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: : : FREYA STANDS IN THE MIDDLE of the office. —You can drop off your stuff in here, she says.
—Cool, says Tim. He lets his huge black duffel bag slide down to the floor.
—You can sleep in here, too, if you want—we've got a sleeping bag and a pillow and Jakob kind of cleared a spot for you over here—or you can sleep on the couch in the living room—the couch is probably more comfortable but this room's a little more private—it's really up to you.
—I'll probably just sleep in here, Tim says. —The floor should be fine.
—Great, Freya says.
They both stand there for a minute; Tim looking around the room and Freya watching him, trying to figure out what he's thinking. Whether he's happy. What she could do to help make him happy.
—So do you need anything? she asks. —Like a drink or anything? We've got soda, water—
—A beer? Tim asks, grinning.
—Ha ha, Freya says. Then: —I don't think that's a very good idea. It surprises her to hear herself say this; it sounds so old-lady. It's not going to hurt Tim to have a beer in the middle of the afternoon, Lord knows she's done it enough times. But still—
—Nah, Tim says, —I don't need a drink. But you know what I'd love is a shower maybe?
—Sure, Freya says. —The bathroom's back this way.
She shows him where the shampoo is, and points out the clean towels, and then leaves him to it, goes into the living room for a cigarette. She leans back on the couch, ignoring the creak of protest that the frame emits, jams her arm behind her head, and lights up. When she exhales, the air conditioning makes turbulence patterns in her smoke.
Now you just have to wait for the shitstorm to hit, she thinks. She knows it's coming. She got a glimpse of it last week when she talked to her mom about having Tim move in. —Look, she'd said in that conversation, —I really think that Tim could do all right if he just had a supportive environment—that's what he's not getting from you guys right now. I mean, I know you guys love him, and he
loves you too, but right now you guys are all kind of on top of each other—I just thought that maybe if I helped you guys get some space away from one another that maybe you'd be able to—
—I'm just disappointed in you, said her mother. —I mean, Tim got himself into this mess because he didn't study, he didn't work hard in his classes. Because he made mistakes. And your stepfather and I are trying to raise him in an environment where we can teach him that you need to take responsibility for your mistakes. But now you come along and you're talking about giving him a place to live, you're talking about setting him up with a job—and I just wonder: what kind of message does that send, exactly? What do you think he's learning from the fact that you're basically just handing all this to him?
That there are people in his family who love him? Freya thought. But she knew what she would be inviting if she gave that answer. So instead she said I don't know and then spent the rest of the conversation sullen, feeling silenced. If in the end Freya managed to obtain at least a nominal permission to proceed with her plan, it was probably less because her mother really consents and more that she believes that it will fail, that in a week or so Tim will be headed back home, humbled, ready to concede. Freya bets that once it becomes clear that this won't happen (assuming it won't) that that's when the shitstorm will really come down.
Or else it'll come from Jakob. A frown line creases her brow and she takes a sharp drag. In the end, he too agreed to the plan; in the end, his agreement too was grudging. Freya had been reduced to pleading: —It'll only be for a little while; just until I can help get him set up with his own place—
—That could be months, Jakob had said. —I mean, what do you pay people at the record store? Seven bucks an hour? It's going to take him a long time to save up enough for a place—
—Whatever, Freya said. —You make it sound like it's impossible but the fact is that people do it. They move to the city and crash with friends for a while and they get crappy jobs and eventually they somehow get it together enough to get a place. This is a thing that human beings successfully do. It's not like he can't get roommates or something.
—I guess, Jakob had said.
She presses her cigarette into the ashtray's rim and listens to the crinkling sound of it being extinguished. She hears the shower shut off in the bathroom.
Here we go, she thinks.
: : :
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