Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  I’m eyeing the tiny Lada with concern. It’s roughly the size and shape of a Volkswagen Jetta, and I wonder if Chase has noticed how many bags we have, or if perhaps he’s trying to pull one of those old how-many-people-can-we-fit-into-a-phonebooth challenges.

  My face apparently betrays me.

  “I’ll go with the bags if you take another cab,” he says.

  I’m speechless for a moment, because—hello—I have no idea where I’m going. Or, for that matter, where I am.

  I know I must be in Siberia, because we’ve been on a train for way too many days, rumbling across steppe and prairie, through forests and mountains. But Khabarovsk resembles Moscow, minus the subway and towering baroque architecture. Crimson maples and yellow poplars line the center boulevards, and Ladas and Zhigulis—cars from the Cold War era—clog the streets. The requisite statue of Lenin stands outside the train station pointing east. I pinpoint the familiar smell of fried-meat sandwiches and exhaust, and the four-story, faded yellow and blue apartment buildings with the tiny curved metal balconies and ornate moldings look like they’ve been plucked from Moscow’s Pushkin Street. But we’re not in Moscow. We’re in Siberia. Which reminds me—

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the port,” he says, already throwing our suitcases into the car. Nathan hands Justin over and picks up a bag. Chase turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Josey.” He picks up another bag. “I can’t find a bigger car. If I come back to get you, there is no one to watch our bags.”

  Shoes. Think of your shoes. “Of course, Chase, I totally—”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Nathan says, throwing in the last of our bags.

  He smiles at me, and I’m, for a moment, speechless at his generosity. I shake it off and focus on the task at hand: getting to the port.

  Apparently, we Americans have to stick together.

  “Thanks, Nate,” Chase says, holding out his hand. “I’ll meet you there.” He drops a quick kiss on my cheek and jumps into the cab.

  I watch him go as Nathan hails another cab.

  We climb in, and Justin and Chloe momentarily fight for lap space—on Nathan. But I’m so tired and so grimy, I don’t care. I’m wearing dirty yoga pants, a pair of Converse tennis shoes I found at the market (and have long since realized are knockoffs) and a sweatshirt stained with Chloe’s chocolate handprint. I just want a warm bath and a change of clothes.

  But Chase did look so excited, didn’t he? That look on his face makes all this worth it.

  Nathan tickles both kids as I try not to think about the lack of seat belts while we weave in and out of traffic.

  Apparently the drivers could have been plucked from Moscow, also.

  I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I pick up an odor of something stronger than beer emanating from the front seat.

  Please, God, let us get there.

  “Tired?” Nathan asks.

  He has no idea. I merely nod.

  “Chase says you’re staying with the town elders tonight. Probably Anton Vasillyech and his wife. They’re nice folks. In fact, I think you’ll like Bursk. It’s one of my favorite villages. They have an annual winter carnival, complete with reindeer-pulled sleigh rides and ice sculptures. It’s gorgeous.”

  Gorgeous. Hmm.

  “And if you need anything, you can always send me an e-mail and I’ll bring it up on my route.”

  I open an eye. “E-mail? They have Internet?”

  He nods. “Dial-up, but only at the city government building.”

  Close enough. As long as I can write home.

  Nathan reaches over and taps my forearm. “You’re going to be fine.”

  I hate how much I need those words. But with Chase dashing off to the port without us, I’m wondering just what I’m getting myself into. We had problems our first year of marriage, the kind that made me wonder if Chase even remembered he had a wife. But we learned. We grew. We got cell phones.

  Please, God, I don’t want to return to that life.

  We ride in silence until the taxi pulls up to the wharf. Sure enough, there’s Chase, sitting atop our luggage like some explorer, grinning. Chloe jumps off Nathan and dives into his arms as if she hasn’t seen him for a decade.

  “Our boat leaves in half an hour,” he says, grabbing a bag. I stand guard while he and Nathan shuffle our belongings down a gangplank to what looks like a rusty tugboat with portholes along the sides. Justin can’t wait to climb aboard.

  “See you in a few weeks,” Nathan says after Chase stows the last bag. His eyes find mine, and he smiles. “You’re going to be fine,” he mouths.

  You’re going to be fine!

  I climb aboard and walk down the steps into the belly of the boat. Our gear is stashed in the back, and I sit on one of the molded vinyl chairs. The water is at eye level, or nearly, and I can’t help but plot my escape route should we spring a leak. Or meet a tidal wave. I probably can’t fit my body through a porthole, but I could shove Justin through and maybe Chloe if she cooperates and…

  Okay, the contingency plan is starting to make me queasy. I lift my hand in a meager wave to Nathan as we leave shore and head out to sea—okay, river.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Chase says, pulling Chloe onto his lap. She stands up, puts her nose to the window.

  “See water, Daddy. Fishes!”

  Poor Justin has his arms around my neck, cutting off my air supply. At least one of my children remembers our vacation, and the narrow miss with the jellyfish.

  Chase grins at me. “We took the Trans-Siberian Railway, babe. Across Russia.”

  Yay, us. I can barely contain my joy.

  But I give him a smile. Who can be a grump in the face of all that enthusiasm?

  Siberia is lush and beautiful. Who’da thunk it? Amethyst and ruby, amber and gold—a potpourri of jewels array the trees that embrace the shoreline, dotted here and there with stately buildings, probably former communist leaders’ beach—er, river—homes. Fishermen watch us motor by, and we pass the occasional barge.

  As we travel north, my body settles into the rock of the boat, the hum of the engine. We are the only travelers. I’m not sure if this bodes well or not, but it does give us the room to move about the cabin. Justin finally finds his river legs and leaps from seat to seat. Chloe has decided that since she can’t have a kitty, she’ll become one, and is crawling along the molded seats, purring, her hands tiny paws, swiping at our faces. Chase plays along and pets her. She snuggles into his lap as I give him a dirty look. Guess who’s going to have to play Mommy Kitty all day now?

  I focus on the sun hovering low over the horizon. I miss my skyline. You’ll like Bursk. Nathan’s words buoy my hopes. Because here, finally, I’ll make us a home, one that we can stretch out in. Maybe I’ll even build a sandbox for the kids. And get a dog. I’d love a dog—

  “We’re here!” Chase displaces the kitty and stares out the window. I’m not sure how he knows this because I don’t see any Welcome to Bursk signs. But sure enough, we’ve angled toward shore and a long pier that looks like one good squall would wash it away.

  Here?

  Chloe makes a run for the stairs, but I grab her. “Not yet, sweetie.”

  We walk up to the deck together as a family to glimpse our new hometown.

  Or…clutch of muddy hovels. You pick, because I see only muddy, rutted streets, rickety fences that border tiny abodes and a trickle of coal smoke darkening the sky. I spy a pack of mangy dogs, ribs corrugating their sides, staring at us from the weedy shore. I sniff the odor of manure.

  I hold on to the edge of the boat as we glide in.

  You’re going to be fine!

  Chapter Six

  The Little Lies

  My brain can fool me. Not that this is a surprise. We all know that my brain doesn’t always communicate with my mouth, which often runs off on its own rampant course without any consideration of the repercussions. However, my brain has recently decided that it has no accountability, an
d over the past few years I’ve awakened in Moscow occasionally confused about my whereabouts. The birds are singing and the fragrance from a spray of lilacs on the window ledge fills my nose and I’m suddenly back in Gull Lake, waking to a fresh summer morning. I hear the clatter of dishes—my mother cooking up breakfast at the restaurant next door—and I pull the cotton sheet close to my nose and smell the fresh-from-the-line crispness of the sun.

  In that moment, life is good.

  Simple.

  And doesn’t come accompanied by…Oh, I’m wet! I open my eyes to reality, and I’m staring at a ceiling with peeling paint, dark walls covered in patterned, brown Turkish-style rugs, and a very damp Chloe, sleeping on top of me.

  Soaking me as she snoozes through her early-morning accident.

  Where am I?

  I ease Chloe off me and onto Chase’s side of the bed, which is empty. As I pull the sodden sheet away from me, memory rushes back.

  I am in Mayor Anton and his wife Ulia’s bedroom. In their three-room house. Located three muddy blocks from the boat dock in the tiny town of Bursk.

  In Siberia.

  Russia.

  Oh, boy.

  Sun filters through a flimsy lace curtain and across the brown-painted floor, covered with a worn, red throw rug. Standing now in the middle of the room, I start to shiver. Although it’s September, the house, which must be made of cement, collects the chill like a meat freezer. We’ve left most of our bags in the family room, but I have the one containing my clothes. I change quickly, wishing—oh, wishing—for a shower.

  But today we move into our house. Our house.

  Chase promised.

  I change Chloe, who sleeps through the whole thing, and I tuck her into a warm, dry portion of the bed. Then I venture out to find my husband.

  Chase already has a fan club. Three men sit at the kitchen table drinking tea with him while he bounces Justin on his knee. I spot Ulia at the sink. She’s a strong Russian woman with a wide, weathered face and the hands of a lumberjack. The house has a coal furnace/stove as big as a Hereford in the kitchen, and on it she is simmering a pot of what looks like kasha.

  “Good morning, GI,” Chase says, scooting over on the bowed bench. “Want some breakfast?”

  I notice that his bowl is half-empty and Justin’s is clean. Or maybe Chase is on seconds.

  “Pumpkin kasha. You gotta get the recipe.”

  Oh, sure. Has the man learned nothing since the day I nearly set the kitchen on fire a week after our marriage? Do the words “instant oatmeal” mean anything to him?

  He picks up his cup of tea. “These are the town elders—Misha, Alex, and of course, Anton.” They nod at me without smiling.

  I sit beside Chase, and Justin climbs on my lap. The kitchen bears the markings of age, with a sagging, formerly white cupboard hanging from the far wall and a bowed hutch with chipped china behind us. The room is about as big as my parents’ walk-in closet, and with six people at the table, I’m wondering how Ulia manages to breathe, let alone scurry around and ladle me a bowl of the pale-orange kasha.

  “Spaceeba,” I say in thanks, and she gives me a tight smile. I can understand “go away,” clearly in almost any language.

  I’m starting to wonder if Voices International neglected to preapprove our visit with the locals.

  I dive into the kasha, eyeing the tea, wishing for coffee.

  No. I am sacrificing for others. For Chase. I am learning submission.

  Coffee is probably the last thing I need, anyway.

  The kasha crunches in my mouth, and although I’ve only eaten pumpkin in pie form, I have to admit the flavor wins me.

  I listen to the men talk about people and life in the village. They’re telling Chase how they’ve made their living by hunting fox and trapping mink and beaver for the past fifty million decades. Anton’s two children live in Khabarovsk and Misha has a son that moved to Moscow when he was seventeen. He hasn’t seen him since. I eye Ulia and notice that she doesn’t say a word.

  I hope this is a personality quirk and not standard operating procedure.

  Submission. Maybe she has the corner on it.

  Chloe shuffles into the room in her dry, full-length footie jammies. Her hair sticks straight up, and her eyes are huge, taking in the changes in her world. Yes, well, like mother, like daughter. I pull her onto my lap. “Would you like some yummy kasha for breakfast?” I scoop up a little and aim for her mouth. She turns her head at the last minute and it narrowly misses her hair.

  “Chloe!”

  “No like kasha! No kasha!” She pushes at the spoon, which goes flying out of my grasp. It hits Alex the Elder, who makes a face that looks uncannily like my daughter’s.

  “Chloe!” I am trying to figure out who to clean first when Ulia crouches before me and hands Chloe a piece of black bread, buttered and covered in what an un-Moscowed person might think is red jam.

  “She’s not going to like caviar,” I say quietly to Chase as Chloe reaches for it. “What do I do?”

  Before Chase can answer, however, Chloe takes the bread and takes a bite. Oh, no, here it comes…

  “Mmm. Try, Mommy!” Chloe holds out the bread to me as Ulia stands up, a satisfied smile on her face.

  Mommy tries some and smiles. Oh, boy, I thought the days I ate caviar for breakfast were gone. Like, when I was pregnant, which I suppose goes a long way toward explaining Chloe’s instant love of the delicacy.

  Satisfied, Chloe finishes off the bread and pounds the table for more.

  Figures I’d have a diva for a daughter.

  “Anton told me he harvests the roe from his own catch,” Chase says as he accepts the offer of a caviar-laden piece of black bread from Ulia.

  “What kind of fish?”

  Chase asks, and it takes a second for him to translate. (Apparently, I need to work on my fishing terms.) “Carp.”

  Oh, perfect. The last time I had carp—a “delicacy” Chase picked up at the market grill—I was sick for a week. And carp eggs? Oh, even better.

  I manage to dodge another caviar sandwich before I’m able to escape with the kids to dress them. Chase joins me in the room moments later, closing the door behind him.

  “I have good news and bad news.”

  See, here’s the thing. When a woman lives in Russia, she doesn’t need to be told there is bad news accompanying the good news. That’s a given. She just wants to know how bad it is. “Lay it on me.”

  “They found us a house.”

  A house! I throw myself at Chase, and he’s momentarily taken aback, apparent by the startled look in his blue eyes. Hey, someone should remind him that we just spent a week locked in a compartment the size of a Russian kitchen with our two kids. I’m a little on the emotional edge here.

  He offers me a flimsy hug, then pulls away.

  Long before Chase and I were married, I had the ability to read his mind. Not only was he my best childhood pal, but he practically broadcast his thoughts on his face. (I guess that’s not really reading his mind.)

  Right now my Chase radar is telling me something very bad is in the headlines.

  “You’re starting to scare me.”

  “There’s no plumbing.”

  I am eyeing him, because, well, I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. “No…plumbing? Could you elaborate on that?”

  “Well…” He looks away from me, wrapping his hand around his neck. “No one in the town has indoor plumbing.”

  I’m still struggling here. Does he mean…

  “Are you saying that I have to lug my water in from…the river?”

  His face brightens. Phew! For a second there, I was seeing “Little House on the Prairie.” And we all know I’m not Ma.

  “There’s a pump. Right there in the house. You just have to, uh, lug the water from the pump to the kitchen sink.”

  Or, no phew. “So, no running water in the house.”

  “Right.”

  I can see I’m still not getting it, because he
’s staring at me, waiting for something to click.

  No running water. No running water to fill the kitchen sink. Or the bathtub. Or the only-in-my-dreams washing machine.

  Or to take…a shower.

  “Where do we bathe?”

  “Well, at home, with a pot of water.” Chase lifts Justin down from where he’s jumping on the bed. “Or at the local bathhouse.”

  Local bathhouse.

  “Any chance it’s a family bathhouse?”

  “Segregated.” He smiles, his eyes running over me dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

  “Please.” And then it hits me. No running water for a shower also means no running water to flush the toilet. I touch the wall, because I think my knees might buckle.

  Chase wraps his hand around my arm, seeing that I’ve finally got it.

  “I promise I’ll build you the best outhouse in Siberia.”

  I have no doubt it will win awards. But…“Chase, no indoor toilet?”

  “Babe, c’mon.” He leans in and touches his forehead to mine. “It’s just for a year.”

  That’ll be just about enough of that.

  I’m still in a daze as we are given a tour of Bursk on our way to our new…what, shack? Hut?

  I’m putting it out of my mind, however, trying to look for the shiny lining to this thundercloud. I’m especially not thinking about the word outhouse.

  I blame this current fiasco on my waffling over our vacation accommodations. See, I let Chase—and apparently the cosmos at large—believe I might be willing to live without plumbing. Just for the record, that isn’t the truth.

  The one current benefit of our village is that there is no traffic by which Chloe or Justin might be killed. None. Not a car to be seen. Only carts, pulled by reindeer. And if that isn’t enough to make one stop and stare, I don’t know what is. Because I’m talking real reindeer here, with the soft, mooselike noses, the big eyes, the tuft of white furry hair on their chests and of course the antlers. I stand on the street corner (aka, the bump between two houses) and watch as a woman who looks like she might have been born at the dawn of time rides a reindeer down the street, her feet dangling in huge felt boots. She wears a worn-thin shopka and a wool jacket and looks at me, in jeans and sweatshirt, as if I’m naked and how dare I bring those children out here with just windbreakers? Where are their snowsuits?