by Sophia Henry
I’m sure a lot of players have the same mentality. I don’t know if they’re as obsessive as Dmitri, but that’s good old Central Scarlet Army training right there.
“You can’t change the past, but you can use it to make better decisions in the future,” he adds, turning his attention back to the screen and pressing rewind.
Every once in a while Dima spits out gems. It’s not common, but that’s probably why it’s so profound when it comes out. You’re not expecting it from him.
I suppose that’s a good thing if a situation ever repeated itself exactly. But that’s not how life works. You’ll never be in the exact same situation. There will always be variables.
Sometimes, you find yourself back with the man who took your virginity and never spoke to you again. Even after declaring you’d never be with him again, you give in because he’s “safe.”
Sometimes you find out your soulmate, who you thought was dead, is very much alive. Resuming your love affair seems obvious. But going back is never the same.
Variables. So many variables.
Still, I try—because the guilt is eating away at me. I’m living with a man I have no romantic feelings for and yearning for a man I shouldn’t even love.
On the night before he’s supposed to leave for a West Coast road trip, I leave work as soon as the shop closes. Usually, I stay after to clean up or work on inventory or accounting, but it’s important to get home and try to talk to him before he leaves.
I stopped at the bodega on the corner to pick up everything I need to make Beef Stroganoff, his favorite meal. When I arrive, he’s not home, which is fine because it gives me time to prepare dinner so it will be ready by the time he gets here.
The sauce has the apartment smelling absolutely divine. As it simmers, I drop the noodles into boiling water and throw together a salad. A glance at the clock tells me I’ve been cooking for about an hour and Dmitri still isn’t home.
Thinking he may have called earlier and left a message, I run to the answering machine. The light isn’t blinking, which means there’s nothing new.
When the pasta is finished, I transfer it into the sauce and set the heat to low. Before covering the pot, I stab a saucy noodle with a fork and taste it. I’m not too concerned that he isn’t home yet. The longer it sits, the better it is. In fact, I’ve always thought second-day stroganoff tasted better.
Three hours later, after I’ve eaten and put away all the leftovers, Dmitri still isn’t home. Another missed opportunity to tell him about me and Kirill.
I should feel worse about it.
Why don’t I feel worse about it?
Am I such a horrible person that I can betray someone who’s been so good to me without blinking an eye?
Maybe I learned how to be cold from my time with Kirill. Maybe it solidifies that I really was cut out to be a mafia queen.
16
Stasya
“Who did this?” I ask, pointing to the mannequin in the front window which is dressed in a different outfit than she had on this morning.
“Um, that was me,” Jordan says meekly.
I wave her over without a word. She avoids my eyes as she slides toward me, not picking up her feet. It’s a pet peeve, but I don’t say anything. I’m working on building her confidence, not pointing out insecurities. Once she feels comfortable in her skills, she’ll pick up her feet, throw her shoulders back, and walk tall.
“Did you do this? This, um, necklace and belt?” I ask.
She wrings her hands nervously as she nods, avoiding my eyes.
“Is lovely!” I tell her. “Where you find these things?” We don’t sell jewelry or accessories at Prekrasny.
She finally lifts her head, beaming as our eyes meet. “I found the belt in the donations at the shelter. I made the necklace.”
The necklace has silver circles linked together with large, chunky stones hanging from the middle section. “You make this?”
She nods.
“Is gorgeous,” I tell her honestly. I’m blown away at how much talent she has. Not just the necklace, but also how she put the mannequin together. She has a keen eye for styling and colors.
Jordan started a few months ago in a part-time position. I met her at Safe Refuge, a domestic violence shelter I volunteer at a few times a month.
Shortly after I moved to New York, I found Safe Refuge while doing charity work with the Americans’ wives and girlfriends. As soon as I began talking with the people who run the shelter and the regular volunteers about their mission and how they help women, I knew I wanted to become involved. Because of my background, growing up with an abusive father, I felt a connection with the women.
When I found out many of them stayed in a violent situation at home because they had no money or job to get away from their abuser, it broke my heart. The shelter helps give them interview skills and provides child care so that the women can go out and get a job to get themselves on their feet. But many of them left everything behind or only took things for their children.
I was lucky enough to grow up in communist Russia—which sounds extremely odd to say—but what I mean is—I never had to worry about work. My career choices were based on production and demand and projections of what would be needed. I went to school for my career and had a job as soon as I graduated.
Here, in America, it doesn’t work the same way. You can go to school for sixteen years or more and still be unemployed. At first, I didn’t understand a government that didn’t take care of its citizens. Until I realized—this is capitalism. Then again, no matter what economic system a country utilizes, there will always be problems. Complicated issues that involve millions of people are rarely black and white.
Somewhere in the middle is an ever-changing shade of gray. A wavering “normal” that could benefit the most people, but doesn’t benefit those in power.
The employment situation of the women at the shelter got me thinking about how I could help. Sure, I can talk to these women and understand what they’re feeling, even share my own story and success, but in all honesty, I had an angel who helped me out of my situation. If it weren’t for Kirya’s generosity, I might still be living with my abusive father right now. It’s a stark reality. Even if I were to have gotten married in Russia, my husband and I would have lived with my father because there was space in the apartment.
How can I use the opportunity I was given to help others?
Clothing and my store.
Every woman who walks through the doors of this shelter was braver than I ever was. They made the decision to leave despite having nothing to fall back on. At the very least, I can donate clothing from my store. After each season, there are always items left that don’t sell.
A lightbulb when off in my head when I found out one of the resources of the shelter offers is employment assistance. They help set up job interviews and coach the women on how to interview, but when they go to the interview, they rarely have anything nice to wear. That’s when I realized I could make them the clothing they need to feel confident in the interview. It only made sense.
After over year of doing it, I’ve got the system down to a science. At first, I tried to do it myself but realized quickly it was unsustainable. I hired three part-time seamstresses. Once a month, we go to the shelter and measure any woman who wants a suit tailored specifically for them. I rent a space in a large production warehouse a few blocks away from my store, where my seamstresses have everything they need—from fabric to sewing machines—to make the clothing. They do this in addition to having full-time jobs of their own.
There’s no way to explain how good it makes me feel to know that we’re helping in a small way. Hopefully, having a suit specifically made for them allows them to go into the interview with confidence. Because of my background, growing up with an abusive father, I understand how it feels to be emotionally and physically abused. Confidence isn’t always easy when you’ve been made to believe you’re a horrible person your entire life.
>
A newspaper interviewed me about it, but I wasn’t very comfortable talking with the press. It’s a very personal cause, not something I do for someone to pat me on the back. My office walls are covered with every single handwritten note we’ve received from ladies we’ve helped. I cherish those more than any newspaper article.
Though I chose to have my clothing produced in Russia to give those women jobs, it’s also important to give back to the community in New York. Helping at the shelter, or giving people like Jordan job experience are only a few ways I can help. I’m working on a scholarship of sorts to help women move from the shelter to their own apartment or home.
Jordan is great at her job and seems to be excited about it. I’m lost in thought, contemplating a way I can empower her to get her more involved in design when I see Veronika wave from the window.
“No more belts from shelter,” I tell Jordan as Veronika rushes into the store. “I have account at Merton’s. Go buy belts. Any color and size you think look good, yes?”
This time, when Jordan nods, her brown skin glows with excitement.
“Think summer,” I tap my temple as I turn to meet my friend.
Veronika approaches quickly as if she has something important to share. “Stasya!”
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” I say greeting her with a hug and kisses. I glance at my watch. I’m supposed to meet Kirill for lunch in ten minutes.
“I know, but I just left the Dining Room, and I had something on my mind. I had to stop to talk to you.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Well—” She glances at Jordan and toward the register where Debbie rings up a customer. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Sure, come back to my office.” I guide her to the back of the store. “Debbie!” I call to the woman at the register. “Jordan go to Morton’s. I be back in a minute.”
She nods and I lead Veronika to my office. I can’t imagine what she could possibly need to talk to me about in private.
“What’s going on?” I ask, gesturing for her to sit in an empty chair across from mine. My desk is in disarray, stacked with design notebooks, invoices, and papers that need to be filed. There are rolls of fabric piled up on the floor to the side. I’m too curious about her surprise visit to be embarrassed by the mess.
“Okay,” she begins, settling into the chair nervously. “It might not be my place to say anything, but,” She pauses. “Are you cheating on Dmitri?”
“Excuse me?” I ask. I’m hoping it sounds as if I’m appalled and not guilty. “Why would you ask me something like this?”
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I’m asking as a friend. I’ve noticed things have been a bit off with you recently. We don’t talk as often, and when we do you seem to be holding back.”
“No, no. I’m the one who is sorry.” I lean back in my chair and sigh. I didn’t realize others had noticed that I’d been acting differently. “I have a lot on my mind and Dima is stressed with the playoffs. We haven’t been talking very much recently.”
“If you need someone to talk to, you know you have me, right? I have a big mouth, but I’m always here to listen. Especially if there’s something between you and Dima. I know what it’s like to be with a hockey player, too.”
“I know.” I reach out and take her hand. “Thank you. There’s so much that I’m trying to figure things out.”
“Do you know the owner of the Dining Room?” She asks. It seems like she’s switching the subject, but it’s odd that she asked about the Dining Room. No one is supposed to know Kirill is alive. She seems to know more than she’s letting on.
“Of course,” I tell her with a laugh. “It’s my brother.”
“Don’t be stupid, Stasya,” she says trying to project a playful manner. Her eyes narrow slightly, barely enough to notice, but I do because I’m on alert. “You know I mean the other owner—the one he signed the contract with.”
“Oh.” I act aloof. “From what I understand, Vanya signed a contract with the lawyer who’s handling the previous owner’s estate. He is dead.”
“It’s funny because Sergei has seen you at the Dining Room a lot recently. He said you don’t go to your regular table anymore. You go straight down to the office.”
“Sergei is spying on me now?”
“No!” Veronika leans back in her chair, hands up in defensive a posture. “He just noticed. And since Ivan isn’t in New York. He wondered what you could possibly be doing down there.”
“If it clears my name, you must know, Vanya asked me to do some work there. Look at the books and give him a report. The only free time I have these days is during my lunch.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.
“Let me be very clear, Veronika. I value our friendship, but it’s a bit concerning to find out that your brother has been spying on me. Not only that, but he tells you about it.”
“You’re very well respected in the community, Stasya. I’d hate to see you negatively impacted by rumors.”
“Shouldn’t you be speaking with your brother about this? Seems as though he is the one starting the rumors you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry I brought this up.” She gets up quickly, but I’m not ready to let it go.
“Why did you bring it up?” I ask.
“Please don’t be angry with me, Stasya. I’m not trying to offend you.” She glances at the door as if she’s contemplating whether to leave or not. “You’re familiar with the bratva—the Russian mafia, yes?”
“Yes. I remember how rampant they were in Moscow. The streets were scary.” I answer carefully, making sure I don’t give away hint that I was involved with it.
Maybe she already knows. Maybe she’s being a good friend and warning me of the dangers. Since we’ve never discussed mafia before, I have no clue what her motivation is at this point.
She brushes her brown hair behind her shoulder and slides into her seat again. “They are active in New York as well. Very active. I’m surprised your store hasn’t been targeted yet.”
“Targeted for what?” I ask, playing dumb. I need to figure out what she knows and why she’s sharing this with me now.
“Usually, they harass Russian store owners. Threaten them, ask for money.” She looks into my eyes. “Have you been approached? Asked to pay for protection?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly, leaning forward in my chair. “No one has ever threatened me.”
“Do you pay?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s interesting. Usually, they come after people who don’t pay them.”
“Well, from what I understand, the leader in New York was killed a few months ago. They must have bigger worries than my small shop in Manhattan.”
“People are saying his replacement is in New York. A person that many here thought was dead. I don’t know how he’s going to run his business. He may contact you. Try to get you to pay for protection.”
“Who is this man? Do you know him?”
She shakes her head. “Stay alert, Stasya. You may not think your shop is important, but its blocks away from the Russian Dining Room, one of the bratva’s favorite meeting spots. That’s another reason Sergei was concerned. He wanted to make sure they weren’t harassing you while you were there. In the basement.”
“Is Sergei okay?” I ask, lowering my voice as if I’m concerned. “He’s been jumping to some far-fetched conclusions there. First, I’m cheating on Dmitri, then I’m being harassed by the mafia in the basement of my brother’s restaurant.”
“I’m sorry, Stasya. I know how odd it all sounds. It’s just that we both care for you so much. I couldn’t call myself your friend if I didn’t bring it up. Neither one of us wants you to be hurt or have your business affected.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you for being such a good friend.”
Veronika smiles as if all is well, but I’m still on edge ov
er the conversation. I knew I should be cautious when it came to my relationship with Kirill, but now I’ll have to watch myself when it comes to what goes on at the Russian Dining Room.
17
Stasya
June 1994
The old saying, time flies when you’re having fun is true in some circumstances. The last few months with Kirill have been absolutely amazing. I look forward to every second with him. Every kiss. Every touch. For the first time in a year, I look forward to waking up in the morning so I can plan how I’ll see him again. I count the seconds until we meet and revel in them when we’re together. Time with him has been going by too fast.
Unlike time with Dmitri. Which has been going excruciatingly slow.
There are 1.6 seconds left in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals and Dmitri’s New York Americans have a one-goal lead over Vanya’s Detroit Chargers.
Over the last five minutes, the Chargers have thrown everything they have at the Americans, trying to tie up the game and send it to overtime. The faceoff is in the Americans zone to the right of their goalie. Everyone in the arena is on their feet, buzzing with anxiety and excitement. I’m shifting my weight from foot to foot, wondering why I got my nails done yesterday when I’ve had them in my mouth the entire game.
Debbie squeezes my hand as her husband, Dan, the veteran center who never wears a helmet, skates into the circle to face my brother.
The puck drops.
Dan wins the draw.
The clock strikes zero.
And the entire arena erupts.
Everyone jumps to their feet screaming and cheering. The women and children around me hug. On the ice, the Americans throw their gloves and sticks before crashing the net.
A loud boom startles me. I duck and cover my head with my hands. Debbie wraps an arm around me and points to the ceiling where confetti rains down.