The Number 7 (29 page)

“Well,” Chris chuckled, looking around the room. “You're not exactly inconspicuous here, for example.”

I couldn't tell if he was purposefully trying to be mean, unjustifiably superior, or just completely unaware. None of the options made me feel very good.

“And what?” Chris continued. “You thought we'd be good together because we both belong to the Maternal Abandonment Club?”

My mouth fell slightly agape, and he diverted his look to something behind me, clearly uncomfortable with his own insult.

“My mom didn't
abandon
me, Chris,” I seethed. “She died.”

I waited for him to look at me but he refused. Where was all of his hostility coming from? Had I so utterly misjudged him that I'd fooled myself into thinking he had feelings for me? Was all of this humiliation my fault? Or was there more to it?

“Why don't you ask Weaver? I thought the two of you were shacking up?”

Bingo. There it was. He knew. He knew he was my second choice.

I bit my lip, realizing that instead of admitting that he was jealous, admitting I'd hurt him, Chris chose to hurt me back. He was used to impressing people with his daring spontaneity and passionate rhetoric. He was intoxicating with his adventures and his philosophies, but he was incapable of voicing how he truly felt.

How long had I been trying to solve the mystery of Chris Harris, chasing the allure, the deep voice, and the bristly chin? But now I was finally seeing him for what he really was: no more mature than Gabe or me. Nor more exotic. Just an astoundingly good actor, playing the role of the misunderstood outsider. There, he'd found his niche. There, he wasn't afraid of rejection.

But I
had
rejected him, and he wasn't willing to give me a second chance. And I knew I didn't deserve one. I said my adieus to Chris and left Fat Bottoms feeling utterly depressed. Not only was the gallery event tomorrow, but my original date was supposedly bedridden and the torch I'd once carried for Chris felt like it'd been doused in a bucket of cold water. The event I had been so looking forward to was now an obligatory homework assignment.

And to top it all off, I had just discovered that my grandfather had faced far worse choices than I would ever have to make. What was he going to choose? Optimism was the last thing on my mind.

Lasse admitted from the beginning that his plan wasn't comprehensive—he knew there were holes. He had been trying to work through these snags for the past four weeks. They were the reason he'd been aloof. He had never intended to include Gerhard. The plan was too dangerous to make it a two-man operation, but then he saw that Gerhard was ready.

“I surrender,” Gerhard told his brother when faced with the choice. “I cannot bend to them anymore. They've destroyed me.”

“Good.” Lasse placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. “That's how you need to feel. That's how it should feel. Now,” he smiled wickedly, “let's start a militia.”

Gerhard agreed that a guerrilla army would send a clear message to Germany and the Axis Powers. Sweden could finally answer the Norwegian and Danish calls for assistance with boots on the ground. But there were problems. Could it be done? Did they have it in them? Who to trust? How to mobilize? Neither brother knew where to begin.

Gerhard lay awake, deliberating the flaws in Lasse's plan. Everything about it seemed to put people's lives in danger. Every road seemed to lead to failure, and failing was something neither man was prepared to do.

When the solution came to Gerhard, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier. Everything seemed so much clearer, the plan so much more possible. The answer came from the heart of the problem; the solution lay on the rails.

Gerhard knew his train: the ride, the route, the risk. He knew how to crash, or, at least how to derail. The rest could be left to fate.

Gerhard shook Lasse awake at three o'clock in the morning.

“I can do it!” he whispered to his groggy brother. “The switch at Mile Marker Two hasn't been working for over two months. They've had to send a man out there to manually shift the track for us. If a train hits that switch going the right speed and the switch hasn't been shifted . . . no one would walk away from a crash like that alive. That's how we'll do it.” Gerhard felt proud. He'd found a way, but he soon was overcome with apprehension.
If this works, it's a suicide mission
, said a frightened voice inside him.

“That's how
I'll
do it,” Lasse corrected.

“But—” Gerhard began, “it's my train.” He'd come up with the plan. He'd thought of it first. And yet, he wondered, was he willing to die for it?

“Gerhard, I'm not going to argue with you. I've spent a month coming to peace with my decision.”

“My plan,” Gerhard whispered defensively.

For a moment, he wondered if he would vomit. Were they actually arguing about who would die? Lasse rolled over and propped himself up to stare his brother in the eye.

“I can do it,” Lasse challenged.

The statement was so familiar. How many times had Lasse volunteered to do something first? Something better? And now, it had come down to the ultimate offering. His final sacrifice.

“I won't let you.” Gerhard clung tightly to his ownership of the plan. He wasn't going to let his brother do this. He stared back at his brother, his eyes stern.

“Then we'll do what's only fair.” Lasse sat up and reached for something on the bedside table. He held up a coin suggestively. It glimmered in the twilight shining from the window. “Call it.
Krona eller klave
? Crown or hoof?”

“
Krona
,” Gerhard muttered, annoyed.

He watched as Lasse tossed the coin into the air, caught it, and flipped in onto the back of his hand. Without hesitation, Lasse lifted his palm and exposed the twenty kronor coin. Crown side up.

“So it will be you,” Lasse swallowed, staring at the coin in disbelief, looking ill.

Gerhard felt more than a little queasy himself. “We'll plan more in the morning,” he whispered, his throat tight in his chest as he crawled back to his own bed, feeling faint.

The twins spent their Saturday morning walking to town. They told their mother they were going to buy her flowers.

Leif and Pontus were down by the shore playing a game of
boule
. The boys sat a distance from the lawn game and watched to see who would toss his balls closest to the
lillen
, the smaller target ball. Leif won the first round.

At first, Leif didn't notice his sons. But after some time he looked up and saw his boys sitting alone on a rock in the distance. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. Something in the boys' rigid stances, or in their vacant stares. Leif couldn't put his finger on what it was; he only concluded that a father knew when his sons were troubled. He lifted his hand to wave, but only Gerhard returned the gesture.
Very strange.
The second round began and, by the time he looked up again, the boys were gone.

The twins walked the streets of Trelleborg, stopping occasionally to look in a storefront window or to greet a colleague on the footpath. At last, they settled on the grounds of the
Sankt Nicolai kyrka
. In the summertime, the open grasses surrounding the church were dotted with picnickers, and only occasionally did someone enter or leave the church. Lasse and Gerhard were two of a handful of people around. They were glad of that.

“When?” Lasse asked, his tone hostile. He was still sore about losing the coin toss.

What a grotesque thing to be jealous of
, Gerhard thought to himself. He addressed Lasse delicately. He wanted no ill will between them in their final days together.

“The route is the same every day. Same times. You will, of course, need time to escape Trelleborg. I imagine they will come looking for you,” Gerhard said evenly.

“Thursday, then? They won't be able to get up here until at least Monday.”

“Sounds fine. Robert will know about the plan only minutes before it's executed. He will need to stoke the fire, and jump from the train as I accelerate while approaching the switch. You will need to get to the marker before I do and turn the track. Don't wait to see what happens. Just go. Have your bags already packed. Once you leave, you won't be able to come back,” Gerhard had rehearsed this speech all morning. Everything had to be perfect; any flaws in the plan could mean death for both of them.

“And what happens if something goes wrong?” Lasse asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You need an out. If something happens, someone discovers us, you can't go through with it, anything. Anything to make the crash impossible to carry out. You'll need an out,” Lasse, apparently, had been doing some strategizing of his own.

“What do you suggest?”

“The train whistle. I'll be able to hear it from the switch, right?”

“Yes, you should be able to hear it from five kilometers, at least,” Gerhard stated proudly. All his studying of train mechanics had suddenly become the essential bones of their entire operation.

“As you approach the mile marker, blow it twice to let me know to switch the rails. Blow it once, and the plan is off. Blow it once, and we meet back at the house. Okay?”

“Don't hesitate after I sound it twice,” Gerhard warned.

“
If
you sound it twice.”

They paused. Finally, Gerhard concluded their preparations, “Thursday, then.”

“Thursday,” Lasse agreed.

The plan was set. For the rest of the afternoon, the boys went their separate ways to deliberate their fates in solitude. Neither son remembered to bring Åsa her promised flowers.

Since the beginning of the Swedish rail, there had been only a handful of train wrecks. In 1875, two trains collided head-on in the city of Östergötland resulting in nine fatalities. Then, in 1912, a Swedish train in Malmslätt crashed full speed into an idling passenger train. Twenty-two people died and twelve were severely injured. In 1917, a Swedish train carrying invalid Russian soldiers created a pileup near Soderhamn. Eleven casualties. But nothing compared to what happened in Getå.

On October 1, 1918, in the small town of Getå, near Norrköping, a mudslide covering the train tracks hurled ten passenger cars off the tracks. The cars caught fire instantly. Forty-two passengers and train workers died: some instantly in the crash, others burned alive, trapped inside the fiery cars. The crash reverberated throughout Europe and newspapers the continent over featured the tragedy.

Since entering the profession, Gerhard was well versed in the crash's history. Workers mentioned the Getå crash on a regular basis, warning against rail-driver delinquency. Gerhard wondered how the Number 7 would compare to Getå. Would newspapers report the crash at Mile Marker Two?

Gerhard woke up Thursday morning and sat on the side of his bed.
It's just another day
, he silently convinced himself.
For my sanity, it's just another day.
His bones popping and breaking the silence, he reached for his pocket watch on his bedside table.
I can't deviate from my normal routine
. He began winding his watch, a habit he'd had for three years: wind the watch first thing, and then briefly again at the station. He felt the weight of the mechanism in his palm, that familiar heaviness he loved. Lasse's bed was unmade and cold. His brother had kept his role in the plan: wake up, go to the ferries with Leif as usual, and then fake sudden illness and request afternoon leave. From the harbor, Lasse would ride his bicycle to the switch and wait for the train whistle.

The watch clicked into place. Gerhard closed the face and set it back on the table. He stretched, stood, and began going through his morning routine, trying to think about anything but the day's plan.

He walked downstairs to the kitchen; the oven was still warm from Åsa's preparation of the family's breakfast. Åsa rarely made pancakes for breakfast, usually saving them for dinner. But today there was a warm plate waiting for Gerhard on the stove. Why had she decided to make them this morning?

When he was a boy, Gerhard used to love watching his mother when she made pancakes. She'd take a pat of butter and let it sizzle before pouring the thin, eggy batter into the pan. She'd swirl the skillet in the air, letting the batter coat the bottom. Åsa was born to make pancakes.

The first try was always a throwaway. It never came out right, as the pan took time to properly heat. Åsa called it “Loki's share,” referring to the old Norse trickster. She'd roll the sacrificial morsel and throw it out the front door to a stray dog.

This plate represented everything Gerhard loved most about his mother. It was his favorite meal. How fitting for it to also be his last.

He smiled forlornly at the dish. He'd wanted to say goodbye to his mother. But there was no time to go find her. Gerhard had to get to the station. He looked at his watch to check the schedule before grabbing a rolled pancake. The smell reminded him of what he was leaving, and he soon felt suffocated. He needed to get out of the house. The air was getting too thick, the temptation to surrender too great. Gerhard closed the door to his house for the last time. How would Åsa feel when she realized he wasn't coming back? Would Leif stare at the door waiting for him to walk in? He wrapped his jacket tightly around him. The July breeze was chilling and unusually cold. No doubt there was an approaching gale off the coast.