Chill Out, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  I am hearing something more there, something that hurts, way deep inside, and once again, I’m back on the roof with him, or sitting behind him on his motorcycle, my arms around his waist. And it hits me that all those times I thought I might have been holding on to the boy I loved, but perhaps I was the girl he loved, simply holding him.

  “Really, Chase, I promise, you’re going to be fine.”

  He shakes his head, and suddenly I see my deepest fears—the Chase who would hop on his motorcycle, and perhaps drive off without me behind him.

  “How about you stay home and make us some supper—like you did two years ago?” I raise an eyebrow, keep the shakiness from my voice.

  My Chase forces a laugh, but I know it doesn’t come from his heart, his soul. “Pizza?”

  The one thing we can always agree on. And although I’m going to be up all night with heartburn and probably an angry child kicking me in my bladder, right now, we’re in desperate need of something familiar. Something that tells us that we’ll always be in step.

  If one were marketing peanut butter to the masses, wouldn’t one choose a venue that included their target market? Just a thought, but it sticks in my mind as I stare at the tent/dress I found at the maternity shop. Tonight is Chase’s Peanut Butter launch party and instead of listening to my suggestion to hold it somewhere with a lot of children, (i.e. a school?), Bertha decided to glam up the event and host it at the Galeria.

  There is nothing I can do to make myself look better. I have to simply surrender to the fact I resemble a rhino. But my mood isn’t rhinolike. Despite the choice of venues, I can barely contain my excitement. Especially since Chase came home early, carrying another huge bouquet of red roses.

  “You did this,” he said to me as he backed me into the corner. And I saw the twinkle in his eye a second before he put both hands over my shoulders, trapping me, and kissing me the way he did on our honeymoon.

  Perhaps I’ve been reading too much into Chase’s coldness. If my instincts are right he’s going to be a great dad. Please let me be right, Lord!

  “Josey, do you know where my new tie is?”

  Chase pokes his head into the bathroom and I see that he looks incredible. We went shopping last weekend and found a black suit with a steel-gray dress shirt and a silver silk tie that gives him the suave mafia look without being scary. His hair has decided to betray him, however, and lies in rumpled curls.

  I fetch the tie from the bed and toss it to him.

  “Thanks.” He gives me a wink and I feel something flutter inside me that has nothing to do with Junior.

  I finish putting the last curl in my hair, dab on some lipstick and resign myself to the hard cold truth that I’m not going to be able to hide in the conga line. I just hope I don’t hear any “I think she’s been overtasting the peanut butter” comments.

  Igor drives us. We haven’t talked much in the last week since my discovering Sveta’s newest dilemma. And when I asked Sveta, she simply burst into tears. I sent her home and did the dishes myself.

  And every day I pray and ask God to fix this. Because I’ve run out of ideas.

  Moscow is still gray and dull, but here and there, grass is starting to peek through the grimy snow. Overhead the sky is cloudless and the setting sun over the Kremlin turns Red Square to fire. I’m mesmerized as we drive by, and remember the first time I saw Red Square—a week after I’d arrived in Russia that first time. I had found the plaza on my own and congratulated myself on my brilliance.

  But that pales in comparison to the great peanut butter adventure. Chase and I have introduced a new food group to the former Soviet Union! I sit back in the seat and reach for Chase’s hand. He squeezes it and gives me a smile.

  The Galeria is again pulsing with pop music, but at least this time it isn’t wall-to-wall Russians ogling a gyrating belly dancer.

  Instead it’s a few Russians grimacing as I waddle inside and gyrate up the stairs.

  Keep your head up, Josey. Just because I had to ask Chase to help me put on my shoes doesn’t have to wreck my evening.

  The party is already starting down the hall. Music filters out—American pop, which clashes nicely with the Russian rock downstairs. As we enter, I hear someone shout Chase’s name. Bertha is looking smart and curvy in a simple black dress.

  “Josey!” She says, air-kissing me. Where exactly did she learn that? Because we don’t do that in America. Or at least middle Minnesota America. And Bertha is from Illinois. Which is close enough. “So nice to see you!”

  Then she drapes herself around Chase, hanging on to him, laughing “We did it!”

  Um, we?

  She finally disentangles herself, and Chase again takes my hand as we enter the room to rounds of applause. Bertha, I notice, takes Chase’s other hand and bows playfully.

  What is it about WorldMar parties that makes me long to leave five minutes after arrival?

  At the central table, the jars filled with peanut butter are on display, red labels that say, “Arekhnaya Masla.” Not a great translation from Skippy, but at least it gets to the point. Butter made from peanuts.

  Waiters carrying open-faced peanut butter sandwiches circle the room, and each table is stacked with make-your-own sandwich options—jars of peanut butter and various kinds of breads.

  And not one bowl of caviar in sight.

  On a far table, an ice sculpture in the shape of a peanut catches the light glinting off the disco ball over the dance floor, which is packed with a gaggle of Underfeds.

  Chase catches the eye of his boss and leads me to their table. I see Janet and am surprised that she looks clear-eyed and focused. “Hi,” I say, holding out my hand to her. “We met at the New Year’s Party. Josey Anderson.”

  She looks at me, frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you,” she says. Her gaze falls on Jim and Chase, talking together. “You’re Chase’s wife?”

  I nod.

  “He did a fabulous job with this peanut butter idea. What a brainstorm. He told me that it was yours?”

  I smile at her. “It was mostly Chase’s idea.” Somehow saying it makes me feel good, but the fact that Chase bragged me up, well, I just might go home with him tonight.

  My attention falls on Chase, on the way he’s glad-handing the crowd, smiling, occasionally looking back at me. I’m so happy for him I want to sing, or maybe just sit here and quietly hum. But after his hard work, he so deserves this night to be a success.

  I hear an announcer, and turn to see Katrina emceeing the event. Cameras flash, and there is at least one shoulder-held camcorder.

  “Is that a reporter?” I ask Janet.

  “The room is full of them,” she says. A waiter walks by and she motions to him. He hands her a glass of champagne.

  Uh, maybe that’s not such a good…

  As she takes it, she glances at me. One side of her mouth lifts up. “My last glass of bubbly in Russia. We’re leaving next week.”

  “Oh?” I quirk an eyebrow, one eye on Chase, who’s been drawn to the stage with Bertha.

  “Jim is being assigned stateside.”

  I see relief on her face, and I relate to it so well it takes my breath away.

  I thought I liked it here.

  But, as I see Chase wave to his admiring audience, I know I’m just enduring. Counting the days.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  She nods. “If Chase’s peanut butter idea takes off, they’ll probably renew his contract.”

  Oh, joy.

  Thankfully, even if Chase’s contract is renewed, we have one very good, and tonight very lively, reason for going stateside in two and a half months. And living there happily ever after. In a two-story colonial I saw online at Carla’s realty company.

  The clapping has subsided, and I see one of the waiters bringing a tray with a bowl of peanut butter, a spoon and bread to the podium. The first taste test!

  This is why I came to Russia. To be a noble wife, to see my husband respected and a
pplauded. And in a moment he’ll turn to me with those baby blues and in them I’ll see the gratitude, the love.

  I hold my breath as Katrina takes the spoon. However, instead of scooping it out onto her bread, she plops it in her mouth. Smiling, she looks up at Chase.

  And starts to gag.

  Her smile vanishes, she drops the microphone, grabs her throat with one hand, Chase with the other.

  A few titters ripple through the crowd, but as tries to swallow, her mouth opening to no noise, the audience begins to gasp.

  And when she collapses into my husband’s arms, to a storm of flashing lights and Russian garble, I see Chase look up at me, a stricken look on his face.

  Woman killed by Peanut Butter.

  Now, you have to admit, I can really surpass.

  From: Josey Anderson

  Josey@netmail.moscow.ru

  To: Jasmine Snodbrecker

  MJSnodbrecker@rr.mn

  Subject: I miss you

  Dear Jasmine,

  Well, I’ve done it. Remember when I said I understood God’s wisdom in putting me with Chase and sending me to Russia?

  Well, not so much, anymore.

  First, let me tell you that spring has arrived in Moscow, complete with early lilacs—I’m starting to miss that tree in our yard under our bedroom window—and the occasional crocuses. I can smell the return of life in the air—the fragrances of grass, flowers, even street vendors cooking up fried grease sandwiches, called Chiboriki. We’ll work out the recipe when I get home—I’m telling you, there is nothing better than a hot Chiboriki! Well, with the exception of one of your homemade lamb pasties. All this spring air has made the last month bearable.

  Slightly.

  First, I look like a hippo. Seriously. And to confirm it, the only time I feel good is in the bath, where I float. On land, I can’t see my feet, my back hurts all the time, I can’t walk down the street without losing my breath, I sleep about twenty minutes at a pop, in between bathroom breaks, and I think I have varicose veins! I don’t get it. We have the same genes, the same body type—almost. Okay, I wish. I don’t think “bigger boned” is a nice thing to say about someone. And we have generally the same eating habits. I mean, you ate kringle when you were pregnant, right? Maybe not all in one sitting, but still, over time, you consumed the same portion. So why do I look like I’m carrying Hippo Baby? I’m telling you, this kid must be fifteen pounds. I’m humongous. Even Luka, my very hot E.R. doc, seemed surprised last week at my doctor’s appointment. Of course, his solution was to cut my food down to potatoes and tea.

  Just tell me I’m not giving birth to a Guinness Book baby. My fear is that they’ll measure me the second I get on the plane and even if my papers say I’m only eight months along, they’ll give me the boot and I’ll end up having this baby on an eighteenth-century delivery table in front of half of Moscow being offered a shot of vodka for pain management.

  I wanna go home.

  Which brings me back to the Peanut Butter Fiasco. I told you about my/our brilliant idea, right? We had an unveiling party two weeks ago, including press and bigwigs, and wouldn’t you know it, but the taste tester was allergic to peanuts! Nearly choked to death in front of a hundred people. She collapsed on stage as her throat swelled and the Moscow Times got a great shot of Chase giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. That was my favorite part. Thankfully, one of the Americans—actually Chase’s boss’s wife, Janet—carries an EpiPen, an epinephrine auto-injector. Which bought the Peanut Choker enough time for the paramedics to get there. Good thing she wasn’t dying or anything. Seems to me that an hour for a fast-response team isn’t so fast.

  We made every paper in Moscow, plus one in St. Pete, and even the television news for the next two days.

  The best part is that Chase’s order of two tons of peanuts arrived the very next day. Ready for massive distribution.

  No, wait, the best part is that Bertha, to crown the event, reminded Chase that she thought the idea was a bad one all along and that if he’s wise, he’ll cut his losses—probably meaning me—and spend every waking moment the next two months coming up with a new idea. Which, I’m sure she hopes includes sleeping at WorldMar…. Chase, of course is thrilled with this new set of events/adventures/challenges. And although he doesn’t blame me, I can see defeat in his eyes. He’s mentioned returning to Gull Lake twice and once asked me how hard it might be to clean a pool. Watching my man break before me and not being able to help him is worse than the fact I can only eat a spoonful of caviar in one sitting before getting heartburn. And, deep inside, I have this fear that Chase thinks he’ll never be able to support his wife and soon-to-be family. That he’ll end up like his father, hating his life.

  I have to admit, he’s not the only one thinking that thought.

  Meanwhile, the orphanage I’m working at, and trying unsuccessfully to raise funding for, has begun a baby-stealing program, and my friend Sveta is one of the victims. And my coworker Daphne thinks I’m so wonderful she’s broken up with her boyfriend. Okay, that didn’t make much sense, did it? Well, just to set you straight, Daphne thinks I’m the Proverbs 31 wife, which is so far from the truth it can send me into fits of hysterical, sobbing, get-me-committed laughter. But she can’t see it.

  I mentioned meeting up with my ex-grunge friend Caleb again, didn’t I? Daphne’s brokenhearted ex-boyfriend who doesn’t let a week go by without calling me to tell me just how brokenhearted he is. Well, the first week I was here, he asked me if God might have sent me to Russia to teach me how much He loves me. Which has me thinking now…where’s the love?

  I’ve been reading in Ephesians this year, and of late I’ve been stuck particularly on one line: “…to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge…”

  What does it mean to know a type of love that surpasses knowledge? Does it mean to feel it in our hearts, not just know it in our brains? Because I’m not feeling it. In fact, right now I’m reduced to the Jesus-loves-me-this-I-know-because-the-Bible-tells-me-so kind of thinking.

  I don’t expect you to have the answers. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time asking God these very questions, in between pleading for Him to fix all this. I just wanted to tell you that I miss you. I wish I were home. Or I wish you were here. Whatever.

  Love,

  Josey the Hippo.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I can fix this

  My life as I know it is over. Because today I discovered that I like Chase’s Scary Pants.

  Namely because they are the only thing left that fits me. Scary Pants and an oversize gray T-shirt with Gull Lake Gas and Oil written on the front. But, somehow, wearing them makes me feel as if Chase is with me. Sorta. To accentuate my appearance, the hot water has been turned off for the entire city—now that winter is over, so is bathing, apparently—while the Moscow plumbing department works on the pipes. Little known fact: all utilities—gas, water, sewer, electricity, heat—are run by the city and flow out from one central location. Which means that when the heat or hot water goes off, we all suffer en masse. You can imagine how fun it is to ride public transportation during these times of the year. I haven’t been able to wash my hair this morning due to the freezing take-my-scalp-off temperature of the cold water. So, I comb back my hair and put on a baseball cap. It’s black-and-white and says Gull Lake Gulls.

  At least I’m thematic—Gull Lake Bum. Thankfully, I only have to go out to the International Food Store where I’m going to scrounge up some Jell-O for the WorldMar May 9 picnic. May 9th is Russia’s “We beat the Nazis” victory day. I tried once to point out that maybe there might have been a few other countries involved in that world event—i.e. England and America. But it fell on deaf ears.

  The good news is that the event is not being held at the Galeria, but at Gorky Park. During the day. And I’m bringing a Jell-O salad. With bananas and pineapple. The recipe is on the back of the orange Jell-O box—and mistakenly listed as d
essert—which I read when I bought the red Jell-O at Christmas. Now, just because half my Jell-O turned out runny and the other half rock hard doesn’t mean I can’t make a good Jell-O salad. I was under stress. I had a turkey to bake. Which turned out well, even if we did eat it cold. I can do orange Jell-O.

  The only thing I don’t love about this day’s activities, aside from my attire, is the fact that every time I go to the International Food Store, not only do I spend about three months salary on such things as Lucky Charms, Oreo cookies and Doritos, but I have to enter through the gauntlet of begging gray-eyed babushkas or young children, clothed in the grime of the street. I’d like to give each of them enough to buy bread, but never seem to have enough rubles to go around.

  I did briefly entertain the idea of asking Sveta to pick up the Jell-O, but frankly, my language skills don’t extend that far. Besides, Sveta’s appearance at my flat has been spotty at best over the past few weeks, evidence that perhaps she has other employment opportunities. Which I’m hoping includes a God-given solution to her problem. I even checked into paying her bill myself, but even our meager nest egg (to be used in case of emergency) won’t cover Ryslan’s bill for the last year. Nor will it solve her ongoing problem of day care and cash flow. There has to be a way. Please, Lord.

  In the meantime, I’ve decided it’s the perfect chance to hone those cooking skills.

  I can’t wait to get back to the land of fast food and microwave dinners.

  I slip on my Birkenstock sandals, which seem to be the only footwear that fit my elephant feet and ride the elevator down. It’ll be a quick ride to the International Store with Thug, and in my disguise, no one will even see me. In the meantime, I’ve run a bath and plugged in the heating coil, draping it in the tub to heat the water. Don’t panic—it’s supposed to work this way. Although yes, I have to admit, the concept does sound contrary to everything I learned about electricity and water.

  I get outside and raise my face to the sun. The sky is blue beyond the high-rises, and I feel a hint of summer in the warm breezes. Only five weeks until we head home, two weeks after Memorial Day weekend. And then another two weeks or a month and Junior is born. What Chase doesn’t know is that I contacted Carla and she found us the cutest rental in town, a two-bedroom bungalow overlooking the lake—the colonial was taken. And, I wrote Myrtle, who will let me write freelance from home. Even the pool has an opening, according to the online Gull Lake Gazette Want Ads.