Beautiful Evil Winter

by Kelly K Lavender

  Hoarsely she says, “Now, it is time to be Mommy. From bitch you change to Mommy. You be surprised how you can do it. I was.”

  I raise my free hand and slap her, my hand cracking like a whip across her face.

  With a hard quick shove, she sends me to the floor, bursting into laughter.

  “Young , stupid and full of fire. I like that, I love that. It makes it good for me.” She announces, heading for the door.

  Just outside the door entryway, she turns, looking over her shoulder.

  “Don’t forget to lock the door, darling.”

  31. LUNCH

  Rushing to Zack’s side, I hold him close, kissing the top of his downy head. His tiny hand squeezes my arm as he follows my eyes.

  I cross the room to the kitchen, grab a bottle and warm it. Sitting down in a chair in front of the TV, I cradle Zack in my lap. I offer him the bottle and stare at the TV not caring that ZZ Top appears on the screen.

  A reminder of home, it’s so remote now. You’d think the United States disappeared altogether. There’s no news about the US, not even anti-American propaganda. It’s like it vanished from the world stage.

  With a sigh, my mind swirls, a vortex of competing problems, a tornado of refuse threatening to destroy my family. My thoughts travel home.

  I should feel safe here at ease like at the farm, sitting in the sunshine using my bare toes to rock back and forth on the porch swing. Calm, safe and still like the pick-up truck sunbathing in the driveway, waiting for the next request. Ethan would be napping inside, the birds chirping and the leaves rustling outside. But in a breath, the weather can shift, and the black spout marches across the horizon, grabbing and tearing a path to us. It hurls cows, cars and trees in all directions, widening its swath of destruction, a sharp saber of sudden change. In the dark of night, it’s the worst as we lie in bed next to one another unaware that it’s coming. Suddenly, no spoken word is audible, and the raging fury of the storm—a production of lightning, crashing sounds and breaking glass—is visible from our bed, the French doors framing every moment like a big screen TV. It feels that same way now like we’re in the eye of the unforeseen undoing of our lives.

  Zack leans on me sound asleep, his weight like a 10-pound sack of potatoes slung over my shoulder. Carefully, I place him on the bed using the pillows to fence him in.

  Slipping in next to him and resting my head on the headboard, I reflect.

  What will I do the next time she stops by? How do I stop this? I need her. She has the connections and the knowledge to help Ethan. Maybe, the Embassy will help us to help him.

  I can’t tell my Dad. If she’s fired, it’d cause a delay to find someone else, someone else who can find Ethan and help him. And if she’s vindictive, she could wreck any attempt to rescue him and keep Zack safe in Russia.

  Yes, I’ll call the Embassy in the morning and tell them everything.

  ***

  My eyes blink several times as I wake up. Panicked, I look over at Zack. I’m sweating and my heart beats loudly—the rhythm of someone angrily using an axe to fell a tree. My mind scrambles to rake my swirling thoughts into a neat pile.

  What caused this? The Embassy…must call the Embassy. And…Natasha’s demeanor.

  Must call the Embassy…but I can’t. Because… I don’t have a cell. Who needs a cell when you only “go” with Natasha, Viktoria or Ivan? And I don’t speak Russian; so, I can’t call from the apartment phone. There’s no computer here to use, no translator website. I can’t call the Embassy. I can’t tell the Embassy about Ethan!

  I can call Dad from the apartment phone using the country code. That piece of paper he gave me…”Keep this with your passport, in your purse pouch-zipped, in case you need it.”He firmly instructed with a hug before we left. It’s in my purse with the “how to” to call him from Russia. I’ll call him and ask him to contact the Embassy about Ethan. I’ll ask him to book a flight for us back home.

  With a target in my sights, I rush to my purse for the phone number and find the pouch, passport and paper present. As I dial the number, my brain searches for the easiest most effective plan.

  Okay, steel yourself for the barrage of questions about leaving before Ethan’s status is known. Have the answers ready and deliver them smoothly without hesitation. Don’t know what we can do here or how we can help that is my mantra. It makes more sense to work this problem from home. We only have a limited time here, someone is farm sitting for us and someone else is covering Ethan’s job. We need to get him out of here asap to get medical treatment. He needs to return to work to keep his job.

  As Dad’s cell phone rings, I clear my throat and begin shifting my weight from one leg to the next. The dry bitter taste of ash coats my tongue, the same taste left in my mouth after kissing a smoker.

  No answer!! It’s going to voice mail, and he never checks his voice mail! Maybe, he’ll see that I called.

  ***

  Two days of being behind locked doors, to worry, to plot, to be a rock of composure for Zachary, leave me weary and anxious for a phone call—even from Natasha.

  “I want to take you to lunch today in Moscow to my favorite restaurant. Viktoria watch Zack for you.”

  “We be there in an hour.”

  Surely, she won’t want to rumble in front of Viktoria. Although I guess she might, she may be bullying her too. There’s no middle class here, only rich or poor and no more. At least, I trust Viktoria with Zachary.

  A loud pounding at the door alerts me to their arrival.

  With Zack slung over my left shoulder, I unlock the triple locks. Standing aside to let them in, Natasha draped in a floor length mink makes her red carpet entrance, her coat sashaying from side-to-side, the door too small to accommodate such a force of nature. Viktoria follows a few footsteps behind clad in her green wool coat, a small humble smile pasted on her lips.

  “Dmitry!” She says as she pulls him away from me. His little fingers dig into my shoulder as he looks at me with teary eyes and a growing frown. His little forehead wrinkles with worry.

  He’s a person with feelings not a prize in a contest!

  “Zack doesn’t like to be pulled out of my arms. He likes to make a choice. He’ll let you know when he wants to go to you. He’ll lean toward you to let you know.”

  My teeth grit in anger as I stare at her with hate-filled eyes.

  “I am mother. I know what they like,” she says as she positions him over her shoulder, waving me away. Turning away from me, she looks toward the kitchen.

  The room is quiet and still as the clock marks the moments. And in a flash, Zachary screams in full-throated fury as he pushes away from Natasha. Tears stream down his little red face in defiance as he looks at me to rescue him.

  What a witch! She doesn’t know him.

  “All babies aren’t the same. I’ll take him. I want to say good-bye before we leave.” As I move toward him, his arms stretch out to me as he sucks-in his lower lip.

  As I hold him over my shoulder, I rub his back lovingly as he sniffles. His little heart races as I kiss his downy head. Finally, his heart slows to match the rhythm of mine—two hearts welded together, separated only by skin and bone.

  “I’ll be back soon for you, Zachary. Viktoria will take care of you while I’m away,” I coo.

  With a kiss and a hug, I turn him around to face Viktoria. For a minute or two, he looks at her while she smiles warmly at him. As I slowly inch toward her, he finally leans toward her with his upper body, his legs still laced around my waist. Viktoria reaches for him. With a hug and a back scratch, he smiles for Viktoria.

  Okay, he expressed his opinion. All is well.

  “Let’s go.”

  So I can get this over with and get you out of our lives, for today.

  ***

  Natasha and I sit in the back of the van looking in opposite directions, like two strangers sharing a bench seat on a city bus. Ivan focuses on the ice and the erratic decisions of the drivers around us. I notice th
at he doesn’t try to make conversation nor check his rear view to look in on us. Buildings reminiscent of a jewelry store case—forgettable white, boring beige and tarnished silver, flank either side of the street. And suddenly, the dazzling blues, greens, pinks and reds of the bejeweled buildings, a juxtaposition of color and grand architecture nestled next to their wretched counterparts. St. Basil’s Cathedral appears and glistens in the light, awe-inspiring and delicious. It looks like a confection castle. The cathedral domes stand like swirly soft-serve ice cream coated in M & M shades—of green, blue and red—ready for the taking. An example of peerless architecture that wouldn’t be any more extraordinary if made of gingerbread. Of course, some color appears in the form of billboards, signage and tinted windows on some buildings. A blob of Americana anchors street side in the form of McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken, both seductive options at this point. Moscow is the New York City of Russia, buzzing with activity and fueled by an everyday struggle for survival and space. It’s New York City with a twist, the New York City in the grip of the Bonanno family when danger and overt corruption became a fixture of daily life just like fighting traffic or shopping at the too busy market.

  Sitting in the back of the van with Natasha, I stared in wide-eyed wonder in every direction, a prairie dog not as alert and interested. At the same time that Ivan inches up to the Manhattan-type street side café, I notice turrets at street corners manned by policemen. They brandish their large semi-automatic weapons and keep watch in all directions. The structure of the tower closely resembles a small prison surveillance tower—a vertical iron pillar supporting a cage at the top. Crossing my arms across my chest for more warmth, I study the area. I see them at every turn.

  Wonder if those turrets date back to the days of Communism. It’s like big brother is always watching. Guess that’s a bittersweet story—heavy police presence, good news, probably very necessary, bad news.

  Natasha prods me to step out. I stop in my tracks as I catch sight of the entry to the restaurant. Two armed military police stand under the awning on either side of the doorway like bookends at the door. They have machine guns strapped to their bodies which they hold as casually as someone might hold an unwanted overcoat.

  As we walk into the restaurant, the toasty warmth, the delicious smells and the chatter of many well-dressed people greet us. An enormous chandelier marks the transition from one world to the other, gritty street side to polished fantasy. The smell of bacon, French Onion soup and filet mignon wafts my way. It reminds me of a photo of a four star restaurant in Paris—white linen tablecloths, sparkling crystal water goblets, walnut chairs and tables, Monet-inspired watercolor landscapes on every crème colored wall, waiters darting hurriedly in starched white shirts, black pants and black aprons balancing trays of savory, steamy food at shoulder level.

  One quick Bloody Mary later, I begin to ask questions.

  “Why do armed police stand outside this restaurant?”

  “For protection of patrons of course,” she answers with a roll of her eyes.

  Since one side of the restaurant faces the street with a floor to ceiling window, I wonder how much protection the remotely positioned police can provide. After glancing at the Russian/English menu, I order a specialty dish recommended by Natasha—black caviar crepes. The sweet thin crepes arrive housing a bed of salty black caviar, a culinary cream puff masterpiece only a forgotten wallet found containing a stash of cash and pictures would be as delightful.

  “Thank you for bringing me here to experience this amazing place. This is the best meal that I’ve eaten since we’ve been here.”

  “Do you have any new information about him?”

  “Da, he leaves for Vladmir Central in a week. No doctor sees him yet.”

  “Can you call the American Embassy? It’s not something that I can easily do from the apartment. Maybe, Viktoria will call them if you can’t.”

  “Not much you can do. Yes? No computer, no cell phone. You need me,” she quips smugly.

  I’d like to slap that big smile off her face.

  “Nyet, the Embassy can’t help you. He is criminal until proof innocent.”

  “I talk to your Dad about work. He say that you try to call him. He ask about you and Ethan. I tell him you good. You miss him. He say he travels to Saudi in a couple of days. He very busy. I tell him I let him know if there is problem.”

  “You need me,” she chuckles as she grabs the check.

  And you like that—too much. The phone is my lifeline to leverage, to hope. I wouldn’t put it past you to have it disconnected for a while to feed the need and gain more control.

  Once again outdoors, I spot a grocery store, point and pull her arm in that direction. At the entryway to the store, more armed guards keep watch outside and inside the store. I search for anything American to satisfy my sense of curiosity. As we browse row after row of products, I grab a small package of American diapers. At a cost of $1 per diaper, I fully realize the economics of not diapering at the child house. After paying for my purchase with a credit card, I skitter past the door sentry for a breath of outdoor air and a sense of space.

  Outdoors, I notice several suited men talking with a sentry/military man. In full view of “parking lot; I hear loud, angry conversation; then, the sentry positions himself in the backseat of a nearby vehicle while carefully placing his semi-automatic weapon in his lap. The “suits” fill the remaining space in the Jeep Cherokee before it noisily speeds away.

  I don’t even want to venture a guess what that’s about.

  32. PICTURES & A PLEA

  Back at the apartment, Natasha goes to the kitchen to take a business call. Zack sleeps in the bedroom. Viktoria grabs her coat and gloves to leave. I move close to her while keeping my eyes on the entrance to the kitchen. I whisper.

  “Viktoria, please, please take this number and call my Dad. Tell him we need help—HIS HELP. Ask him to call the Embassy about Ethan. The Embassy must know about this. Ask him to call me, not Natasha. No one will ever know you called—I promise. We can tell Natasha, if asked, that it was my Dad’s idea.”

  While slipping the scrap of paper into her gloved hand, Natasha walks back into the room—shaking her head, her lips hard and tight.

  Quickly, I look at the floor.

  Did it fall on the floor? Or is it in her hand? Did Natasha see or hear anything?

  Seeing nothing on the floor, I breathe a sigh of relief. Glancing at Viktoria’s eyes, I see her face turned to stone, frozen in thought.

  Will she chose allegiance to Natasha or do the right thing? Is that a small smile she’s struggling to hide? Maybe, she sees a chance for some payback.

  Natasha stops, hands on hips facing us, her eyes bouncing from Viktoria to me and back again, a painted scowl on her face.

  “Now, what do I miss?”

  She seems engaged but disengaged. Her eyes are looking beyond us. She’s still wrapped up in that phone call. It’s time to change the subject and get rid of them.

  “Just thanking Viktoria for taking good care of Zack. She mentioned that he’s still congested. He’s improving, but it’s a slow process. I’ll call Dad and ask him to call the doctor. Maybe, I need to change the dosage on his meds.”

  “Stupid! You, Americans and your drugs! Onions and mustard poultice cure him quickly! Poor baby suffer for your bad decisions!” She snarls.

  I can handle this. Stay cool! Subject changed. Viktoria out of the line of fire and scrutiny.

  “We’ll see how he does the next couple of days and talk about it,” I say with forced pleasantness, my nostrils flaring in disgust.

  “I’m tired. I’m sure we can continue this later. Do you need to grab anything before you leave?” This time the pleasant demeanor comes easily.

  ***

  Later that day, Natasha calls.

  “Zack must have passport photos. It will only take a few minutes and I’ll bring him back to the apartment.”

  “What? Ethan isn’t with us yet. It doesn
’t seem necessary right now.”

  Actually, this will make it easier to leave when we make those arrangements, but she expects me to argue. It’s more convincing.

  “Why now?” I ask, my brows arching in wonder.

  “Because time is good for me now. You need it, and you need me to help.”

  “Is Ivan driving you? How long will it take? Will you have the pictures immediately?” I dig in.

  With a roll of her eyes punctuated by a sigh, she answers sharply.

  “Yes, one hour and yes.”

  “Well, then, okay, but I want to hand Zack to Ivan to carry to the van since he doesn’t like being yanked around by you; that way, he won’t be screaming all the way to van.”

  Thank God for Benadryl. It’ll be easier for Zack.

  When Natasha returns, she prances toward me.

  “Here are the official photos plus a few extras,” she says.

  I look at the extras, one depicts her in a Madonna pose lovingly looking at Zack while the other captures a content Natasha holding him in her lap, both of them facing the lens.

  “Do you mind?” She asks innocently as I look at the pictures.

  What is she thinking? Does she think we want to immortalize her in our family photo albums? She didn’t even ask if she could take extra pictures with him. Those poses are inappropriate for a non-parent. It’s crossing the line of paid assistant in this situation. I don’t know if we want pictures of him in her hands… I’m sure she kept extras for herself.

  “Actually, I do mind. I can’t wait till he goes home with us,” I smirk. I bury my anger in a half-smile as my maternal instincts battle with my rational thoughts.

  I’m trying to think big picture with this small picture situation, but it can come back to haunt him. Does she plan to knock on his door with pictures in hand and invite herself into his life later? She travels to the US on a regular basis. I’ll insure that he gets to invite into his life whomever he wants. There will be no implicit endorsement card played here via association with my father or by virtue of being a Russian involved in the process. It will always be his choice. That will be one of my guarantees to him.