Everything’s Coming Up Josey (16 page)

I get on the green line and surf toward the ring. Moscow Underground is a hot new mall built a stone's throw from Red Square and the Kremlin. Three stories of glitter and lights, it houses all the hip shops from Europe and America and on the mezzanine level, a pianist and an occasional jazz band. A gal just might think she's at the Mall of America if she doesn't listen to the babble of foreign language around her.

Wait! The babble of foreign languages
is
the Mall of America. I'm home, Toto!

I know all this about MU because Caleb and I prepped for this date. Because, you know, you can do that with
brothers.
I told him about Matthew just to confirm that this was an,
ahem,
date. We found the Italian restaurant and peered in that window, too.

Red-checked tablecloths, hurricane lamps, the smell of pizza. Not the height of elegance, but then again, I haven't had a pizza in nearly two months and any version of tomato sauce on a slab of bread will do it for me.

Russians do, by the way, sell pizza, via street vendors. Sort of. I let my expectations manhandle me one day and got sucked into a pizza line, only to discover it was tuna fish on a piece of Georgian
lavash
(think focaccia bread without the spices), covered in ketchup and mayonnaise and topped with a hard-boiled egg.

Someone nearly got hurt.

If I even get a whiff of tuna fish tonight…

I jump off the green line and surface to
Ohotniy Ryad.
The Kremlin and St. Basil's cathedral send long shadows across Red Square, and a gust of wind off the Volga swirls leaves around artists and other vendors holding court at the fringes. I cross the street and head past the eternal flame and down the boulevard toward MU.

This is a spoon. (Zhis iz a spyewn.)
I am running over my class notes in my head, trying to focus on the stated
why
of this event. Matthew, playing coy, hasn't hinted any further of the covert truth of our meeting—to know me better, to discover why I'm here, what makes me smile. He's been all business these past two weeks. But it's a front. Because really, we shouldn't cross any lines at work. Besides, he really is leaving on Monday, and I do have to prove I have this class well in hand. I'm positive I'll stun him with my teaching ability. I've made flashcards, games and even a song. I told you this teaching thing was a piece of cake/
kringle.

But tonight after we have the preliminaries covered, I imagine Matthew will reach across the table, his elegant hand on mine, and he'll tell me what a great job I'm doing. Even more, he'll compliment me on my outfit (as he should, because I'm wearing a nicely conservative long black skirt, and a V-neck blouse with frilled cuffs. And a pair of thick-heeled pant boots in black suede, purchased from a catalogue I found in the
Gazette
bathroom. Hot is me. Well, Missionary hot. I don't want to go overboard or anything).

In fact, Matthew will be so overcome by my, well,
hotness,
that he'll rise to his feet the first moment he sees me, delight in his dark brown eyes. He's smitten, the entire restaurant can see that, and he pulls out my chair. “I've already ordered,” he says. “Pepperoni and green peppers?”

Oh, see, we're meant to be! I smile demurely, because I don't want to give anything away, but I'm thinking, Josey Winneman, Mrs. Matthew Winneman, Mrs. Josey Winneman. Lucy Winneman, Joey Winneman, Cindy-Lou Winneman. And no one will wear poppy at the wedding, which we'll have in Gull Lake, the reception on the front lawn of Berglund Acres with the wind teasing the clouds, and the smell of lilac in the air. Of course Jas will be the maid—er, matron (ha! Doesn't that sound old?) of honor, and well, Milton…he'll wash dishes…no, no, be nice. He'll be an usher. That's thoughtful of me, right?

I wonder where Matthew is from? He seems Italian, in that dark mysterious sort of way. But I don't sense a New York accent (not that I could tell one from, say, a Scottish accent. So twang placement isn't my specialty! Sue me!).

What if he wants to live in Moscow for the rest of his life? Do I want that? Maybe we can strike a bargain? Two years in Moscow, a few in Gull Lake raising the kids, then back to Europe. I'll have to be sure and nail that down tonight.

I cross the street and walk down the ramp to the MU doors. The wind whooshes out, as if the cavern of shops takes a gulp of fresh air as I round the revolving doors.

Maybe we should invite some of the members of our English class to the wedding. Because, you know, they knew us
when.
Definitely Evgeny—he's got beautiful liquid brown eyes that make me forget my verbs. No, don't jump to any conclusions, it's just that I love eyes. They're windows to the soul, and Evgeny's soul is sweet and gentle and heroic. And we'll have to invite Vera and her sister, Lera. Vera and Lera, cute huh? Vera is studying Christian education, and Lera wants to be a Bible translator. Short brown hair cut cropped, twinkling hazel-gold eyes. Smashed together they're a size four. But they seem so close it makes my heart feel squishy and soft to see them giggle together. I call them the Sugar Twins.

And we'll invite Sergei. Sweet Sergei, who pronounces iron as I-ron. He's so skinny I feel like Helga the Amazon next to him, but he wears a kooky smile and offers to walk me home at night, which I find pathetically sweet. Because, well, I'd be the one defending
him
from the Moscow street gangs. But the thought counts on my tally sheet.

I hear piano music soaring from the mezzanine level as I descend down the escalator. I wonder why Matthew wanted to meet me here. Why didn't he pick me up, date style? We could have ridden the subway together (or, well, would he have let me surf? Or is he too refined for that? Uh-oh, this may be a glitch!).

The smell of Italy—oregano, basil, baking bread—beckons like a Frank Sinatra ballad and I feel excitement swell inside me. I didn't come to Russia to find a man, but I have to say, this is a nice accessory. A sort of reward for a job well done. God likes me, He really does!

I stroll into the restaurant, stand in the entrance for a moment, my eyes adjusting, and spot Matthew sitting on the end of a booth. He's looking fine in a black pullover and tweed jacket. He catches my eye, lifts his hand, beckons me over. Why doesn't he rise to greet me? Well, maybe his chivalry is a bit rusty. (I mean, it's hard not to let it die in the land of eat or be eaten.) I easily find a smile as I maneuver around table groupings toward him.

I see his mouth move. Is he talking to me? His eyes are on me. I glide up to the booth, pained that I didn't hear his question.

But he's
not
talking to me. My pulse hiccups only slightly as I see, sitting next to him, a woman with long golden blond hair, brown eyes and a white smile. She's dressed in a nicely conservative blue corduroy jumper, with a starched white peasant blouse and large purple beads at her neck and ears. I can't see her shoes, but they've got to be red flats from Payless.

I'm trying not to hate her, really, because she seems nice, in a schoolteacher from the eighties sort of way. But who is she, and why has she sabotaged my date?

I stand there, my legs sort of not working, like icicles (only not quite as thin), wearing my Mona Lisa smile. I look at Matthew and I hope I have “who's your friend,” in my eyes because he better make this good, the two-timing weasel. And after I'd invited Evgeny and Sergei to the wedding!

“Josey, I'm glad you could make it.” Now he rises. Numbskull. He pries himself out of the booth, and gestures to the interloper. “I'd like you to meet Rebecca.”

I hold out my hand, She wraps a tight grip around mine. “Rebecca,” I repeat, but my voice sounds like it's trapped in Siberia, along with the rest of my body. “Glad to meet you. Are you a fellow teacher with Moscow Bible Church?”

She laughs. It's more of a loud cackle. Whoops, I'm lying again! Her laughter is sort of a sweet, bouncing giggle. A Buffy-the-Amazon giggle.

“Oh, no,” she says, and somehow I feel the world spinning as she looks at Matthew, something proprietary in her eyes, a look that all women can spot from across the room. “I'm Matthew's wife.”

Of course.

I must have idiot stamped on my forehead.

 

5:30 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: I'm so stupid

Dear H,

He's Married. I can't believe it. He never mentioned a word in nearly six weeks. Pond Scum. No worse, Sewer Sludge. I'm glad today is Saturday, or I'd have ripped his eyebrows out in class. “Hair, class, can you say Hair?” (Khair!)

How could this have happened twice? Do I have a tattoo on my body somewhere that reads, “fool me”?

Josey

 

3:50 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Re: I'm so stupid

Dear No Tattoos Josey,

Not yet, but like I said a few months ago, we could arrange it. It might have been easier than flying halfway across the world. So that's two rejections in six months, not some sort of record or anything. Besides, Matthew was too stuffy for you.

H, the Wise One

 

6:03 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: Re: I'm so stupid

Dear Wise One,

Too stuffy? He was tall, dark and Italian—and aren't they known for their, um, expressiveness? Besides, I like Italian. I love pasta and pizza and even calzones, (although I hate French bread pizza, but then again, that might be French, not Italian). Most importantly, he was a missionary. Having “like goals” counts for a lot. I read that in our “finding the perfect mate” class at church.

By the way, you were all for this idea, remember?

Wondering Why I Listened in Moscow

 

3:23 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Re: I'm so stupid

Dear Wondering,

I was for you changing your life. Tattoos were included in that advisement. And having like goals does count. Like—I'll meet you at Big Joes for ribs on Friday night. And let's pick up a couple Schwarzenegger movies tonight. Or even, wanna go see the Painful Dozen play down at the Howling Wolf? The rest is beyond my purview to answer. But I can say that WinnAMan is not a last name for you. Josey Wins a Man? Yuck. Consider yourself saved from fifty years of mortification.

Maybe you should let love come to you. (Oh brother, see what you made me do? I sound like Air Supply. It's too late for these conversations. I'm going to bed.)

Snoozing

 

7: 24 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: WAIT!!!!!

Let love come to me? What if I end up like Myrtle, collecting lawn art, or like Uncle Albert, sleeping in my barn with cattle to keep warm? Shouldn't I be just a little panicked? So far love has done an end-run around me and someone, no names here, has forgotten I exist. I am Vapor Josey, the not quite woman, not quite ghost. I can't even haunt someone with memories!

By the way, speaking of, did you go to Homecoming?

Love,

Vapor Girl

 

4:39 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: Re: WAIT!!!!!

Dear VG,

Yes, I went. For some reason, Jasmine's wedding started this cosmic nudge back to Gull Lake. I went to the game. Wore silver paint (oh, thank you so much for that addiction), and resurrected the blow horn. We won, 17-12. Good game.

 

7:58 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: My Favorite Person!

Please, please, please!!

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

 

5:11 a.m.

From: “H”

To: “Josey Berglund”

Subject: You're in Moscow, remember?

Yes, he was there. I'm going to bed.

 

8:26 p.m.

From: “Josey Berglund”

To: “H”

Subject: Why don't you just drive bamboo under my nails?

He was with her, wasn't he? Missy, the Holiday Girl. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!