“I still like chopping down my own tree,” Chase, my hunter-gatherer, says quietly as he blows into his cup.
Of course he does. “Maybe we can cut down a tree from around the village.”
Chase shakes his head. “Those are owned by the government, we can’t—”
“No. The town of Bursk owns those,” Anton says. I can practically hear him finish that sentence. And I own the town of Bursk.
“I can barely hear you, Maggie!”
I’m in the central phone station, in the room next to the Internet center, holding a phone that looks like it might have been installed under Alexander Graham Bell’s direct supervision. I think these are the kind of phones they used in spy movies as lethal weapons.
But I’m thrilled that Maggie has tracked me down, ordering the call to our village the old-fashioned way—a day in advance, requiring the town operator to track me down and schedule the call.
She sounds like she might be phoning from a space station on the moon.
“Daphne had a baby girl!” Maggie yells, and this time it comes through loud and clear.
“When?” I yell back.
“Two weeks ago. In Canton, Ohio. She and Caleb are doing great. They named the baby Isobel.”
Oh. For some strange reason I thought that maybe they’d name it after me. Okay, okay, I know, but I was her mentor.
“That’s great! Tell her I’m thrilled for her!”
“How’s Bursk?”
“Cold!” I say. But I don’t hear laughter on the other end. Why don’t people get my jokes? “It’s good. I have an outhouse!”
“A what?”
“An outdoor bathroom. A privy.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Do you want me to come and get you?”
Was that a joke? “No! I’m fine.” Better than fine, really. Because apparently my cookie party was a hit with the women. They’ve asked to come back. They want to learn to make pizza, and Chase has agreed to guest-star.
In fact, he’s been doing a lot of guest-starring around the house recently. He’s nearly been a regular.
He even started washing clothes.
“How’s Chase’s new venture? Is he making headway?”
“He still hasn’t been asked to go on a hunt, but he attends all the council meetings and, well, you know Chase. The world loves Chase.”
I still don’t hear laughter. “Hello, hello?”
“How about you? Have you made any friends?”
“I’ve started a Bible study. But I’m having a neighbor dilemma. Chase had this brilliant idea to invite my neighbor, Olya, to Thanksgiving, but she didn’t show.”
I tell Maggie that, although we couldn’t find turkey, Chase used our abundant supply of venison to sculpt a turkeylike shape and we cooked it in the oven, complete with stuffing and gravy. Even Nathan appreciated it, and the twins gobbled through the house all afternoon. Not a kitty in sight.
The only disappointment was Olya’s absence. I invited her—twice—when I purchased my daily sala.
We waited for her, steam rising off the deer-turkey.
Finally I fixed a plate and headed over to her house. I still have visions of how she opened the door and stared at the food as if it might be poisonous.
“It’s a gift. American dinner,” I added. I spied the panic on her face, raw and desperate as she glanced back inside for something to give me.
“I don’t want anything, Olya. Please, just take it.”
She considered me for a long moment. Then she snaked her hand out and took the plate.
And closed the door on my nose.
“I think I offended her with my Thanksgiving dinner,” I say to Maggie, who chuckles.
Now she laughs?
“Maggie!”
“I’m sure your dinner was delicious, Josey. Maybe it’s just, you know, sometimes it’s hard to receive. I’m sure that’s not easy for her. It’s not easy for anyone.”
I stare at my hands and notice that they are healing. In my own defense, I didn’t mention my hands to Chase because, well, I didn’t want to complain. Not because of my pride. Really. But now that he’s doing the laundry, I feel…indebted.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t give her anything?” I ask Maggie.
The line begins to crackle and I fear I’m losing her.
“I’m saying that it’s going to be up to you to help her give back.”
The line goes dead. Shoot. I have no idea what she means.
I hang up the phone and shuffle out into the snow. The wind is light and the air is crisp. A full moon hangs against the dusky sky. I’ve always loved the moon and how it reflects the light of the sun.
Humble. Gentle. Patient. Worthy of the calling.
Help her give back. Really? Why can’t she simply accept my gift without feeling like she has to repay me?
Lord, help me give peace to Olya, somehow. Help me find a way to reflect You.
In my experience with the Almighty, I’ve learned that when I ask for something, He doesn’t normally give it to me—instead, He gives me the opportunity to discover it. To grow into it.
Unfortunately, it’s usually when my husband decides to leave town.
I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself, but when Chase is away, things begin to unravel. I often wonder if it’s God’s way of reminding me I’m not invincible.
I get it! I get it!
I should have remembered my prayer about Olya and my hope to reach out to her when Chase left this morning in darkness to take a snowmobile ride to Khabarovsk with Nathan. When I turned on the light to say goodbye, I heard a pop and then saw a trickle of flame travel along the ancient wires strung up outside of our house, exploding in a shower of brilliant sparks when it reached the transformer on the pole.
We stood there in silence in the predawn hour, the cold finding its way under my puffy jacket and through my flimsy jammies. Nathan looked at me. Chase looked at me.
“Do we have candles?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but apparently he had no intention of staying home. I think I nodded.
“I’ll be home by dinnertime.” Then he kissed me and was gone, slipping into the darkness.
I snuggled back in with the kids until morning lit the room.
Here’s a friendly motherhood tip. Don’t let your children get up before you. By the time I realized Chloe had risen, she’d gotten hold of the scissors and created a shimmering pool of feather-light blond hair on the floor. I found her half-bald and wet, eating a box of chocolate padushki.
At least she knows when to go for the chocolate.
I sat down beside her and joined the party. Justin dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. He took one look at the padushki and crumpled into a ball, crying.
“No paddy!”
I simply don’t understand a child who won’t eat junk food for breakfast.
I fill a pot with water and set it on the furnace to make oatmeal.
By the time we’ve finished with our morning constitutions, the water is boiling. Justin gets his “meal,” as he calls it, and I attire the children in their layers. Chloe’s hair is lopsided, so I even her out with the scissors and put on a hat.
Maybe no one at the school will notice the absence of her pigtails.
The sun is high and it must be above freezing, because the water is dripping from the icicles on the house. The snow is crunchy and Justin’s foot gets stuck in a drift. I pull him out, leaving behind his sock and boot. After much digging, I retrieve them, but we’re late to detski-sod and his foot is an ice cube.
On the way back, I stop by the market and buy a piece of sala, but Olya doesn’t look at me. Perfect.
I return home, pump a bucket of water and watch it heat over the stove. I wash the children’s clothes, wring them out and hang them from the line that runs picturesquely through my living room.
It’s a lovely garland. Thomas the Tank underwear, Strawberry Sh
ortcake training pants, Chase’s thermal underwear and my misshapen yoga pants. My hands burn, so I lather on lotion.
The sting makes my eyes water.
I’ve never seen a vacuum cleaner in Russia. Even when I lived in Moscow, my cleaning lady wet a towel, wrapped it around an empty mop head and scraped the carpets clean. I’ve modified her methods by wetting the ends of a bristle broom in a bucket and sweeping the carpet.
It’s the hard-knock life for me, it’s the hard-knock life…
I shake the throw rugs, change the sheets and finish off the padushki for lunch. I don’t know what Justin’s problem is.
I’m at detski-sod early to pick up the kids. Maya is in the yard. I lift my hand in greeting. She considers me for a moment, then turns away.
I don’t know what Chase was thinking, but from my perspective, having the kids attend detski-sod isn’t exactly helping us plow highways into the culture here.
We return home, and I lie down with the kids for a nap.
It’s about three when I hear the barking. The door slams open and I’m yanked out of a sound sleep—the kind where your body feels submerged in glue. As I awake, I’m pretty sure I’m back home at Berglund Acres and Buddy has just returned from football practice.
“Mommy, doggie!”
Or maybe not. I pry open my eyes. Chloe is jumping on me, barely missing my gut. I wince and curl into a ball. Justin sits up, rubbing his eyes.
Lydia leaps onto the bed, barking. She looks like she dug her way to freedom under the fence, her body covered in mud and grime. She leans down and slathers Chloe with her sopping tongue. Justin screams. Chloe grabs the beast around the neck and nuzzles it. Of course.
“Lydia!” I’m on my feet. “Lydia, get!”
She’s covered the bed with footprints and chunks of mud, and now jumps to the floor, presses her cheek to the carpet and runs along my rug in a circle, cleaning herself.
“Shoo! Shoo!” I grab my multi-use broom. “Get!”
Lydia stops and looks at me, her bottom up, wriggling. She thinks it’s a game. Leaping around me, she grabs Thomas the Tank and pulls down the line.
Chloe cheers from the bed. Justin, the smart one, is crying.
“Get!”
“Lydia, Eedi, Syo-dah!” Olya appears at my door. She wears what I can only assume is an exact copy of my expression of horror. “Lydia!” She comes in and pounces on the dog, grabbing her by the collar. “Izvenetye,” she says over and over as she drags the menace out.
The door shuts with a thud. The house shakes on its foundation.
I slide to the floor. Justin launches himself into my arms. “I scared.”
I wrap my arms around him, pulling his trembling body close.
The darkness is hovering, and the heat from the furnace waning. Someone has to find the candles. And feed the children dinner.
I want my mother.
I’m still sitting in the silence when I hear the door creak open. From the shadows of the entryway Olya emerges. She looks tired and wrecked. “Izvenetye,” she says again.
“Nu ladna,” I say, pushing Justin off my lap. “It’s okay.”
It’s hard to tell in the fading light, but I think relief washes over her face. We stand there a moment, neither of us knowing what to say.
But suddenly—wouldn’t you know it?—I start to cry. I put my hand over my mouth, but I can’t stifle the sound of my sobbing.
I’m tired.
And cold.
And it’s getting a little hard to see.
I think I scare Olya because she abruptly turns and leaves. Probably running for dear life.
I calm myself down, not sure whether I should go after her. I decide to pick up my dirty laundry instead.
Moments later, she reappears with a pot in her arms. She sets the pot on the furnace, opens the door and, taking the tongs, reloads it, stirring the coal brick into the embers.
Then she takes a candle from her pocket.
I watch as she sticks the end into the furnace and lights it. She finds a teacup on the shelf and puts the candle inside, propping it up with a wadded napkin.
Then, turning, she gives me a small nod and starts to leave.
But I grab her and—because I have to, because I can’t think of anything else—I pull her into a hug.
She’s surprised. But she lets me.
She lets me.
She leaves me with the smell of potato soup, the light from the candle and the wild hope that maybe God can speak even through dumbfounded silence.
It’s late and dark when the screaming starts. The soup was delicious—potatoes with chunks of cabbage and dill. And the candle burned long enough for me to read a story to Chloe and Justin.
I go to bed early, of course, which gives me plenty of time to ponder exactly what to do about Olya. Do I go over in the morning with the clean pot, perhaps filled with cookies, and say thank you? Or will that start the cycle of craziness all over again? I think that she might feel we’re even, but I know (thanks to the way Justin and Chloe wolfed down the soup) that I’m woefully beholden.
I’m also worried. Where is Chase? He told me he’d be home by dinner.
The screaming is sporadic, followed occasionally by a thump and then yelling. I’ve never heard them fight before, and everything inside me tightens with the knowledge that I was right about Vasilley.
Please, Lord, tell me what to do.
I close my eyes and pull the covers up to my nose. I hear something crash. What is the number here for 9-1-1? I should know it. Why isn’t Chase here? He’d know what to do. I feel nauseated and helpless and angry. And I hate that Ulia was right and I let denial shout the loudest.
Suddenly everything goes quiet. I hear the door slam. I am breathing hard. Should I go over there? I’m still talking myself into it, staring into the filmy darkness, when I hear another thump outside. Our door creaks open.
Please let it be Chase. Please let it be Chase.
“Shh.” I hear a voice. “They’re sleeping.”
My breath escapes. I didn’t realize I’d been holding it.
“I’ll grab the sofa.” It’s Nathan’s voice.
A second later, Chase appears at the bedroom door. “Hey, GI,” he says, climbing into bed beside me. He’s cold, his cheeks rough and dry. He pulls me close.
“What took you so long?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice. He nuzzles his cold chin into my neck.
“Halfway home, the snowmobile quit. We couldn’t get it to turn over. Had to hitch a ride to the turnoff on the highway, and then hike the rest of the way home.”
“The highway is three miles from town.”
“I know.” His arm tightens around me. “But that’s not the worst of it. While we were in Khabarovsk, I ran into Anton.”
His beard rubs my cheek as I turn. He props his head on his hand. “He was selling Christmas trees.”
I search Chase’s face to understand the significance of this.
Chase raises an eyebrow. “The Bursk trees. He cut them down.”
“All of them?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out in the morning. We stopped by the town hall on the way home. Apparently the trappers in the village are furious. They say it’ll upset their traplines.”
“Will it?”
Even in the darkness, I can see Chase’s concern. “I dunno. I saw Olya’s husband at the town hall. He was pretty angry.”
I pull in a quick breath. “They just had an awful fight—he and Olya. I just hope he wasn’t…hurting her.”
Chase stares at me a long time, and I see the old memories from his childhood merge with my information. Then he nods. “I’ll check on her in the morning.”
I hate that all Chase’s dark nightmares have found him in Siberia. And love him even more that he’ll refuse to run from them. “Maybe they just had a fight.”
“Maybe.”
Chase rolls back, throws his arm over his eyes. “I can’t believe Anton cut down the trees. And wors
e, that it was all my idea.”
“It was hardly your idea, Chase. You just told him about a childhood memory. He took it from there.”
“They’ll blame it on me.”
“You’re blaming it on you. Don’t. It’s not your fault.”
He lowers his arm and reaches out to take my hand. “How are your hands today?”
I try to tug them away, but he brings them to his mouth and kisses them. “First your hands, and now I’ve managed to wipe out the village economy. I’m really making an impact here.”
“Shh.” I put my finger over his mouth. “We’re all going to be fine.”
He sighs. “What is it they say about anthropologists? First, do no harm?”
“I think that’s for doctors,” I whisper. He puts his arms around my neck and pulls me close, kissing me.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“It was more than I expected it to be,” I say. Much, much more.
“Josey!”
Maya catches up to me in the hallway just as I’m leaving with Justin and Chloe. The preschool is decked out with paper chains and snowflakes on the windows. Again, I’m impressed with the use of the limited resources.
I’m not as impressed with the use of the town’s resources by Anton and his small band of entrepreneurial accomplices who have, indeed, denuded the forest. They’ve swiped every tree under twelve feet, and the once abundant stand of pine ringing the town is scraggly and sparse with woodchips, pine needles and stripped boughs littering the pristine snow.
Maya stands before me in that tight, black high-waisted skirt and a black jacket. Sad to say I can’t shake Ulia’s words about Maya from my head. They burn inside me.
This is what gossip does. Keeps you from thinking straight.
“Prevyet, Maya,” I say.
Her hair is gelled, and with her dark makeup, she looks exotically beautiful. I’m wondering, suddenly, if Ulia’s words are born of jealousy.
Maya doesn’t smile. I keep a firm grip on Chloe, just in case she does something. Like eat a decoration.
“I heard, in America, you do not have Father Frost.” I appreciate her using English, which sounds crisp and British.
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 12