“Ew. What is it?” Callisto asked.
“Russian delicacies!” Yrena proclaimed. “Caviar. Blintzes. So delicious.”
“Caviar—fish eggs,” Caleb said. “Yum.”
But I could tell that he meant Yuck.
“You’ve never had caviar before, Caleb!” Caitlin said.
“Sure I have. Well, not this kind, but the orange kind.”
“Mmm. It’s good,” Callisto said.
“Salty,” Maurice said.
“Fish eggs,” Caitlin said.
“Delicious,” I said.
Caleb tried some with a pinched nose, but then he went back for more.
“There is a part of me that wants to stay here in this big city,” Yrena said as we all dug in and stuffed our faces. “Is it bad for me to say that there is a part of me that does not want to go home?”
“Do you want to defect?” Caleb whispered.
Yrena shook her head. “No. But I also want to know this place. I want to know you. I want to be able to be myself.”
“I don’t know how a person does that,” I said.
“Now, knowing you, there is a part of me that sees a different path. A different way that I could be if I were American.” Yrena sighed and lifted the coffee cup to her mouth.
“Maybe things will change one day?” I said.
She shook her head.
But, I realized, that was what I wanted.
Change.
The waiter cleared our plates and dropped something on the table.
My heart sank because I thought it was a bill. But then I noticed that it was a piece of paper.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The price for the meal,” Yrena said. “I am going to visit and bring news to his grandmother in Moscow. That’s her address.”
She slipped the piece of paper into her shoe.
“For safekeeping,” she said.
Staten Island Ferry
After window-shopping on Fifth Avenue, running on the steps at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, looking at Rockefeller Center, and jetting over to Times Square, we hopped on the train and got ourselves to the Whitehall Street/South Ferry station to catch the Staten Island Ferry.
I felt giddy. We all did.
We had to move to make the ferry. We didn’t want to wait for the next one. We ran. All of us. Running and leaping. Leaping and running. We laughed as we jumped onto the deck just as the man was about to put the chain up.
It was after two A.M. and New York City was moving away from us at a slow pace. The city shone. It glowed. It winked at us. We were standing at the back of the Staten Island Ferry so we could best see everything.
We didn’t have to say anything to each other, and I liked that.
“It’s cold,” I said. “It’ll be winter soon.”
“You do not know what winter is,” Yrena said. “Your winters here are not cold.”
“They feel cold to me,” I said.
She was the only one of us who didn’t look like she could use an extra sweater.
Maurice and Callisto left together to get us all some hot chocolate from the concession stand.
Yrena, Caitlin, Caleb, and I stood side by side at the railing and stared at the city as it drifted away from us.
“I bet you don’t have cities like this in the Soviet Union,” Caleb said to Yrena.
“There are cities in Russia that are prettier than New York,” Yrena replied.
Caleb shook his head. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” Yrena said matter-of-factly.
“No way!” Caleb said. “I mean, look at that!”
Caleb began to point out everything there was to see on the boat ride. He indicated what was obvious to anyone with half a brain, that New York City was, in fact, the best city in the world. He made motioning movements to lower Manhattan. Governor’s Island. The Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island.
“It is very beautiful, but it is not for me,” Yrena said. Still, I noticed that her eyes followed Caleb’s every swoosh. Her face took in every new view.
“Let me ask you something,” Caleb said. “Do you think your country is better than ours?”
“It is,” Yrena said.
“How can you say that your way is better when you can’t even leave the Bronx without sneaking out of it?” Caleb said. “I can do anything I want. I can go anywhere I want. I can say anything I want.”
“Your department stores. Your supermarkets and delis. Your blue jeans,” Yrena was mumbling to me.
“Yrena, you’re wearing blue jeans!” I pointed out.
“Here is how we are different. Russians feel things. Russians feel the weight of history. Americans are all surface and plastic,” Yrena said.
“I feel things,” I said.
“Me, too,” Caitlin said.
“Not like we do,” Yrena said.
“You can’t see into my heart,” Caleb said.
Caleb was looking at me with an intensity that made me buzz. He was wired up, and that thing I felt growing between us just kept buzzing louder. I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to just take it and hold it and tell him that I loved the way he argued.
Instead, I looked away from him. I looked over at New Jersey while they continued to bicker. There were ships tugging along, too, container ships, moving toward the docks.
Maurice and Callisto rejoined us and distributed the hot chocolate. Maurice was being all upbeat and I noticed that he was also standing really close to Callisto. They were laughing and poking each other and it was obvious that somewhere between the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Staten Island Ferry they had become a couple. They were so into their little world of getting to know each other that they were oblivious to the extra chill in the air from the silence that has settled onto me, Caitlin, Caleb, and Yrena.
“Oh, look at that,” Maurice said, pointing out the Statue of Liberty.
Lady Liberty was a beautiful old thing. She stood there, metal torch all lit up and raised high, all green and lovely.
“Yrena,” I said. “We can at least agree that that is just beautiful!”
“‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’” Caleb quoted.
There was something about the way that he closed his eyes as he said it. The way that his hand moved a bit in a wave, as though the words were a kind of music that he was singing. Caleb knew how to say something and make it seem majestic.
“‘The wretched refuse’?” Yrena said. “Isn’t ‘refuse’ garbage?”
“You are crazy!” Caleb said.
“That you take in the garbage from the world?” Yrena said, laughing.
“That’s not what they mean, Yrena. Not actual garbage,” I said.
“Yeah, what she said. Not actual garbage, Yrena. It’s not like that,” Caleb said. “It means that we are a refuge for all those who are oppressed. Like, we’re good. We’re a haven.”
Yrena turned her head toward him and I saw her face soften from the hard lines that had been there since the conversation started.
“What do they call it? The American Dream? It seems as though America is the dream because America is dreaming. Not awake,” Yrena said. “That is what my parents say.”
“Wait. Maybe Yrena is right. Maybe we are the garbage collectors of the world,” Caitlin said.
“You mean, maybe we are the wretched refuse?” Callisto asked.
“Well, you know what they say,” Caleb said. “Beautiful gardens grow out of crap.”
“And one man’s garbage is another man’s treasure,” I said.
I thought about America and garbage. I stared out at the black inkiness of the Hudson River. My treasure. My garbage.
Why do we have to belong to any country at all? I wanted to stay on the ferry, floating on the water, neither here nor there. I didn’t want to be part of the politics. I just
wanted to be friends with whomever I wanted to be friends with. And everyone I wanted to be friends with was right here on the boat.
All Night Jam
The Mazzerettis’ house was not too far from the ferry dock.
Their living room was filled with instruments. There were guitars everywhere on stands. A piano in the corner. Violin cases and flute cases and trumpet cases. A snare drum. Some bongos. There was hardly room for the television, the couch, and the La-Z-Boy.
As soon as we got inside, Caleb, Caitlin, and Callisto headed straight for the instruments.
“Start in C,” Callisto said once her violin was at the ready. Caitlin was at the piano and Caleb was on the acoustic guitar.
Yrena, Maurice, and I sat down on the couch. They weren’t putting on a show. It was more like a nighttime ritual, like warm milk or hot Sleepytime Tea. The Mazzerettis played music to unwind from a long day.
First they jammed. Then they started playing standards and singing together, with Caitlin taking the lead vocals and Caleb and Callisto throwing in an occasional harmony.
“Switch,” Caitlin said to Caleb, reaching for the guitar.
“No, I want to play guitar,” he protested.
“Don’t be such a greedy guts,” Callisto snapped back.
“Fine.” He sat down at the piano, and Caitlin picked up the acoustic guitar and started strumming. “But let’s play something that our guests can sing, too.”
“Oh, I can’t sing,” I said.
“Anyone can sing,” Callisto said.
We agreed on “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Maurice and I joined in, but Yrena was silent. She didn’t know the words. When the song was done and we were trying to figure out another song to play, Yrena began to sing a Russian song a cappella. We sat there, transfixed—her voice was shaky, but that made it even more moving.
“Spi, mladenec moj prekrasnyj…”
The triplets listened and then figured out how to play some notes along with her. When she was done, she translated:
“Sleep, my lovely baby, sleep.
The clear moon quietly watches over you.
I will tell you fairy tales
And I will sing you songs.
Close your eyes and drift to sleep.
Sleep, my lovely baby, sleep.”
We were there and we were safe and we were happy and we were singing. Everything in that room seemed right. As though the very molecules in the air had lined up correctly.
“Time for sleep,” Callisto said as she put away her violin. Then she went over to Maurice and led him down the hall into her bedroom.
The rest of us looked at each other, not knowing what we should do.
“We three girls can bunk down in my parents’ room,” Caitlin said. “We can’t go into my bedroom—it looks like it’s now a love nest.”
“Mom and Dad’s room is the one room we can’t make a mess of,” Caleb said. “So I’m not sure it’s the best place for a sleepover.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do?” Caitlin asked.
I didn’t care how they figured it out. I was still on the couch, so I lay down and I pulled the quilt that covered the back of it over me.
“I’m fine here,” I said, closing my eyes.
As I drifted off, I heard Caitlin and Caleb arguing about who was going to sleep where. I didn’t hear what was decided until a bit later when the couch moved and a hand slid under the small of my back.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you or anything,” Caleb was whispering.
“You are touching me,” I said.
His hand was actually now on my butt. I knew he didn’t mean it in a coming-on-to-me way, but it was still weird.
He looked embarrassed. Like he knew that he was touching my butt and there was not too much he could do about it.
“You’re just sleeping on the guitar strap,” he said. “And I kind of want to play some more.”
I lifted my back up and he pulled his guitar and strap away.
“Where are Yrena and Caitlin?” I asked. I was sort of asleep and sort of awake.
“They’re sleeping in my room, on my bed.” His fingers pressed on the strings, which made a muted sound.
“In the same bed?” I asked. “I feel bad. Should I offer to switch?”
“I think they became instant friends.”
“She’s cool like that, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, if they can do it, then maybe there’s hope for the world after all,” he said with a smile. He was really cute when he smiled.
He sat down on the La-Z-Boy chair, released the handle, and lay back. His guitar was on his chest and he held it as though it were a lady. He flicked off the lamp next to him and turned on the TV, which was broadcasting snow.
“Do you mind if I leave the TV on?” he asked. “I like waking up to morning cartoons.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I like to watch Super Friends on Saturday mornings.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s your favorite superhero?” he asked.
“Well, on Super Friends, obviously it’s Wonder Woman.”
“The girl.”
“She’s called Wonder Woman.”
“I like Aquaman,” he said. “He can talk to fish and stuff.”
“I wish I could talk to fish,” I said. I was drifting off. I was dreaming. Then there was nothing, until someone was shaking me awake.
“Hey,” Caleb said as he was leaning over me. “Yrena’s on TV.”
“What? No,” I said. I was wide awake now because I heard the anchorperson say Yrena’s name.
“…Yrena Yusim, a Soviet teenager, has been missing from her Riverdale apartment since last night. The Soviet government is asking for help in bringing her back home. So far there is no evidence that this is a defection or a kidnapping, but authorities are not ruling out that possibility. The girl is scheduled to return to Russia next week.”
“Oh my God,” I said. I sat up. I stood up. I sat back down. I put my hands over my face.
“Hey, you’re not going to cry, are you?” Caleb asked. I could sense him backing away a little bit because I was now the girl who was in his living room crying. It was like I had the plague or something.
“What am I going to do?”
“I dunno,” Caleb said. “Go home now?”
“Maybe I should call my brother again,” I said. “See if he knows what’s going on.”
“Sounds good to me.” Caleb pointed me to the phone.
My fingers were shaking. They felt like they would get stuck in the rotary phone holes as I dialed.
I knew it was early. 7:15, according to the wall clock.
“You’ve reached Todd. Rhymes with Zod. Land of Nod. And alien pod. Leave your transmission at the tone. May the Force be with you.”
“Todd. Are you there? Pick up.”
I sat on the telephone stool and leaned my head against the glass of the door.
“Todd. It’s Ro—”
The phone clicked as he picked up.
“Yo,” Todd said. He had that groggy I-want-to-sleep-all-day tone. I couldn’t tell whether it was because of Dungeons and Dragons or what was going on with Yrena.
Silence.
Then the phone clicked again.
“Did you hear that?” Todd asked.
“Do you hear me?” I asked back.
“Yeah. Yeah. Uh. Everyone is freaking out about that movie. Man, I am going to go see it again today for sure.”
“What?” I asked. Why was he so weird? I didn’t have time for his games. I opened my mouth to start reaming him out but he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.
“Uh, yeah, Danielle, I’m so happy you called me, and we’re totally on. Hey, I was thinking of seeing E.T. again for sure.”
“What? Todd?”
“I sure do like Steven Spielberg. I’d like to bring him roses. Hey, that’s my sister’s name, Danielle, Rose.”
Then he hung up on me.
>
I started to tremble because I realized that it must be really bad over at the house. People must really be listening in to the telephone calls. Oh my God. My phone was being tapped. Or someone was in the room with him.
“What happened?” Caleb asked.
“My brother is freaking out. I think it must be bad over at the house.”
“Bad like how?” Caleb asked.
“I don’t know! KGB! CIA!”
“Okay, don’t freak out on me. ’Cause if you freak out then I don’t want to help you.”
“Right.” I took a breath.
“What did your brother say?”
“He talked about E.T.”
“Good movie.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Let’s just not tell Yrena that she’s a top story on the news. We’ll just go to the march for a little while, and meanwhile I’ll figure out how to get us home.”
“You’re a little radical, aren’t you?” Caleb said. “Who knew?”
I shrugged. Maybe that was what I was now. A radical. I let that sit on me like a 1920s flapper’s skullcap. It was snug and it fit okay for that moment. I was feeling pretty radical.
We woke the others up and we all ate cereal together.
Caleb kept quiet about the news, but I noticed that he kept glancing at me and giving me a look. I didn’t know what the look meant. Was he giving me the eye? Did he want to say something to me? Was it a signal?
I’d have to get him alone and ask him. In the meantime, I made my face unreadable.
We returned to the Staten Island Ferry—this time in daylight—and headed back to the city. And as the skyline got larger, it looked gray and menacing, not as magical as it had under the cover of the dark night.
I had no idea what was waiting for us there.
The March
The sound was like a roar in the air when we emerged from underground.
“What is that noise?” I asked.
“It’s the march!” Callisto said.
There were thousands of people all walking in the same direction, streaming up the streets. They were everywhere. Their voices singing, talking, humming, praying, their hearts beating, their feet walking, all together made the air buzz. And, amazingly, all of them had come together for one purpose: peace.
Rose Sees Red Page 12