‘With what, exactly?’ Henry challenged.
‘Work, I said. Em is studying to be a lawyer. We both want to travel. I want to do things that you and Mama never did.’
‘Oh, we did more than you would ever do in one lifetime.’
‘Like keep running from country to country and argue with each other all the time? That’s what you call ‘enough’? And then you ask me if I want to get married and have children?’
‘You know what’, Henry dug his fingers into the table and leaned forward. ‘You have absolutely no idea what we’ve been through.’
‘Henry, you’re being a bit sensitive—’ Julia interrupted, protecting Slava from reaching a depth she wasn’t prepared for.
Slava stood up. ‘Are you kidding? My whole life I’ve seen you both tear at each other because of some anger, or things that you don’t want to say to each other,’ she felt Julia’s hand on her arm, urging her to stop. ‘Don’t you think I feel it, how you speak to Mama? How you both try so hard to ignore the things that make you so angry?’
Henry watched, immobile, as Slava pushed the chair to the dining table and put her coat on. ‘But it’s okay. We all have our ways. But please, please don’t ask me about marriage or children because I don’t think I’ve been shown the best example sometimes,’ she said, as her eyes welled for her mother, and for things that she had wanted to say for so long, but never dared.
Emilian stood up, addressing Julia first. ‘Very sorry. Thank you— ‘he turned to Henry now ‘— both, for a great evening, but I’m going to go with Slava.’ And walked out after her.
Slava walked, and then ran, out into the dark, towards the car, because she suddenly knew she couldn’t stay: the things she said would leave lasting marks, fresh lashes of pain on all of them, and she knew too much as it was. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and rolled down the window, breathing the night in, and waited as Emilian opened the driver’s side door and started the engine. He looked over at her, and all she could say was ‘Just go. Please let’s just go.’
And then the screen door to the motel opened, and a rectangle of light from inside the house illuminated the driveway.
‘Slava, stop. Wait.’ Henry’s footsteps lumbered forward in a slow, serious pace, his hands in his pockets. She watched him, not knowing what he would do. Would he shout at her? Would he disown her? Would he tell her that she had failed? Would he push her away? She couldn’t bear any of the outcomes, she didn’t have any energy left. She felt broken.
Emilian clutched the steering wheel and watched as Henry grabbed the door and crouched down, his head on his hands, framed in the open window. ‘Slava, I'm sorry. Sometimes I don’t think I’m the father you needed,’ he whispered. Tears stained his cheeks: she knew this because it was a clear night, and the moon shone on his face.
She rested her hands on his. She stared at this man, her father, and realized it was the first time he’d told her he loved her, and she wondered if she would ever hear it again.
32
1981
Three years had passed, and it was now September, and the end of the season, and Henry and Slava had both helped a few neighbors untie their boats from the dock that afternoon. Some pleasantries were shared, a few ‘have a great autumn’, and then quiet finally. The water lapped the shore, and Henry told his daughter that he was tired, and that he wanted a change.
‘Well, no one can do the same thing forever, that’s not realistic is it, maybe time to try something new,’ Slava stood up from where she had been sitting on the docks.
‘Slava,’ Henry sat back in his chair and drew on his cigarette. ‘not even something new can interest me now, I don’t think. I have invested my money in property, and I feel that my body is aging like those buildings.’
He lazily watched the silhouettes of powerboats in the distance. The sky was turning pink, and the clouds reflected a pale sunset as they flit across. It was a nice luxury, watching the close of a day: he didn’t remember seeing any when he was on the other side of the world, or with his father, or during his days smelling of sugar in the fields. Or maybe he had, he’d just forgotten.
Uncharacteristically for the family, they had created Slava, a child that was something of an optimist, something that initially had irritated Henry. He didn’t understand how someone could be so naïve, but he wanted to see what she had in mind. ‘So, what’re you thinking, then?’
‘Not sure. I'm guessing the area is so popular that someone might want a piece of it?’
‘Not a bad idea. But if I sell, I can’t just sit around.
‘True, but this place is just too big.’
Henry sighed deeply. ‘I know. I just can’t keep going. I’ve done the work on this place for years, mostly on my own. My life has been about maintenance and detail: long hours, little time for rest. Sweat and blood.’ He looked down at his shirt, pale grey plaid stained from varnish. His stomach softly protruded over his belt, and his breath was labored and contained a slight wheeze. ‘Maybe something smaller. I’d hate to completely stop.’
‘So, you’re going to keep going in this property business?’ She dragged over a white plastic chair from the beach and sat down.
‘Probably. I like it. I like taking care of something and seeing the pleasure that people get out of something I’ve done. You know, I'm not the smartest man—’
‘Ha!’ Slava interrupted. ‘Who are you kidding? You may not show it off, but you’re pretty solid company amongst idiots.’
Henry nodded. ‘Not sure that’s saying much, but good point,’ He winked. ‘I know how to work hard. ‘My hands—he lifted them up, weathered and worn, their square shape in stark contrast to the orange sky— they’ve only known work. I can slow down, but I don’t think I can stop yet. And someday, once I feel that I can stop, then I will. I think I have my father’s ‘fight’ in me. So do you,’ he elbowed his daughter gently. His affection for her had grown little by little since that explosion one night, and though it didn’t change exponentially, they both noticed it, and were grateful for it.
‘Yes, but there’s something to be said for finding peace sometimes, though.’
Henry stood up. ‘Right. Let’s not get all soft. My whiskey is waiting, and let’s pray your mother didn’t burn the dinner—otherwise I’ll have to go back to that bar again at midnight…you know the one? Lone Bull? Just down the road by Capri motel. They have the best pastrami sandwiches...’, he mused as they walked up the slope.
After he’d put the lake house on the market, Henry was surprised that the offer came so quickly, though he had been looking at new properties already. It was January 1980, and he’d had a buyer knock on his door, wondering if he’d be willing to sell.
‘Twice the money, Julia.’ He piled the sugar into his black coffee, reaching for the cream as he stirred. ‘It’s a good offer,’ he coughed suddenly, slapping his chest to be rid of it.
‘Really?’ She sat down at the table in the front office. ‘But it’s January. Why now?’
He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. ‘Well, think about it. Someone wants to get ready for the summer season, so they can probably buy it for less than they would if it was summer. Plus, it’s still more money than we paid for it anyway.’ The smoke veiled his face temporarily and he pushed it away. ‘Don’t you want to have a smaller place to take care of? We’re in pushing 60 now, for God’s sake, do we want to break our backs making people’s beds for the rest of our years?’
‘Not a bad idea.’
‘I know it is.’
‘You always manage to land on your feet, husband.’
‘It’s a special talent.’
‘No, your arrogance is.’
‘Listen, why don’t we go for a drive, I’ll show you what I found.’
‘What? You already found something?’
He was already putting on his coat. ‘Come on.’
FOR SALE: 5 UNITS
INTERESTED? PLEASE CONTACT 212-668-7409
‘
What do you think?’ Henry had turned the car off of Route 9N, the main road that cut straight through the village, and spotted this sign, not one minute down Birch Avenue, painted crudely in white letters on a big piece of plywood, nailed to a post. They’d been driving 20 minutes in either direction out of Glen Cove, looking for new properties. ‘Let’s go have a look.’ As they slowed down, Julia looked around: to the right and left there were meager, small clapboard houses with rickety-fenced borders. Driveways with log piles in the corners frosted with snow, metal post boxes that needed paint. It was quiet, as if everyone had abandoned their houses in favor of somewhere better. Huge green evergreens with thick snowy branches dominated the skyline: she’d traded New York skyscrapers for towering, leafy guardians. The heavy green and the smell of pine was almost oppressive.
He stopped the car. ‘It’s over here- look’, he pointed to his left. Two small gravelly paths, well-worn by cars, led about 100 feet in, separated by a small mound of grass trapped in snow, and a sickly tree.
On one side, there was what looked like a small grey one-bedroom bungalow unit, and on the other, a series of three grey connected units, each with their own set of wooden stairs. There was a main ‘house’ at the front, with long and flat concrete steps leading up to the wooden porch and screen door. 5 separate metal post boxes guarded the front. There was no sign, and a small truck was parked towards the back of the property.
‘Meh,’ Julia shrugged her shoulders. ‘Looks like beggars live here,’ She pointed at the units. ‘And the color! Grey? Like a dead mouse.’
Henry rolled his eyes and reached his arm towards here, clasping her arm tenderly, resting it there. ‘Julia, see it for what it is: it’s small and manageable and can make us a bit of money in our old age.’
She looked over at him. ‘Can’t we sell and just find a house to live in, find somewhere and just live?’ Her head had become too crowded it seemed. She hadn’t been sleeping well and her hands ached often lately. She craved a home where time slowed down and the pace was less busy.
‘And do what, exactly? Wait to die?’ He leaned back and grabbed the wheel again. ‘No thank you. God has given my body many more years, and I want to do something with what I’ve been given.’
‘Fine, let’s have a look if you’re going to be so stubborn about it.’ He shifted gears and slowly pulled the car in the drive and told Julia to stay whilst he looked for the owner.
‘Henry!’ She shouted out of the open window. ‘I'm going for a walk, just down the road, I don’t want to sit in here.’ She grabbed her purse, wrapped her coat around her and pulled her wool hat down, and watched as he waved her off. She knew he wouldn’t be very long, once he made up his mind about something, it stuck.
Her boots sounded crisp on the snowy gravel, the heel giving off a muffled crackle as she walked. She’d left her hair loose today, the curlers from last night creating thick waves that hugged her neck and shoulders and peeped out of her hat in small collections of grey and brown. The road was straight and plain, and the houses on either side were few and far between. The ones that were there, were simple family bungalows with unkempt gardens and broken fences out front. I would change that, she thought. No need for fences. Everything needs space, she mused. She passed someone walking their dog. She tried to glance through open windows as she progressed, tried to see what was happening behind the curtains, tried to hear voices. She wondered if she would walk this road often. She saw a rectangular brown and orange sign to her right: Gage Rd. Just as she started to turn back on her heel, she saw it directly across: Evergreen Cemetery. It was surrounded by a heavy, dark-grey steel fence: the kind of fencing that reminded her of Germany, during the war. It was imposing and formal, a strange contrast to the lushness and quiet within. It made her think of her parents, who were more than likely dead now. She looked up, the blue sky as crisp and cold as blue glass. She inhaled and closed her eyes. ‘Mama. Mama…’ She whispered, as her eyes filled with tears. ‘Where have I ended up? What am I meant to do now, so much has changed.’
As if answering, the car trundled up, crunching the road beside her. ‘Get in,’ Henry leaned over, opening her door. ‘We’re about to have a new little project.’
During next few days, as they came to look at the property and came up with a list of things that needed working on, Henry and Julia saw a For Sale sign on a little gravel road that led to nowhere, called Cooper Street. There was a house there that had come up for sale: it was positioned on the very end of that gravel road and sat atop a small hill by the entrance to a bramble-covered path and was a stone’s throw from the very center of town. It was as if someone had placed it, patted it down, and left it for them to discover.
It had white clapboard siding, a black roof, and five concrete steps that led up to the yellow door. It had a carpeted basement and an upper floor, three small bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a wide wooden porch that protruded in the back, over the half-acre garden that sloped down into an open field. The center of town had shop fronts and busy roads, and beaches that filled with children and families in the summer, but this small road afforded them a piece of the home that they had left behind so long ago. A footprint that stayed on the earth for a time. Julia fell in love with it as soon as she saw it. Henry felt deeply happy that the two of them could see themselves living there, and with the money they’d made on Treasure Cove, they could afford to buy the Birch Avenue property to rent out and buy this for themselves to live.
Over the rest of that year, half of their days were spent at the larger property to develop for rental: it was solid, built on a skeleton of hardy foundations, but there was a lot of work. There was paintwork to be done, the roofs needed completely new tiles, the bathrooms had accumulated a significant amount of mold in various corners and drains, and the drives needed paving. Towards the Spring, when the work was almost complete, Henry, Julia and Slava together sawed, shaped and painted a large wooden sign out of heavy timber, and carved the silhouette of a pine tree on the front, with heavy coats of dark green and brown letters underneath, spelling out SOSONKA. The day they staked it into the ground, Henry smiled as he looked up. ‘Our little ‘evergreen’. It fits.’
Half of their time, or Julia’s time, really, was spent at the house on Cooper Street. She spent hours elbow-deep in the garden, though it was comparatively small to the one from her childhood. It was potent however, regardless of size; the tinny taste of soil on her tongue as she breathed, the hydrangeas huddled in the corner of the fence, by the peonies, overpowering everything with perfume. The gooseberries and currants ran rampant along the near side, competing for space, their thorny branches daring anyone to pick them. Sweet red tomatoes clung to the vines in the middle, and there were yellow zucchini flowers and carrots peeking up on the left-hand side. The garden was at the bottom of a sloping green, the porch above it where she would sit in front of sliding glass doors that led into the living room and dining room.
She could walk nine paces in either direction to reach newly planted beds shaded by a pear tree, which was more than enough space for her to have a days’ worth of work at her feet. A pile of compost had been created in the far corner, and as she walked towards the end of the property, she could see through the metal fencing an open field and would lace her fingers through it, staring through the metal as she had done in Germany, to a world beyond her reach— this time, her gaze landed on small houses dotted just beyond, with gardens of their own, and a small school.
The inside of the house was warm and comfortable: the front room had pale green carpet and was surrounded by windows all the way around. The previous owners had left some furniture behind, which was useful, as they’d been spending money furnishing Sosonka. There was a long metal desk along the left wall, three drawers on each side with thin pull-handles. A rotary phone and a Yellow Pages sat on the surface. Above the desk were built-in shelves that had— even over such a short period of time—accumulated books that they’d brought with them from, and out of, various countri
es: Taras Shevchenko, Zakhar Berkut, Kobzar and Haidamaky, Unordnung und frühes Leid, The Magic Pudding, among others.
The inner rooms were dark, with dark tile and pale brown carpet: the kitchen to the left, overlooked the street, and the living area on the right, overlooked the garden below. There was a stone fireplace with framed pictures of family, a crucifix hanging above overlooking it all. The dining room was further on, an oval wooden table in the center surrounded by eight chairs. On the right of the table, up against the wall, was a collection of china that had been painted with poppies and vyshyvanka patterns. These had been a gift from Jeffy when Julia and Henry had moved out of New York, and they thought of him often. Down the hallway from the living area were four small bedrooms: two on the left overlooking the street, two on the right overlooking the garden, with a main bathroom at the end. Julia and Henry had decided to take the bedroom on the right, it had pale blue carpet, a dressing area and table with a mirror, and a sizeable closet. It also had a door that directly accessed the porch in back.
She walked in towards the living area and opened the door to the basement. There was a washing machine below, a wet bar and a storage room that led to the garage. It was more than enough space for them, but it was perfect for guests and family to come and stay. She walked downstairs, turning on the light. She immediately turned back and walked up, closing the door behind her. She didn’t understand basements. It was a waste, and it made her feel uncomfortable in some way.
The doorbell rang, voices called through the door before Julia even opened it. ‘Hey!! We’re tired! Open it!’ It was Slava and Henry.
Henry moved passed her once he could, smelling of sweat and paint. He dropped his various bags, brushes and paint-splattered bandana on the green carpet as Slava moved in behind him. ‘We’ve been at Birch all day. I need a drink, both of us do, and not that fizzy Cola nonsense.’
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