To expand on the favorably changed subject, Mary asked Tatiana if she had any complications having Janie at thirty-nine. Anthony wanted to know if it was possible for women, even doctors, to talk about things other than breasts and childbirth at the Thanksgiving table. Yes, let’s talk about quench guns instead, said Harry. No, Tatiana replied to Mary, no complications—and then stared at Pasha until he rolled his eyes, turned to Mary, and said, “What did I tell you earlier? You don’t listen, do you?” They were forced to tell everyone they were expecting a baby. The family was surprised and pleased. Alexander opened another bottle of Napa wine.
Washington was completely tongue-tied. (Perhaps it was the tongue piercing, Tatiana thought.) He could do no better than answer the family’s questions in monosyllables. Even shiny-eyed Rebecca became frustrated. They left him alone and asked questions of Kerri instead, who was a much better public speaker, was soft-spoken, laughed easily and was pleasant to look at.
After a protracted throat clearing, Washington did finally speak. “Mrs. Barrington—”
“Please. Call me Tatiana.”
An impossibility. Washington didn’t call her anything when he continued, “Rebecca, um, told me you both, you two, you and your husband, um, were from Russia. Have you, um, gone back since—all the, you know, changes there?”
Tatiana told Washington that for their fiftieth wedding anniversary gift seven years ago, the children did pitch in and buy them two white night weeks in St. Petersburg, but they ended up not going.
“You didn’t, um, want to go?” asked Washington.
Tatiana didn’t know what to say. Eto bylo, bylo i proshlo/vse proshlo/ i viugoy zamelo . . .
It was Alexander who answered Washington. “We almost went,” he said, “but we’d already been to Leningrad, you see, and we heard about this place, right in the United States, that also had protracted nights and shining lights—but also rivers that ran through hotels, and circuses and jumping tigers, and indoor rollercoasters, and—what else, Tania?”
“I don’t know. Free drinks? Indoor smoking? Cheap food? Interesting things on television?”
“Yes, and poker.” Alexander smiled at his kids. “The thought of their mother in that cauldron of decadence was a shock to our grown children, but we thought we’d try it once, just for a lark, so we exchanged Leningrad for two weeks at the MGM-Grand.” And then he smiled at Tatiana. “Tania didn’t do too bad, did you? Beginner’s luck, they say.”
Tatiana assented. “Las Vegas is a fascinating place,” she said casually. “We’re thinking of taking a little trip back.” She glanced at Alexander. So what if they take that little trip once a month? Las Vegas makes her smile and forget the remorse and the impossibility of seeing with old weakened eyes the streets of their once life that have become diminished by time, but which their old weakened hearts still see undiminished. All they have to do is close their eyes. For it is Leningrad, the death of everything, that was also the birth of everything: every ocotillo and wolfberry they plant today was borne out of the bombed-out sunlit streets of the city yesterday that the soul can’t bury, can’t hide, can’t drive away.
Washington whistled. “You know, I’ve never met anyone who’s been, um, you know, married fifty-seven years,” he said. “I’m quite . . . impressed. My mother has been married for twenty-five years.” He paused. “But to three different husbands, with several boyfriends and some breaks in between.”
“I told Washington, Grammy,” Rebecca said with a giggle, “that it was love at first sight with you two, and he said he didn’t believe it because he doesn’t believe in love in first sight.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Washington. “I think it’s something at first sight, just not necessarily love—” And broke off suddenly, turning deep red. The table went quiet. The grown children glanced at their parents uncomfortably; Tatiana and Alexander glanced at each other with amusement; Anthony glared at Rebecca who glared at Washington.
Tommy came back and asked Washington if he wanted to go—and Washington jumped up and flew out—“. . . swimming,” finished Tommy.
Rebecca apologized and said she didn’t know what was wrong with him. “He is so twitchy tonight. He is usually very sweet.”
Alexander coughed fakely. Under the table Tatiana kicked him. To her daughter, she said, “Janie, your friend Kerri must know quite a bit about us because she’s not asking us any of the usual questions.” Where did you meet? How did you escape? What happened in Vietnam? And she didn’t peer into their faces as though looking for traces of things that could not be politely asked for, which is what Washington had been doing all day. Kerri didn’t do any of that.
Kerri, rosy and pretty, blushed and chuckled. “Both Jane and Vicky have told me a bit,” she admitted. “The lore is quite intimidating. I mean, I’m just a schoolteacher. I know Little League dads and librarians.”
“Little League dads can be very intimidating,” said Tatiana. “You’ve never met our friend, Sam Gulotta.”
“How is he feeling? Perhaps, he’ll fly up for Christmas?” asked Jane. “Kerri can meet him then.”
“I don’t know generals, or presidential advisors, or POWs,” Kerri continued, clearing her throat, looking slightly faint of heart. “But for what it’s worth,” she said, “not being a Harvard alum and all, I’m not a cynic yet. I believe in love at first sight.”
This made everyone fall in a pause, but not for long because Jane exclaimed happily, “And Kerri plays a fantastic guitar!”
Even Anthony laughed. “Does she indeed?” he said, with great amusement staring at a befuddled and embarrassed Kerri.
Rachel and Rebecca studied Kerri. “Does she indeed?” they said.
Before Anthony’s open smile was analyzed further—or God forbid returned—by Kerri, Tatiana stood from the table signaling the end of dinner, and to her daughter whispered, “Child, you have absolutely no shame.”
“That’s right, Holy Mother,” said Janie. “None whatsoever.”
The men were dispatched to play pool, or poker, or watch TV, and Rachel and Rebecca, reluctantly trying to be adults, went into the kitchen with the women to clean up. Tatiana wasn’t cleaning. No one would let her lift even her own plate. They sat her down, gave her a cup of tea, and she directed the Tupperware and the plastic wrap over the leftovers. The kids were all wildly in the pool, all except for Samson, who was in the kitchen climbing wet into Amy’s arms, and for Washington— who was now dressed and sitting damply at the table next to Tatiana.
Rebecca, already bored with cleaning up after five minutes, threw herself over the table and said, “Grammy, Washington really likes your photographs.”
Washington, who was sitting two feet away from Tatiana, said nothing.
“Well,” said Tatiana, “tell Washington thank you.”
“He is very observant, and he pointed out you had all kinds of photos but no wedding ones of you and Grandpa. He wanted to know why that was.”
“Washington wanted to know this, did he?” Tatiana said, her bemused eyes on Washington.
“Has Washington been to every wall in my house? And if so, ask him what he was doing in my bedroom.”
Washington, as red as the spring barrel cactus, stuttered and said, “No—that’s right—perhaps—I’m just saying—yes, perhaps there.”
“They’re not there either,” said Rebecca.
“I know. I told him it was because the camera technology didn’t come to Russia in the eighteenth century when you got married.”
“You know so much,” said Tatiana.
“But do you know what he told me?” With a big mischievous smile, Rebecca lowered her voice.
“He thinks it’s because you and Grandpa never actually got married.”
“He thinks this, does he?”
“Isn’t that simply delicious?” Rebecca exclaimed.
“Becky,” said Washington, “do you always have to tell everybody absolutely everything you’re thinking?”
“Y
es!” said Rebecca.
“So let me understand,” said Tatiana, “not only does Washington think my husband didn’t love me when he met me, but that he also didn’t marry me. Is that right?”
“That’s right!” Rebecca said joyously. “Well, why should he have married you? He didn’t love you!” She pinched Tatiana, poked her, tickled her. “Come on, Grammy, save your family’s honor. Prove to Washington Grandpa loved you and married you. Or give us something to really gossip about.”
“Yes,” said Tatiana, “because usually you have absolutely nothing to say.” She was infinitely amused by the delectable Rebecca.
Alexander and Anthony walked into the kitchen, smelling of cigarette smoke. “Mayday, Mayday!” Jane said. “Men in the kitchen during clean-up.”
“I just wanted to make sure you haven’t moved from the table,”
Alexander said to Tatiana, patting her shoulder as he walked past. “I know you.” He picked up Jane’s sleeping baby from the infant seat and sat next to her.
Rachel turned to Anthony. “Daddy, did you hear? Beck’s new boyfriend thinks you were an illegitimate child.”
“Oh, isn’t he a prize,” said Anthony.
Alexander twinkled at Tatiana, and everybody hooted it up, except for Washington, who now looked mortified and terrified, sinking into the chair.
Rachel and Rebecca were egging Tatiana on. Amy, Mary, and Jane were cleaning up and egging Tatiana on. Kerri was helping get the dessert out and saying nothing.
Alexander said lightly, “Anthony, go restore your mother’s good name. Go get the pictures for the girls if you want.” He glanced at Tatiana. “What? Do you want them all to think I didn’t make an honest woman out of you?”
Rachel and Rebecca yelped with excitement. “I can’t believe it, we’re going to see your wedding photos!” squealed Rachel. “I take everything back, Becks. Washington is brilliant. It’s all because of him and his insinuating provocations. No one has ever seen the wedding photos. We didn’t even know for sure they existed!”
Now the infant was awake, and crying.
“I just want you to know, Grammy,” Rebecca said mock-solemnly, “I defended you; I told Washington you and Grandpa had a crazy love once. Isn’t that right?”
“If you say so, dear.”
Rebecca threw her arms around Alexander. “Grandpa, tell me, isn’t that right?”
“What are you, writing a book?”
“Yes!” She laughed. “Yes, I am. A book about you and Grammy for my senior thesis.” She smothered Alexander’s head. “I’m going to fill it up with things you think we’re too young to know,” she whispered, then smothering Tatiana, practically sitting on her lap.
“If you’re very good, Grammy,” she murmured affectionately, kissing Tatiana’s face, “and show this aspiring novelist the nice wedding photo to fire up my fervid imagination, I’m going to tell you what Washington really said about you and Grandpa, and he is going to help me write my book of love.”
“A book of love?” said Tatiana. “Well, I for one, can’t wait.”
After loud overtures from his daughters, Anthony finally left the house and went up the winding path to the “museum,” to the mobile home where he and his parents had lived from 1949 to 1958.
It has been left untouched. The furniture, tables, the paint on the walls, the ’50s cabinets, the dressers, the closets, are all unchanged, remaining as they once were.
And in her closet in the bedroom, past the nurse’s uniform, far away in the right-hand corner on the top shelf, lies the black backpack that contains Tatiana’s soul.
Every once in a while when she can stand it—or when she can’t stand it—she looks through it. Alexander never looks through it. Tatiana knows what Anthony is about to see. Two cans of Spam in the pack. A bottle of vodka. The nurse’s uniform she escaped from the Soviet Union in that hangs in plastic in the museum closet, next to the PMH nurse’s uniform she nearly lost her marriage in. The Hero of the Soviet Union medal in the pack, in a hidden pocket. The letters she received from Alexander—including the last one from Kontum, which, when she heard about his injuries, she thought would be the last one. That plane ride to Saigon in December 1970 was the longest twelve hours of Tatiana’s life. Francesca and her daughter Emily took care of Tatiana’s kids. Vikki, her good and forgiven friend, came with her, to bring back the body of Tom Richter, to bring back Anthony.
In the backpack lies an old yellowed book, The Bronze Horseman and Other Poems. The pages are so old, they splinter if you turn them. You cannot leaf, you can only lift. And between the fracturing pages, photographs are slotted like fragile parchment leaves. Anthony is supposed to find two of these photographs and bring them back. It should take him only a few minutes.
Cracked leaves of Tania before she was Alexander’s. Here she is at a few months old, held by her mother, Tania in one arm, Pasha in the other. Here she is, a toddler in the River Luga, bobbing with Pasha. And here a few years older, lying in the hammock with Dasha. A beaming, pretty, dark-haired Dasha is about fourteen. Here is Tania, around ten, with two dangling little braids, doing a fantastic one-armed handstand on top of a tree stump. Here are Tania and Pasha in the boat together, Pasha threateningly raising the oar over her head. Here is the whole family. The parents, side by side, unsmiling, Deda holding Tania’s hand. Babushka holding Pasha’s, Dasha smiling merrily in front.
Someday Tatiana must tell Alexander how glad she is that her sister Dasha did not die without once feeling what it was like to love.
Alexander. Here he is, before he was Tatiana’s, at the age of twenty, getting his medal of valor for bringing back Yuri Stepanov during the 1940 Winter War. Alexander is in his dress Soviet uniform, snug against his body, his stance at-ease and his hand up to his temple in teasing salute. There is a gleaming smile on his face, his eyes are carefree, his whole man-self full of breathtaking, aching youth. And yet, the war was on, and his men had already died and frozen and starved... and his mother and father were gone... and he was far away from home, and getting farther and farther, and every day was his last—one way or another, every day was his last. And yet, he smiles, he shines, he is happy.
Anthony is gone so long that his daughters say something must have happened to him. But then he appears. Like his father, he has learned well the poker face and outwardly remains imperturbable. Just as a man should be, thinks Tatiana. A man doesn’t get to be on the President’s National Security Council without steeling himself to some of life’s little adversities. A man doesn’t go through what Anthony went through without steeling himself to some of life’s little adversities.
In this hand Anthony carries two faded photographs, flattened by the pages of the book, grayed by the passing years.
The kitchen falls quiet, even Rachel and Rebecca are breathless in anticipation.
“Let’s see...” they murmur, gingerly picking up the fragile, sepia pictures with their long fingers. Tatiana is far away from them. “Do you want to see them with us, Grammy? Grandpa?”
“We know them well,” Tatiana says, her voice catching on something. “You kids go ahead.”
The grandchildren, the daughter, the son, the guests circle their heads, gaping. “Washington, look! Just look at them! What did we tell you?”
Shura and Tania, 23 and 18, just married. In full bloom, on the steps of the church near Lazarevo, he in his Red Army dress uniform, she in her white dress with red roses, roses that are black in the monochrome photo. She is standing next to him, holding his arm. He is looking into the camera, a wide grin on his face. She is gazing up at him, her small body pressed into him, her light hair at her shoulders, her arms bare, her mouth slightly parted.
“Grammy!” Rebecca exclaims. “I’m positively blushing. Look at the way you’re coming the spoon on Grandpa!” She turns to Alexander from the island.
“Grandpa, did you catch the way she is looking at you?”
“Once or twice,” replies Alexander.
The other c
olorless photo. Tania and Shura, 18 and 23. He lifts her in the air, his arms wrapped around her body, her arms wrapped around his neck, their fresh faces tilted, their enraptured lips in a breathless open kiss. Her feet are off the ground.
“Wow, Grammy,” murmurs Rebecca. “Wow, Grandpa.”
Tatiana is busily wiping the granite island.
“You want to know what my Washington said about you two?” Rebecca says, not looking away from the photograph. “He called you an adjacent Fibonacci pair!” She giggles. “Isn’t that sexy?”
Tatiana shakes her head, despite herself glancing at Washington with reluctant affection. “Just what we need, another math expert. I don’t know what you all think math will give you.”
And Janie comes over to her father who is sitting at the kitchen table, holding her baby son, bends over Alexander, leans over him, kisses him, her arm around him, and murmurs into his ear, “Daddy, I’ve figured out what I’m going to call my baby. It’s so simple.”
“Fibonacci?”
She laughs. “Why, Shannon, of course. Shannon.”
The fire is on. It’s dark outside and still. They’ve had dessert; Kerri’s blueberry pie was so good that Anthony asked for seconds, and not only did he ask for seconds but he asked what other kind of pie she made and if she played acoustic or electric guitar, and whether she knew how to play his favorite: “Carol of the Bells.” Amy and Mary wanted to know where she bought the pie crust because it was delicious, and Kerri turning red said she made the crust herself. “You made the pie crust yourself?” asked an incredulous Amy. “Who does that?”
The family settled in to louder pockets of familiarity. From the other rooms of the house came noise, of smaller children fighting, a pinball machine, of a pool cue being thrown as a javelin, of tickling, of baseball card trading, of glasses falling on the floor, of older girls maternally screaming, “If you don’t stop it this instant, I swear, I’ll....”
Finally the fifteen long-haired young collect in the gallery around a karaoke machine and while their parents and grandparents and guests sit in captivity and cheer, they belt out song after song with glee, indifferently out of tune, ecstatically out of time. Rachel and Rebecca put on quite a show shouting at the top of their voices they want to be young the rest of their life, how good it feels to be alive, and they want to be eighteen till they die.
The Summer Garden Page 98