The Silence of Trees (21 page)

"What was that for?" he asked. "Tell me so I can do it again."

I smiled. "Just because."

We sat there in silence until the sun set.

Pavlo walked in from the wind, smelling of the rain. He went to the cupboard to get a mug and sat down across from me at the table. I could feel him staring at me as I went through some paperwork. I ignored his gaze and kept sorting. I had been trying to move on, but even after burning the envelope, I was plagued by "what ifs?" Had it not been for the rain, would I have gone with Stephan and abandoned everyone and everything? Or did the rain somehow protect me from an even worse fate? What if I had never left the house?

"Can you stop what you’re doing and talk with me?" Pavlo asked.

"What?" I looked up at my husband.

"Talk with me."

Could he be sick? "What’s wrong, Pavlo?"

I put aside my papers and poured his coffee.

"Nothing’s wrong," he said. "I just wanted you to sit and talk with me. We don’t do much of that anymore."

He was right. When the kids still lived in the house, every Saturday morning we would sit and drink coffee and talk. I would come home from work, and he’d have the coffee ready for me, along with some kind of fresh baked sweets that he had picked up at the bakery, usually chocolate.

We talked about work and our friends, the house and our kids. We compared notes about how they were doing in school, what their challenges and accomplishments were that week. When the kids moved away, we still talked about work and eventually our grandchildren. Then we both retired, and the ritual stopped.

The kids were the glue that kept us together. Without them to discuss, we only had work. Without work to discuss, we stopped making an effort. I would talk with Ana or the neighborhood ladies. He would talk with his chess buddies and the other old men in the neighborhood. The years passed, and we stopped talking to each other. Really talking.

I hadn’t thought about our Saturday coffees in years.

"What’s on your mind, Pavlo?"

"Do you think the domovyk is angry at us?" he asked, reaching for the sugar.

I laughed. "Why do you ask such a question?" I spread honey on my bread.

"Well, I can’t find my glasses, my left slipper, or my toenail clippers."

"You’ve probably just misplaced them, old man, like you ‘lost’ your keys next to the bathtub, or your umbrella under the couch."

"Listen here, old lady. I’m not convinced those were my fault either. See, I’ve been thinking about this. I have determined that too many disappearing things are blamed on old age. I believe they are really taken by mischievous house spirits to get our attention, to remind us of something."

"That’s what you believe, eh?" I said, in between bites of bread. Wiping my mouth, I asked, "Do you feel your hair being pulled when you’re alone? Have you heard groans or moans in the night?"

"Only yours," he said, reaching for my hand.

I felt myself redden and pulled away. "And what are we being reminded of? The domovyk would have no reason to be disturbed. I still honor our traditions. I always toss the first crumbs of bread into the stove."

For a minute he just sat there, staring into his chipped blue mug decorated with a cartoon picture of a farmer. It had been Mykola’s favorite. I wondered why Pavlo had chosen it.

He saw me looking at the mug and sighed. "I miss him. Sometimes I wonder what he would have grown up to be."

"Me too, Pavlo. All the time."

"He was my best friend."

"Who? Mykola?"

Pavlo smiled. "Yes." He leaned back in his chair. "Mykola and I would talk while he helped me in the garden. He would tell me about his dreams, about school, about how the other kids sometimes picked on him because he stuttered a little when he was nervous."

I felt jealousy stirring inside. I never knew this.

"He would ask me questions about my life, the war. I even told him a little about home, about my mother and my sister."

More jealousy.

"Pavlo, you’ve never even talked to me about these things."

"Bah, what do you want to hear about this for? You always tell me the past is past. No need to dig it up. But Mykola really wanted to hear about everything. Before he left, he asked me about the war. Our war. He asked me if I had any advice for him. I told him to do whatever he could to come back home alive and in one piece. Then he gave me a hug and told me he loved me.

"I miss him. I should have given him better advice." Pavlo looked at me. "You know, I still talk to him. All the time, especially in the garden."

This time I reached for Pavlo’s hand.

Time stretched out and reversed. I was sixty, then forty, then thirty. The same chairs, the same kitchen, the same hand in mine. We were not unhappy then. Our small house was filled with children and laughter and shouting, all of which kept my ghosts at bay. There was just too much to worry about: Mark needed buttons sewed, and Katya needed her hair braided, and baby Mykola needed his bedtime story. There was no time for the past.

Again time shifted in a breath, a groan, and the wrinkles settled back into my skin, leaving my younger self buried.

"Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that I was changing our babies’ diapers, or yelling at Mark and Taras to stop picking on Mykola." I said. "We were so busy then, but happy. So happy. I can’t believe how quickly time has passed."

"That’s exactly what I was talking about." Pavlo said.

"About the kids?"

"Yes . . . no, about being happy." He reached again for his coffee. "Don’t laugh at me, but that is what I think."

He looked shy, embarrassed. Pavlo was never a philosopher. He was a farmer at heart and a machinist by trade, a man of the earth with a practical mind.

"I was thinking that the domovyk likes to have a happy house, right?" he asked.

We were back to the domovyk then. He waited for me to respond. I was surprised by his sense of drama and smiled: "Right."

"Well, when we had a houseful of kids, we were happy and he was happy. There were crazy jokes and good times. Now that it’s just you and me, and the kids and their families don’t visit as much, the house is missing something. That got me thinking about us, and how we don’t sit together anymore, we don’t laugh together."

I began to protest and he interrupted. "I know what you’re going to say. Yes, there are moments. And I’m not unhappy. But let me ask you, are you happy? Happy like you were back then?"

Back then? My heart beat quickly in my chest. But back when? I stood up and walked to the sink. I needed to get something. I opened the cabinet and pretended to look through the spices. Cinnamon.

"Nadya? Are you happy?"

"Sure. Sure," I said. "What’s not to be happy about? We have a nice house, a big family, good health." I heard his knock on wood echoing my own.

I didn’t want to sit down, so I continued looking in the cabinet. I felt Pavlo’s eyes on my back.

"What’s wrong? Why are you getting upset?" He asked.

"I’m not getting upset. I’m looking for something. For nutmeg."

"But I just asked you a simple question, and you’re getting angry. Why?"

I sat back down and poured too much cinnamon and nutmeg into my coffee.

"Why are you pestering me?" I asked him, stirring.

"I thought we were trying to have a nice conversation."

"Sure. But you don’t like my answers." I tasted the coffee. Ruined.

"What’s wrong? Did I do something to make you mad?"

A list of complaints jumped to mind: not replacing the toilet paper roll, leaving toenail clippings all over the bathroom floor, forgetting to unplug the toaster, that one nose hair he never seems to clip, leaving the porch window open all night, opening my mail.

"Why did you open my mail yesterday?"

"What are you talking about?" Pavlo looked like I slapped him.

"I had a letter from the doctor, and you opened it."

"You open my mail all the time. It was just a bill from your last appointment. Besides, I didn’t know it was a secret." His face was starting to get red.

"It’s not, it wasn’t. Forget about it." I took another sip of coffee.

The house was quiet except for Khvostyk scratching in the litter on the porch. I could feel rage inside, but I wasn’t sure why.

"No, actually, Pavlo, I have a question for you. I received an envelope from Ukraine several months ago. It had been opened, and was empty. Did you take it?"

He stared at me, not blinking. "What?"

"Did you open the envelope? Take the letter?"

"A letter from Ukraine? I don’t even remember any letter from Ukraine?"

"Think back. It was spring, and you brought in the mail. Before Palm Sunday. The envelope was there, but the letter was missing."

"Nadya, how could you think such a thing of me? Who was it from?"

A sob in my chest stretched up my throat and let loose so many tears, "I don’t know. I don’t know who could be left alive. I don’t know how they could find me. I just don’t know—"

Pavlo walked over and tried to hug me in my chair, but I shrugged him away.

"Why would I take your letter?" He kissed the top of my head. "I didn’t take away that letter you got from that Andriy Polotsky last year, did I?"

I didn’t know Pavlo knew about the letter. He had heard of Andriy Polotsky. All the Ukrainians knew who he was. He gained the American spotlight in the 1970s. I first heard about him on the Ukrainian radio program in Chicago. Apparently, after Mama Paraska died, Andriy immigrated to New York. He started out as a stagehand, became an actor, and eventually started up a successful theater company. In time he became a wealthy man, who gave generously to help others with scholarships and charities. A good man.

When someone of Ukrainian ancestry became famous, his fame would spread around the country until everyone Ukrainian knew about his success. We cheered them on, our brothers and sisters who had proudly declared their heritage in the public spotlight. Whether they were actors, athletes, writers, or politicians, their names were learned by the entire community: the cubist sculptor Alexander Archipenko, the actors Jack Palance and George Dzundza, the Olympic figure skating champion Oksana Baiul, Illinois State Senator Walter Dudycz, the NFL football player and coach Mike Ditka, and many others. To nash, to nasha, we would say. He’s one of ours. She’s one of ours.

Andriy, to nash.

I thought about calling him, but never did. When I told Ana about him and his mother, she urged me to contact him, but I didn’t have the nerve. What could I say that he would care to hear?

Then, last year Andriy somehow found me. In the mail I received a plane ticket to New York and a theater ticket for the opening night of one of his plays. There was no note or letter attached. I burned both tickets on the stove. I suspected that Ana must have contacted him. Maybe if she had still been alive we could have gone together. But she died a month earlier, and I would not go alone.

I never received another ticket. I would read Ukrainian newspapers and listen to Ukrainian radio programs for stories about Andriy, his adventures, his generosity. He was one of the most eligible Ukrainian bachelors. Women, young and old, sent him pictures and love offerings. I heard about it on a special St. Valentine’s Day radio program, and I tried to keep up with the latest gossip.

But Pavlo knew! What else did he know? I crossed my arms and asked, "How did you know, Pavlo? I burned those tickets."

"I saw the envelope. Besides, Ana told me that he was once your friend. I think I remember his mother from the camp. Mama Paraska, right? Crazy old woman."

"She wasn’t crazy."

"Sure she was. She thought she could talk to God. She once told me that you were promised to her son and I should walk away. Imagine that! Like I would listen to some crazy old woman."

"She wasn’t crazy," but I smiled. So she went to Pavlo. She never told me.

"Anyway, years ago, when Ana and Niki were in New York, they went to see a play at his theater and they met him, that Andriy," he said. "You know how Ana liked to talk to everybody. Well, she and Niki loved the play and asked to meet him, to talk with him and all that. They all had dinner at some fancy restaurant, and they found out that they both knew you."

"But why didn’t she tell me?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise. See, Ana came to me and told me that she had the perfect idea for a present for you. She told me I should surprise you and take you to New York to see one of Andriy’s plays. But I know how much you hate to travel. So I bought you the new coffeemaker, and we went to the Polish all-you-can-eat buffet instead, remember?"

Ana met Andriy? So that was how he found me. That was why he had sent the tickets. She never told me.

"Well, Ana said she would take you there someday and surprise you, but she must have forgotten. I guess after a few years that Andriy got curious, because I remember seeing the envelope from him on the table. I never even opened it or asked you about it. See?"