The Altar Girl: A Prequel
Page 23
I kept my voice low lest someone overhear talk of L-pills, stolen art, or murder. When I was done, I told him her motive for writing DP in my godfather’s calendar.
He sighed and shook his head. “At least she was right about one thing.”
My heart soared. “That we have to take care of each other?”
“No. The devil always takes back his gifts.”
After our food arrived, he asked if I was in any legal trouble for admitting to taking a gun from Donnie Angel’s man in the vineyard and walking around with it.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I found a lawyer just in case. I don’t have enough money for anyone high-powered. But I found a guy in New Jersey through a friend of mine who’s willing to work cheap. He’s licensed to practice in Connecticut, too. His name is Johnny Tanner.”
Marko raised his eyebrows. “He’s a lawyer and he calls himself Johnny? Not John?”
I shrugged. “He can call himself whatever he wants as long as he’s competent and cheap. Speaking of competent and cheap, I talked to Paul Obon on the phone today. I told him I want to look into our father’s past.” I recounted my mother’s surprising comment in the car that I shouldn’t do so. “He said he knows some guy who knew him in Ukraine. Some guy named Max Milan. Obon is going to set up a meeting. Any interest—”
Marko raised his hand to stop me. “No. You do what you need to do but count me out. I have no interest. None whatsoever.”
My eyes went to his mangled finger, as they always did. This time I didn’t stop myself. I allowed my gaze to linger on the twisted knuckle and misshapen digit. I remembered my father’s voice in the driveway the day he’d discovered Marko had used a typewriter to change an F into an A on his report card. My father opened the door to our Ford, pointed to the doorjamb and said:
“Put your fingers in there.”
I didn’t remember what happened next. In fact, I’m not even sure I was actually in the driveway. Marko or my mother may have told me the story years later about what happened to him. For whatever psychological reason, my brain had erased the memory. It had not, however, erased the image of a subsequent incident. My father had banished my brother for some other transgression and told him to walk laps around the neighborhood in the dark. When he rang the doorbell to return to the house, my father told me to open it and say:
“You’re not welcome in this house.”
Before I could shut the door in his face, per my father’s instructions, Marko put on a brave exterior for my benefit.
“It’s okay, Nancy Drew. It’s not your fault. Don’t you worry about it.”
We sat in the diner and ate the rest of our breakfast quietly. When we were finished, we ordered fresh cups of coffee and savored a silence only people with an indestructible bond can enjoy. The truth was we didn’t have many interests in common. There wasn’t much to discuss. Fortunately, we didn’t need to say a word to each other. We didn’t need to speak.
Except I did.
In the diner, I had told myself I didn’t want to ruin the moment. Nothing ruined the moment more than sentimentality, which we’d been raised to consider to be emotional self-indulgence. I told myself to wait until we were outside and ready to leave. That would have been a more appropriate time for me to say what I needed to say.
But after we paid the bill and walked to the parking lot, I began to fear I was lying to myself. Once again, I didn’t know if I could form the words. Maybe I wasn’t wired to speak them. Perhaps my brother wasn’t built to hear them.
Marko had parked his Harley near the entrance to the diner. We stopped beside it. He held his helmet in his hands. Originally gold, it was shot with scrapes and scratches, like a gladiator’s armor. Still functioning, though. Despite its obvious mileage, it was still battle-worthy.
As he fiddled with the padding inside, I felt opportunity slipping from my grasp. I pictured him prying jewels loose from my mother’s box, heard the thud of my hand against his head, remembered him tumbling to the floor like a drunken, helpless child. And then I saw Mrs. Chimchak sitting in her chair, heard the words of advice coming from her lips, saw the vial snap between her teeth, and watched life leave her body.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” I said.
Marko locked eyes on me. He didn’t change his expression or say a word. Instead, he kept his eyes on mine for a moment, and then nodded.
I headed for my car, my body so light I could have raced the Porsche to the next stoplight. I managed six steps before I heard his voice behind me.
“Hey little sister, what’s your name?”
I acknowledged his question with a quick turn and a smile. Three steps later he gave me the customary follow-up. He hadn’t spoken it for decades, but it sounded as though I’d heard it yesterday.
“What does it mean?”
This time I simply extended my arm over my head and waved. I didn’t turn around lest he see my face. Lest he spy the moisture in my eyes and I resembled a pathetic little girl, the kind of weakling I’d been before he’d made me strong, when I was a child and he was my hero.
As I fiddled with the door lock, he started his motorcycle, let it idle for a few seconds, and revved the engine to the red line twice, pausing for emphasis. Each roar felt like a kiss on the cheek.
I climbed in my car. Found some Kleenex in my purse and checked my face in the rearview mirror. Took a good look at myself.
Your name is Nadia.
My name is Nadia.
It means hope.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AN AUTHOR PRESENTATION at the Ukrainian Museum in New York on April 26, 2013 resulted in my meeting Professor Roman Voronka and Dr. George Saj. It was during a fabulous reception that these extraordinary men sparked my interest in Ukrainian Displaced Persons camps. Special thanks to Professor Voronka for sharing authentic historical details that significantly enhanced the manuscript. Mark Wyman’s excellent treatise, DPs: Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1945-1951, served as reference, as did the essays included in The Refugee Experience: Ukrainian Displaced Persons after World War II, published by the Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies Press at the University of Alberta. Thanks also to Mrs. Zirka Rudyk, former Ukrainian schoolteacher and friend, for reading the final draft and sharing her expertise on all matters Ukrainian.
Finally, I am indebted to Alison Dasho at Thomas & Mercer for championing Nadia Tesla’s cause.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2011 Robin Stelmach
BORN IN AMERICA to Ukrainian immigrants, Orest Stelmach spoke no English when he started his education. He went on to earn degrees from Dartmouth College and the University of Chicago. He has held a variety of jobs, including dishwasher, shelf stocker, English teacher in Japan, and international investment portfolio manager. The Altar Girl is his fourth novel in the Nadia Tesla series, following The Boy From Reactor 4, The Boy Who Stole From the Dead, and The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark. He resides in Simsbury, Connecticut.