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Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9905732-3-4
Ebook Edition
For my parents, Harutiun and Asdghig,
and to Brian for giving me light.
I run after myself;
incapable of ever reaching or
catching what I seek.
And this is what is called
want and longing or ’garod.’
—Excerpt from “The Analysis of Yearning”?
by Paruyr Sevak
Levon
Usually it was Tamar who lay awake at night listening to the sounds of the house, but tonight it was Levon who could not sleep. Since the disappearance of his daughter Araxi, the worry in his chest had grown from a small hard pebble, and over time had expanded in size, the weight of which felt like a large, hard stone sitting in the center of his breast pressing inside of him. In comparison, his wife had been seemingly possessed by a strange, hysterical bird that rose from her throat while he was sleeping, her screams waking him and their daughter Sophie in the middle of the night. At first, despite the ever-growing years of distance between them, Levon had sought to comfort his wife. He wrapped his arms around her and shushed her before Sophie could hear, the smell of the sweat on her damp neck reviving some sentiment for her that drifted as quickly as it appeared. Tamar would resist his gestures, still half asleep and blind with grief, and push him away so mightily that she wished she had done so long before Araxi had been gone.
Now Levon lay next to her, observing the shadow of a tree branch on the bedroom wall. Unaware of what time it was, he rose from bed and left the room, too awake to sleep, but too tired to get dressed and leave early for work. On his way to the living room, he opened Sophie’s door to check in, a habit he had taken to after his eldest daughter had gone missing. He found Sophie sleeping in Araxi’s bed—something that made him uneasy without quite being able to articulate why.
Levon went into the living room and sat in his armchair. Turning on the table lamp, he winced from the brightness. It was only twenty past four. He would not have to be up for another two hours, but knew he would stay awake. Sitting in the half-dark, staring at the television screen, he remembered the early evening after his mother’s funeral only six months ago. Once the guests had left he had sat in the same chair, absently staring at the television set until Araxi and Sophie had appeared to say goodnight. The day after, Tamar had said she was leaving to visit her sisters in San Francisco, though it was entirely unplanned.
He contemplated turning on the television and succumbing to a few hours of infomercials that usually aired at this time, when suddenly the phone rang. Grateful that it was resting by the table lamp, Levon lifted the phone and answered, hopeful that it was Araxi, given what time it was. No one ever called at this hour.
“Hello?” he answered, and without bothering with his slippers, he headed toward the backyard, hoping the ringing phone hadn’t woken anyone.
“Levon?” the voice was hoarse, but alert. It was his sister Lucine.
“Lucine?” he said. “Are you crazy? Do you know what time it is?”
He kept his voice low and walked to the back of the house, moving toward the backyard. The summer air was still and warm, like cotton on his skin. The cool crunch of the grass beneath his bare feet helped steady his nerves.
“Sorry, Levon. I wanted to know if you were still coming today. Remember I called two days ago about the leak in the basement toilet? You never called back. I was worried I’d miss you before you left for the day.”
He and his sister, Lucine, were all but estranged. Loyal to his mother’s wishes to always tend to his sister, he knew he had unwillingly, but inextricably, bound himself. Her decisions in life had always been poor ones, and she seemed always to defy his advice. Years ago, she had sold her house in a desirable neighborhood in Queens and bought another one, too expensive for what she had paid, an hour’s drive away from the family in a sleepy town in Long Island. Her son Nathan, who now seldom visited, she had raised like a prince, lavishing him with fashionable clothes and new computers and expensive military schools, while she worked two, sometimes three part-time jobs, to finance his lifestyle. Her love interests all led to dead-end relationships, doomed from the start because the men drank or gambled or both. He would warn her about each of them, but to his dismay, she continued dating one wayward character after the next. Now, nearly destitute, she had started renting her basement and two of her bedrooms to tenants and slept on her living room couch. It was a glorified flophouse, from what he had seen. She called Levon only on occasions when she needed his help.
“No problem, Lucine,” he said. “But you have to do me a favor and not call me in the middle of the night like this.” He heard the flicking of her lighter as he spoke, and then her inhaling a cigarette.
“Okay, okay. No problem, Levon,” she said.
“Araxi is gone, you know? When the phone rings like this it wakes up the whole house and Tamar hasn’t been sleeping well for weeks now.”
“Okay, okay. No problem,” she repeated. “Has anyone heard from her?”
“No,” he said.
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” she said, which meant nothing to him. She hadn’t seen the girls in years. “What time do you think you’ll be here?”
“I’ll drive out there in a few hours,” he said. He knew he would beat the rush hour traffic and head toward the city to work on the two other jobs he had started.
Levon was a private contractor. He had been running his own business for nearly twenty years. When he had first arrived in America with his family he already had intentions of finding an apprenticeship in construction. He was only twenty-two and did not speak English, but strove to learn the language from his first employer, Mr. Salerno, an Italian man with an affable nature, who guided Levon like an uncle. For two years, Levon had worked with Mr. Salerno and learned the intricacies of plumbing, carpentry, and electrical work. In the evenings he went to night school to fortify the informal English Mr. Salerno tried to teach him with his broken accent.
An hour later Levon crept back into the bedroom to change and drive to Lucine’s. It was almost daylight.
“This is early for you,” he heard Tamar say in a whisper.
“I have to go to Lucine’s,” he said.
It was not something he would have told her in the past. Lucine had been one of the many sources of contention between Levon and Tamar. At his mother’s behest, he compromised other responsibilities he had, and always abandoned them to help his sister. There were evenings when Tamar and the girls would eat dinner alone while, unbeknownst to them, he was in Long Island tending to yet another one of Lucine’s crises. When they first got married, he told Tamar the truth when Lucine called—she was caught shoplifting and needed to be bailed out, her boyfriend threw her out of her apartment and she had nowhere to stay for the evening—bu
t the arguments it caused were not worth telling the truth. After a while, he lied. During those times he went to Lucine, while his mother, the guileless accomplice, would sit silently, aware of her son’s whereabouts, determined to make sure that Lucine was being taken care of. Their father had died of a heart attack only years after they had arrived in America, and Lucine had been Levon’s responsibility since then.
Levon drove off the expressway and pulled into Lucine’s driveway. Unlike most of the other houses in the area, which were tucked away on side streets, Lucine’s stood on a main road next to a gas station and a candy store. The veneer of the house had slowly worn over time despite Levon’s upkeep. When he rang the doorbell, the sound emitted a low hum instead of a bright clear ring like his house in Queens. Lucine opened the door, holding a cigarette in her hand, her poodle Lucky frantically jumping up and down at her feet.
“How are you?” she asked, and hugged Levon before he stepped inside. She smelled of stale cigarettes and body odor. When they sat on the couch he noticed she was wearing a large black t-shirt and he could tell she was braless. He looked away in embarrassment. She had acquired the habit of not wearing a bra long ago, and aside from its glaring impropriety, he had never understood how she couldn’t sense the unsightliness of it since she was large-breasted. He remembered how, driving to their mother’s funeral, he had hoped that she would wear one for such a solemn occasion. She had.
“What’s new?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The same. We’re hoping for Araxi to come home.” It was all he could think about, and it was too much of an effort to fabricate an illusion of something different.
She crushed her cigarette and pulled out another one from the pack. “I know,” she said, holding up her hand as if she was stopping traffic, “I smoke too much. Don’t say it.” She lit another cigarette. “You called the cops?”
“We’ve done everything,” he said.
“She’ll come back,” she said.
Levon thought differently. As the weeks had passed, Araxi’s absence had given him too much time to think. It did not help matters that Tamar was more withdrawn than usual, and Sophie was not being looked after properly. It left Levon feeling lonely and helpless. He remembered the events prior to his daughter’s leaving, and winced at the idea of himself, of how she must have perceived him.
“How’s Nathan?” he asked. He knew it was rude not to.
“He’s doing real good. He’s in Los Angeles managing real estate. He’s a big shot now, Levon. You should see him.”
But Levon knew better. All her life Lucine had boasted about Nathan’s successes. They were nothing more than small bits of truth stretched and broadened to fit Lucine’s sense of reality. And what’s more, Levon thought dryly, she didn’t look like the mother of a big shot. Years ago when Nathan graduated high school and hadn’t applied to college, Lucine had asked him to teach Nathan his trade and business to hopefully pass it along to him when Levon retired. He realized quickly that the boy had no interest in working, let alone anything that required physical labor. The term “sleeping on the job” could not have been more aptly used to describe Nathan.
Thinking of this, Levon smirked, but managed to restrain himself from asking if Nathan had perhaps found himself an older woman to take care of him now that Lucine was tapped out. In the past, his mother chided him after it was too late, and Lucine had already stormed out of the house, insulted by his comments.
There were sounds coming from the kitchen. The squeak of a metal trash can lid opened and close. A few seconds later, an old man walked into the living room holding a mug of coffee. He was practically bald and wore a ragged robe.
“Good morning, Johnny!” Lucine said loudly and with too much enthusiasm. “This is my brother Levon. He’s visiting.”
The old man’s expression didn’t change. He stared at them briefly and left the room.
“His daughter pays me to take care of him,” she explained. “I let him sleep in Nathan’s old bedroom.”
“That’s nice of you,” Levon managed to say, sickened by the idea that she had worked hard her entire life, and had this to show for it. “Show me what you need fixed because I need to go back for two other jobs I’m doing,” he said.
Luckily, it took him no time to fix the leak. He lifted the toilet from the base and saw that it was a matter of tightening one of the valves. Lucine hovered by the doorway, leaning in as Levon finished placing the toilet back and washing his hands.
“Everything’s okay?” she asked.
“It’s fine,” he said, and turned to walk upstairs and leave.
“Do you need some cash?” he asked before leaving.
“Levon, you know I always need some cash,” she said. “But I’m not one to ask. You know how I am.”
The lapses in her memory always baffled him. He never knew if she truly did not remember or if she was lying. She had called so many times throughout the years asking him for money. And not just a few hundred dollars. Thousands. He would give it to her and know he would never see it again. It was no use denying her because she would call their mother instead, shamelessly asking for money when she knew that Anoush was on a fixed income that consisted of social security checks, and that she was almost completely dependent on Levon. It was yet another secret to keep from Tamar—a secret that she eventually discovered after enough money had been withdrawn from their bank account.
Levon reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. He peeled back three hundred dollar bills and handed them to Lucine.
“Thanks, Levon,” she said. “You’re a good brother. I knew you’d still be there for me after Mom died.”
“No problem,” he said, feeling the familiar resignation creeping over him.
“Tell Tamar I say hi,” Lucine said as she waved at him.
“I will.”
Grimly, he got into his truck and pulled out of the driveway.
Sophie
Sophie heard the faint ringing of the phone, and in half-sleep crept out of bed and slowly walked down the hallway. She heard her father’s voice trailing from the living room and moving to the backyard. Standing by the door, she strained to listen. Minutes later there was a bleep—the sound of the off button being pressed on the cordless phone—and before her father could see her, she yanked her nightgown up to her thighs so she could move more swiftly without making noise, and sped back to her bedroom. She lay in bed and listened to her father walk to her parents’ bedroom, and waited to see if he would wake up her mother. She predicted it was her sister calling. She had envisioned the sequence many times: her sister would call early in the morning from wherever she was, her father would answer the phone and then wake her mother, they would both plead with her to return, and days later Araxi would come back. The girl waited as minutes went by. She heard the bedroom door open, and minutes after that the low groan of her father’s truck pulling out of the garage.
Her features had borrowed all the loveliness of her mother. As a child, her eyes were so large that they seemed to consume her face, and it was only during the last several years that they had adjusted to the proportions of her impending teenage years, save for the full, round cheeks that were now losing their chubbiness. Unlike the other thirteen-year-olds in her class, she wore her hair long, almost down to her waist, and was unconcerned about the more fashionable haircuts that her peers insisted on wearing. If her beauty was not startling enough, she had acquired the odd habit of staring off at nothing when she was in deep thought, which made her eyes seem larger and shinier, and her face resemble a cherub.
She lay in her sister’s bed, knowing her mother did not leave her room in the mornings. It had been this way for years, but since her sister had gone missing, her mother’s despondence had worsened. Sophie had learned to take care of herself in the mornings and not wait for breakfast or her lunchbox to be prepared or for help with braiding her hair. She remembered how her grandmother Anoush had filled these gaps before she had died, and then her
sister Araxi had continued. She had not realized until she was alone, in this new and eerie way, the acute sense of loneliness and isolation that accompanied the absence of those she loved.
She was glad it was summertime, for she did not like school any more or less than other kids her age. Had it not been for her newfound pastime, she knew she would dread the empty days that lay ahead. Unbeknownst to her mother and father, she spent most of her afternoons with a boy who lived across the street. His name was Adrian. He lived with his father, who owned a hardware store where he worked for most of the week.
Adrian was a cousin of one of Sophie’s classmates, who had invited Sophie to her graduation party at the end of the school year. She would always recall her elementary school graduation with an overwhelming sadness at the sight of her parents sitting stiffly in the crowd, clapping mechanically as she walked on stage to receive her diploma. Araxi had left the week before, and it was only days before her graduation that her sister had been officially declared missing by the local police precinct. She approached her parents afterward, asking permission to go to her classmate’s house, feeling a knot of guilt in her chest as her mother and father looked at each other and agreed she could go. Shortly after arriving she found herself sitting alone at the dining room table, sipping a glass of ginger ale, her plate of food along side her, untouched. Adrian, who did not attend Sophie’s school and was a year older, had been invited out of courtesy. He did not know anyone other than his cousin and aunt and uncle, and was sitting on the couch in front of the muted television set, flipping through the channels mindlessly. He looked different from the boys at her school. He wore his hair to his shoulders, and his baggy clothes hung on him without looking sloppy. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he leaned back on the couch. Finally, Sophie carried her plate over and sat down next to him, allowing herself to be entertained by an action movie Adrian had randomly settled on.
“Want to take a look?” he asked, and offered her the remote control. “I hate this stuff anyway,” he said. “I used to watch it with my dad, but I don’t like it much anymore.”
The Legacy of Lost Things Page 1
