Chase has Chloe on his shoulders as he walks with the men. So far, I’ve counted eight light-blue or-green houses. Each house has two entrances and seems to hold two families. A fence on each side of the house encircles a yard that contains chickens, cows and the occasional goat. And once in a while, a reindeer.
I wonder if I’m going to get a reindeer. Instead of a car, of course.
“A long time ago, they used to herd reindeer, and these animals are the descendants of those herds,” Chase says when I ask him about Santa’s steeds.
How long ago? I’m wondering. Last week? Since the time of the Mongol horde and Genghis Khan?
“Anton says the market is only open on Saturdays, because that’s when they get the shipment of food from Khabarovsk,” Chase says over his shoulder. He’s been passing on these incidentals the entire tour, like we’re in the Smithsonian. He glances at me. “I suppose that’ll leave you time to do other things.”
Like what? Milk cows?
Attitude, attitude, Josey. Please, Lord, help me see the good parts. Submission. Joy. I’m proud of you, Josey. Yeah, Daph, you’d better be.
Anton shows us the town hall—a long green building with saggy steps. “Anton says you can use his office to hook up to the Internet. There are no other phone lines in the village.”
Of course there aren’t.
Oops. Attitude.
Inside the town hall is a post office. Chase signs us up for a box and hands me a brass key.
At one point, years ago, my good friend H told me that I was a dreamer, looking for a happily-ever-after that didn’t exist. Now I’m beginning to wonder if she might be right.
Finally we arrive at our house.
Chase stands outside the gate.
I’m afraid to look.
“It’s cute,” Chase says, reaching over to wrap his arm around me. I take a breath. Crack open one of my tightly closed eyes.
It is cute, in a Siberian sort of way. See, I’m already seeing things with new eyes. It’s blue, with giant, ornate white-painted windows. A worn dirt path winds up to the front door. Beyond that, the path continues to the backyard, where I see trampled grass (read: weeds, but we’re trying to have a good attitude, aren’t we?). Along the back fence, which is painted green, I see a matching outbuilding.
I look away.
“C’mon,” Chase says, letting Chloe down to run. She and Justin take off through the yard while Anton hands Chase the key to the house. I hear him say something about bringing our bags over.
I walk to the door, nearly holding my breath. Now I have to admit, when I dreamed of a house, it had two stories and indoor plumbing, but most importantly, potential.
I hear the children’s laughter as they race after each other.
Chase hands me the key, and I slowly unlock the door and ease it open. It squeals on its loose hinges.
The door opens to a small foyer that is closed off from the rest of the house. Probably to keep the frost and chill from the warmth of the hearth. I can already smell the musty scent of damp, weathered boards, but at least the former owners were clean. This room’s brown linoleum floor has been swept. A row of homemade hooks by the door suggests the frequency of company, and a potato bin bulges with what looks like two sacks of potatoes. Chase gestures to it. “They had their potato delivery last week. Anton ordered us two fifty-pound bags. He told me we’d have to dry them.”
Of course we will. Whatever that means.
I nod, though, and push the next door open, the one that leads to the living quarters. Chase calls for Justin and Chloe, who scamper in past me, still laughing.
The house is cool, collecting the brisk Siberian air. A kitchen not much larger than Ulia’s is on my right. Next to a tiny electric stove and oven I see a sink, with a bucket over the top.
“You fill the bucket and then lift the latch on the bottom, and it filters into the sink,” Chase says, reading my thoughts. Oh, I get it—pretend plumbing. I give him a shaky smile.
“I’ll have to learn how to light the coal stove,” Chase says, moving past me, opening the door to our own massive Hereford in the middle of the room. I note his use of pronoun. Smart man.
“There’s the pump,” Chase says, gesturing to…a real pump. Now I’m really feeling like Ma Ingalls, because it’s the old-fashioned kind, with the long, pump-by-hand handle and a bucket below the spigot. It’s over a wood platform, of sorts, that covers a drain in the floor.
I stare at it as truth sinks its claws in.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” I hear my mouth say. For once, it’s actually cooperating with my brain.
Chase hooks his arm around my waist. “Misha and Anya moved out to live with his mother so we could have this place. Most of the other residents have to cart a watering can down to the village pump for their water.”
Oh. Well. Lucky me.
But I still have no words.
“There are two bedrooms,” he says, and I hear the note of panic in his voice. I am nearly numb as he moves me toward the first room, right behind the kitchen. Big enough for two beds, it’s bright and has a throw rug that smells freshly washed. And of course, the requisite brown Turkish carpet on the wall—high Moscow fashion has found its way east. Chloe is jumping on what looks like a black-and-white striped prison mattress left behind on the floor. Justin is barking at her to stop jumping. Chloe responds with “No! No! No! No! No!”
For once, I’m siding with my daughter.
The other bedroom is smaller, and is nearly filled by the double bed in the middle of the room. “Where do we put our clothes?”
“In the wardrobe in the family room,” Chase answers softly. I can tell that he’s scared by my reaction—he’s still got a grip around my waist.
I suppose dressing in the family room is better than sleeping in the family room. I take a deep breath. Someone has left a glass filled with wilting orange, red and yellow chrysanthemums on the windowsill.
“Well?” Chase says, swallowing hard.
I move past him into the family room. Shadow seeps from the nooks and crannies of the room, so I open the curtains. The windows needs a good cleaning, but the sunlight reveals pink wallpaper, a brown-painted wood floor and ornate crown molding along the ceiling.
And a crucifix over the door.
Chase takes my hand. “I know it’s rough, GI. Before you say anything—” he holds up his hand “—I want you to know that I agree we’re in over our heads here. In fact, I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you wanted to pack up and run. This isn’t what you signed up for, and really it isn’t what I signed up for, either, although you and I know that I could sleep in a barn and probably be happy—Don’t look at me like that, I’m not saying you’re not as tough as I am, it’s just that I don’t need things like running water or—Stop looking at me like that! I know how important a bathroom is! But before you make a judgment, I have to tell you something, something I probably should have mentioned to you before, but now I see as glaringly important.”
He takes my other hand, and he interprets my silence to mean, “Please go on.”
“Anton and Ulia actually had three children.”
I’m not sure why—
“Their oldest son committed suicide about a year ago. Right here in Bursk. He left behind a wife and two little kids.”
I think of Justin and Chloe without Chase, and something inside me burns.
“It was the third suicide in less than a month in this town. In fact, the suicide rate has skyrocketed over the past five years. That’s one of the reasons Voices sent us here—because the alcoholism and despair have started an epidemic. Only one out of every four children stay in Bursk, and out of those, about a third have committed suicide. They’re a culture without a future. You can see it in the eyes of the people, can’t you?”
I remember Ulia, her almost reluctant smile at my two sweet babies. And severe Anton. Maybe not so severe. Maybe grieving.
“We need to find out why these men and women who have e
very bit of ability to improve their lives see suicide as a better alternative to living. We need to help them find a balance between embracing their culture and living in today’s world. We need to give them hope.” Chase runs his hands up to my forearms. “I know I’m not playing fair here, babe. But what if we can help? What if staying here and studying them and asking questions and maybe offering solutions actually changes—saves—lives? What if we can make a difference?”
Oh, no, he’s singing my song. I swallow, leaning my head against his warm chest.
I spy the crucifix over the door.
Nobody is playing fair today.
To do:
Rebuild the outhouse
Learn how to pump water
I sit in the kitchen, on the windowsill that is large enough for my backside due to the fact that the walls are roughly a foot thick (I’ve solved the “Where has all the heat gone?” question—it never got in!) and try to figure out where to start making this house a home. We need some furniture, a coat of paint on the walls and food.
“Mommy! Chloe is petting the big doggy!” Justin runs in, nearly in tears. Now how did she sneak past me? I thought I had her cornered in her new room, having shoved a couple of duffels up against the door.
Then again, Justin’s here, too. Another escapee.
“What doggie?”
“Big one!” He’s nearly hysterical now, and I scoop him up and shove him on my hip as I run out to the yard.
I spot Chloe standing stock-still next to the fence separating us from our neighbor, as a rottweiler the size of a buffalo stares her down through a hole where a couple of boards used to be. Only the horizontal beam holds him back. I wonder if he used his head to bust through. Oh, God, please, please.
He opens his mouth and I’m about to scream when he slathers my daughter with a sloppy kiss. She giggles and then, to my horror, launches herself through the hole at the animal and throws both arms around its neck.
“Chloe!” I, in turn, launch myself at her, pulling her back. “Shoo!” I say to the dog, while newspaper headlines run through my mind. “Rottweiler Mauls Child…”
“Lydia!” The voice comes from the other side of the fence. I’m now holding Chloe football-style on my other hip, backing away from the dog. I see a woman in a housedress and slippers appear in the hole. She hooks a hand around the dog, pulling him back. “Lydia! Nyet!”
Lydia?
I come closer to the fence to get a better look. The woman is wearing a green floral headscarf knotted under her chin, yet I see wisps of black hair stealing around the edges. Down one side of her face, an ugly bruise evidences a fall. Or something. I’m remembering Chase’s words about despair and the suicide rate, and a horrible feeling rushes through me. I know that wife beating happens in Russia—just like in America—but I know so little about this culture, and I’m hoping hard that I’m wrong.
“Izvenetye,” she says, pulling Lydia the Killer Dog away from the fence. She’s apologizing, but she’s also eyeing me as if I might be from another planet.
I am. It’s called Planet Plumbing.
“Zhdrastvyootya,” I say, smiling wide, because I can’t hold out my hand due to the bundles of children I’m holding. “Mnye zavoot Josey.”
She isn’t meeting my eyes. “Olya,” she responds. My ear easily switches to Russian when she says, “Lydia loves children.”
Lydia does look like she loves children as she whines and tries to get at mine. I hope that love isn’t based on their taste.
“I’m your new neighbor,” I say, gesturing toward my house. “My husband and I are from America.”
She just blinks at me, but since I feel I’m on a roll here, I point to Chloe. “This is my daughter, Chloe.” And then to Justin. “And this is my son, Justin.”
Justin sticks his thumb in his mouth, and I don’t want to think about where that thumb has been. But he’s so cute I can’t help but give him a little kiss on his pudgy, soft cheek.
Olya’s face hardens, just slightly, and she purses her lips. “Keep your children away from my dog,” she says with a growl. Then, to my shock, she turns and yanks Lydia away, stalking out of view.
Oh. Welcome to the neighborhood, Josey.
Chloe wriggles out of my grasp as I turn toward the house. “Doggie!” She makes for the fence again, but I grab her, shoving Justin behind me.
“No doggie, Chloe. Stay away from the doggie, do you hear me?” She looks as if I’ve taken away her blankie. Her little lip starts to tremble and tears fill her giant blue eyes.
“Seriously, Chloe, the doggie will hurt you. Bite you.” I make a yucky face, but she isn’t buying it. The wailing begins. I pick up Chloe again and in a last-ditch attempt, add desperation to my voice. “Mommy loves you and doesn’t want the doggie to eat you.”
She stops crying and looks at me. I feel like a rotten mommy, but you know, it could happen. A little healthy fear is good for a kid.
“Daddy!” Justin calls out. Chase is back, bread in hand, saving the day.
“Anyone for peanut-butter sandwiches?” He also has some unnamed orange soda and something in a bag that, if I can decipher the hieroglyphics, seems to be crab-flavored potato chips.
“You guys having fun?” he says as we make a picnic on the floor in our family room. Chloe is on his lap and Justin is hanging over my shoulders.
“Big dog!” Justin says.
Chase looks at me, raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, and reach for the chips.
I can see that the little lies I tell myself are going to help me make it through the day.
Chapter Seven
A Matter of Perspective
Directions for pumping water:
Pick handle up so plunger goes down. Pour glass of water on top of piston so seals have good suction. As you push handle down, slowly, it creates pressure below piston. Repeat, increasing speed, until water starts to flow.
I’ve been spoiled. I admit it. Here I thought that when you opened a spigot, water should simply run out. It shouldn’t take faith and a slick sheen of sweat across one’s brow or a puddle of rusty orange water at one’s feet to obtain clean drinking water.
But I’ve learned a lot of things in the week we’ve lived in Burrr, Siberia, like:
1. Coal dust doesn’t come out of clothing, regardless of how much you scrub it in generic washing powder in a tin bucket of freezing water.
2. The purpose of a chamber pot.
3. I can have my milk hand-delivered, as in, my hand can milk the skinny Jersey cow given us yesterday by the village elders. It’s currently eating the yard. Chloe calls it “the Moo.” I just want it to go away.
4. A person can take a fairly decent bath in a pot of ankle-deep water. It just takes creativity. And washing one’s hair takes teamwork. All these things are a thousand times better than getting naked in front of a group of women at the local bathhouse.
5. We are somewhat of an oddity. Every day someone knocks at my door, delivering canned beans, tomatoes, pickles, eggplant, peppers, berries and cabbage (aka sauerkraut). The visitor then proceeds to plant herself in my kitchen for roughly four hours, observing. Anton’s wife, Ulia, brought prune-filled peroshke. Well, at least I’m losing weight. Seriously. I wore my largest pair of pre-children jeans yesterday. (There are some things worth dragging across the world.)
6. There are people on earth who don’t like chocolate-chip cookies. (I know, it baffles me, also.) Case in point: Crabby Neighbor Olya. After finally unpacking our supplies, which included a mixer I purchased in Moscow, I decided to make war reparations and visit the one person who hasn’t visited me. So, armed with cookies and Justin, I surveyed the battlefield for guards (Lydia the rottweiler) and, seeing an all-clear, crossed the lines of demarcation (the hole in the fence) and rapped on her back door.
As Olya cracked it open, I spied one swollen eye and a haunted look on her sallow face. Her eye seemed to be healing. “Cookies?” I offered, and she opened th
e door just wide enough for me to hand her the plate.
She looked at the plate, frowned and then shuffled to the table where she dumped the lot into a basket filled with what appeared to be bread crumbs. Then she reached for a plate on her table and put four slices of black bread with cheese on it. Since she hadn’t invited us in, Justin and I stood watching her from outside.
I’m used to this system, by the way. My first year in Russia, my neighbor Totyemilla gifted me into a corner until I had to date her grandson, Vovka (looked like a model, kissed like a fish). But despite the fact that Vovka and his designer muscles finally made Chase figure out what he might lose, I’ve always been wary of the gifting process. Who knows what I might get in return? Pickled herring? Fish heads?
But the cheese looked good. I took the plate with a smile and tried to make small talk.
She closed the door in my face.
O-kay.
I had already confided in Chase my concerns about Olya—and Chase agreed that abuse loomed large among the other painful issues in their culture. Please Lord, I prayed as a walked back to our yard, give me wisdom and discernment.
“Want a snack?” I asked Justin as we picked our way back through the fence. I held him off until we reached the house, where Chase and Chloe sat in the kitchen finishing the rest of the cookies.
I plunked the plate down before them, and Chloe’s grubby little hand snaked out for a piece. Justin reached for one, too.
“What’s this?” Chase asked, eyeing the cheese and bread.
“A cheese-and-bread snack from our neighbor.”
I was just taking the first bite when I saw Chase frown as he examined the last slice on the plate.
The truth sunk in as the cheesy something that was not cheese coated my teeth. And then something hard crunched.
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 7
