enough as it is—don't go spicing it up with sarcasm." Hannes leaped to his feet and Thóra felt him push her down onto the sofa before she could even begin to resist. Sigga's mother gasped—anger blazed from her eyes.

 

 

"I see where your son gets his manners from," she said, and sat down, too, her back straighter than a ballerina's. Her husband chose to remain standing, towering over them from the middle of the floor.

 

 

"Mom!" Sigga wept. "Shut up!" Thóra took an immediate liking to the girl—her prospective daughter-in-law.

 

 

"What's all this bitching about?" said Sigga's father. "If we can't discuss this like civilized human beings, we might as well forget it. We're here to face up to this terrible news and let's do just that." The word "terrible" was stressed with great drama.

 

 

Hannes sat up. "Agreed, let's try to keep calm—this isn't easy for any of us."

 

 

The woman snorted again.

 

 

"Well, anyway," Hannes continued solemnly. "Maybe I should begin by saying how saddened I am and on behalf of my family I want to apologize for our son's behavior and the pain he's caused you."

 

 

Thóra took a deep breath, wanting to digest Hannes's words before killing him. She turned to him, perfectly calm. "For a start, just to set the record straight, we're not a family. My son and daughter and I are a family. You're a cheap excuse for a weekend father, but unlike most of them you can't even take your own son's side when you need to." When she looked away from Hannes she noticed the others were staring at her. Her son was watching her proudly. She repeated for emphasis: "Just to set the record straight."

 

 

Hannes took a sharp breath, but Sigga's mother beat him to a reply. "How appropriate. I want to take this opportunity to point out that your darling prince—that son of yours"—this family's talent for drama knew no bounds. She gave a grandiose emphasis to her words with an exaggerated sweep of the hand—"will soon be the same 'cheap excuse for a weekend father' as your ex-husband."

 

 

"No!" The shout came from Gylfi. Proudly he went on: "I…I mean we. We. We're going to stay together. We'll rent an apartment and look after the baby."

 

 

Thóra suddenly wanted to laugh out loud. Gylfi renting an apartment! He didn't even realize that everything he took for granted—heating, electricity, television, water, garbage collection—all cost money. But she kept her thoughts to herself for fear of discouraging her son. If he believed he was going to rent an apartment, so be it.

 

 

"Yes!" cried Sigga. "We can do it—I'm almost sixteen."

 

 

"Rape!" shouted her mother. "Of course. She's not even sixteen! It's rape!" She glared at Gylfi and shrieked: "Rapist!"

 

 

Thóra did not quite understand how this was supposed to improve the situation. She turned to Sigga. "How many months, dear?"

 

 

"I don't know. Maybe three. I haven't had a period for three months anyway." Her father blushed to the roots of his hair.

 

 

Gylfi had turned sixteen a month and a half before. Not that it made any difference. "Let me point out that the age of consent in such a case is fourteen, not sixteen. Besides, my son wasn't sixteen himself when the child was conceived and the law makes no exemption for either gender in cases of sexual harassment, as it's called."

 

 

"Nonsense." The father snorted. "As if a woman could rape a man? To say nothing of a child, as in my daughter's case."

 

 

"And my son's," replied Thóra with a victorious smirk.

 

 

"May I point out that your son's at secondary grammar school while my daughter's still in basic school. That must carry some weight with the law," the man said arrogantly.

 

 

"None whatsoever," Thóra replied. "There's no mention of educational level, I can assure you."

 

 

He frowned. "Those fucking queers in parliament."

 

 

"You're crazy!" yelled Sigga. "It's my child. I'm the one who has to carry it around and get a huge belly and ugly breasts and can't ever go to the prom." A fresh bout of tears prevented her from continuing.

 

 

Gylfi tried to offer what he must have felt was romantic consolation. In an emotional voice he declared to all present: "I don't care—you can get a really fat belly and horrible breasts. I won't leave you and I won't invite anyone else to the prom. I'll just go by myself. You're the girl I love."

 

 

Sigga cried even harder while the adults all stared at Gylfi, openmouthed. Somehow this ridiculous confession of love drove home the truth that Mother Nature had made an appalling error of judgment—these were children having a child, and identifying the culprit was not necessarily the point.

 

 

Only Hannes spoke after this collective realization. He turned to Thóra, his features distorted by rage. "It's all your fault. You live a wild life and sleep with anyone who shows you the slightest interest. The boy did nothing like that while I lived there—he's imitating the only role model he knows."

 

 

Thóra was too taken aback to answer. Wild life? One session of sex—admittedly two, if you counted the replay—in two years. That was hardly a wild life. Even her eighty-eight-year-old grandfather had urged her to go out and have more fun—to say nothing of her girlfriend Laufey, although she could hardly be called a preacher of morals.

 

 

"I knew it, you're a slut!" the mother screeched, piercing all their eardrums. "A sex addict—and it runs in the family." She stared at Thóra triumphantly.

 

 

Thóra found an unexpected ally when Sigga's father joined the fray. "Well, honey, rejoice in the fact that at least your daughter's not frigid like her mother!"

 

 

Suddenly Thóra could take it no longer. She had heard more about her son's prospective in-laws than she cared to know. Ahead of them lay a baptism, a string of birthdays, confirmation, and God knows what else. Thóra had no desire to recall these people's most intimate secrets on such occasions. She stood up. "You know what—I don't know whose bright idea it was to meet here in the first place." She pointed at Hannes. "Feel free to talk to Gylfi's father, all night if need be. But I've had enough." She spun around to leave but was forced to return to the gathering when she realized she wanted to take her son with her. "Gylfi, come on." Her departing words were for poor Sigga, who was still weeping with bowed head. "Sigga, the baby will always be welcome in my house—as will both of you if you want to live there together. Good-bye to you all."

 

 

She walked out with Gylfi at her heels. She was completely drained. They slammed the front door behind them and went over to Matthew's Jeep, which fortunately was still in its place. Without saying a word, Thóra sat in the passenger seat and Gylfi in the rear beside his sister. "Hannes-ar-dóttir," Sóley said emphatically, teaching Matthew to pronounce her last name.

 

 

"Let's go," said Thóra, clutching her head in her hands. She looked at Matthew—relieved that her son had only a fleeting grasp of German and her daughter none at all. "Guess what? I've been devalued. You've just slept with a granny."

 

 

To her surprise, Matthew roared with laughter. "I must say that Icelandic grannies are rather different from German ones." He darted a glance toward the backseat, where Gylfi sat immersed in doubts about his future. The only straw he could clutch at now was his mother, who had flown into a rage, largely because she was still half hungover. "Hello, son of Thóra. I'm Matthew." He winked at Thóra. She looked back at him, too, ready to repay his honesty. Now she would tell her son that Matthew was more than a friend and colleague. Noticing the iPod still dangling from the lad's neck, she decided not to.