The Lullaby of Polish Girls

by Dagmara Dominczyk

  Kamila hasn’t seen or talked to her parents since the morning, since she yanked herself free from Zofia and left her standing there. When she knocked on the Levickys’ door, Jan opened it immediately. “Kammie! Your mother’s called here six times. She desperately wants you to come home. I hope everything’s all right, but I’d love it if you would stay and help me decorate the tree.”

  “Eet’s okay, Pani Jan. My friend in Poland, there was an accident to her husband. But I okay.” Kamila didn’t want to explain anything. She didn’t want to think about Justyna or Paweł. It was cruel, but that morning, hanging glass ornaments on the Levickys’ fake tree, and trying not to cry, she thought only one thing: maybe it would be easier for Justyna to move on than it was for her. At least death was final.

  The American man is now staring. Kamila wonders what he sees. Is it possible that in this forgiving light she looks beautiful? Her red hair is dyed black, cut into a Betty Boop bob and weighed down with Frizz-Ease. Her body is all bone and ninety-degree angles. She can count her ribs, and does often; it’s like a nervous tic, like cracking knuckles. A few years ago, she got a nose job in Warsaw. Her nose was slim now, like the rest of her. She got the operation done the summer Emil had proposed, out of the blue, one day pre-op, on his knees. They got married in the fall, in a lavish, romantic ceremony. The party went on till two A.M. When they got back home, Emil said he was too exhausted to make love to his new bride.

  The bartender pours another shot and she sips it, ladylike, very aware of this man’s eyes on her. The vodka heats up her insides. Her suitor lights a cigarette, and then he’s on his feet, his cashmere coat slung casually over his arm, making his way toward the empty stool beside her. She notices his stomach, drooping slightly over his belt, which seems like it’s cinched a few notches too tight. He sits down next to her and takes a drag. She can smell his woodsy cologne.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” His voice is not what she expected, nasal and flat. Kamila motions to the empty shot glass and nods. The bartender appears, as if by magic, and refills it without a word. “Do you work around here? I haven’t seen you before, and I’m what they call a regular.” He grins, showing off sparkling white teeth—American teeth.

  “I visiting from Poland,” Kamila shares in her broken English. She is just this side of tipsy.

  “Poland?” The man smiles wider. Kamila notices that even his molars in the back sparkle. “Poland, huh? I worked with a guy from Lodz a few years ago. Tomek Cieslak. Had the worst body odor, but a good guy.” He pronounces it Tahmik Cheese-lak. “Lots of Poles in these parts. We’ve got a few over at Schleifer now. I’ve always wondered why. Maybe you can tell me, Mrs.…?”

  “Figura. Kasia Figura.” There is no way this man can know that Kasia Figura is the Demi Moore of Poland, famous now not so much for her long, somewhat scandalous movie career as for her gravity-defying 34DDs.

  “Kasha Feegoora. So tell me, Kasha, why are you here?”

  It’s a good question. If she were fully drunk, maybe she’d answer it honestly, admitting she was here because she couldn’t face her parents, that she’d quit her job at Mrs. Levicky’s that afternoon, and that she had taken the bus into downtown Detroit and had gotten off at a random stop because once again, she was on the lam. She would tell him that her husband was a homo and her mother was obese; that her father was a loser. Not to mention that her childhood friend’s husband had just been murdered and that she had just made herself throw up in the ladies’ room. She would tell him she was here because the Christmas lights above the entrance were so pretty.

  Instead she says, “I on my honey month,” and hopes she remembered the word correctly.

  “Your honey month? You mean honeymoon?” She glances down, embarrassed. She notices the man’s nails, bitten down to the quick.

  “Honey month, huh? I barely lasted a week when my ex-wife and I flew down to St. Thomas. God knows what an entire month would have done! We’d have probably flown back with divorce papers ready. It would have saved us a few years.” He laughs and puffs on his cigarette. “So where’s Mr. Feegoora?”

  He’s back in Poland with his boyfriend. Oh, how she wishes she could channel Justyna right now. Poor Justyna, poor Kamila. The only one who made out good after all these years is Anna Baran, with her champagne life and caviar dreams.

  “My husband, he no likes to go out to the bars.”

  “But he has no problem letting his wife go? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I’m no fortune-teller, but that isn’t a good sign.”

  “I only marry him for the moneys.”

  The man lets out an uproarious peal of laughter and finishes off his martini.

  “Well, at least you’re honest.” Neither of them says anything else for a while. They sit and stare into their empty glasses, exchanging small glances from time to time. The bridal party stumbles past the bar, singing “A Thousand Miles” as they head out into the cold, their lacey tops and leather minis covered by overcoats and bomber jackets.

  “I suppose one of us should take that girl aside and warn her, right? I’m Kevin, by the way.” He sticks out his hand and waits. Kamila tries to give him a quick handshake but he ends up holding the grip for a long time. His hand is big and warm, like a paw.

  “Warn is useless. I get warn too, but it no matter. When heart says you do something, the brain is listen. This is the life, Keveen.”

  He stares at her and puts his other hand over hers. “You have a very sexy accent, Mrs. Feegoora. Has anyone told you that before?”

  Kamila blushes crimson. How can she tell this man that no one in her life has ever used the word sexy when referring to her? She doesn’t say anything.

  “They’re gonna kick us outta here soon, it’s a school night, you know. I’ve got a very hungry Dalmatian waiting for me at home. And I bet you’ve got a very hungry husband waiting for you.”

  “No. My husband he don’t eat what I offering him. He no have the appetite. But I … starving.” Kamila can’t believe the words are out of her mouth, and in semi-coherent English at that. But Kevin smiles.

  “I bet,” he says, signaling the bartender for their check.

  He kisses her in the backseat of the taxicab, and she can’t get enough. By the time they are in the elevator going up to the twenty-third floor, she is a puddle, melting almost. For a minute a morbid vision of her mother identifying her naked, bruised body flashes in her head. But if this is the end, she’s ready to take the risk.

  The sex is strange and surprising. Kevin is in turn rough and tender, biting her nipples, stroking her thighs, brushing away years of neglect. He urges her to talk dirty in Polish and she does, because at this point, why not? She arches her neck, recalling the few X-rated movies she’s seen and groans, “Więcej, dalej dalej …” He pants in her ear that she is the sexiest girl he’s ever fucked, that he’s going to cum all over her face, which he does. It stings and she asks for a paper towel.

  Later, he brings a Tupperware of cold cuts to bed and they sit up, naked, eating slices of prosciutto and salami in silence. Kamila swallows the meat with gusto, forgetting to chew. They don’t talk much even though Kamila wishes she could tell him everything. Kevin’s dog wanders into the bedroom, and Kamila throws him bits of ham, which he catches in his mouth every time. “I got full custody of Pepper and my wife got the house. A fair trade, don’t you think? What a bitch.” It’s the last thing he says before he falls asleep. He sleeps with his mouth open, breathing heavily. Kamila stares at him for a long time, and then gets dressed. Pepper follows her to the door, and she nuzzles his neck before leaving.

  It takes her a while to find a taxi, but when she does, she throws herself in the backseat, suddenly exhausted and spent. The cab makes its way through the slush, toward Wyandotte. Kamila is no longer afraid to face her mother. Just this morning Kamila had felt close to killing herself over Emil, but now it all seems petty. She must go back to Kielce. She’ll give herself a week or two to sleep off the remnants of her fear, and then she’ll go. It�
��ll be easy to change her return ticket. Easy to pack up her belongings, most of which she’ll leave behind anyway.

  Kamila leans her head back and closes her eyes, replaying the night in her head, from the moment she first spotted Kevin ordering his martini, to the last glimpse of his glistening torso heaving softly in slumber, his penis limp, slumped on its side. Kamila wonders if the Pakistani driver can smell the sex on her. She hopes that he does.

  Justyna

  Kielce, Poland

  Most people get wasted for one of two reasons: to forgive or to forget. Justyna never had much reason to do either; she drank because it was fun. Other girls needed half a bottle of hard liquor to abandon their inhibition. The boys Justyna grew up with needed half a bottle to forget about their deadbeat dads and their alcoholic moms. But Justyna had always been content with her lot, simply sidestepping every pitfall that came her way. Since Paweł died, she hadn’t touched a drop, but when her neighbor dropped by with a bottle of white wine to see if she was doing okay, Justyna replied, “I’m doing fine,” and went to get two glasses.

  They sat on the terrace, shivering in their winter coats, sharing a pack of smokes and talking about everything except for Paweł. By midnight the walls were spinning. Tucked in her bed, she sang her favorite Perfekt lyrics, Nie płacz, Ewka, bo tu miejsca brak na twe babskie łzy, po ulicy milość hula wiatr wśród rozbitych szyb, over and over. Don’t cry, Ewka, there’s no room here for your girly tears. On the streets, the wind hurls love among smashed windowpanes. As she drifted off to sleep she imagined Paweł looking down at her, lying on their old wersalka.

  Justyna has spent the last seven days aimless like jetsam. Thank God Damian was staying at Babcia Kazia’s; she had no energy left for mothering. Her limbs felt like they had a life of their own now, carrying out her life. She still took a shit in the morning, still picked at food when she felt hungry, watched TV, and sometimes remembered to brush her teeth at night. She said things without even thinking (We should get a Christmas tree soon. Can I change the channel? Have you seen my black leggings?). She took the dog for a walk. But every day she felt a new fissure inside, as if her bones were cracking, bit by bit, and soon, soon, she would collapse into a lifeless heap.

  The best part of being drunk, it turned out, was that she didn’t dream. In the morning, however, she felt like an octogenarian, her joints creaking, her head throbbing. She got out of bed and prescribed herself the hair of the dog, which turned into an entire day of drinking. She could suddenly see how her dad had turned into a drunk so quickly after his wife’s death.

  In the afternoon, she had willed herself to go to the grocery store. The kids were coming home later, and the fridge was empty, except for some expired cheese and a two-liter of flat Coca-Cola. Justyna wandered the aisles at the supermarket, grabbing Damian’s favorite junk food: Monster Munch chips and prażynki, chocolate Prince Polo wafers, cartons of apple mint juice and some ripe tomatoes. Damian loved it when she sliced a tomato in half, sprinkling each top with salt. He sucked on them like they were ice cream cones. At the register, she had a tough time picking out the correct change and finally just dumped the contents of her wallet onto the counter and told the disdainful clerk, “Go for it.”

  Now at her front door, Justyna finally fits the key into the lock. She kicks the door open and drops the grocery bags to the ground, realizing right away that the eggs must be goners. She pulls off her boots with effort and leaves the groceries on the floor. And that’s when she notices the sound of hammering coming from upstairs. She wonders why Paweł is home from work so early, and then she remembers he can’t be.

  The Zator home is three stories high, each floor in a worse state of disrepair than the next. Since Teresa’s death, seven years ago, Justyna can safely say the floors have been mopped twice. But the house had always been a pigsty, even when Teresa was alive. Back then, there were shoes thrown about every which way in the downstairs foyer, clothes in knotted heaps, toppling out when someone opened the closet doors. There were dishes stacked on counters, with food crusted on them. The bathrooms all smelled like public restrooms. There were mildew stains on the ceilings and coffee spills on the linoleum. Everything was sticky and filmy and in need of a scrub, but it didn’t matter. There had always been laughter in the house and radios blaring. Neighborhood kids charged up and down the stairs, friends were always in the kitchen, they came over uninvited. Her mother was forever throwing parties, especially in the summers, the adults danced, grilled kiełbasa, clinked shot glasses, and stayed up till dawn, trying to outdo each other with dirty jokes. The younger kids would fall asleep just about anywhere and wear the same rumpled clothes the next morning, going days without brushing their teeth.

  Justyna takes the stairs on her hands and knees. When she reaches the last step, the hammering stops, and she wonders for a split second if it had been in her head all along.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Justyna lifts her forehead and sees her sister sitting in the middle of the floor, a long 8×4 piece of wood in her hand. There are nails everywhere. A few hammers and a stack of plywood sit next to Elwira. The entrance to the bathroom has been boarded up halfway. The plastic rack where she and Paweł kept their towels, her vanity mirror, the mildewy shower curtain, and the wooden crate that served as hamper are leaning against the hallway walls. Everything that wasn’t nailed down sits next to the door in plastic bags. Justyna spies Paweł’s dirty work sweaters, his denim vest, which he used to iron meticulously, and his lucky Korona Kielce cap. Without a word Justyna lunges toward Elwira, pinning her with her body. She grabs a fistful of her sister’s hair and yanks. Elwira screams and scrambles for a hammer.

  “Oh, really? Is that your weapon of choice? What, don’t have a knife on you?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Elwira screeches as Justyna slams her head against the floor. Finally, Elwira manages to wedge the handle of the hammer under Justyna’s chin and presses with all her might against her throat, shoving Justyna off. Justyna lands on her ass, strands of Elwira’s hair in her hands.

  “What’s wrong with me? Who gave you the right? Who gave you the right, you god-forsaken fuck?” Justyna’s words slur, and she’s gasping for air.

  “Calm down!” Elwira stands up and rubs the sides of her head, feeling for the extent of the damage. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. God, how much have you had to drink?”

  “Shut up, you pizda. You’ve got an hour to move all our stuff back, and if you don’t, I’m gonna kill you. You’re already dead to me as it is.” Justyna stumbles to her feet, starts tugging at the boards, but they don’t budge.

  “It’s just a fucking bathroom. And it gives me the creeps every time I walk past it! I can’t do it anymore, rozumiesz? Can you? Have you even taken a single fucking dump in there since it happened? Have you? You told Damian not to use the potty in there ’cause of the ‘spiders’! You and Damian can move downstairs and I’ll stay on the third floor with Cela. And this floor, we’ll pretend this floor never happened.”

  “And what, we’ll sail through the house on a magic carpet? We’ll pretend it all away?”

  “You’re such a hypocrite, Justyna. You haven’t even told your son his father is dead. Who’s the one pretending?”

  Justyna walks over and grabs the Korona cap, twisting it in her hands.

  “What scares me is that you’ve been planning this. Was this your idea of an early Christmas present? You didn’t even ask me, didn’t even broach the subject.”

  “You don’t let me broach the fucking weather with you. It’s like I don’t exist, Justyna. It’s not my fault he did this!”

  “You brought him into this house! He mooched off you and instead of kicking him to the curb, you let him beat you, you let him—You’re not the landlord, Elwira. I don’t turn to you for living arrangements and I never will. Go to Babcia’s. Go to fucking Timbuktu if you want, but you can’t do this. I won’t let you do this.”

  Just
then they hear Babcia Kazia’s voice. “Justyna! Justyna? You shouldn’t leave the door open like this, do jasnej cholery!” They hear footsteps running up the stairs, and then Cela’s there, buttoned up in her purple wool coat, a knit hat with a pom-pom bouncing on top of her head. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She’s holding a small wire cage in her hands, with a rodent in it.

  “Guess what? Guess what?” Justyna and Elwira stare at her and say nothing.

  “Babcia bought us a hamster. A real live hamster! His name is Miki and he’s so cute but he bit Damian’s finger this morning.” She laughs. “And his kupa looks like watermelon seeds and I’m gonna have him for a week in my room and then Damian in his. Babcia said it’s called ‘joint custody.’ ”

  Damian appears, gnawing on a rogalik.

  “I was trying to see if he had teeth. They look like tiny knives. That little fucker.” He walks over to the pile of wood.

  “Where’d you get these boards? Can I have some? I can totally build a skateboard. Tato can help me when he gets back.”

  “You can have as many as you want.” Justyna looks at her son, at the poppy seeds stuck between his teeth, at Paweł’s old Knight Rider sweatshirt he’s wearing. He’s swimming in it. She pushes past the kids but not before slapping Paweł’s cap on Damian’s head. It falls over his eyes. “Help Ciotka clean up this mess, both of you.”

  Downstairs Babcia Kazia is unloading food, slamming things left and right. The kitchen fills up with the aroma of fried kotlety and pickled beets. Justyna regards her grandmother with disdain. “Nice one. You think a hamster’s a proper replacement?”

  “I stepped in egg,” Babcia Kazia replies as she bustles around. “And I want you and Elwira to empty out this refrigerator. You’ve got crap in here that’s expired, it’s disgusting and I have no room to put all this.” She motions to the small pots on the counter, undoubtedly filled with tripe soup, dumplings, and all sorts of goodies. “But first, sit down.” Kazia turns from the rancid fridge to face her granddaughter.