The Language of Sisters

by Cathy Lamb

  The three of us sisters stood still, all of us panting with fear and fury, behind Gavriil and Bogdan. We had never seen them like that. With us, they were kind, protective, funny, always goofing off for the Kozlovskaya girls. This time, there was not an ounce of humor in them. I knew they would do what they said. Gavriil and Bogdan were capable of murder, even then, as young men.

  “Do you understand?” Gavriil said, his voice steady.

  The boys grunted through swollen lips. They sure understood. The Bessonovs yanked the boys up, shoved them, and the three hobbled off, two crying.

  I tried to pull Valeria’s dress together, my hands shaking. Her face was bleeding in two places, her hair a mess. Gavriil and Bogdan wrapped us up in their arms, and there we stood. Three crying girls, two boys who’d acted like men, in a dirty alley, in Moscow, the snow fluttering down.

  “You heard Valeria in your head,” Bogdan said to me.

  “Yes,” I said. I couldn’t help but enjoy Bogdan’s warmth.

  “And you, Elvira?” Gavriil said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Valeria told you where she was,” Bogdan said.

  “Yes,” Elvira whimpered.

  “We hear each other sometimes,” Valeria said.

  There was a silence.

  “Okay,” Gavriil said.

  “Strange,” Bogdan said, “but I like it.”

  “It’s like magic,” Gavriil said.

  “It came down the Sabonis line,” I said, “Like our genes, through our widow’s peaks.” I pointed to my widow’s peak.

  “Maybe there’s a witch in your past,” Bogdan said.

  “Oh! I like that idea,” I said.

  “Me too,” Bogdan said, smiling at me. I smiled back.

  They hugged us closer. I enjoyed that, too.

  * * *

  Valeria had not been raped, but it was quite clear that she would have been within seconds.

  Bogdan and Gavriil walked us home. My mother and my aunt Polina were there. They were out of their heads when they heard what happened. They cried, they shook, but they were strong women. Valeria was hugged and held. Bogdan and Gavriil were invited in and fussed over, hugged and held, too.

  My father and my uncles were called. Uncle Yuri and Uncle Sasho and my aunts and cousins would soon leave for America, but they were still in Moscow at that point. Uncle Leonid came, too.

  My father and my uncles, the former boxers, went to the boys’ homes. It was ugly, I heard about it later from the neighborhood kids.

  “They will not bother the girls again,” my father said when he came home that night.

  It was true.

  “It was the language of sisters, wasn’t it?” my mother asked.

  We nodded.

  “Are we from witches?” Elvira asked.

  My mother laughed.

  * * *

  I went with my mother and father, along with Valeria and Elvira the next night, to the Bessonovs, Bogdan and Gavriil’s parents’ home. Valeria’s face was bruised and cut, and she was pale, but she wanted to come.

  Stas Bessonov opened the door, Irina Bessonova behind him. She was a well-dressed and coiffed woman.

  My father took one look at Bogdan and Gavriil, who each had a bruise and a cut on their face from protecting Valeria, standing behind their parents, and he could not speak. My father is a courageous, resolute, well-tempered man. He was used to the deprivations and fear in the Soviet Union. But when it came to his daughters, that heart melted.

  My mother’s lips trembled, her hands shook. She whispered, “Your boys, Stas, Irina, how can we ever thank them? They saved our Valeria.”

  “They told us they were in a fight,” Irina Bessonova said. “That their friend was hurt.” She turned eyes of pride to her boys. “Our boys are protective of their friends. They get it from their father.”

  My sisters and I each held out a pillow that we had made for their family. Irina Bessonova, made such a fuss over our “perfect stitching,” our “exquisite embroidering.”

  “Please, come in,” Stas Bessonov said.

  “Oh no, we did not want to intrude!”

  “Please, you must,” Irina said.

  We ate dinner with the Bessonovs that night and had a wonderful time. Irina put our pillows on her couch. We were so proud.

  We were invited to eat beef with them—beef—spiced so well it melted in my little mouth, and Mr. Bessonov had “the best” vodka, according to my parents.

  “New friends,” my father said as we left.

  “Yes,” my mother agreed, her arm around Valeria, swaying a bit from the vodka. “And what is a little criminal activity between friends?”

  “Nothing.” My father waved his hand. “And Stas kills only the bad guys.”

  “Certainly,” my mother said. “Only the bad guys.”

  We were close friends with the Bessonovs from then on out, dinners at their house, and ours.

  I was so relieved. Now I could marry Bogdan!

  How were we to know how much that family would help us in the future?

  * * *

  It is not surprising that Valerie became a prosecuting attorney.

  She believes that abusive/murderous, etc., men and women should be locked up to protect society. She is particularly an avenging angel when a woman or child is hurt. She has been that child.

  She goes after them, in each case, as she did those boys who attacked her: with relentless ferocity and determination.

  But Valerie is not blind, either. Several times she believed the “criminal” was innocent, or the charges against him had been inflated. She searched for further evidence and let him go, or charged him with a lesser crime.

  There were other occasions where she believed that the police had stacked the deck against the defendant. She doesn’t tolerate that and raised hell when it happened. She was ruthless in getting three cops fired and an assistant police chief forced into retirement. She also was a driving force in getting two inept, racist prosecutors pushed out. Though she believes in the law, she is also not overly punitive, especially if it’s a young person who committed a nonviolent crime. She is fair.

  But if you have hurt or killed someone, especially a child, or if you are a serial criminal, you are toast. Valerie will slice, dice, and lock you up.

  Valeria Kozlovsky has never forgotten being that child, her dress ripped, up against a wall, in an alley, next to a bakery.

  * * *

  Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes

  BY TONI KOZLOVSKY

  This week I talked with Leah Dialoo about her 300-square-foot tiny house. Up on wheels, she pulls it with her 2000 blue Chevy truck. The roof is blue corrugated metal, the wood shingles give it a mini Craftsman style, the red front door is cheerful, and the many windows allow her to see all around.

  A loft upstairs is peaceful for sleeping, and a blue couch against a wall is all she needs to curl up on. The galley kitchen has granite countertops that swirl like art.

  White Christmas lights swoop through the rafters, two red tulip pendant lights illuminate the kitchen, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf is filled. Embroidered pillows from Mexico are scattered on her couch and chair.

  Small, yet stylish.

  Dialoo told me she has three pairs of jeans, four pairs of shoes, a handful of sweaters and sweatshirts, two coats, two pairs of shorts, about ten shirts, three pans, a strainer, and place settings for six. She has six coffee mugs and a tiny coffeemaker. She does have a scrapbook.

  She has minimized her life to only what she needs.

  But why a tiny house on wheels?

  “I’d had enough,” she told me.

  “Enough of what?”

  “Life. I was an investment banker in New York. I went to the right schools, had a bachelor’s and an MBA from Ivy League schools, and I started climbing the ladder in the investment banking world. Then I found out what was going on. I could no longer be a part of that corruption and dishonesty, and the criminal manipulatio
n of the markets, which led to real people losing their homes and jobs and almost sent this country into a depression.

  “I worked with people who should have been jailed for what they did, and instead they danced off to their country homes.

  “I paid off my parents’ house, as they are taking care of my brother who has Down syndrome. I dumped money into an account to pay for his future care so that we would never have to worry. Then I took off for the first time in my life to find myself. I’d lost myself and I was deeply depressed.

  “I gave away and sold almost everything I had and bought the truck and my house on wheels. Now and then I’ll stop for a few weeks, often to volunteer.

  “It is a tight space, but I’m outside all the time. I hike. I talk to people. I listen to the wind. I watch wildlife. I’ve seen deer, elk, coyote, a cougar once, bears. I canoe. I swim. I found I like painting flowers. Who would have guessed in my race toward the top that I would like painting?”

  I asked her what she’d learned.

  “That I need relationships. I need to help others. I need experiences.”

  My interview with Dialoo made me stop and think about stuff. All of our stuff. Our junk. Things clogging the attic and the basement and our drawers and closets. Some people even rent storage space for all their stuff—for years. It’s economically totally impractical, but they do it.

  I went home to my tugboat after I talked to Dialoo and cleaned. I threw out clothes I don’t like and items that will never fit right, things I don’t need. I took three bags to Goodwill, I hauled out boxes of paperwork to shred, and bags of trash, mostly from my refrigerator and pantry, which really should have been cleaned a long time ago.

  It was hard. There were things in my home that brought pain to me, brought back memories, made me think of people who are no longer here.

  After I threw out the “stuff,” I cleaned.

  When I was done, I felt lighter. My mind felt lighter. My tugboat felt lighter. My spirit was lighter, despite a few tears. Home should be relaxing, it should not be a place where we’re crammed, we’re squished, we’re disorganized.

  I doubt I’ll ever go and live in a tiny home on wheels.

  It’s odd enough, to some people, that I live on a tugboat on the river.

  But what I do want is an uncluttered life, like Dialoo’s.

  I want less.

  I want organized.

  I want efficient.

  I want clean.

  And I want only what I need.

  The photographer had taken super photos of Leah and her tiny house on wheels. One was of the whole home, flowerpots on the porch. Others were of her loft with her fluffy comforters, her kitchen, her living space, and her flower paintings. The last photo was a picture of Leah sitting outside reading in front of her tiny home and old blue truck, a lantern nearby, the sunset spreading behind her, on fire with cotton candy pinks, tomato reds, and swirling purples.

  Ricki came by the morning after she saw the photos. “Leah made me want to chuck everything and buy a small house and drive it from Alaska to Florida, like her.”

  “You couldn’t,” I told her.

  “Why? I could be outdoorsy. Fish. Hunt. I could learn how to use a lantern. I could learn how to be quiet in nature.”

  “There would be no room for your shoes.”

  Ricki grimaced. “Now that would be a problem. Megaprob-lem. Insurmountable problem.” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe I could have the tiny house, and pull it with my new bright red truck, and inside the truck I could have boxes and boxes of my shoes.”

  “I don’t think that’s the point of tiny-house-on-wheels living.” I mused. “And what about your handbags?”

  She puzzled that one out. She snapped her fingers again. “That guy I’m dating. He could follow me in another truck, and that truck could hold the handbags and clothes.”

  “I think you’re set then, Ricki.”

  “Me too. I like being a cougar.”

  “You’re not a cougar. Men aren’t called cougars for going after younger women, so why do you have to have an animalistic label because your boyfriend is younger?”

  “True. But we call men who go after much younger women lechers. Or midlife crisis creeps. Or dirty old men. Or pathetic. Or victims of young women who want them only for their money. Personally, I’d rather be called a cougar than that. Cougars are sleek, dangerous, smart. Me.”

  “You have me there. I’d take the cougar title over midlife crisis creep any day.”

  “He is chocolate chip cookie batter to me, though.” She turned. “Want to get a drink after work?”

  “You betcha.”

  14

  The whole Kozlovsky family went to the opening night of Anya’s play. It was titled The Many Splendored Lives of Marie Bennett. Anya was Marie. She was absolutely brilliant. Hilarious, serious, honest, raw, demanding, charismatic, flawed, lovable.

  Long, long standing ovation.

  No one would ever guess that the night before, gorgeous Anya had called me because she was worried she had “contracted a rare disease. I can tell by the slight pimples on my left arm ...”

  The critics adored it, the show sold out, they added three more weeks.

  * * *

  “I saw your Peace Out and Head Out blog, Dmitry.” It was midnight. I was in the wheelhouse, wrapped in my white fluffy robe. I’d eaten apples dipped in melted chocolate for dinner in my bathtub. I washed it down with a blend of carrot and orange juice. Sometimes I try to be healthy.

  “Hey, thanks for reading it. That blog is getting a lot of comments.”

  “Let’s see,” I said, reading his blog out loud. “ ‘Twelve Ways to Peace Out,’ by Dmitry Kozlovsky. One, dude, get rid of the people in your life who are mean or sink your spirit or crush your courage. Two, let go of the crap people have done to you that hurts you. Three, go see a shrink. I’ve been to two women shrinks and they helped me sort through a lot of messed-up stuff.

  “ ‘Four, get outside, camp by a river, fish. Five, have some wine at the beach and sit and be with those waves. Just be. Six, learn how to cook. Nourish the body, man, and you’ll nourish the soul. Seven, volunteer. You need to share your generosity with other people. Eight, get a dog from the pound or a cat. Or both. They’ll learn to like each other. Probably. Nine, listen to music, all types, and think about life while you’re listening. Ten, read a bunch of books. Eleven, hang with people who reach your soul. Twelve, make someone’s day better every day.’

  “I like the ending.” I read it aloud. “ ‘I don’t want anyone thinking the way to peace is easy. I’m not even on that road today. Peace seems like it’s somewhere off in the distance, beyond a desert, over a mountain range, through a thunderstorm, so don’t think I’ve got it all together, man, I don’t.

  “ ‘Be truthful about your life to other people so we all don’t get the impression that everyone’s happy except us. Here’s the truth of my life: Some days are better than others for me. I’m trying to work things out that happened when I was a kid in Russia that I don’t understand. The past keeps snatching me back. I have problems. I have memories and flashbacks and nightmares that I don’t understand that are all jumbled together. I get angry sometimes, and it’s like, man, Dmitry, cool off. What are you so angry for? And I’ve got a problem I’m trying to solve right now that is not going away, it’s only getting worse.

  “ ‘I move from place to place and camp and couch surf and wander the world. I can’t settle down, I can’t be in one place for long, I can’t commit to a woman because I’m not whole enough to be someone else’s “whole,” do you know what I mean? So, I’ve got my own stuff to deal with and have to follow my own advice. But if my advice helps anyone else, I’m glad of it. Peace everybody. Peace.’ ”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Dmitry, that’s an honest blog. I like it.”

  “Thanks, Toni.” We chatted about the usual things, mostly about our crazy family, then I asked how he was sleeping.

  “Bet
ter the last few nights. I don’t know why. It comes and goes. But it was strange the other night, too. Right before I went to sleep, I saw a necklace, a gold locket. It was a heart and I saw two pictures in it, but I couldn’t see their faces.”

  “A locket?”

  “Yes. It was old. It was engraved with flowers, I think. It was on a white tablecloth.”

  “And you’ve never see it before?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t, either.”

  “One more object in my head. I don’t know if it’s me losing my mind or if there’s truth behind the object.”

  “I think there’s truth behind the object.”

  “You’ve said that before, Toni, and I appreciate it. It makes me feel better. As if the things I’m seeing are truth, not the figments of a brain that is cracking or I’ve got some crazy neurological disease.”

  “I think everything you’re seeing is in your past.” You are not losing your mind, Dmitry, but that I have kept a secret that could have helped you to understand your past, without you thinking you were cracking up, makes me a terrible sister. Terrible.

  “I think they are, too. I don’t know, however, if I’ll ever be able to put them altogether.”

  “I don’t know, either.” That would depend on two people and what they knew and didn’t know and what they were willing to share.

  Never tell, Antonia, never, ever tell.

  * * *

  All the Kozlovskys were at my uncle Yuri’s and aunt Polina’s to celebrate their anniversary. It was at their home, about a half mile from ours, brick, stone, traditional colonial style, built about forty years ago. The event was catered, and we were having French food, French wine, and Russian-made vodka. “For the fancy,” my aunt Polina told me. Aunt Polina had done the flowers, of course, from her shop.

  My father gave a long, long prayer before we ate to “bless this marriage, and all other marriages and the children and grandchildren, protect us, we Kozlovskys. Thank you Lord for ...” and he went on and on.