Everything’s Coming Up Josey (15 page)

Words from the Tiger Woman? It piques my interest. I so don't want to fight with her, and it makes me more than sad that we're not bosom buddies, in an abstract, roomies-should-be-buddies way. I walk into the next room, crunching my carrot. She's leaning back into the cushions, arms across her ample bosom. I have a similarly ample bosom, but it's pretty much swallowed up by lots of ample other stuff.

“You have a package,” she says.

A package? A package! My heart leaps and I nearly bite the inside of my mouth. “Who from?”

“Not so fast. Who told you to use my PO Box?”

What? I frown at her. She gives me a CIA interrogator look (I can spot them now, after the summer with my mother) and apparently decides I'm truly baffled because she sighs and I see some of the fight leave her face. With her foot, she nudges a shoe box sitting on the top of our black glass coffee table. “They do that sometimes—just see the English writing and stick it in the closest American's box. I stood in line for an hour today to get this, and it wasn't even for me.”

Oops. “Thanks, Tracey. That was really nice of you.”

She considers me. Doesn't smile, flops back on the sofa. “Where have you been all day?”

“I went to McDonald's with a friend from church.” I'm looking at the package, dying to open it, but feeling that it might be sorta rude. So, with great and admirable restraint, I set it on my lap. “Then we hung out at Gorky Park.”

She takes a hunk of her hair, starts to separate it. “Rick wants me to move in with him.”

My gut reaction is
no!
Then, shamefully, Yes! Yes! Yes! But, I'm a missionary, and it's not about me. “Are you sure that's the wisest thing to do?” I try and say it gently. Because I don't want my rebellious feelings of joy to bubble forth.

To my utter surprise, she sighs. What? No jumping to her feet in defense? No appalled Russian comments about my overly moralistic stance? “I'm not sure he loves me.”

Uh, that's a big no-brainer. Because even I can see that it's all about Neo. He's constantly checking his hair in the mirror behind our door, fixing his sunglasses (before he leaves the house?
Please.
) and giving Tracey a long look over before they leave, as if assessing her worthiness for his company. And, a guy who loves her wouldn't be playing house before he put a ring on her finger. Because, true love respects, cherishes and
waits.
And that's not a line.

But I don't say all this. “I would miss you,” I hear instead. And then I search the room for
who said that.
Me, miss the Bagel Burglar? But, maybe I would. Because I've been praying for Tracey for two weeks, and maybe God is giving me a glimpse past the animal skins into her world. My gut says she seems just a bit…unhappy.

“You'd miss me?” she repeats, as if she, too, is unsure if those words came from my mouth.

“Yes. And besides…well, do you see anything incongruent with you running an anti-trafficking program and…ah, setting the example you are with your boss?”

I've hit a nerve because she flinches, looks away, at the encroaching darkness outside our window.

I'm scraping up all my courage here, ready to launch my final volley. I owe it to my roomie to speak the truth, right? “Rick…might just be out for a sure thing, Tracey. And, well, you're worth more than that.”

She looks at me, eyes wide. Then they glisten and suddenly she's standing. Is it to give me a hug? Finally, a true friend, who will speak the tru—

She storms into her room and slams the door behind her.

Oops.

Custom's Declaration

1 1-lb. bag Reese's Peanut Butter Cups

2 pair of wool socks

1 bag Tootsie Pops

1 small bag coffee

1 magazine

I eat the entire bag of Reese's cups. They're a little salty, due to the tears, but they make a great supper—all that peanut butter protein.

O
ne would think, living in a resort community in northern Minnesota, that I might have learned to fish. Gull Lake is a magnet for anglers looking to score and we have more than a few pictures on our restaurant wall of grubby patrons holding the leviathan of the freshwater ponds. I mostly don't like to fish because I don't like to
touch
fish. They're…well, did you know they salivate through their skin? Now, imagine
that
touching your hands. My point exactly. And, well, I can't get their glassy eyes out of my head. On a few joyous occasions I've walked in on my mother cleaning fish, and the smell is enough to make a possum run.

The sad irony in all this is that I really enjoy the taste of fish. A walleye fried in butter is a delight that probably should be on God's lists of sins. Usually, if I enter the process of fish preparation at the point of presentation—pan-fried walleye with a glaze of glorified butter and a side of fresh broccoli—I'm fine.

I should have recognized danger the moment I opened the door. No, before that, actually, from the smell seeping under the front door. And then hurled myself from the balcony.

Instead I gape for a half second while Auntie Milla launches herself across the threshold. She's obviously upped her ammo from liver Bismarcks, which I'm starting to sort of look forward to, in a way a person might enjoy their daily ingestion of bran. But, until my Hot Date (and food!) with Matthew, I'm subsisting and liver Bismarcks are better than, oh, say…air?

She's grinning. I know, because I'm nearly blinded from the sun off her teeth.
“Pashulsta,”
she says, and I now understand enough of the code to know it's
please
she's saying, not
you're welcome
. She holds out a carcass of something wrapped in newspaper.

I take it like one might accept the remains of roadkill. I lay the offering on the counter. Maybe it'll just…decay right there and some day I can sweep away the bones.

“Spaceeba,”
I lie.

“Pashulsta,”
she says. (Get the code? You're welcome? I'm deciding that if I only have to learn a few words, maybe this is a good one? Sorta double duty?) She then stands there and smiles. She's wearing a turquoise-and-brown housecoat, gold slippers and her hair's coiled atop her head.

Uh-oh. I'm fresh out of Reese's Cups, bagels, and my carrot supply is dwindling quickly. She's got me over a barrel. Which, perhaps is exactly where she wants me. Without a return gift I have to
meet her grandson!

In a flash of brilliance, I see her thinly veiled plot. I may talk like a pre-schooler but it doesn't mean that I can't comprehend even the most sublime of ploys.

I am not without my own resources, however.

Tootsie Pops.

I hold up my hand in a sort of “wait here” gesture and dash for my room. I'll give her a brown one. To match her attire? But guilt grabs me around the throat and at the last second I grab a grape. That innate Minnesota niceness gets me every time!

She looks at it with an upraised eyebrow. I unwrap the brown one, and then, showing her, put it in my mouth.

She mimics me, and a second later, I get an approving smile. Just call me Josey the Diplomat. See, they should invite me to the embassy!

I motion her into the flat, not sure where Tracey is. Since my revelation two days ago, she's been avoiding me like SARS. I have a feeling she might be giving Rick's proposal a trial run.

Auntie Milla sits, runs her hand over the vinyl, all the while slurping her Tootsie Pop. I'm wondering what the grape is going to do for the gold teeth. Not a pretty visual.

I'm not completely helpless here, by the way. I've taken Russian classes for nearly three weeks. And used a bit of it at the market, so I decide to launch out to new pastures.

“Kak dela?”
I ask. It means “how are you,” and while I'm slightly terrified of the answer, the Norwegian inside me can't help but ask.

She rattles off a litany, of which I think I make out,
medicine, Putin
and something I think just might be a swear word. Oh, boy. I nod, though, and add concern on my face. The medicine part could be bad.

We sit there, more silence, more slurping.

She asks me a question. I stare at her, pause as if in thought while I fight to find even one word I might latch on to. It only takes one. I can conjure up all sorts of options from one word. For example, the word
rabota
might be a question about my work, and I could respond with a
horosho
(meaning good), and then maybe give her a tract. Or, the word
doma
(home) might be something about my feeling comfortable here in Russia, or better yet, a question about Gull Lake. At which I can produce a few pictures and try out some new words, and then eventually show her my church. And give her a tract. (See how I think like a missionary? Everything boils down to evangelism.)

However, I can't find that magic word in her sentence. She smiles, slurps, asks again. Oh, I hate surrender. But I finally utter the magic
“Ya Ne Panimiayo.”
Which means…you guessed it—“I don't understand.” This phrase, however, is misleading. Because, if I can say, clearly, in Russian, that I don't understand, it sorta lessens the impact of my words, right?

She nods, then rises, and out of me gusts a nearly audible whoosh of relief. As much as I want to tell this woman Jesus loves her, I can't find my hook. But the sudden grip of despair feels nearly suffocating as I realize how fully I've failed her. Aunt Milla, lost forever in the abyss because I can't latch on to her babble. I should give her a tract anyway.

Only, she doesn't bee-line toward the door, but for my kitchen. Opening the newspaper, she parks her Tootsie Pop in her cheek like a gopher and stares down at her offering. It's a fish, all right. I grab the door handle and nearly fall over from the smell. But she pays the fainting American no mind and rifles through my drawers until she finds a knife.

Who is that knife for, anyway…?

She's…not…going…to…

How rude would it be for me to run to my room and hang my head out of the window?

She guts the fish in one surgical move, then with two fingers, rips out the innards. That I didn't need to see. Then, two more chops and the head and fins are off. She sets them aside on the paper.

Chop, chop, chop, I have fish steaks.

She opens a cupboard, (not Tracey's! If only!) and finds a plate. She scoops up the steaks and plops them on the plate.

Slurping the Tootsie Pop (not an especially comforting sound given the moment), she examines the innards. Okay, I feel like I'm in science class and my head gets woozy. But she's on a hunt and a few moments later she grabs a coffee cup and in it goes a pouch of…oh yuck, eggs.

I'm needing to sit down, put my head between my knees. But, mercifully, she wraps up the carcass into the newspaper, then drops it into the garbage under my sink.

A garbage I'll have to empty, thanks.

But Auntie Milla isn't done, and I'm pretty sure that God knows my desperation, (after all, I finished off the cheese this morning), because she grabs a fry pan from under the counter (which suddenly begs the question—how does she know my kitchen that well? Has Tracey already been a fish victim? Or worse…a
Vovka
victim? Yuck. Now I am so not meeting him. Even with the fish gift.)

She fills the pan with a scant amount of water, and then…
turns on the stove
.

Yes. I nearly fall into a faint, and am feeling quietly stupid as I rewind her actions for later emulation. She opened a drawer, found matches (who put those there? I thought Rick had left them!) and lit one over a burner. The stove burner flamed with a whoosh.

And then there was fire.

I feel like Neanderthal girl, marveling, mouth half-open.

Auntie Milla plunks a fish steak into the water, adds a cover. She turns back to me with a smile and a look of kindness in her face.

I love her. Truly. I can actually feel tears welling behind my eyes.

Ten minutes later, I'm looking at a piece of boiled something—it looks familiarly like salmon. She puts it on a plate, gives it to me.

I can hear my stomach clapping.
“Spaceeba,”
I say.

She shrugs, and
now
she moves toward the door.

But as I let her out, she turns back, and the smile I get is pure KGB Victory. And I want to cringe. I've been had by the chief of spooks.

I owe her big.

Vovka better know how to cook.

 

I smell football air as I kick aside scattered, decaying leaves in my trek toward the Metro this late Friday afternoon, on my way to my Hot Date with Matthew. It's homecoming weekend in Gull Lake, a fact that seems to be dogging me all day, tugging out recollections like one might pull out old pictures and become tangled inside the memory of sweet smells, and the calls of old friends. I wonder if Jas and Milton will go to the game. Jas was never a fan of the gridiron, but found her niche playing the flute in the marching band.

I played the blow horn. Which isn't exactly an official MB instrument, but worked for me. It had one pitch,
loud
. And it could be used as a drumstick against the bleachers when I ran out of breath. Yes, I was a dyed-in-the-wool Gull Lake Seagulls booster. I wasn't above painting my face in two greasy stripes of gray and black, wearing a fake gray mane and standing at the top of the bleachers with my long plastic blow horn—which sounded more like a frustrated Brahma bull—and making a fool out of myself. I told myself then that I did it because of Chase. He played wide receiver, and something akin to pride would well up inside me when he jogged onto the field in his silver warrior's garb. He'd turn, wave to me in the stands and I'd blow my horn. It was our finest hour.

Now, I wonder, if it was these moments that made me shift weight, ostracized like a leper on the sidelines of the homecoming dance. Unfortunately, teenagers don't think far enough ahead (three hours?) to the grim circumstances of their actions. Thankfully, now that I remember it, Chase usually came to my rescue with at least one dance and a quick getaway.

I wonder who he's going to rescue tonight.

Ooh, that thought hurts, like a knife in the sternum. Perhaps I should remember I'm on my way to a date. A
date.
During which I will not think about Chase, about how he might look in his old letter jacket, the soft gleam in his blue eyes, especially when he smiles, one side up, sorta cute and lopsided…

I said don't!

I cut down the Metro, and being the pro I am, I breeze right through the turnstiles, and don't even glance (okay, once!) at Gulag Woman standing guard. I know she works for the KGB. I can feel it in the small hairs standing on end on my neck.

I'll just say it out loud, fast and quick, like ripping off a scab. Chase hasn't written. It's been nearly six weeks since I left Gull Lake and nada. Nil.
Nichevo.
(See how fluent I am?)

And, you know, it's okay, because I don't think about him anymore. Not really.

Okay! I'm lying. It's so not okay that the fact he hasn't written has only become an ember in my brain. What's his deal? Doesn't he know I'm serving God over here? Sacrificing? I can understand Jasmine. After all, while she can run a food processor in all speeds, and knows the use for every attachment, she still thinks a mouse is one of those things that you put peanut butter traps out for. But Chase—he's an anthropologist. Which tells me he knows humanity can not exist without their PC, especially this five-foot-three, slightly (but not as much as before!) pudgy humanity. And, accordingly, he learned to accommodate my addictions by installing AOL Instant Messenger and adding me to his contacts list. So what is his problem?

But this trip isn't about Chase.
I promise to not think about him anymore.

In fact, I'll use this angst for self-reflection. How much of this trip really has been about him? Which means, by him not writing, I'm learning…what? What exactly is God up to here?

The Metro has a hushed hum to it. People don't shout in the Metro, no one wants to get rattled and suddenly end up in the pit. I've learned a trick about the escalators, too…I turn sideways. Thus, not looking down. Caleb would be proud.

Caleb's called me twice, by the way, and once we strolled down to the American Bar and Grill and stared in the windows. We can't afford to actually eat there. Then he took me to the circus, a much more affordable event that included popcorn and dancing poodles. He even picked me up for church last week (oh, he of little faith!) and translated for me during the sermon.

Don't read anything into it. He's just a friend. A grimy little pal who makes me laugh and feel warm and happy inside. And frankly, since Tracey has decided to wear her skin prickly side out, I need all the warm and happy I can find. She's moved in, mostly, with Rick. Keeps enough skins in her closet to recloak herself like a trapper coming in from the hunt once a week.