Whereas, last year I spent New Year’s Eve fighting my mother for puzzle pieces. She won’t admit it, but every year, she takes one piece and puts it in her pocket, only to Voilà! find it after the puzzle is near completion. I don’t understand this mentality—I steal the pieces openly, without any of the covert antics. It if weren’t for Chase talking me into taking a midnight stroll through the snow, and later shooting off some private fireworks with a kiss under our old tree fort, well, I might have gone to bed at ten with a good book.
But this year, I’m back in action. Not only is Chase on my arm, but I’m looking good. Well, as good as a nearly five months’ pregnant woman can look. Because in a rare act of husbandly kindness, he took me shopping.
At a maternity store. Can you believe they have leather pants with stretchy tummies? And I found a sleeveless black sequin top and a pair of knockoff Prada pumps.
Not only that, but we received an embossed invitation for a Private Party at the Galeria for New Year’s Eve. I for one know that Putin had a party at the Galeria not six months ago.
I am a happily married woman with a hot man on my arm. Chase is looking very mafia in a pair of black pants and a matching black shirt. Against his blond hair and blue eyes, well, eat your heart out, Underfed Women of WorldMar.
We use Igor, who is wearing his new gloves, to ride to WorldMar. It’s okay to utilize the help for special occasions, and especially since I gave Chase remedial surfing lessons during our shopping trip.
Chase is in full reparation mode. He took me out for dinner at the American Bar & Grill, where we racked up a hundred-dollar bill just for a couple burgers and shakes, then attended Moscow Bible Church with me. Sitting there, next to Caleb and Daphne, my man trying to decipher Russian next to me, I felt a wave of happiness that I can only attribute to hormones. Because it can’t be that I’m actually content, can it?
He also took a week off work, or rather worked at home while we put our heads together and I unveiled my master plan.
Peanut Butter.
I know, it shouldn’t be that easy. But that Nutella thing sat in my brain like…peanut butter, and I couldn’t get past the fact that Russians need something besides Nutella and caviar to put on their bread.
With a little online research I discovered that peanut butter is easy to make. And perfect for cottage industries. Chase and I tracked down a peanut butter press online, and a raw peanut supplier from Georgia—not the U.S. Georgia.
I am Chase’s favorite person. His blessed and surpassing wife.
WorldMar has rented out a room at the Galeria Restaurant, just off Red Square. Russia has dressed up—finally!—for the season and Red Square is alive with lighted ice sculptures, rides for the children and a giant tree. As we pull up we can hear music pulsing from the ornate building—Machina Vremeni, and Pugacheva, Russian pop music icons.
The Galeria is two stories of New Russian glamour. Building on the past, the owner revitalized the former residence of some Russian aristocrat and turned the place into a club.
As we enter, an elderly woman dressed in velvet and wearing a broach at her cleavage takes our coats. I shrug out of my parka, hating the fact that it barely buttons, and hand it to her. It’s okay if she wants to get my coat mixed up with one of the minks she hangs it next to.
Chase takes my arm and leads me into the great hall. Along the sides of the room, giant pillars stretch up to the second story, which is bordered by a balcony overlooking the room. The place is packed, the lights dim, the air heavy with smoke, the redolence of vodka and alive with women who are dressed like it might be July. I’ve never seen so many belly piercings in one place. That, and sultry looks aimed at my husband.
In the middle of the room, a woman wearing the regalia of a harem girl belly dances on a platform. I stand there mesmerized for a moment. How exactly does she—
Chase leads me up a stairs as if he might know exactly where he’s going.
“Have you been here before?” I ask as we walk along the balcony and toward a private room.
“Once,” he says, but offers nothing more.
Hmm.
We enter a brightly lit room, decorated with faux palm trees with twinkle lights, and a New Year’s tree at the far end. Around the room, tables encircle a dance floor. And it’s packed, mostly with skinny women and old men who are as mesmerized by the Underfeds as I was by Miss Belly Dancer.
I feel yucky, suddenly wishing for my puzzle pieces and a walk in the snow.
“Chase!”
I turn at the voice, and see Bambi/Bertha headed for us. She is wearing a gold V-neck lamé top, and a pair of black stretch pants that leave nothing to the imagination.
She hugs Chase, then pops him with a kiss on each cheek. “And you brought Josey!”
Surprise, surprise.
She turns to me and before I know it, she’s planted two smackers on my cheeks, also. I’ve been Bambied.
“Come and get something to eat.” She hooks her arm around Chase’s free arm, and we’re a conga line headed to the food table.
Maybe there’s hope for this evening after all. Smoked salmon, crab salads, peroshke, black bread, cheeses, cutlets, potatoes with dill, and best of all…caviar! I grab a plate.
“Chase!” Katrina greets him with a hug and another two-cheek kiss. Hmm. She turns to me, and with a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes, “Oh, and you brought Zhozhey.”
What is this, show and tell? Get used to it, girls!
I smile at her. She reaches out and puts her hand on my belly.
Hello, that’s attached to my body, honey.
“I love babies,” she says, and her gaze falls back to Chase. He smiles at her.
Okay, what is it with men who can’t see when a woman is putting out “I’m yours” signals? Slug her, Chase!
But, no. “You look lovely tonight, Katrina.”
Oh, please. I put the plate back down, my appetite gone. Chase turns to the table and dishes himself up food. Meanwhile, I see Katrina return to her band of thieves and deliver important reconnaissance information. Yes, Chase is here. Yes, he brought the wife. Yes, she’s really pregnant.
“Wanna dance?” I ask him. I’m not holding out a remote hope that I can gyrate like WorldMars Underfeds, but maybe a reminder that I still got it would—
“I don’t dance,” Chase says, wrinkling his nose. “Can we not?”
I sigh, and nod. This I’ve known about Chase for a long time—his aversion to dancing. I’ve never really known why, but every time Gull Lake has a street dance, he’s on the sidelines eating a hot dog.
Okay, fine. “I want to go home.” Rats, I didn’t mean to sound so selfish. But suddenly this New Year has turned lurid and gross and unromantic.
He turns, scowls at me which only makes me feel ashamed at my moodiness. I can see him weighing my words, as well as the last three months. He swallows, then glances around. “Okay. I just want to say hi to my boss.”
Oh, Chase, I love you.
I follow his gaze where it’s landed on a normal-size woman sitting at a table. She’s wearing a black, sleeveless dress and is propping her head up with one hand while turning the stem of her cocktail glass with the other. “That’s Jim’s wife, Janet.”
I follow Chase through the crowd, moving to avoid being poked by boney women and join him at the table. “Hello, Janet,” he says. “Is Jim around?”
She looks at him, and I see age on her face, despite the heavy makeup, the red lips, the dark shadow. Her eyes are a bit glazed. “He’s around, Chase.”
Chase turns to me, and I come to the rescue, sitting down in a chair next to the woman. “I’ll wait here.”
He sets down his food and I eye the caviar as I turn to the woman. “My name’s Josey—I’m Chase’s wife.”
“Janet Wilkes.” She holds out a hand, and it’s like shaking a walleye—clammy and limp. “Gland to meet you,” she slurs.
Maybe one bite of caviar would be wise, just to tide me over till we get home.
I pick up a fork. “This is quite a party, huh?”
“Russians really know how to put on a party.”
Somehow, by the look she’s giving me, I’m not so sure that’s a compliment. “Care to elaborate?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Well, let’s just say that a number of the girls in this room would love to have an American husband.”
“All the men at WorldMar are married.”
Janet raises one groomed eyebrow. “So?”
Okay, Chase, we’re leaving, right now.
“How long have you been in Russia?” I ask, scanning the crowd for Chase. If I even see him near Bertha…
She sighs, and her gaze falls off me, onto the dancers. “I just got back.”
I don’t spot Chase, but I see Bertha center dance floor, wearing a wreath around her neck, holding a champagne glass in the air. She must have taken lessons from Belly Dancer. Nice. “From where?”
She takes a drink. “Connecticut.”
“Just in time for New Year’s Eve, huh? Did you have Christmas with your family?”
She looks at me again, and this time there’s an edge to her gaze. “I was stateside for medical reasons.”
Why do I sense that there’s more to that story? The former missionary in me suddenly feels something heavy in her spirit. I put down my fork. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
She lifts shoulder. “Depends on how you define okay. Will I live? Yes.” She lifts her glass. “Nothing a little Prozac and vodka won’t cure.”
My mouth opens a second before I have the good sense to shut it.
Janet gives me a sloppy smile. “Who did you say your husband was?”
“Chase. He’s working in Gorkovich with the cottage-industry program.”
“Oh,” she says, and I hear a chuckle. “He’s the one.”
“He’s the one?” I mean, yes, I know that, but I think her The One is meant in an entirely different context than my The One.
“He’s the one who took Bob’s spot.”
Information is slowly clicking into place. Like the fact that Bob had to go home. Suddenly.
“What happened with Bob, Janet?” I lower my voice, and the music, the surroundings, and the fact that I have my fork in a bowl of caviar, make this all seem very KGB and Cold War. I’m ready to slip her a few rubles under her plate.
She takes a long drink, puts her glass down. Signals a waiter for more. I’m thinking I need to intercept him. She takes the glass the waiter hands her, and slips a hundred-ruble note into his hand. He winks at her.
Please, God, don’t let this be my future.
“Bob had a little…extracurricular activity going on in the village.”
She’s got me right where she wants me. My mind is swirling with ideas—a maple sugar factory? A vodka processing plant?
“Let’s just say that his hard work was focused in one place.” She smiles wickedly and her voice carries a bitterness that can only come from personal experience.
“Don’t tell me…he had an affair?” I glance around again, looking for Chase. My heart hiccups a moment when I see him talking to Bertha. She has an arm draped over his shoulder, and is whispering into his ear. He catches my eye and smiles at me.
Good boy, Chase.
“Bingo.”
I turn back to Janet and see that she’s missed her mouth, her vodka dribbling down the front of her blouse. She doesn’t even notice. As she puts the glass down, I right it before it falls over. “And it looks like your boy Chase is next in line.”
Huh? I glance again at Chase, and notice that Underfed Katrina has joined Bertha. They’re trying to get him to join them dancing. “He’s just…. getting into the New Year spirit,” I say hollowly.
“Yeah. Well, I’m sure that’s what Ginny Martin thought when she caught Bob getting into the New Year spirit at last year’s event.” She gives a laugh; it’s sloppy and makes my skin crawl.
But I have to ask. “Who was he with?”
Her eyes turn to fire and she fixes her gaze on Chase as she answers. “His secretary. Chase’s new partner. Bertha Schultz.”
(And the fact that Sveta hasn’t shown up since before Christmas has made me not only nervous—because somebody is going to have to do those dishes!—but sorta sad. And worried about Ryslan.)
(Although I have to say, even in college I had my washing-by-hand days. Or nights.)
Besides, I can’t bend over. Much. I deserve a cleaning lady.
(I can’t help it. I rode home in fuming silence next to Twinkle Toes. And when he tried to two-step with me later that night, I wrinkled my nose and said, “Can we not?” Okay, I know, not so Proverbs 31, but, well, can you blame me?)
I don’t know, H. What if Chase isn’t attracted to me anymore? I don’t feel very romantic. Pregnancy seems to have sapped me of every romantic bone in my body. Not only that, but my ankles are fat. My ankles! I can’t help but think Chase isn’t so thrilled with having a fat and hormonal wife.
(Please, let me be back. Because by that time I’ll be a month overdue, and I am not having this baby in Russia.)
I hate that word, matron. And trying to envision just what a bridesmaid dress made from green army surplus might look like.
If H has heard nothing of my tirades over the past three months, I thought she’d learn that marriage is not…. fun. Okay, maybe it is. But not five months pregnant. With a closet Baryshnikov.
Methinks I’m not getting through to her.
on’t be disrespectful.
I don’t know what she has against peanut butter. She’s an American! Isn’t it a rule that we’re supposed to like peanut butter? Personally, I think she hates it because it’s mine.
Chill Out, Josey! Page 14