Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  “Daaad!” Little Catherine put her hands over her ears. “Ew. And yeah, he does.”

  “Would you like me to come visit and leave Baba Yaga’s phone number on his desk?”

  Catherine Mary brandished the cleaver at her husband. “Alexander Nikolayevich Zolnerovich that is not funny.” She set down the cleaver. “And since you are here, dear, you can go see if the grill is ready.” Alexi lifted Gatta down to the floor, despite her protests, and cut through the kitchen to look at the grill. He gave his wife’s rump a pat on the way by, further embarrassing his daughter. “Catherine, what did your professor mean by ‘a true rod?’ I’ve never heard the term before.”

  “He means a Slavic family that follows the Slavic pagan traditions, or at least acknowledges them even if they are Orthodox.” Little Catherine pulled a stool out from beside the long kitchen counter and sank onto it. “He’s big into Slavic pagan traditions and recreating the old ways, with all capital letters.”

  Her mother snorted. “Sounds like he’s also the kind who would faint if he saw a real Slavic spirit, or came around a corner and the Sweeper was waiting for him.”

  The girl grinned a faintly mischievous grin. “Oh yeah. I’d love to see that, like right before finals. Maybe I should see if Dad will let me slip him a firebird feather.”

  A faint voice called, “Fire’s ready.” Catherine Mary scooped the meat onto a platter and handed it to her daughter. “Here. Take this to your father and remind him that this is not rat-on-a-stick. It doesn’t have to be charred to be edible.”

  Catherine took the platter, muttered something about parents and gross, and eased out the screen door onto the back porch. She liked staying in her grandmother’s old house here in Golden. She could see the mountains, and the large vegetable garden, and a few horses and the lonely cow in the pasture that Mr. Velasquez rented from her parents. Babushka let “Aunt” Morena stay here with her, and Catherine’s parents handled all the property taxes, rentals, and other things, which suited Babushka just fine. Catherine crossed the deck to the grill, sniffing. Her dad had added something sweet to the charcoal, probably apple wood. He opened the top of the charcoal grill and neatly spread the strips of marinated meat on the rack, then closed the lid. “Do I need to have a word with the dean about your professor?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. He’s a jerk to everyone, not just me.” She leaned against him and then straightened up. “When’s Babushka and Aunt M coming back?”

  “Two days, weather permitting. Ivan is not impressed with New York.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes. “Not enough tuna?”

  “Probably. I have no idea why Babushka thought he’d make a good pet food commercial model. Aunt Morena’s photo shoot did go well, though.”

  “That’s a relief.” She took the now empty platter inside to wash it. Alexi stared at the mountains and enjoyed the peace and relative quiet of Babushka’s house. He wished his oldest son, Peter, could come home, but he’d been ordered to the Defense Language School in Monterey and would not get leave until August. Stavros George, age fourteen and invincible, was camping with the church scout troop in Arizona. The beef smelled wonderful and his stomach growled. Alas, Alexi was no longer in his twenties and able to eat anything without showing it. But tonight would be very good; they were enjoying a last night of luxury before Little Catherine went back to Ft. Collins to finish the term, and his leave ended, so they were having lots of really good food. Catherine Mary had inherited her great grandmother’s secret recipe for an eggplant spread that turned pita and gyro-meat into the second best thing on Earth. He shook his head again, wondering how he’d managed to be so blessed as to have his wonderful Greek-by-adoption Indian-born wife and three great kids. Maybe it was a sort of reward for keeping Baba Yaga and her allies at bay.

  Alexi opened the grill, neatly flipping the meat and closing the lid again. Peeping never helped. His mouth watered. A minute or so later, his wife emerged with a clean and empty platter, and an opened beer. “A righteous woman is without price,” he began reciting from the “Song of Songs.” “More valuable than rubies.”

  She kissed him and after he took the beer, put her free arm around him. “Flattery will get you everywhere. And I don’t like Dr. Tolstoy.”

  “Neither do I. Something about him . . . I don’t know. Maybe he’s just a jerk.”

  “Like that idiot so-called fire science instructor Peter collided with? Possibly.” Catherine Mary (and Gatta) had spoken with the instructor. What they said no one knew, but the man refused to come out of the closet in his office for several days afterward, delegating everything to a Teaching Assistant who happened to have been a wildland fire fighter before returning to college. Peter finished the course with a B plus. The instructor resigned for mental health reasons a week after final exams.

  “Well, this late in the semester is probably not the time to get involved. Besides, he’s wrong about the name.”

  “How so? Oh, because she’s not using the patronymic?”

  “Exactly.” Alexi had sort of wanted to give the children full Ukrainian names, so Little Catherine would have been Ekatarina Theodora Alexandrovna. Catherine Mary had intervened, pointing out the paperwork nightmare involved with just the county hospital, let alone the state and federal (TriCare) forms. And that before trying to enroll the children in school. “It sounds as if the professor needs to stick with history and stay away from religion and traditions.”

  “Mrah.”

  Alexi and Catherine Mary looked over their shoulders at Gatta. “That settles it.” Catherine Mary gave her husband a peck on the cheek as she collected the beef, managing to side-step Gatta’s attempt at twining around her ankles. “Your plate’s inside, remember?”

  “Meh.” Gatta scuffed dirt on an invisible bowl of cat kibble, then dodged out of the way as Little Catherine came outside with the pita rounds.

  “Cats,” father and daughter chorused. Gatta sniffed, washed one paw, and flowed up onto the patio chair to bask in the sun and sulk as Alexi heated the bread on the grill.

  Two days later Alexi, on leave before returning to Ft. Drum, listened to his grandmother’s account of New York City with that small part of his brain not needed for coping with Denver-metro traffic. He really hoped he would not see anything interesting on or around the road, including little houses on chicken feet. The black cat known as Ivan the Purrable added his own feline complaints from the carrier on the floor of the back seat. Morena Ivanova Zharpitsca, the dark-haired former firebird, rode in the back seat. Road traffic made her nervous, although not as much as ten years before. She was finally accepting that in America, drivers did not view traffic rules as personal challenges to be met and overcome. Alexi suspected she’d still be happier if he drove an Abrams tank or something larger. As it was she did not quite cower in the backseat, but she was not pleased, either.

  “ . . . and then he say Ivan not have ‘screen presence,’ and ‘lack personality.’ My Ivan, no personality?” Babushka sounded indignant in any language, including the Russian she spoke at the moment.

  “Mrow!”

  Alexi accelerated around an econobox with a death wish, then dove between two SUVs to capture the outside lane for the exit to Golden. “That too bad.” He couldn’t drive and translate at the same time.

  Babushka said something else, but stopped when Morena gave a smothered squeak. She assured her granddaughter-by-adoption, “Is not so bad. Is not upside-down.”

  “It is an advertising sign,” Alexi assured Morena, in English. Which was true, and the city of Denver had told the body shop to remove the sign with the one-half hatch-back. They had not, at least not yet.

  Quiet, aside from Ivan’s mutterings, reigned until they reached Golden. “Alexi-Cousin, I have problem,” Morena said as they got out of the car. He wondered what it was. She had modeling contracts lined up for the next year. Her sister-cousin had found work as an interpreter, then found a husband in an import-export business and a new role as a
n NYC hostess and mother. Morena preferred to stay out of sight, and had given up embroidery for lace-making and sewing her own clothes, as well as of all things, carpentry and carving. She’d turned the shed in Babushka’s garden into a nice workshop and made toys and bentwood boxes that sold well at the parish craft fairs. Far be it for Alexi to wonder about other people’s hobbies. “Problem is this.” She pushed up her sleeve and he bit his tongue hard. A pattern like feathers traced up her smooth, fair skin, shimmering faintly gold like a very light design done in body paint. “Makeup cover but . . .”

  “That is problem,” he agreed, letting her go first into the house. It felt small with four grownups, Gatta, and Ivan, but no more crowded than most barracks. “Other problem,” Alexi sighed as they heard Ivan telling the world of his dissatisfaction.

  Morena giggled and whispered, “Ivan bad model. Pose with food, not eat it. Smelled bad.”

  Alexi shook his head and grinned. Gatta stalked up and let him know that she was not happy with Ivan. Catherine Mary hugged Morena, then picked up the fluffy white cat. “We need more on firebird legend,” Alexi told her. Morena showed Catherine Mary her arm, then went to unpack. Gatta made a curious sound, puzzled, tipping her head to one side. “No idea.”

  After supper, Morena acted uncomfortable. “Am restless, want to be outside. The feathers appeared three days ago, after last photo shoot thanks be to God. Am afraid Koschei come back.”

  They all crossed themselves. Alexi clenched on hand into a fist and thumped the end of the sofa. “Damn it. And I have to go back in two days. I’ll look through the books and see what I can find.”

  “You still have feathers?”

  Catherine Mary nodded. “Yes. Locked away, after Father Milo blessed them.”

  Morena relaxed a little at the news, Alexi noticed. He had an idea and leaned forward, meeting Morena’s eyes. “You know that they cannot hurt soul?” he said in Russian. “Body yes, but soul only if given. Cannot take, ever.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Babushka assured the younger woman. “Rusalka give, others give. But Baba Yaga, Chernobog, others cannot take. Kill yes, but not damn.”

  “Slava Bogu!” She covered her face with her hands and took a deep, shuddery breath. When Morena opened her fingers, three pearls fell to the floor. Ivan dove for them and batted one across the carpet and under the couch.

  Alexi and Catherine Mary looked at each other. “Shit,” they sighed in unison.

  Three weeks later, Catherine Theodora made a surprise visit home from college. “Oh, just needed to get away this weekend. Roomie’s fiancé is visiting and I got all my work done. Plus there’s some protest on campus I really don’t want to mess with.”

  “Mragh,” followed by hairball noises.

  Catherine Mary looked over from her pile of paperwork long enough to confirm that Gatta was just being dramatic. “That’s fine, dear. If you have a few minutes, could you pull the books that have firebirds in them? Morena and I need to look up something, since your father had to leave before he found what he was looking for.”

  Little Catherine rolled her eyes, after making sure her mother was not looking. “Sure, Mom.” Perfect, she thought. “I’ll do it now.”

  “Thanks. Now what exactly is the problem,” Catherine Mary murmured to herself, turning pages in a big five-inch binder of regulations and permit requirements. She still worked for the Forest Service as a wildland fire science consultant. Little Catherine and her brothers knew better than to interrupt their mother when she started talking to herself. If she slipped into Greek, their Dad usually took them out for burgers or Chinese food, bringing something back for their mother. Little Catherine tip-toed out of the office-area and down the hall.

  Her parents had bought a condo in Golden. Catherine Mary refused to be a good Army wife beyond the basics, and Alexi supported her decision. Since he’d been deployed to some pretty strange places, he and Catherine Mary had decided that the family would not travel with him like most did. He’d had to work pretty hard to make up for that, and Little Catherine had caught a whiff of the politics as she grew up, but now she appreciated the stability. Plus it kept them closer to Babushka and Aunt M. Which reminded Little Catherine that she’d better pull the books first so her mom wouldn’t ask why she was poking around in the master bedroom.

  One of the bookcases had solid doors on it, fastened with silver hinges and a silver lock. Little Catherine found the key in its usual spot under the prayer-books and opened the doors, then begin going through the titles. She didn’t read Russian or Ukrainian as well as she spoke them, and she had to sound out a few of the really old and strange ones. “Right, so firebird? Hmm, that would be this one, and Jaroslov’s book, and um,” she looked at a few more, put two back, and wrinkled her nose at the smell from an ancient notebook that must have come to the New World in the bottom of a crate of onions. How had so many old strange books ended up in the States, anyway? She shrugged. Internet sales, probably. Didn’t Ivan the Purrable have his own account on Flea-bay? No, he’d found a back-door into someone else’s account that one time, which was why he kept getting his phone privileges yanked. Silly cat.

  Little Catherine put the books on the table beside the bed, looked around for Gatta, and eased the drawer open as quietly as she could. She probably should not have gone hunting after Peter got grounded for poking around in their parents’ stuff, but she knew better than to get caught, and it was for a good cause. The deep drawer had a small gun safe containing a revolver loaded with silver bullets as well as standard, a jewelry box that Catherine Mary alone had a key for, and way back in the back, a small envelope with another key in it.

  After another glance around to make certain Gatta wasn’t spying on her, Little Catherine took the brass key out, opened her father’s closet door, and unlocked the box that hid behind his shoes. She took out a fancy padded silk envelope, like the ones some people kept pearl necklaces in. She locked the box, replaced the key, and hid the silk envelope in her daypack before taking the books to the living room, then re-locking the bookshelves. As she did, she thought she felt the silver medallion of the Theotokos she wore around her neck getting warm, and shivered a little. It was just her imagination. And she wasn’t stealing the feathers, just borrowing them to show Dr. Tolstoy that she was too a Slav and he didn’t know half of what he thought he did.

  She visited the washroom, then scrubbed her hands really well. The stomach crud had raced through campus after Spring Break and she did not want to get sick. She peered in the mirror. Ugh, another pimple on her nose. She looked like a cross between her parents, shorter than her mother but lighter built than her father. Her hair had darkened from baby blond to a nice brown with blond highlights, and her dark blue eyes came from her paternal grandmother, although the shape probably went back to her unknown maternal ancestors. Little Catherine tanned more than her father, and a lot more than her younger brother, who could have been a clone of their father. The guys were equally wide, and Little Catherine wondered if buildings in Russia were short and square just because their owners had been.

  Little Catherine’s younger brother was staying with a friend so they could play a new game that had released that afternoon. She had her mom to herself, and over supper she asked, “Is Aunt M ever going to take up embroidery again?”

  “Not as far as I know, especially— No, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “The peasant look is really trendy now, and her stuff is a lot prettier than what’s in the store. Do you think she’d do a blouse or skirt for me if I asked?”

  Her mother shook her head, making her long earrings flop back and forth. “No. This isn’t a good time to ask, either. She’s having some trouble that may interfere with her next job.”

  Little Catherine had thought being a model would be fun. Then she spent a week with her aunt-by-adoption. No way, that was hard work! “Bummer. I hope it gets sorted out.”

  “So do I. Speaking of sorted out, how is your problem with the Slav
ic studies professor?”

  “It’s OK,” Little Catherine fibbed. “He’s picking on another student now. Says Boris isn’t living up to his rod.” She snorted. “Boris was named for the bear in the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo and is as Slavic as garam masala.”

  Her mother shook her head again. “He sounds about as observant as that math professor Peter had.”

  “Oh, you mean Dr. Kim, the one who couldn’t tell Peter and Peter apart?” Since the other Peter was from Venezuela and had the same skin tone as ground coffee, how the professor had gotten the two mixed up remained a bit of a mystery. In a class of two hundred fifty, maybe, but in senior seminar with all of twenty students? Little Catherine still wondered how he’d managed it.

  “Yes. Theoretical mathematicians all seem to be a bit odd. He’s not teaching undergraduates this year, is he?”

  Little Catherine drank her milk and tried to remember. “Um, I don’t think so. I think he’s on sabbatical.”

  “Ah. Pass the salad, please.” Her mother was on one of her periodic Greek kicks, which explained the feta and olive-heavy salad, the Greek bread, and lamb-burger. Little Catherine didn’t mind. She’d found one café, George-something, that did OK Greek, but it was south of Ft. Collins and Denver, way too far for a run those few times she really wanted dolmades. “Thank you. Ivan has his phone back.”

  She chewed her salad, spit out the olive pit, and thought. “Mom, does anyone else have cats that text?”

  “Not that I’ve met, but I’m not certain I want to meet anyone who does have cats like Ivan and Gatta.”

  “Are they really cats? Under the fur, I mean, are they, you know, normal cats?”

  Her mother laughed. “According to the vet they are. Before you were born we had Gatta spayed, and all the bits were right where the vet expected to find them.”

  “Mragh!” A pair of white ears appeared over the edge of the table, followed by a pink nose that sniffed busily. “Mrow?”

  The women shook their heads. “You do not like feta cheese. You never liked feta cheese.” Little Catherine reminded the white cat. “You don’t like olives, either, and there’s no lamb left.”