Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “No, thanks.”

  He shrugs. “You look hungry.”

  I glance around for Justin. Chloe is sitting tucked into Chase’s lap, playing with his hat tassels. Justin is crouched by the water, a tiny dark outline against the indigo prairie.

  “Justin, honey, come to Mommy.” I see him stand, look back and start to toddle toward me.

  “I met your husband earlier today,” Mysterious Pringle Man says. He crunches another Pringle. “He’s an interesting guy.”

  I glance at Chase. He’s in animated conversation. “He keeps me on my toes.”

  “You’re a good wife to let him drag you out here.”

  Now he has my attention. I smile. Yeah, I am, I know. Mrs. Proverbs 31. “Thanks. We’re headed stateside after this. He needed one last adventure.”

  Mr. Pringles crunches another one. “My name’s Marc.” He wipes his hand off on his T-shirt. “I’m with Voices International. We represent the Fourth World, researching their cultures. Are you sure you don’t want a Pringle?”

  That’s two. My mouth is salivating. “No, thanks,” I say. “What is the Fourth World? I’m only aware of one.” I laugh at my joke. He doesn’t. Uh-oh, the Pringles might be in jeopardy.

  “The Fourth World refers to the LDC, or least developed countries, usually within First or Third World nations. Namely, the indigenous groups who have been largely obliterated by the country in power. Currently, we’re working with the Russian Ministry of Indigenous People out of Moscow to study their various people groups. Like the Nanais of Siberia. There are over thirty different indigenous groups in Russia, and the government is starting to realize they need to figure out ways to help preserve their culture, rather than assimilate it.”

  “You make the Russians sound like the Borg.”

  He takes another chip. “It’s not unlike what we did to our First Nations people in Canada, making them speak English, sending their children to residential schools, obliterating their culture.”

  “We did that in America, too.”

  Marc nods. He digs a little well into the pebbly beach, setting the Pringles can inside. “Where’re you from?”

  “Minnesota—a little town right in the middle.”

  “My backyard, eh? I’m from Winnipeg.” He smiles at me, and the firelight reveals a twinkle in those brown eyes. Not only is that look aimed at still-pregnant-weight me, but I’m married, and I don’t see too many of those zingers these days.

  I don’t know quite what to do. Is he…flirting with me? Gulp.

  No, he can’t be. I glance again toward Chase, who looks at me and grins. I grin back. See, happily married, Mr. Pringles.

  Marc seems to have followed my gaze, because he waves to Chase. Grins.

  Maybe I imagined all that. For sure I imagined it.

  “I can’t finish these. Are you sure you won’t have one?”

  That’s three. Phew, I was starting to worry. I take the can and smile. If you insist, Mr. Pringles. “Thanks.”

  Heaven, in one perfectly formed oval chip. I crunch it with my tongue, letting the salt fill my mouth.

  Marc’s eyes are on me as I enjoy my moment of Pringle bliss, and he’s smiling with one side of his mouth. “Methinks someone is missing home.”

  “Where did you find these?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Spotted them in a kiosk in Simferopol. Bought all eight cans.”

  My eyes widen, and he laughs. “Yes, I have more.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not—”

  “I’ll bring you a can tomorrow.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” But I could, I could!

  I shouldn’t.

  I shouldn’t.

  But it tastes so good, so salty, so…home. And I want more.

  “Are you on vacation?” I ask, taking another chip.

  He nods. “I’m with a group of other researchers. Taking a few days off before we head to an international conference in Kazakhstan.” He stands up, dusting off his hands. “I came over to invite Chase to join us in a game of volleyball at our camp tomorrow. We have at least two Americans, and—” he winks “—lots of Pringles. Come with him.”

  I shamelessly shake the chip crumbs out of the can and into my hand. I look up at him. He smiles again, all white teeth and dark, friendly eyes.

  I find myself saying, “What time?”

  Chapter Two

  Just Like Camping

  My hometown of Gull Lake, Minnesota, population 2,500, thrives on sports. During a January basketball game, our small high-school gym is hotter than a Finnish sauna, and our cheerleaders can dance in hockey skates. We are a multi-sport town, and our trophy case has been reinforced three times to hold the weight of the embossed accolades. I mention this only to say that I, Josey Berglund Anderson, have my name on a trophy in said case.

  Girls Volleyball, 1996, State Champs, “A” division. We were the stars of the Christmas parade that year, and I made the front page of the Gull Lake Gazette—displaying the “Josey spike”—three times that season.

  I lived and breathed volleyball. Pringle Marc has no idea what he’s in for. More than that, Chase, being a football jock, rarely saw me play. I’m feeling seventeen all over again as I pull on my Tasmanian-devil pajamas—and after a moment of long hesitation where I contemplate the sacrifices one must make for competition—I tear off the already ratty arms and tie the hem into a knot just below my waist.

  “What are you doing?” Chase traps Justin under one arm, tickling him as Chloe climbs his back, fire in her three-year-old blue eyes. She’s such a knock off the old block (meaning me). It’s World Wide Wrestling hour in our tent, although I feel as if Jesse “The Bod” Ventura and I already did a few rounds due to Justin and Chloe’s propensity to sleep with their feet in my face. Who, again, thought it was a good idea to go camping with two preschoolers who are barely potty-trained?

  “I got invited to play beach volleyball with you today,” I say, pulling on a pair of shorts. Okay, yoga-pant cutoffs, but with my baggy Taz top, they look more like biking shorts, without the firm sheen (and you know what I mean). I’m wearing my swimsuit underneath, and I grab Chase’s crazy bandana hat, untying it for a headband.

  “You’re playing volleyball?” Chase asks, pulling Chloe forward over his shoulder and tickling her belly. She shrieks in delight.

  I glare at him. Just because I’ve spent the past three years wiping snotty noses and cutting food into tiny pieces doesn’t mean that the Josey inside—the one who came to Russia when hot dogs were still a delicacy, who gave birth in a Russian hospital, who helped her high-school sweetheart become a peanut-butter mogul—has lost her stride. I can still bump and spike. In fact, them sound like fightin’ words.

  “Did you think I forgot how?”

  Chase gets that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. Yeah, you’re in trouble, pal. He deflects with a smile while Justin shoves his hand into his dad’s mouth. “No,” he says between little fingers. “I jush thought—”

  “I wanna play. I haven’t played beach volleyball for years.”

  Chase pulls Justin’s fingers away. “Of course.”

  “Can you help keep an eye on the twins?” Of course, in principle, I shouldn’t have to ask the father of our children to watch the twins, but the reality is, my man stepped outta line when the “equal responsibility” gene got handed out. Not that Chase is a bad father. For all his angst before the twins were born, he has plowed through midnight feedings, diaper changes and pre-potty-training in stellar form. But—and I say this with love as he holds down both kids and tickles their feet—he’s sort of like a giant interactive toy.

  I married a twelve-year-old. With great shoulders.

  He flips Chloe over his shoulder as she slaps his back. “Sure. In fact, I’ll sit it out and get them some ice cream. I saw a guy peddling some cones yesterday up the shore. It’s almost lunchtime, anyway.”

  Ice cream for lunch. See, I told you: twelve. But I lean over and give him a kiss because, well, h
e does have those shoulders.

  The sun is hot, and the beach is warm through my rubber swim shoes as we walk to Pringle Marc’s camp. No one with all their faculties intact would walk barefoot on the beach in Russia, not unless their tetanus shot is updated. The sea is deep turquoise and so translucent, I spot the darkened underwater shoals where Chase went snorkeling yesterday. He brought us back a bag of clams and mussels. And then proceeded to clean them. And cook them.

  I’ve lost about ten pounds on this trip.

  Our neighbor Vadeem lifts his hand to wave—he’s playing a card game called Durok (literal translation: Fool) with his wife, mother-in-law and two naked daughters, ages six months and eighteen months (one year apart has to be nearly as fun as twins). They’ve been here for a month now, all five of them sleeping in a tent made for four. I count my blessings as we weave our way through other camps, some constructed of brown Russian-army tents, others of giant nylon tarps. Russians on vacation are a friendly lot, and most of them smile at us. A few toast us with half-full glasses of warm vodka.

  I spy the volleyball court. My team is warming up.

  Oh, boy. Clearly, I’m the only woman in the group. Which, when surrounded by ten or so shirtless, tan, just-sweaty-enough male volleyball players, isn’t the worst situation in the world. I glance at Chase and smile.

  He’s wearing a frown. “I don’t see the ice-cream man.”

  I’ll just bet that’s what he was thinking. But he hides it as he answers Marc’s greeting with a handshake. “I brought you my secret weapon.” He glances at me and winks. “Killer.”

  Oh, Chase. See, even though I’m surrounded by Baywatch, the man has nothing—not a thing, nada, nichevo—to worry about.

  “Then she’s on my team,” Marc says, pulling me into the game. He introduces me around to five Canadians, two Germans, an Italian and two Americans. I don’t catch all their names, because, you know, I’m focused on the volleyball, but I think there’s a Joe, a Duncan, a Kurt and a Paul on my team.

  Their camp, adjacent to the court, is a beautiful array of orange and blue family-size tents, evidence that this group lives in luxury. And apparently they’ve taken the time to police the beach for glass, cigarettes and other menaces, because most of the guys are barefoot. But I don’t want anything to interfere with my game, so I’m keeping my shoes on as I line up in the back row for the serve.

  “Let’s play!” I say, clapping. Marc shoots me a look.

  Where’s the team spirit? The ball shoots across the net and I go down for a perfect, beautiful bump. It sets up high for Duncan, who chooses to smash it into the net, instead of setting it up for our spike man, Kurt.

  Apparently, my teammates need to get their minds on the game. The next serve comes faster and although I call it, Marc dives for the return and we crash heads.

  “Sorry,” he says. I force a smile.

  “No problem, it’s just a game.” It’s just a game, it’s just a game.

  The third shot is out, and Marc takes the serve. It’s a net ball, and I shoot a look at Chase. He gives me a thumbs-up. Justin is digging in the sand and dirt behind him, and Chloe is fighting with the sun hat I double-tied under her chin.

  I almost miss the serve, but go to my knees to bump it. This time, Paul sets it for Duncan, who spikes it into the opposing team’s court.

  Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

  “Paul, that was an awesome set,” I say. “Let’s see if we can do that again.”

  Marc glances at me, and I nod at him, all smiles. All this team needs is a little leadership.

  Paul steps up to serve for our team. He’s got a wicked overhand serve, and pretty soon I’m covered in sand, we’re five points up, and Marc is wagering his Pringles against the win.

  “I think I see the ice-cream guy,” says Chase somewhere nearby. Yeah, yeah. Marc bumps the service up to me, I set up a beauty of a spike, and Kurt arrows it over. We’re a well-oiled machine, we are, and even attracting an audience as we rack up three more points. I see fire in the other team’s eyes—they are crouched down, their hands at the ready, poised to volley.

  We volley hard until Marc sets it, and I go airborne, feeling my wings, that old juice in my veins as I slam the ball over, hard, fast, just skimming the net and kicking up sand on the other side.

  “She’s hot now!” Marc says.

  I glance at Chase, who has Chloe in his arms. He’s wearing a strange look, one I haven’t seen in years. The same one he gave me from across the room at Lew Suzlbach’s graduation party, right before I went joyriding with two of his football buddies. I remember returning to find him sitting in the front yard, arms dangling over his knees, waiting. He corralled me for a ride on his motorcycle—a long ride that lasted until sunrise.

  It wasn’t long after that that he told me he was attending college far, far away from Gull Lake.

  The look rattles me for a moment, and then he smiles. “I’m going for ice cream!”

  Maybe I misread all that.

  I wave at him and turn back to the game.

  We’re up by eight, and although the other team makes a valiant effort, they can’t overcome the mighty power of, um, Josey and the Guys.

  “Okay, Josey, I’ll give you your own can of Pringles if you can bring it home!” Marc tosses me the ball to serve for game point.

  I send it over the net with a satisfying thwack.

  The other team volleys well, spikes it hard, but our team dives deep and rescues with a bump. It’s set, and I realize it’s all mine. A spike from the back row. I wind up, jump, connect—

  A scream right behind me snatches my attention. My maternal instinct kicks in before I land.

  I’m already turning, the word Rebyonka registering in my adrenaline-laced brain.

  Baby.

  My baby. In the water, jellyfish wrapped around his little body. He is screaming. He’s up to his chest and if he falls…

  Please, God.

  I am in the water before anyone even moves, thrashing my way to Justin. “It’s okay, honey, Mommy’s coming.” Jellyfish swarm me, wrapping like cellophane around my legs and arms as I scoop Justin up, pulling the jellyfish from his body. But they cling to me and, apparently agitated, begin to sting.

  A thousand needles, into my legs, my arms, across my back. I’m shaking them off even as I run to shore, ignoring the fire that is raging across my skin. Marc is there with a towel for Justin, but I don’t hand him off. I just wrap his little preschool body in terry cloth and hold him close. He’s crying.

  I’m breathing hard. Great gasps of forced air. I…can’t…breathe.

  I drop to my knees. Let go of Justin. He stands there as I put a hand into the sand, another to my throat. I…can’t…

  “Josey, are you okay?”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  I look up, blinking, but the world is starting to fade…

  “Josey? Josey?”

  I come to in a rush, and Chase is right there above me. His hand is around my neck, and a coldness presses into my chest. I’m lying in the sand, a bed of grit. I feel heavy, groggy. My lips are thick.

  “Whaf haffen?”

  “You had an allergic reaction to the jellyfish.” Chase touches his forehead to mine, and I can feel him tremble. “You really scared us.” As he pulls away, I see a crowd standing around me full of Russians wearing their Speedos. That’s a sight that’ll wake anyone from a sound coma. Thankfully, I see others, in swim trunks. A man is holding a ball in his hands.

  A volleyball.

  The game.

  Justin!

  I start to sit up, but Chase pushes me back. “Justin!”

  “He’s fine.” He gestures to a place behind me, and I crane my neck to see Chloe and Justin playing in the sand, aided by Nastia, our Russian neighbor. “He was a little shook up, but he wasn’t stung. They don’t usually sting—”

  I raise my eyebrow.

  “—unless provoked.”

  That’s me, the Jell
yfish Provoker. I close my eyes, aching from head to toe, feeling the stings. I shiver. “What happened?” My voice sounds tight, raspy, as if choked. My throat hurts.

  “Your throat closed up. Good thing Duncan is allergic to bee stings. He carries an EpiPen with him.” Chase’s eyes begin to glisten.

  I shiver again, cold spreading down my chest. No, running down my chest, into my armpits. I reach up to touch the sensation. It’s sticky. Gooey. “What—?”

  Chase is making a face. “Yeah, well, I got sorta carried away. I saw you collapse and forgot I was carrying ice cream, and…”

  “You smeared ice cream on me?” I lick my finger. “Plumbere.”

  “Your favorite kind.”

  Uh, no. Chase’s favorite kind. Shortly after we moved to Russia, we spent a month deciding what flavor and brand of ice cream Chase liked, which involved visiting every ice-cream vendor in the city. Not that I’m complaining about his methods.

  I pull the sodden shirt away from my body. “Yuck.”

  “I’m so sorry, GI. I thought you knew Justin was still here. You waved at me when I told you I was just taking Chloe.”

  I stare at him. I don’t remember that. Do you remember that?

  All I remember is, is…

  I sit up, looking past Chase, and zero in on Marc, standing right behind him. “Did we get the point?”

  Slowly a smile breaks out across Marc’s face.

  Then he turns to Chase and utters the words that will change my life. And I know then that Chase is a flounder, two eyes on one side of his head, hiding in the sand on the bottom, awaiting his prey.

  “See, I told you she’d do fine in Siberia,” says Marc. “She’s a trouper. Besides, it’s just like camping.”

  Wait! Did someone say camping?

  Or—worse yet—Siberia?

  Chapter Three

  No Pressure or Anything

  “He did what?”

  I’m so relieved to hear my friend Maggie Calhoun’s tone of voice—the slight shrill that betrays I’m not nuts to be on a full-out strike against Chase’s methods of mind control—that I’m willing to forgive her for losing all her pregnancy weight and being back down to a size six and wearing the cutest pair of Ann Taylor jeans and a cable-knit sweater. I feel like the hometown bum in my fat jeans and Chase’s old Gull Lake sweatshirt.