Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “He planned it. The entire camping trip, the meeting with Marc, the volleyball game. If I hadn’t nearly perished, I would have thought he’d planned the jellyfish, too.” I’m at Gorky Park, standing in line for popcorn, watching some lovebirds on the lake in the center of the park in a paddleboat. Chase and I used to paddle this lake.

  The thing about paddleboats is that the paddlers have to have rhythm and a commitment to work together. Today, Chase and I would probably sink the boat.

  “He wanted me to meet Marc, knowing I’d be swayed by the whole ignored indigenous people line.”

  “You were, weren’t you?” This from Daphne, my very pregnant friend, wife of my pal Caleb and fellow orphanage fund-raiser. She has a cute butterball tummy even at seven months, which she hides under a large long-sleeve Gap shirt and a pair of Caleb’s baggy pants. I keep pressing her to travel stateside for the birth, to which she replies, “If you can do it, I can do it.”

  Yeah, well, if I’d had a choice, I would have had soft lights, soothing music and the E-word. Epidural. But one doesn’t get to choose when trapped in Russia, not knowing they’re expecting twins, who decide to be born early.

  But I don’t want to scare the girl.

  Daphne, better than anyone, knows how my heartstrings are strummed by the weak and helpless, how Chase played me.

  I purse my lips. “Yeah, okay, Marc did wage a convincing argument. Small community on the edge of nowhere, going under economically, trying desperately to hold on to their culture, their way of life. And apparently the research he wants Chase to do might help them figure out ways to thrive.”

  The cause calls to the hidden Mother Teresa inside me, the one who keeps trying to find a foothold in this country. But what about Gull Lake? And the dog we don’t have, Shep?

  “The way Marc put it, it felt like Chase was practically daring me to go to Siberia.”

  “And we all know how you do with dares.”

  Okay, yes, I do respond to the whole “wimp” taunt. Once, when Chase and I were eight, he double-dog-dared me to touch my tongue to the icy playground slide.

  That’s a memory I don’t want to dredge up.

  The short of it is, I’m not good at backing down from a dare. And Chase knows it all too well.

  I can’t help but be proud of the fact that Chase married me for my ability to keep up and even sometimes forge ahead of his challenges. But it bugs me more than a little that he used it against me, the sneak.

  “Mommy—me, corn!” Chloe is jumping up and down beside me, clapping her hands. Maggie’s little boy, Steven, about four months younger than my twins, is pulling on his mother’s arm, his eyes wide as he gazes at the inflatable cage filled with balls. Justin is driving the Hotwheel car he got for his birthday along the metal railings that edge the pathways of the park. When we’re out in public, my eyes are ever riveted to the twins. Russia is riddled with safety hazards—from open manholes to wild drivers. And when I say wild, I mean the kind that drive on sidewalks. Lest you think I jest, let me just say that winter is Chase’s favorite season because there are no lines in the road and no sidewalk curbs, thanks to the snow. Hence, he drives anywhere his black Moscovitz decides to go. No-Rules Chase. All I can say is that the government didn’t ask me before they gave him his driver’s license; I would have told them he had an aversion to driving—or living, for that matter—inside the lines.

  A guy who lived by the rules would see how out of the question it is to ask his wife to move a billion miles to the east into snow and ice.

  Sure, Minnesota has plenty of snow and ice. But we also have SUVs and lots of goose down. And snowmobiles. Betcha there aren’t any snowmobiles in Siberia.

  “Does that mean he’s not going to take over the chicken project?” Maggie asks, giving in to Steven. Maggie’s husband, Dalton, is the head of Chase’s NGO. And Chase’s soon-to-be-former boss.

  I give Maggie a wry smile. “I was really hoping we’d be heading back to Gull Lake. I wanted to live in a real house and give my children the life I had growing up.”

  I hand Chloe the bag of popcorn, steering her to a bench, while Maggie pays the trampoline vendor and Steven pries off his shoes. He’s got the cutest head of black curls and dark eyes just like his father.

  Justin spies him and comes running to me. “Me, too! Me, too!”

  “Stay here,” I command Chloe. She grins at me, mischief in her eyes. Clearly she’s inherited that dare-me mentality. Where is the duct tape when I need it? I glance at Daphne. “Can you watch her?”

  Daphne reaches for Chloe’s hand. Chloe yanks it away and glares at her. That’s my girl—don’t let anyone hold you back.

  I take Justin’s hand, which he surrenders easily, and we join the line for the trampoline.

  “Tired of living overseas?” Maggie asks. Technically, she’s lived in Moscow longer than I have, although I’ve accumulated an impressive five years of Russia time. (Which should equal about twelve years in any other European country.) Before marrying Dalton, Maggie worked for the State Department.

  I pay the vendor and help Justin off with his shoes. “It’s not so much overseas as Moscow. The novelty of subway surfing has worn off, and I’d give my left foot for a backyard for the kids.” Helping Justin through the trampoline door, I turn back.

  Chloe is just disappearing down the path, Daphne waddling after her.

  I take off at a run. “Chloe! Stop!”

  She looks back at me. And, like the rascal she is, pumps it up to a full-out sprint.

  Oh, I love motherhood.

  I pass Daph, who’s bending over, gripping her knees (which she can still see), breathing hard. For Pete’s sake, I hiked all over Moscow while roughly twice the size of Daphne.

  But it’s not her fault I gave birth to Houdini, Master of the Vanishing Act. Already, Chloe’s been lost twice in Gorky Park. One time involved the local police and forty very long, stomach-churning minutes.

  I catch up with her and scoop her up. “Chloe, you have to listen to Mommy! It’s not safe.”

  That’s an understatement. It’s not just the hazardous manholes, it’s the fact that with her blond pigtails and American attire (that is, no snowsuit in the middle of summer), Chloe may as well be wearing a Kidnap Me sign.

  I rejoin Maggie, who’s watching the boys.

  “Speedy Gonzales get away again?”

  I plop Chloe onto the bench. “More than anything, I long for safety, and, perhaps, quiet.”

  “Siberia sounds quiet. All that snow sort of muffles everything.”

  Oh, hardy-har-har. “What’s wrong with doing it my way, just for once? Can’t we just go home and live a calm, predictable life?”

  But even as I say it, I know the answer. Living a normal life would require living with a calm, predictable man. And, much of what I love about Chase is his wild, adventurous side.

  Maggie lifts a shoulder. “Here’s my question—is your way the best way? What’s best for you and Chase?”

  Daphne rejoins us, easing herself onto the bench. A sweat has broken out on her forehead where she’s pulled back her brown hair into two pigtails. She looks about sixteen, not at all like the twenty-six-year-old nurse she is. “Maybe it’s just a matter of submitting to your husband.”

  Maggie’s head swivels in Daph’s direction. Everything inside me goes still.

  “Did you say ‘submit’?”

  I raise an eyebrow. It’s not a secret that Maggie and Daphne hold vastly different views on the role of wives, but I’m usually able to divert us around any philosophical land mines.

  “Yes, submit. Wives submit to their hus—”

  “Daph—”

  But I’m too late. Maggie has fire in her eyes.

  “I can’t believe that in this day and age, you still think that. There goes sixty years of progress.”

  “Don’t you believe in submission?” Daphne asks, ignoring my efforts to wave her off. What, do I need semaphores? It doesn’t take a PhD to figure out that a
woman who ran her own department in Moscow and speaks four languages isn’t about to submit to anyone. And on the other side, it doesn’t take a Strong’s Concordance to figure out that a newly married missionary who loves Russia is sure she has this submission thing down pat.

  “I believe in respect,” Maggie says, and the air turns icy despite the warm September breeze. I know that Maggie, if she had ever been on Chase’s side, would now go to the mattresses for my right to return to Gull Lake.

  Daphne shoots me a help-me look, but I’m useless. Because even though she and I are Christians, I’m not sure I’m not on Maggie’s side.

  After all, a girl should be able to have some say where she lives, right? And how?

  “Someone has to give in,” Daphne says finally. “Obviously Chase and Josey are on different pages here. And if they want a happy ending to their fairy tale, someone has to make the sacrifice.”

  I’m narrowing my eyes at her. Hello? If it’s a contest, I know who’s been making all the sacrifices. Ever try grocery shopping in Russia? Where you have to hit eight different stores because no one store has everything? Where you then have to lug two fifty-pound bags home on the subway and up nine flights of stairs because the elevator is out? Now try it with two three-year-olds. Then come talk to me about sacrifice.

  But it’s more than that. It’s that I deserve to go home. I’ve been an uncomplaining trouper of a wife. I’ve lived with the constant fickleness of heat and electricity, shopped with infants strapped to my front and back. Eaten carp.

  I even went camping.

  “Listen, Chase has a perfectly good job waiting for him back in Gull Lake.”

  “Teaching?” Daphne is squirming, trying to get comfortable on the bench.

  “Uh, no. Helping my dad at Berglund Acres. Dad’s getting old and needs the help.”

  “So Chase is going to run the resort?” Maggie asks.

  “Um, well, I mean, Jasmine and Milton are there, and they run the restaurant and the books…”

  “So Chase would…?” Daphne finally stands up, folding her hands over her belly.

  “Uh…” What would Chase do? Mow lawns? Plunge toilets? “I’m not moving to Siberia. That’s just too much to ask of any woman.”

  Maggie nods. Daphne raises an eyebrow.

  “Siberia, ladies! Where the snow comes sweeping down the plain. They subsist on stewed caribou and live in igloos—”

  “I don’t think they live in ig—” Daphne starts.

  “I’m going home to Gull Lake. Period. End of sentence, end of paragraph, end of book.”

  “Mommy, I’m all done!” Justin is leaning against the edge of the net. Steven is already climbing out on his own.

  Maggie gets up to retrieve her son. “You stick to your guns, honey.”

  Daphne rubs her hand over her stomach. “I’ll make you a scarf.”

  : Siberia? Did you say Siberia? Isn’t that where they sent people to the Gulag?

  H, my Minnesota high-school friend from Gull Lake is online just when I need her and ready with the appropriate words of horror. Born with the name Heather, she has assumed so many identities over the years—from artist to punk rocker, only her IM identity remains of that earliest incarnation. H might not be a Christian, but she knows me—too well, probably, but enough to hold my hand and offer the appropriate advice to my current Chase meltdown

  : Yes! See, H? I’m not overreacting. And worse, Chase is all, “Whatever you want to do, Josey, we’ll do. No pressure.” Yeah, right, like he won’t blame me for his horrible life when he’s plunging toilets and cleaning litter off the beach in Gull Lake.

  < Wildflower >: Yeah, but Siberia. I mean, if you want to stay in Russia, why don’t you stick around Moscow? At least you’re assured a supply of bagels.

  : I DON’T WANT TO STAY IN RUSSIA!

  : Calm down. I’m just saying, if you’re worried about Chase, maybe there are other options that won’t give you frostbite.

  : He got a packet of literature from Voices International. Spent the night reading it. Got out his Nepalese book. You know the one.

  : Listen. Just tell him you’re ready for a real life. For fast food. TiVo. Running hot water year round.

  : I’m just ready to be safe.

  : Then don’t come back to Gull Lake. Because just last week, Bruce Minson busted a meth operation just outside town. And someone ran their truck into the convenience store and took out the front window and the entire DVD rental section.

  : Yeah, but no one is going to kidnap Justin off Main Street. And Chloe’s not going to fall through a manhole and end up at the bottom of the sewer system.

  : No, but she could wade into Gull Lake.

  : What’s your problem? I thought you were on my side.

  : I’m just saying, if you’re looking for safety, I think you’ll have to invest in a bubble home. Or a couple of leashes.

  : Where are you right now?

  : In Hutchison. We have a gig tonight.

  How is your new album selling?

  : I just took on an extra shift at the Wolf. And Rex is working full-time at the paper. We’re rolling in cash. Oh, and don’t worry—Mildred still says no one can write the police report like you.

  : My calling in life. *Sigh* I’ll never write again.

  : What are you doing right now? I’m confused, because wasn’t that you who wrote the fund-raising newsletter for your orphanage program the past three years?

  : I just thought by now I’d be back in my groove, maybe be editor of the Gazette.

  : So your fear of Siberia is a result of your desire for Mildred’s orange chair and view of the Harbor Hotel?

  : My fear of Siberia has to do with a thirty-below wind chill. My depression about it has to do with the view. Which, from here, looks like moon boots, snowdrifts and dogsleds. I don’t know. It just seems like I’ve pushed “Pause” on my life, and everyone is passing me by.

  : Who, me? Because Letterman hasn’t exactly been burning up my line with voice messages, trying to get me to perform on his show.

  : He will.

  : What happened to the woman who wanted to change the world?

  : She expired due to lack of sleep. I just want to come home.

  : So come home.

  : I don’t think it’s up to me.

  : Just say no.

  : Thanks, Nancy.

  Living in Russia hasn’t been a total nightmare. I have a cleaning lady. And for a while I had a chauffeur. Sveta and Thug (aka Igor) who got married (thanks, I’d like to think, to me) right before the twins were born. Now Sveta cleans my house once a week while Igor drives for Dalton and Maggie. Meanwhile, I’m honing my ability to surf the Moscow subway—the skill of balancing unaided, as the train careens down the tracks. In fact, I carry my subway pass with pride.

  See? That “dare me” mentality can come back to bite me.

  Especially now, as I’m hiking back from the metro. My backpack is bulging with meat, milk, cheese, bread, potatoes and padushka (translation: pillows, which are really puffs of cereal filled with chocolate, my reward for stopping at four different stores and chasing Chloe through the fish aisle at the market), and I’ve got an iron grip on Justin and Chloe. Chloe is fighting me with every step, occasionally doing her I-am-rubber act. Justin, my good child, is only concerned about missing Nu Pagadee, his favorite Russian cartoon.

  The sky is purple, as if bruised from the day, and I totally relate. Two weeks have passed since our camping trip—since I was shanghaied by Marc and Chase, since my grip on Gull Lake began to slide out of my hands—and I feel as if I’ve been through a sausage press.

  And shoot, if Chase isn’t being cooperative and romantic and submissive with his, “Whatever you want to do, honey.”

  Yeah, sure. Whatever I want to
do.

  We live in a gated community, but that only means we have a guard at the front gate who protects all the Mafia-connected tenants in our nine-story high-rise. It’s a sad commentary about life in Russia when Mafia Central is the safest place in town. We live right above the mayor and his wife. Which should raise serious questions about his political connections.

  I enter the code into the door, and it squeals open. Chloe wrenches herself free and runs for the elevator, which is just opening. She’s too short to hit 9, so she smashes 1. Justin runs in, jumping up and down. “Nu Pagadee! Nu Pagadee!”

  I suppose I should be happy my child is learning Russian. Except “Nu Pagadee” means “I’ll get you!” His other words are “Ruki Veer!” which, sadly, means, “Hands up!” I guess he fits right into the neighborhood.

  We all spill out of the elevator, and I open the three-ton metal door that barricades our flat. Sometimes I feel like I live in a prison, what with the metal door and the bars on the windows. I long for a vista without vertical lines.