He pulled off his mittens and stopped listening. His heart was pounding. He hadn’t run fast enough; he wasn’t thankful enough. He wasn’t like other children. He was ‘taken in’. Inside him, a bad conscience started growing like a heavy, thick substance. He wanted to light the stove before his father got home. He wanted to get the bottle ready for his little brother and make a scrambled egg with sugar for his mother. He wanted to get up tonight when the baby cried, so his mother could stay asleep, he wanted –

‘Well, God Almighty, are you standing there, John?’

Mrs Petersen tied her kerchief around her head and stared at him dubiously. Had he heard anything? He wasn’t as adorable as the little one in there, she concluded. You never really warm up to children like that, but he did work like a horse all day long while other children were playing. Everyone talked about this and acted as if they found it troubling, but deep inside they all thought it was perfectly fine.

The boy bowed his head, afraid she was going to take his hand. Her hands were so limp and always smelled like dishwater or something else repulsive. They reminded him of the dead animals on the kitchen counter that his father got money for killing – squirrels and voles, and sometimes a small deer with gentle, stiffened eyes and legs sticking out, like it couldn’t get over the surprise that suddenly everything was gone forever. To get shot is like falling asleep, his mother said, who used to feel bad for all the little creatures herself.

Mrs Petersen left, and the boy hurried into the living room. His mother lay on the sofa looking exhausted, with her eyes closed. The baby was sleeping in the cradle by the wood stove.

‘Wasn’t I fast?’ he asked carefully.

Slowly she opened her eyes.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘You are such a good boy.’ Then she dozed off again. The boy heard the clunk of his father outside, taking off his clogs, and the dogs barking and rushing at the door.

He stood there looking at his mother lying with her mouth open. He wanted to be even better and run even faster. He knew he owed a debt to these people, which he paid off in little installments and with his meager abilities. If only I was big, he thought, growing sleepy from the warmth in the room. Feeling uneasy, he snuck past his father in the little entry and out to the kitchen. His father didn’t greet him, perhaps didn’t even notice him.

‘How is the little one?’ he shouted.

‘Shhh,’ whispered his mother gently. ‘He’s sleeping.’

Then the boy started to light the stove. The cold iron rings stung like fire against his numbed hands.

Life’s Persistence