Lone Star

by Paullina Simons

  We should have brought some cherry strudel to Carnikava. Because Mason and I decided that we’re not crazy about Latvian food. It’s all pickled. Everything. I tried to ask Carmen about it tonight, but she didn’t know what I was talking about. As in, of course it’s pickled. What else would it be? I mean, everything is pickled. The cabbage. The sausage. The tomatoes. The eggs, for God’s sake. Who pickles eggs? Latvians, apparently. The potatoes tasted pickled, but that’s because they were doused with pickled cabbage and pickled tomatoes and pickled pickles.

  I know, I know. Preservative, schmervative. I don’t care. Mason doesn’t care. He wants Burger King. I’d like a steak. Or a paella. How soon until we can have some tapas and empanadas? There’s an entire Poland to get through first, and I bet they like things pickled there, too. I blame the Communists.

  19

  Zhenya

  Chloe

  The girls got up at sunrise to catch the commuter train to the city. The Liepaja train was leaving Riga at six in the morning. The boys dared think they could continue to slumber and not see the girls off. Silly boys.

  Chloe didn’t want to remind Hannah how unsophisticated she really was, how she’d never been on a train before yesterday. She was nervous to travel just the two of them. She wished the boys were coming with them.

  The Liepaja train was nothing like yesterday’s rambling, falling apart commuter rail from Carnikava to Riga. It wasn’t rows and rows of wooden seats. Oh, to be sure, the Liepaja train, built sometime before the Glorious Bolshevik Revolution, was also falling apart, but the cars on this train were divided into small compartments with seating for eight. Hannah informed Chloe that first class had white linen on the seats and only six people per compartment, but cost three times as much. Chloe and Hannah could not afford first class. Fortunately, the train wasn’t full. In their stall there was only a mother with a baby, but at the next stop, in Jelgava, a teenage girl got on. She was around their age and spoke no English but was provocatively dressed, as if the two went hand in hand.

  Clearly the strumpet wasn’t headed to an orphanage, because today even Hannah had dressed down. She was neat but covered up. Hannah could look elegant wearing a man’s shirt, Chloe thought, whereas she herself had only two speeds: matron or slut. Elegant was not an option. Today, so as not to provoke the orphans or the pastor at the Lutheran daycare center, Chloe chose matron. She wore khaki pants and a long-sleeved, lightly checkered blue shirt, buttoned up to her throat. She twisted her hair into a schoolmarm bun. Her makeup, fleeting at best and hastily applied at 4 a.m., had melted off after ten minutes in the stifling broiling oven of the carriage. Her shirt and bra stuck to her body and the socks to her feet, as if she’d stepped into a Chloe-sized puddle. She sat and tried to read, but outside was countryside and marshland, distant hints of sea, farms, silos, dirt roads passing by. She stared out the window and daydreamed of being a stilt-walker caked in charcoal dust on the Ramblas in Barcelona.

  They seemed to stop every other minute. Jelgava, Dobele, Broceni, Saldus, Skrunda. The train would pull into the well of a station and then shut down its engine. After an eternity, it would start rolling again. The mother and her baby left; an old man and his wife replaced them. Then they left. For a while it was just three people in the cabin: Chloe, Hannah, and the strumpety chick. Then the girl left, to go be a harlot elsewhere. Chloe’s mother would have had a few choice things to say about her. Hannah was oblivious. She was sound asleep.

  The train chugged west, until there was no more west, just the sea, and finally after three hours the train stopped. The white signs outside read Liepaja. Chloe wished she knew something about Liepaja. She should’ve read up on it. She should’ve asked Blake. Now it was too late. The chipping green stucco station with its cracked red brick windows awaited.

  Immediately noticeable was the drop in temperature. Chloe had ignored the gradual cooling on the train. She had stopped feeling hot but was still damp; then she was damp and comfortable; then damp and slightly chilly. Now, getting off the train, she wasn’t chilly. She was cold. It was overcast and very windy and about to rain.

  “What happened to the weather?” said Hannah, wrapping her frowning arms around herself. “Holy crap, it’s like a tornado. Why is it freezing? It must be fifty degrees!”

  Didn’t Blake say something about this? Chloe wished she’d listened more carefully. She hadn’t believed him, even this morning when he told her to bring a jacket. What are you, my mother, she’d said to him.

  “You didn’t want to walk in Riga either,” Chloe said, “and it wasn’t cold there.”

  “It was crazy hot,” Hannah said. “Besides, I didn’t want to walk to where you three were headed. A mosquito-infested canal.”

  The girls sprinted to the end of the platform, looking for a taxi. Chloe’s poorly secured bun was no match for the gale. Gone was the thought of walking to the orphanage two miles away on Labraga Street.

  They jumped into the first cab they could find. It smelled disreputable and was driven by a man who not only could not speak a gasp of English but, judging by his expression as he studied the piece of paper they showed him with the directions, couldn’t read a lick of Latvian either.

  Liepaja was gray and wet and nearly deserted. For some reason it took a long time to drive two miles in no traffic to Labraga Street, where the cabbie pulled over by a small, leafy park. He demanded from the girls a small fortune. Thirty-two latu. Wasn’t that nearly sixty dollars? Chloe protested. “Too much. No.”

  He raised three fingers, then two, and repeated what sounded like trees met with Vivi. Chloe opted for dumbness and blindness. She counted off five latu. He scratched out 32 on an old coffee-cup lid and thrust it in her face.

  “Just give him the money and let’s go,” Hannah said.

  Chloe gave him two more. “Seven latu,” she said. “But that’s it.”

  He got loud. Hannah was already out of the cab, but the driver was grabbing at Chloe’s shirt sleeve, shouting his incomprehensible blackmail.

  A door opened. A tall man draped in black cloth came down the stoop from the beige building, shouting at the driver and pointing down the street. He pulled Chloe firmly from the cab.

  “How much did you give him?” he asked in accented English.

  “Seven latu.”

  “Too much. He’s abusing you.” He yelled at the cabbie again, who screeched away, gesticulating and yelling back.

  The man introduced himself. He was Reverend Kazmir, the director of the daycare and the pastor who had opened the home for children eleven years ago. He was serious and had a lot of thick, gray, well-groomed hair for an old man. He made Chloe feel self-conscious about her own uncharacteristically messy coif.

  After he ushered them inside, he told them that when the Communists retreated back to the dying Soviet Union they left in their leprous wake a complete disintegration of a wonderful city, pockmarking it with vast unemployment and an even vaster drug habit. “Drugs are a very big problem in Latvia, I am ashamed to admit,” the reverend said.

  Chloe told him it was nothing to be ashamed of, but she had to admit she was slightly frightened. How was she going to find a boy for her parents in a town like this? Her father was the chief of police. Order was what he craved. But drugs were chaos. Here, the adults smoked, shot up their arms full of H, had drug-addicted children, and then tried to escape, except there was nowhere to run to. Often their only escape was prison, where they were shipped off, almost happily, leaving their children behind. The kids went to school, haphazardly at best, and afterward some of them came to Kazmir’s place. He and his assistants helped them with homework, taught them to paint and pray. But mostly the reverend organized photographs and folders documenting their life stories, which he then sent to a non-profit group in Dallas that arranged Eastern European sponsorships and adoptions.

  Hannah, impatiently tapping on the table while the reverend talked, abruptly asked when they could see these supposed children. Chloe knew her friend�
�s problem. She shared it herself. The girls were famished. They’d had a hunk of bread and a cup of tea six hours ago. While Hannah had slept on the train, Chloe didn’t want to leave her friend alone and traipse off to the dining car. And when they got off the train, the extortionist cab was right there.

  The reverend shook his head and patiently explained how the procedure worked while the girls twitched and starved. This was not a zoo. Chloe and Hannah did not walk by the cages where the children sat on display. The girls would remain in his office and he would bring them the files of the available children. They would take their time and look through the photographs, bios and personal notes. If they found someone potentially suitable for Lang and Jimmy, a room would be set up where they could meet this boy or girl face to face. Then the reverend left.

  “I’m so hungry, I’d eat pickled bread at this point,” Hannah said as they waited for him to come back with the files. “Please, I beg you, choose someone quickly. It’s all the same. Don’t dawdle. Pick someone, anyone. Because after, we’ll still have to meet him, and you know there’ll be loads of paperwork. We don’t have all day.”

  “Actually, we do have all day.”

  “The quicker you choose, the quicker we can get out of here. What time is it now?”

  “Eleven, I think.”

  “What time is the train back?”

  “We just got here!”

  “I know when we got here. I’m asking when the train goes. I don’t want to miss it. There’s only one a day, right?”

  “It’s at five. You’re not the only one who’s hungry, you know.”

  “I know. But it’s harder for me. I don’t have any fat stores.”

  The reverend returned carrying not files but a tray. On the tray was a pitcher filled with dark drink, sandwiches, some fruit, and some (pickled!) salads. There was herring and even a cheesecake.

  Chloe wanted to cry, she was so grateful. For this she would sponsor all of the children and an adult or two as well.

  “I thought you might like a little refreshment after such a long journey,” the reverend said. “Why don’t you start, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with the folders. Please try the kvas. It’s our national beverage. Made from bread. It’s very good.”

  “It could be made from lead at this point,” said Hannah, pouring the drink so quickly she spilled some on the sandwiches. It was good. Thick like a meal. Before the reverend returned, the sandwiches were gone, the cheesecake gone, the raspberries, potato salad, the herring and most of the bread. Only sauerkraut remained, lonely and acidic in the corner by the discarded crusts.

  Lowering the stack of paper to the coffee table, the reverend glanced with amusement at the empty tray, then at the girls. “After a meal such as this, a nap is needed, don’t you think?”

  Chloe couldn’t agree more, having gotten up at the godless hour of dawn. Hannah was nodding, too!

  “What are you nodding for?” Chloe grumbled, quite drowsy. “You didn’t watch me sleep for hours on the train.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping, I had my eyes closed.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Really. I wasn’t sleeping.”

  Why did that irk Chloe? Hannah wanted to have it every which way. Sleep on the train, yet be tired now. Chloe couldn’t be the only one tired, oh no. Hannah had to be hungrier, and sleepier. And thinner. Ugh.

  Chloe spread out the folders on the coffee table and opened them one by one. Hannah leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Chloe yanked on her linen sleeve. “You’re not here to nap. You’re here for moral support, and to help me. Let’s go, missy.”

  Apathetically leaning forward, Hannah studied the faces of the children and the notes in their files. “This is my favorite,” she said. “Kristine: seven years old. When she grows up, she wants to be a cleaning lady. Pick her.”

  “What did I tell you? Ignore the girls. Only boys.”

  “Are you serious? Why?”

  Chloe turned to stare meaningfully at Hannah.

  “Ah, okay,” Hannah said. “How old?”

  “The age Jimmy would be now, I guess.” Chloe leafed through the folders. “Around seven.”

  “How about this one? Nicole: six years old. The one place in the world she wants to visit is a swimming pool. Pick her.”

  “I told you, no girls.”

  “She’s cute, though.”

  “If it’s a girl, move on. Find a boy.”

  “Wow. And you said you weren’t Chinese. Don’t like the girls, do you? Yup, Chinese through and through.”

  Hannah

  Chloe told me not to look at the girls, but it’s only the girls that interested me. I didn’t care a whit for the boys. After seeing the sweet Kristine with her big dreams of becoming a cleaning lady, I searched through the girls. And why not? I didn’t come here on a job. I’ll admit, some of them looked as if they’d be following in their parents’ footsteps soon if they weren’t already. I asked the reverend if all of them were orphans.

  “Not at all,” Kazmir said, presiding over us behind his big desk. “Many of them have parents. Sometimes the parents are in prison since they can’t find other work besides dealing drugs. But the children can leave here and go home at any time. However, here we have food. It’s warm in the winter.” He paused. “The drug laws have become very strict in Latvia. Sometimes the parents, even when present, have six or seven other children to take care of. There is no adult supervision. Being here is better than wandering the streets. We offer them art, singing lessons, Bible study, sports, English. By the time these children are twelve or fourteen, they’re expected to work, make money. Many drop out of school at fourteen. Some turn to drugs.” He pressed his troubled hands together in supplication. “We have sixty-five children here. Most are good kids, don’t worry. They just need a little help.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said.

  Here’s what I remember. I was twelve years old and a couple of my friends called me to hang out. Sure, my mother said, as long as one of their parents can pick you up and drive you back. Not a problem, I assured her. She and Dad weren’t even divorced yet, but he was out. I called Chloe to see if she wanted to come with me. I heard her mother yelling in the background while she put her hand over the phone. Abruptly she hung up without even replying to me. But through my windows I heard her mother yelling. The whole lake heard. Are you out of your mind? It’s eight o’clock on a school night and you’re twelve years old. Where do you think you could possibly be going? What universe do you live in? She stayed home. I went out. I pitied her. Poor Chloe. I’m so grown up, I thought, and she’s going to be a baby forever.

  Janna, from a family of eight. Sounded almost like my name. Janna, Hannah. She was six. Her card said: “She really wants to live in another place.” Perfect. Like me.

  Daniela liked pizza. Well, who doesn’t? And how did Daniela know anything about pizza? And if she knew about pizza, how come we’ve been fed nothing but cabbage the last three days? I bet it would be pickled pizza, I thought, and laughed out loud, incurring a glare from Chloe and a disapproving blink from the reverend.

  “Please can we sponsor a girl?” I asked Chloe. “Look at this cute one. Marina. She is eight. She loves ice cream. She wants to help people. She wants to be close to Jesus. Please pray for her.”

  “Hannah, you and I are not sponsoring her. My parents are. And they want a boy.”

  “Tell them you couldn’t find a good one. Look here. Valeria is eight. She doesn’t know what she wants to be but she wants to go to Livu Waterpark.”

  The reverend told me that if I wanted to, I could also sponsor a child. I got absent-mindedly excited. “Oh yeah? What would I have to do?”

  But I didn’t hear his answer. Because I found a girl.

  Zhenya. She was nine years old. Her favorite story was Lazarus being raised from the dead. She wanted two things: to go to Russia and to help her grandmother. When she grew up she wanted to be a policewoman. She asked you to pray that no o
ne beat her up.

  I turned away from Chloe and the reverend. I stood up and walked to the window for a few moments. The street was drizzly with rain, windy, wretched. My back was still to them when I asked the reverend to repeat what it would take to sponsor a child. “How much every month?”

  “Sixty dollars. With extra around the holidays. Or extra simply if you have extra. But the minimum is sixty. You pay the Dallas company, not us. They wire the money to us. That way you don’t have to worry about converting into latu. Of course you can always invite your sponsored child to the United States for a visit. For many of them it’s the trip of a lifetime, as you can imagine. And then, if you wish, your parents can sponsor them to come live with you. You can be their host family. Almost like your American foster care, but with foreign children …”

  I stopped listening. “When can I see her?” I stared at the picture of Zhenya’s wan little face.

  “Hannah, you don’t have sixty dollars a month!” Chloe said behind my back. Always the naysayer. “You’re going to college. You have no money for books. You don’t have money for a whole Latvian.”

  “I’ll make money,” I said. “And if you and I both sponsor her, it’ll be only thirty dollars a month.” I whirled around. “What do you say?”

  “That you’re not helping me find a boy is what I say. Why are you getting so hung up on the girls?”

  “Not plural. One girl in particular. Reverend, can we see her?”

  “Who?”

  I handed him Zhenya’s folder.

  He shook his head. “She’s not with us anymore.”

  “Where is she?” I didn’t want to hear his answer. I was so disappointed.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they vanish. We pray it’s because everything is better at home. Usually they return to us after a few weeks.”

  I took the folder from him, almost snatched it, stared at Zhenya’s white face, her severe, uneven bangs. Why did he still have her folder if she had vanished?