“What’s wrong,” he asked, as if he were the kindest man in the world.
“Just thinking.” She could not stop the tears, and certainly didn’t want Tommy to see.
“She was so disappointed that you didn’t come when she asked. She was—well, there’s no point now.”
“Asked?”
“Oh, come on now. You know. But she figured you were at your ritzy school. And you know how she was about grades.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You ignored her message.”
“What message?”
“Linnie left word many times, through Constance. She had something she wanted to give you.”
Jeff Olsen put his hand on Stef’s ankle, and she pulled her leg away from him.
He stared up, into her crotch. She could feel his glare seeping into her.
The sound of Constance’s crackly voice interrupted them. A familiar, torturous moan.
Tommy, his little body half-in and half-out of the opening, was pulling his aunt under the porch. Constance didn’t like bending; her suit jacket was off and left somewhere, her blouse pulled out and hung over her middle.
“Steffie, Steffie get out of the chair. Now. What the hell are you doing, Jeff Olsen, putting my daughter in the chair my sister died in?” She made it over with some difficulty and pulled her daughter from the chair, brushing the dirt from the back of her dress, her long arms, and the back of her head. “Oh no, they aren’t going to take you, too,” Constance mumbled under her breath, the one way she and her daughter were alike.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me Aunt Linnie wanted to see me before she died, Mom?” The rage had crept around and hardened the ridge of her nose.
Tommy was running as fast as he could around the perimeter of the area.
“She laid under this house, for two days, and no one knew she was here. Dead.” Constance said in a slow and rising rhythm.
“Tommy knew, Steffie, he just didn’t tell anyone where she was. He wanted to keep his mother. We never thought to look here, didn’t even know how she had the strength to get under here.”
Jeff Olsen was crying, his hands over his face, and Steffie, in this one instance, believed he was sincere.
Tommy dove through the opening and ran out into the sun.
“I would have come, Mom.”
“Yeah? Well, my sister wanted to give you the box, and I didn’t want her to give it to you.”
Stef felt her mother studying her and didn’t know whether to believe her. But why else didn’t her mother tell her, or want her there? Was it only the box? Stef felt, somehow, that if she stayed longer, if she went upstairs, if she were alone with Uncle Jeff, she could find out.
Constance tried to stand in a more comfortable position; her back gave her trouble. “What if, Stefanie,” her mother said—her tongue a deep red from her cherry Jubilee sour balls—“…what if she wanted to get you, too?”
Stef was relieved to have her hands in soap up to her elbows. She played with the water in the sink, looking forward to getting back to school, to rowing and the speed of the skull taking her away from all this. The Olsen dishes were full of chips and hairline cracks, so she slipped those into the trash, not wanting to handle them. The sun had gone down, and the remaining guests moved outside. From the kitchen window, she could see Tommy on her mother’s lap, swaying back and forth. Stef was going to send him a present from the gift shop at school. She would have to really look to find the right thing. The Olsen boys were in the basement, blasting their music. She noticed her mother’s ring left on the windowsill. Stef dried off her hands and slipped it on. It looked better on her, with her olive skin and long, thin fingers.
Carrying the dry dishes over to the pantry, Stef noticed a musty smell. Linoleum covered the floor, so it couldn’t be the embedded odors of the old rug. She put her ear close to the door, careful not to touch the wood. She heard chattering. Feminine voices, kind of old and kind of young. When Stef opened the pantry, the voices got quiet, and the odor, like the smell of an antique dresser drawer, intensified.
Smiling, Stef imagined Grandma Dottie and Aunt Linnie on top of one another in the closet. Like conjoined twins. Arguing. Their heads shrunken, their bodies small and hidden in rags with no visible hands, sparse gray curls matted to their skulls. Hiding in the pantry as if they could fool her. Coming back to get her, Stef knew. It was the way they did things. It was their family legacy. Damned if it was going to be her. Damned if she was going to be the one with the swollen belly and the cancer look in her eyes. She left the kitchen, and, seeing her mother’s purse, picked it up. The wrapped pearl inlay from Aunt Linnie’s jewelry box fell out. She quickly picked it up, stuffed it back in, and looked for her mother, determined to put the purse in her hands, and, finally, to go home.
VAPOR
TOWARD THE NORWEGIAN SEA
It was Toshy’s turn to get falling down drunk. Julian Asti gave her the pleasure tonight, and tomorrow night would be his turn. The falling down drunk could do anything he or she wanted to do to the other one that was sober—well, not sober exactly, just not falling down.
This was their fun while Toshy visited her new husband, Julian, for three days on her new passport, before fleeing back to St. Petersburg—to her studio apartment way behind the Alexandrinsky Theatre, to her ten-year-old daughter, Inga, and, God willing, with a little moo-la in her pocket and the smell of Julian Asti completely washed away.
“I have only three days to live—” Julian said, pulling her close, undoing her halter. Toshy was skinny and appeared bloodless. He could fit her whole breast in his mouth.
“Three whole days,” she said. “A feast.”
The triangular flaps of her halter fell down and she quickly took the strings and tied it up again.
“Not yet, buster,” which sounded like “booster.”
Julian’s face was perspiring. He hadn’t taken his Viagra yet, it seemed.
“This is your thyroid gland,” he said, pulling back the elastic black choker from Toshy’s throat, sucking a spot.
He was saying some shit about the function of the thyroid, and it was getting on her nerves. At first, she thought he was so smart. But if he was so smart, how come he had nothing now? From sheik to poor man.
Toshy pushed him away and lost her balance, noticing four unopened bottles of vodka on the counter. The sight made her feel generous toward him again.
She pulled him down gently onto the linoleum floor, thinking of the drink and where it would take her. She had the talent to leave her body and follow the images in her mind, letting her body perform on its own. For now she chose to stay with Julian, to bite him, but was afraid to let her teeth dig into his fatty shoulder. The thought of drawing blood, getting his blood into her mouth, well, she hated the taste. He slid his hand down her back and into her pants.
Toshy Vazov remembered the night, over a year ago, when she first met Julian Asti. She was dancing at Stella’s on Forty-Third Street. There were no fog machines at Stella’s, but other than that, the New York clubs were not that different than the ones at home. Except the place in St. Petersburg had a fancy bowling alley on the top floor, with dancers on platforms over the lanes.
That night her leg was around a pole, her head back, and the light above her coated her mouth with the taste of tinny fluorescence. A major bulb had blown out as she grinded the pole, causing the Americans to holler cherry jokes, the waft of liquor breath reaching her as she did her number in the dimmest light, sparks burning her skin here and there.
After the crowd calmed down, she did her usual act, one that was making a little name for herself. Her stomach was empty and taut. She closed her eyes, circling her pelvic muscles, then thrust her bottom up, and took off on the same flight she took every night:
In her mind she would see the rooftops of St. Petersburg, their onion
shapes, their pointed spheres. She grinded the pole more aggressively, aware of one particular man in the front row. Was he an Arab? The dark circles under his eyes, the graying goatee. His fingers like Antonio Cleopatra cigars, he held his pinky high as if he were drinking out of a demitasse cup at the Kempinski Hotel.
She closed her eyes again and soared. She felt herself falling through the stage floor, bumping down through layers of earth, cold wind, and then air as hot as hell, until she fell through the gray Russian sky on the other side of the world from Stella’s, landing on top of The Peter and Paul Fortress overlooking the dirty Neva.
Toshy and Julian were sitting on the kitchen floor.
“My turn,” she said, getting up to fix two juice glasses of Smirnoff, one with ice for him. She lit a cigarette.
“I want every minute to count,” he said.
She got down on his lap, sipped her own drink, then put both glasses on the floor. She held his head in her hands; it was twice the size of hers. His teeth were not good like other New Yorkers she saw on the trains. Julian left his wife for her, for this crummy place. He moved out of a brand new grand house in New Jersey, surprising his wife Amy with a farewell note. Apparently, she had no idea her husband was going to leave. How could she be so stupid? More stupid than herself? Toshy noticed a pile of unopened mail next to the front door, and later she would hunt out Amy’s letters.
“What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“Your wife, dumbo.”
Julian took the cigarette from her and threw it up and behind him into the sink.
“Come to answer me, or I won’t make you suffer.”
“Just turned fifty.”
“Wow. Drives a fancy car?” Toshy bounced on his lap, her hands on an imaginary steering wheel making a sharp turn.
“She’s been cruising this neighborhood. Rings my doorbell, too,” he laughed, stretching his thick neck toward the ceiling as if he could see out the front window from the floor.
“What does she do all day?”
“Could never figure that out.”
“She goes to nail salon!”
“No. She’s a nurse. In a pediatrician’s office. Three days a week.”
Toshy fed him another sip to keep him talking. “A nurse for kids?” She took his wrist and started to tap, tap. She pictured a brunette with bright red lipstick and heavy tits. But nothing like a nurse. She must be nice.
Julian kissed Toshy through bangs that were as blonde as she could make them. “This is your night,” he said. He got up with a lot of effort; his knees could not support his weight from the American football in college.
He went into the bathroom, and Toshy heard the click of the lock. She was not allowed to lock the bathroom door when she went in. She usually left it open and chatted while she peed anyway.
“I’ll be waiting,” she said. “Time to start the suffer game!”
Toshy hoped that he had a new equation to use on her—not like the last sensitivity analysis, which drove her nuts. It was much easier to learn English words this way than on the cards.
She looked around to see what she could take, but there was nothing of value, not even a watch. He was taking so long she was getting bored.
A thumping noise came from the bathroom.
“Please,” he called to her. “Tosh. I need help.”
She hurried toward the door, suddenly excited for the game. But wasn’t it she who was supposed to do the suffering tonight? Wasn’t it her turn?
“So you want all the pain for yourself?” Toshy laughed, wiggling the door handle. This was going to be good. In the bathroom! God knows what the goon had in store for her. Maybe he still had some fun in him the way he was when he was rich.
“Hey! It’s locked!”
“Wait,” he garbled, and she heard him inch on the floor. His hand slapped at the doorknob until it clicked.
Toshy opened the door slowly. She had her eyes closed because she couldn’t stand it. The door wouldn’t budge on Julian’s foot, so she squeezed in, daring herself to look. His skin was as gray as the tile he lay on. He looked like the creature found on the beach of the Azov Sea, with rotating eyeballs.
At first, she thought he was actually in trouble, but then she realized he was just playing. She immediately sat and bounced on his stomach, watching his eyes flutter; then, she started to smack his face, first one cheek then the other. But his belly felt cold and slimy. Maybe she was stupid, but she wasn’t going to let him fool her.
“You lie here and suffer while I get a drink.” She hummed the boom-boom tune she’d heard in the cab. She slid off him and went into the kitchen.
“Tosh. Please.”
He even changed his voice.
She saw his prescriptions for his heart trouble lined up on the counter. The stupid ox probably didn’t take them, afraid he wouldn’t be able to do it to her if he took all the stuff. How true.
Toshy took a swig of the vodka. She could hear him yell for her and she was tired of him, tired of this game. Everything had to be his way. She bet his wife never played with him. Toshy took the photo of Julian and his wife she found in a pile and studied it. She was wearing a classy pants suit, her head tilted toward her husband. A very nice lady. Had to be, giving little kids shots, holding babies. She took the photo of Julian and his wife and turned it over. It was easy to write in Julian’s plain old block letters he used on the English cards:
I know you are thinking about killing me. But, I have suffered enough. I am very sorry I had to leave. Julian.
Toshy put the photo in one of the envelopes there, addressed it to his New Jersey mansion, and would remember to drop it in a mailbox on the way to the airport.
She walked into Julian’s bedroom with her glass. Here was another group of vodka bottles lined up as if her new chemist husband had filled them up with clear solutions. There just couldn’t be so much for free! She was so unsteady now, the bottles blurred and swelled at the top. They began to bend from their mid sections like the New York Rockettes with the reindeer antlers tied to their heads. Ever since Julian took her on the best date she ever had to Radio City Music Hall, she visits the Rockettes on their website. All their moves have inspired her choreography. They prepared for performances by doing wall squats, a big rubber ball behind them, legs open. Toshy stole from the hardest workingwomen in show business and made the moves something all her own.
Now she was getting queasy, the smoked sprats weren’t sitting well, but she wanted to be in tip-top shape, the winner. From the hall, all she saw was a wedge of the belly with graying patches of Julian’s hair, the rim of his white Jockey briefs with the red and blue waist band. And, why did he have to wear those kind of undies that were made for little boys?
His hands were flat out at his sides, palms up. On a regular day his hands were controlled by the emotion he carried in his heart, for her, waving, clapping, pinching (the pinching she couldn’t stand) using his fingers with the drama of Ulyana Lopatkina on that old poster plastered on the wall in the metro.
“Julian Asti!” she yelled from the doorway, just to be sure. For a moment, she wondered if she were pronouncing his last name correctly; perhaps that was why he was not responding. To teach her.
“Julian!”
He wasn’t used to drinking so much vodka at once. She hoped he would sleep it off. Sometimes he did that after he had his way with her, but they hadn’t done anything yet, that’s for sure. She had such ideas for the game; she had planned it all in her head on her way from Kennedy, but nothing like this.
She slipped into the bathroom, made a towel roll that she put under his neck then closed the bathroom door.
Toshy went and pulled all of the wife’s letters, holding them out like a fan. She could not decide which one to open. She decided on one that had a smudge of lipstick on the back where the wife must have licked. She
smelled the envelope, but nothing.
Although English was not easy to read, hers had improved since she met Julian. He could have been a teacher with his patience and his little cards with words on them. He would test her and flip them over. If she was correct, a surprise was in store. He never forgot to tally her mistakes, because for those she had to pay exactly as he proposed.
She opened the letter.
Dear Julian,
Toshy put her finger on the perfect script, picturing the lady from the photo, sitting at a fancy desk in front of a window with a cup of Royal Tea:
I had to hear about your woman from your mother. Of course, she had to say the usual hurtful things. She was so busy calling me inflexible that she lost sight of our twenty-two-year marriage, Robbie, and how I have doted on both of you. She said she was hardly surprised at the kind of woman you are with—an “analytical man such as yourself requires a high level of mental stimulation.” If you really need a Russian scientist, temporarily, go ahead. You never had a mid-life crisis so I guess this is it. But it’s time to end this and get back to our lives. I took our vows very seriously. In front of God. I will not allow you to throw me away and talk alchemy with Ms. Brilliance!
I need to speak with you. The insurance, our taxes. They are going to come after us. I can’t even pay these utility bills! I tried your office and no one will give me any information. Do you know how many times I have driven over to that depressing place and rung the bell and you are never there? Why can’t you at least call me? ~Amy
The bills that must rack up in a house like that. How could he do this to his last wife? Toshy couldn’t even picture this kind of Julian. She hoped that Amy would feel better when she gets Julian’s apology on the back of the photo.
Toshy caught herself in the mirror. Her white bangs pushed forward, the rest of her rockin’ hair sticking up in the back, the black rimmed reading glasses Julian bought her at CVS. All she needed was a little urine cup.
Yes, she had quite a large specimen to deal with. She had never thought about being a scientist before. In fact, she hated science more than any other subject in high school.
This Side of Water Page 6