The Language of Sisters

by Cathy Lamb

  Jayla asked what we could do in terms of a protest. “Refuse to leave? Block the dock?”

  Beth, who had her white doctor’s coat on and a stethoscope around her neck, suggested we start protesting in front of Randall Properties with pickets.

  That sounded like a splendid idea. We agreed to meet the next Saturday.

  “We’ll call it a Picket Party Against The Pricks And Portland Slumlords,” Vanessa said.

  “Leave it to an English teacher to get the words right,” Lindy said. “Hemingway would be proud. And I dare say Sylvia Plath.”

  “Do you think so, Lindy?” Vanessa said, pleased. “I do think, though, that Hemingway’s boring sometimes. I lean more toward Dickens and Austen, but still. Thank you.”

  I knew Nick wouldn’t go even if he were back. I didn’t think you could have a DEA agent with a picket in his hand, but I would go.

  “I am telling you all,” Lindy said, glasses on, “Do not worry. I have Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee handled.” She was wearing a flowered skirt and a red T-shirt. “You need to trust me.”

  “I can’t trust you,” Heather said. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m being paid to iron out this neighborhood brouhaha, and I’m swinging my hatchet in order to do so. If you have another hatchet to swing, let me know.”

  “I have a hatchet. These Beefy Russians are delicious, Toni.”

  “Where is the hatchet?” Charles asked. “Lindy, I think if we had a few specifics ...”

  “If you could tell us what you have planned,” Vanessa said. “it would make us feel better.”

  “I can’t tell you, exactly,” Lindy said, “because I don’t want to implicate you. But I will let you know when it happens.”

  “Ooooh!” I said. “I like the sound of you telling us when it happens. Exciting. When’s the day?”

  “So it’s on a certain day?” Beth asked, bopping in her seat. “Hopefully it will be on a day I don’t work.”

  “It’ll be during the day,” Lindy said. “For maximum impact.”

  “Soon?” Jayla said. “I swing to the night shift next Sunday. Can you remember not to do it then?”

  “I don’t quit teaching until four,” Vanessa said. “I hope I don’t miss out on the fun.”

  “Are you trying to protect all of us legally, Lindy?” Heather asked. “Is that why you’re not telling us what’s going on? So we don’t get sued for being a part of your scheme?”

  “No one will get sued,” Lindy said. “Not even me.”

  “I’m working hard so Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee, the dock dicks, don’t take my house,” Daisy said. “I’m going to find killers to take care of this.”

  “No!” we all shouted. “No killers.”

  “I can’t go picket with you all, for reasons you’ll later understand, but let’s all meet for dinner at Svetlana’s afterward, shall we?” Lindy said.

  “Oh, I’d like that,” Vanessa said, turning to me. “I love your mama’s Russian Pizza.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Russian pizza? And yet it was one of the most popular items we had. No one questioned Russian Pizza. It was always served with a shot of vodka.

  “I had crepes with lamb and chicken and some special sauce for lunch last week there. They were delicious,” Beth said. “But they were named ‘Chelsea, No More Piercings.’ Something about a teenager? A niece?”

  I threw my hands up. “My mother uses the Specials board in a creative way.”

  “We’re coming,” Charles said.

  “Jayla and I will come,” Beth said. “Is Charlie going to be there playing the piano? He plays Beethoven’s Seventh with such finesse.”

  “I’m coming,” Daisy said. “I’ll eat a Beefy Russian. I’ll eat two Beefy Russians if they’re handsome, but I won’t eat a frog.” She swung her hat off and waved. “I’m still waiting for the whales and I’m making my whale hat.”

  The next day we all had sugar cookies on our front porches in the shapes of whales. Daisy’s mind is being trapped by dementia, but her heart is young and pure.

  * * *

  My rant at Nick traipsed through my miserable mind. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t concentrate at work. I told myself that this was better, to break up now with that demanding blond giant who was trying to change our relationship rules and I didn’t need him or his demands or his smile or his lasagna and I didn’t need to read beside him in bed. I was better off without him and his frightening job, but somehow I also decided I should try extremely hard to run into him when he returned from his trip.

  There was a lack of logic that I acknowledged.

  I got ready early in the morning to go to work because Nick often goes in early, unless he’s out late the night before. I wanted to “by chance” run into him. I admitted to myself that I wanted him to give in. I wanted to be irresistible so he would change his mind about our relationship and not insist I meet his parents or be his girlfriend.

  I acknowledged this lack of logic, too.

  Every day I dressed in my best jeans and heels, or knee-high boots and tights and skirts, or dresses that fluttered. I washed my hair, I wore it down, I wore it up, I braided a few strands, as JJ had taught me. I put on dangly earrings. I checked my lipstick.

  Next, I waited in my tiny entry, scrunched down below the photos of my river pets, listening for his voice or his footsteps, hoping I could pop up and pretend that we were unexpectedly meeting as we both trudged off for another day of work. By the time I stood up, when I truly had to go to work and could wait for Nick no longer, my legs were all cramped up like twisted bread sticks and my butt was asleep.

  I did this morning after morning after morning. Cramped. Pained. Sleepy butt. No Nick.

  I started getting worried. He had come home from his last trip. Was he on another one?

  Or had he found someone else and he was shacking up at her house? That enflamed me. How could he do that to me? How could he cheat on me like that?

  At night, like a deranged stalker, I sat out on my deck, listening. I heard nothing.

  Now and then I saw a light go on late at night on his houseboat. I used my sneaky binoculars from the wheelhouse to spy on him, but I couldn’t actually see him.

  Every night, when I couldn’t “accidentally on purpose run into Nick” during the day, I gave up and dipped bananas in melted chocolate chips and ate them in my bathtub.

  I missed Nick so much and wanted him back.

  I acknowledged this lack of logic, too.

  I’m a mess.

  * * *

  By Thursday evening, dusk coming down, there had not been a single sighting of Nick for way too long and I’d been around my tugboat as much as possible, with my sneaky binoculars, except when I was at work or went to a birthday party for Uncle Vladan, “Woe is me I am so old.”

  I also had dinner with Chelsea, who was fighting with JJ. She said, “You are a cool aunt who doesn’t have a fit about my black clothes and my tattoos and my piercings and if Mom keeps bugging me about my personal choices, I’m going to pierce my privates. Yes, I will do that. I will pierce my private V. I told her that. Aunt Toni, I said, ‘You can’t stop me, Mom, oh no, you can’t!’ ”

  Where the heck was Nick?

  I wasn’t sleeping. Except for the bananas and melted chocolate chips that I ate in the bathtub like a lovesick fool, I could hardly eat. I was falling into a depression I was too familiar with, my emotions shriveled and fried.

  I, yet again, pathetically, folded myself into a ball below my entryway window and held up my sneaky binoculars. I spied, up and down the dock, hoping to see him. I lay in wait for my prey. Was Nick working out of town busting drug dealers or waking up in the arms of some blonde?

  I’d taken care with my outfit again in case I could entice Nick with lust. Tight skinny jeans that almost cut off my circulation. Heels that wrapped around my ankles with leather straps. Stretchy white tight top. Chain necklaces with tiny crystals. Lipstick in place, red and luscious. He would s
ee my lips and want me to kiss him.

  He would see my skinny jeans and want to take them off.

  He would see my clingy white shirt and want to take it off, too.

  Right? Then we could get back together. I leaned my spinning and sad head against the door of my tugboat. It was exhausting and demoralizing spying on Nick.

  I heard footsteps on the dock and automatically poked my hopeful head up so I could see out the window and ...

  “Oh, shoot!” I popped right back down.

  Nick.

  He was coming down the dock. Jeans. White flannel shirt.

  Oh no. Oh no.

  He had seen me. Our eyes had met. How humiliating. I had popped up like a jack-in-the-box, then back down. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t. Now he would know I was spying on him. I felt my whole face go hot and sweaty. I sat down, knees up, head on knees, arms over my head. I wanted to die. Has anyone actually died of embarrassment? I could. I knew I could.

  I waited until he had to be at his own houseboat, then leaned my self-pitying head back and stared up at the photos of my river pets, who never would have humiliated themselves like this.

  “Hello, Toni.”

  Oh, shoot!

  Nick was outside my door. He was looking in at me through one of the square windows.

  “Hello, Nick.” I am an idiot.

  “Avoiding me?” he asked.

  “No, no.” That was the truth. I was trying to run into him. “No. I’m not avoiding you.”

  “That’s nice to hear. How are you?”

  “Fine. How are you, Nick?” I put my sneaky binoculars beneath my butt, slowly.

  “I’m not doing well.”

  “What? You’re not?” My voice pitched high, a mini screech, and I shot up so fast I stumbled, my right ankle asleep. What was wrong? Was he hurt? Had he been shot? Was he sick? Did he have cancer? I struggled to the door. My sleeping ankle caught on the plant table in the corner. The plant crashed to the floor, the table toppled.

  “Are you all right, Toni?” he called through the door.

  I ripped the door open, trying not to stand on my tingling foot. “What’s wrong, Nick? Why are you not doing well? Are you hurt? Did you get beat up?” The wind blew that blond hair, those light blue eyes right on mine.

  “I miss you.”

  “Is that it? Nothing else?” My voice was still piercingly high. “You’re not sick? You don’t have cancer? You’re not bleeding?”

  “I’m not sick. No cancer. I’m not hurt.”

  I felt myself go weak, so relieved. I hated his job. Hated the worry it caused me. Hated my past that made me leap to disasters automatically. I leaned on my door jam, studying him, head to toe. No cuts. No bruises. No casts. His head wasn’t wrapped in a white bandage.

  “Are you all right, babe?”

  “Yes.” I hopped forward on one leg and hugged him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned into his chest. He was warm. Snuggly. Solid. My Nick. I hugged him tighter.

  His arms came around me.

  I moved my head and kissed his neck. I could see his temple pulsing, so I stood on tiptoe on one foot and pulled his head down and kissed him there, then his forehead and he gave in and his mouth dropped to mine.

  The kiss was steamy and emotional, and I wanted to strip off my clothes and jump in his bed and cling to him.

  He stopped. “Toni, we have to talk first.”

  “Let’s talk second.” I pulled him into my tugboat, and he kicked the door shut.

  For a second, I thought we were going to have sex in my tiny entry, as my shirt was off, my bra tossed, my tight jeans unzipped, and I’d sent his shirt flying into the hallway. What stopped us was the broken plant pot and the dirt. I was on his zipper when he picked me up and carried me in, sideways, as my hallway is small, to my couch.

  Nick is a take-charge sort of man. Masculine. Almost always when we had sex I followed his lead. I asked him about it once, asked if he wanted me to take charge, and he said, “Baby, you can do whatever you please. Lead away.”

  Now and then I wanted to lead, but the truth was that Nick led so well ... with such talent and warmth and this totally wild passion. It was like going along for a sex ride, although he would have called it a making love ride.

  He laid me on the couch, followed me down, and we stripped off the rest of our clothes, my jeans taking longer because they were way too tight. I wrapped my legs around his hips and took that naked ride for multiple orgasms and a hundred kisses.

  This time, afterward, when we talked, and he kissed me, gently, tenderly, then with more passion, and we ended up in my bed, upstairs, I curled into him and went to sleep.

  I hadn’t slept right since I’d last seen Nick, and when I woke up, he was still there, warm and strong, asleep, and I flung my arm across his waist, his fingers curled around mine, and I went back to sleep. In my tugboat, not his. Mine.

  For the whole night.

  * * *

  The next morning I woke up, wrapped around Nick, warm and cozy, and I didn’t feel guilty at all. I started to sniffle and tried to hide it from him, I was so happy he was back, but he woke up and said, “What’s wrong, honey?” And I said, because I couldn’t hide my honesty, “I missed you so much, Nick.”

  “I missed you, too, Toni. Every day. Every night.”

  We took a tumble again, soft and loving at first, then on full throttle.

  * * *

  Afterward, on the pretense of making coffee, I grabbed my sneaky binoculars and hid them in the back of my pan cupboard.

  20

  Moscow, the Soviet Union

  We were talented pickpocketers, the three of us sisters. Lightning quick, whispers, drifting smoke, a breeze.

  Bogdan and Gavriil’s training was excellent.

  Valeria would fake tripping, fake being lost, cry in front of a wealthy man or woman. They would move to help her, and I would move to remove their wallets. Valeria would stop crying, thank them, and before they knew they’d been robbed, we would disappear.

  The problem came in explaining to our mother where the money came from. The solution came through sewing pillows. We sewed pillows, often using fabrics from our late grandmothers’ dresses, as we couldn’t afford new fabric, or find it to buy, even on the black market, to sell to my mother’s customers. When we dropped off the mending, we showed the clients our pillows, our stitches tight and precise, the pillows pretty with lace, rickrack, ruffles, embroidery. We told her we sold them for more than we did.

  It was a secret between the three of us.

  Pillows and pickpocketing.

  For survival.

  * * *

  In the dead of winter, our windows frozen with ice, the heat in the building paltry and sporadic, the hot water gone for weeks at a time, my mother, sewing at all hours, became sick. A cold morphed into the flu, which morphed into pneumonia.

  We went to school, then we raced home to our apartment building to take care of our mother, finish and deliver the mending, sew and sell pillows, stand in line for food, and pick pockets on the days we needed to.

  “Is Mama dying?” Elvira asked, her face crumpling up.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Valeria asked, her hands twisting together.

  “Yes.” No. I wasn’t sure. She was burning up with fever, she was listless, she coughed as if her lungs were being ripped, shredded, and coming up.

  We were feeding her, spoon to mouth, putting cool cloths on her sweating forehead and making sure she ate and drank. The chills made her fragile body rock back and forth in bed. We couldn’t get her to the doctor, she was too weak. In addition, she was scared to go. She was, officially, an enemy of the people of the Soviet Union.

  It was dangerous, picking pockets. The punishment for getting caught was nauseating.

  We would never have picked pockets had we not been so hungry.

  Had I known what would happen, I would have starved instead.

  * * *

&n
bsp; The pickpocketing in Moscow continued until I slipped my hand into the pocket of the wrong man on a snowy evening. We—Bogdan, Gavriil, Valeria, and I—always scoped out our victims carefully. We wanted them to be distracted, out of shape so they couldn’t chase after us, and affluent. Fur coats. Fur hats. Shiny boots. Well dressed. Jewelry. We did not pick the pockets of anyone who appeared dangerous, and there were a number who did, nor did we pick the pockets of the poor, the old, or frail.

  Valeria and I felt guilty for stealing, as if the weight of the Moskva River were drowning us, but our mother was still sick with pneumonia, her lungs filled, her fever continual, her chills head to toe. She insisted on sewing from bed until the coughing became too much, or she passed out from exhaustion.

  My goal was to get money, get a doctor we could trust to the apartment, get medicine.

  I slipped my hand into the pocket of the wrong man’s coat right in front of the State Historical Museum, smooth as silk, as Valeria tripped in front of him. He grabbed my hand, twisted it around, twirled me in a half circle, and smacked me. Everything went black, then sparkly, and nausea overwhelmed me.

  Valeria fought to get me away from him, but he backhanded her and she went spinning into the snow. He dragged me to the police station, my feet sliding on the ice, and demanded they arrest me. I lied and said I had not done it, no one believed me, and after being thrown into a cell, hitting my head, and having no food for six hours, I admitted it.

  They called my mother. She hobbled in coughing, weak, but she had managed to do her hair, get dressed. She was a beautiful woman. She had had me when she was twenty-two. She was only thirty-two then. She cried when she saw me, blood on my forehead, sick from vomiting from fear. A policeman with a scary glint in his eye linked an arm around my mother’s shoulders and pulled her out of the room. He smiled at her, rapacious, hungry. I vomited again.

  When she came back to me, an hour later, her face was stained with tears, puffy. Her black hair was a mess and undone down her back, the buttons on her blouse buttoned wrong.

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me out, swaying, awkward in her gait. The policeman laughed and said, “See you soon, darling. Thank you. I have not seen a woman with a figure like yours for a long, long time. Get rid of that cough, though, Mrs. Kozlovskaya. It’s disgusting.”