Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  I stand there a long moment as the truth sinks in and cuts off my breathing. “We could have died.”

  Nathan looks at me and then turns to Chase. “Buddy, you okay?”

  Chase glances at me, and for a second, I think I see his eyes glistening. He nods. “Yup.” But his tone makes me believe the opposite.

  He was scared. I haven’t scared Chase in years—not counting the jellyfish. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely functioning. Chase reaches out and wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me to his cold, puffy jacket. I feel him tremble as he holds me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “So, so sorry.”

  I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for, but I’ve learned never to turn down an apology from a man. I hold on.

  We’re a little family package of gratefulness as Nathan walks around the house, opening windows to air out the smoke.

  “How did it happen?” Chase asks finally.

  “I dumped the bucket of coal in to stoke the fire?” I prop Chloe on my hip, pulling the coat over her even as she fusses with it.

  “You dumped the bucket?”

  “Yeesss…”

  “You can’t dump coal dust on a fire—it’ll smother it. Just put the pieces in by hand.”

  Oh, I’ll be sure and file that away in my Coal Furnace Maintenance Manual. I sigh.

  “I’m just thankful we got here in time.”

  I’m not able to address that.

  “Dzhozhy! Dzhozhy!” Olya is running across the yard calling my name, Lydia behind her, barking. “Deem edyot!”

  Yeah, I know about the smoke. But I’m heartened to see Olya in her housedress, her valenki, her shopka and a ragged coat wrapped around her, running next door to save our lives.

  She wraps me in a hug. “Vwe Spequeny?”

  “Yes, we’re safe,” I answer.

  I notice Vasilley is also here. He looks like Chase and Nathan—icy eyebrows and beard, his fur hat covered in snow. “Was there a fire?”

  Chase shakes his head, briefs him.

  I don’t look at Vasilley because I know I’m getting one of those “stupid American woman” looks.

  Let’s be nice to the foreign girl who didn’t grow up with a coal stove.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Chase asks in English, his voice low.

  “Wait for you? You were supposed to be home yesterday! I had no idea when you were coming back!” Or if he was coming back. Or what condition he’d be in when he came back. “It was getting cold in the house!”

  Chase looks stricken. “I never should have brought you here. I never should have left you alone. This is all my fault.”

  Everything inside me begins to burn.

  “Piedyom,” Olya says, gesturing for me to follow her and taking Justin from Chase’s arms.

  I’m not sure where we’re going, but anywhere is better than here. “Welcome home,” I snap as I follow Olya to her house.

  Coal smoke is black. I know this because it is now embedded in my curtains, my bedsheets, my walls, my carpet and my pores. And because it’s about negative two hundred outside, I can’t wash anything.

  Including myself. Because even my pots are covered in coal smoke, and I can’t get the water hot enough to wash the pots off without also taking off my skin.

  Yeah, it’s been a cold, silent and sooty week.

  Nathan has brought new plastic sheeting from Khabarovsk, and Chase is out trying to locate nails with Vasilley.

  Now, raise your hand if you would have known not to put coal dust in the stove. Yeah, I thought so. Which means I don’t deserve to be treated like a two-year-old. However, I do take back that comment about surviving Siberia. It is harder than I thought.

  I put the pot of hot water down on the center of the table with a thud.

  “He blames himself, you know.” Nathan picks up the teapot and pours water into a cup already armed with a teabag. “Not only for being late, but for bringing you here in the first place.”

  I really have nothing to say to that. Because, in a way, Chase is right to blame himself. But more than that, those words irritate me. I’m not exactly helpless.

  “But in truth, it’s my fault,” Nathan continues.

  I raise an eyebrow at him. How could it be his fault? Did he bring us here? If we’re going to blame someone, maybe we should blame God. Nathan has his angelic moments, but I’m pretty sure he’s not God.

  “How’s that?” I pour water into my cup and sit down. Chloe and Justin are at detski-sod, a fact I now welcome, knowing they’ll be warm and fed.

  “When we were camping, Vasilley wanted to know why I was here, which led to a discussion about spiritual beliefs. We talked late into the night and overslept a bit the next morning. When we awoke, the storm was closing in. We had to wait until it passed before we could pack up. Chase drove us crazy—he made us leave at the first sign that we could travel.”

  Oh.

  “Did Chase mention that Vasilley gave his life to Jesus? He became a Christian out there on our hunting trip.”

  Nathan is smiling, giving me a look I’ve never seen before. “He’s the first man in Bursk to get saved.” He touches my forearm. “And that, Josey, I blame on you.”

  His words make me feel warm, right to the center of my cold soul. Because I’m feeling pretty unworthy—unhumble, ungentle and impatient—these days. “Why?” I ask, needing more.

  I’m such a glutton for words of affirmation.

  “Because if you hadn’t said yes to Chase, he never would have come here. And it’s because he came and told Anton to sell the trees—”

  “He didn’t tell—”

  “—and then humbly drank vodka with Vasilley and was willing to shoulder the blame for the trees, that he got invited hunting. And because you were afraid of Chase getting hurt, you made me invite myself.” He shrugs. “See? Your fault.”

  My fault. There are certain things I’m willing to take the blame for. Vasilley’s redemption is definitely in that category.

  Not forgetting, of course, that it is God who draws people to Himself. But I got to be a part of it. I’m on the team.

  “By the way, you might want to ask Chase about that night at Vasilley’s. He wasn’t drinking.”

  I eye Nathan. “I saw the vodka go down. Shot glass after shot glass.”

  “Not to disgust you or anything, but did you also see him spit it back out into his juice?”

  Okay, I’m a little disgusted. But as I rewind those events in my memory, I see Chase taking a drink of sok after every shot.

  Ew. But yay, Chase!

  “How do you know that?”

  Nathan takes a sip of his tea. “I had to level with him to get him to invite me on the trip.”

  Oh, no. “Nathan, then he knows that I—”

  “Didn’t trust me?” Chase is standing at the door, holding a hammer and a handful of nails. I look up, meet his eyes and swallow.

  “Chase—”

  “Save it.” He comes inside and grabs the plastic. Nathan squeezes my arm and gets up to help him.

  I watch them struggle to put up the plastic as they pound in the nails, creating a barrier between us and the cold.

  Or perhaps, locking in the cold that’s seeped into our lives.

  “I’m going next door,” I say, hoping for a reaction.

  Nathan nods. Chase the Ice Cube says nothing.

  I garb up, hurry over to Olya’s, wave to Lydia, tied to the outhouse who is instantly hysterical, and knock on the door. The smell of something delicious filters through, pulling me inside.

  “Yum,” I say. A word that translates easily. “What are you making?”

  “Perogue,” Olya says. Pie.

  Actually, it’s more of a bread with stuffing inside, like eggs or salmon. “Kakoi?” I ask. What kind?

  “Potato pie—Vasilley’s favorite.”

  Olya looks good today—her hair is back in a high bun and she’s wearing a sweater and pants, instead of her usual housecoat. And is
that a touch of makeup?

  “Where’s Vasilley?”

  “At the post office. Sending a letter.” She doesn’t mention who it’s for, but I can guess.

  Her daughter.

  I shed my coat and boots. I don’t care that Chase is hurt. Okay, maybe a little, but how was I supposed to know about his ploy?

  Shoot. I didn’t mean to hurt him.

  But what about him trusting me? Why didn’t he tell me that he wasn’t getting snockered with Vasilley and that he had a plan? He could have even told me at the table—it’s not like our hosts would have understood English all of a sudden. Then again, Chase is very aware how rude it is to speak English in front of non-English speakers.

  Personally, I think we need all the help we can get.

  Olya pulls the perogue from the oven and sets it on the table, covering it with a towel. Then she comes over and touches my hair.

  That is my personal space, there, Olya. Russians really aren’t into personal space—not in Siberia, or Moscow, or anywhere else.

  “Pidyom K Banaye,” she says.

  It’s not until she grabs a couple of towels and shampoo that I get it. She’s noticed the buildup of grease and coal dust that’s glued my hair to my head.

  “Oh, no, Olya, I can’t—”

  But she’s got me in a Russian armlock.

  And what am I going to do, anyway—go home?

  I’m not a girl who likes to get naked in front of other people. Yes, okay, there was that skinny-dipping incident as a senior, but that was a dare.

  And we all know what happens when I’m dared to do something.

  Which is probably how Olya gets me into a steam room, naked, with twelve other women.

  I did put up a fight, however. I sort of had a flashback to when I was twelve and forced to change clothes in front of the girls on the swim team. Needless to say, I became the master of dressing underneath a towel.

  I should have recognized the public bathhouse by the word Banya (as in Bath) written across the door, but of course, I was looking for something like a Japanese spa, not a log cabin resembling the town hall. Once inside, we veered appropriately into the zhenshina, or women’s, section. Inside, a locker room made of cement and lined with rough benches managed to capture every gulag nightmare and trap the Siberian deep freeze, as well as a latent impression of prison.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to take my clothes off,” I said, hoping to add levity to the moment. Apparently, Olya didn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. She proceeded to strip.

  I wanted to yell, “Stop, stop, my eyes aren’t ready!” But before I could get the words out, she’d turned me around and started shucking off my clothes.

  Again. Personal space.

  “You have to get naked if you want to get clean.”

  Okay, Dalai Lama, I got it.

  I took over and utilized my dormant locker-room abilities, showing only a small amount of skin before I was completely naked under the towel wrapped around me.

  Alas, it would not be around me very long. Nevertheless, I clung to hope as I hung my belongings on a hook and then followed Olya.

  There is a banya process, not unlike that of washing clothes. First comes the steam room, where a gal sweats off the grime of the day (or last five months). Then, the cold plunge and, finally, the showers.

  I wondered, couldn’t I just skip straight to the showers?

  I entered the steam room to find…well, naked women. I was so, so not ready for this. Where to look? Horror rose inside me when Olya reached over and yanked off my towel.

  I was twelve again as I frantically tried to cover places.

  And then I realized…I’ve had babies.

  In Russia.

  This is about a billion times less humiliating.

  Besides, the sauna room is dark, and hot. Really hot. I stood there, the heat seeping into my pores, warming those frozen bones. I found a spot on a bench and sat, keeping my head down.

  Now, ten minutes later, I think I just might be in heaven. Heat—precious, delicious heat. I’m starting to listen to the chatter of the women around me.

  Someone greets Olya.

  And then me. I raise my hand in greeting and close my eyes to focus on the heat.

  “Can you believe that Sophia was going to betray Ken with that guy CC?”

  Ah, the update on Santa Barbara. I sigh, breathing in the hot air, nearly crying with joy over the warmth of it.

  “Ken deserves it. He is terrible to her! He ignores her, and now that he’s left, I’ll bet he cheats on her again. Too bad she feels too guilty to go with CC.”

  “I wouldn’t feel guilty. I’d leave Ken.”

  I glance up, surprised at the venom in the voice. My eyes have adjusted, and through the haze and the curtain of my hair, I see…Ulia.

  Oh, no.

  “Sophia loves Ken, even if he is bad to her,” another voice says. “She should stay with him. They have history.”

  “Sophia could be happy with CC. He listens to her. Especially after everything she’s been through. He wants her to be happy,” Ulia says angrily.

  Uh-oh. Methinks we’re not talking about Ken and Sophia anymore.

  “Ken needs to appreciate her. Maybe he needs to see that he’s losing her.”

  Ulia’s words sink in. Yeah. Maybe Ken needs to appreciate her and all she does. Maybe Ken is a big lout.

  “I think Sophia should leave him and be happy with CC. She needs to think about what’s best for her.” Ulia opens the door to leave and a whoosh of cold air rushes in.

  I climb to the highest bench in the back. Sweat pours down my face and drips off my chin. It’s getting hard to breathe, so I head toward the door.

  Olya meets me there. “Time for the cold plunge,” she says. I am instantly afraid. (C’mon, wouldn’t you be, too? “Cold plunge”?)

  The cold plunge is exactly as advertised—it involves jumping into a pool of freezing water. Olya grabs my hand and pulls me in with her.

  My breath is yanked from my lungs and a thousand icicles pierce my skin. “Yow!” I scream, and Olya laughs as she climbs out.

  “Now the shower.”

  Ah, the shower. I lather my hair, three times. I use conditioner. I feel like singing. I love the ban-ya. I love the ban-ya.

  Why didn’t I do this sooner?

  “Ready for round two?” Olya asks.

  If it includes more heat, I’m all over it.

  We do four rounds, and by the time we’re finished, I’m a noodle. A really clean, happy, bursting-with-Bursk-secrets noodle.

  I’ve just discovered the Russian version of Bunko night.

  And I think Ulia is going to leave Anton.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When I first moved to Russia, the desserts enthralled me. Beautiful creations drizzled with chocolate or frosted with glaze that tantalized from kiosk windows. I remember the day I succumbed to the call of these delicate confections, purchasing a sugar cookie with a floral design, almost too pretty to eat. The air was fragrant with autumn, the wind swirling leaves at my feet. I bit into the cookie…

  …and it was tasteless, like sand. It morphed into glue as I chewed, sucking every bit of moisture from my mouth, turning it into the Sahara. Apparently, the sugar-cookie factory had run out of sugar and made cookies, anyway. I stumbled to a nearby beverage kiosk and purchased the first liquid I found, which turned out to be a glass of Kvas, a non-alcoholic beer-like drink made from fermented black bread.

  Yes, I said fermented black bread.

  I’m still in recovery. Thus, when Olya appears at my door with a metal mold and a can of sweetened condensed milk, announcing that we’re going to make Russian cookies, I’m leery.

  Lately, Olya’s been in spirits before unseen, and I’m wanting to get to the bottom of all this, so I let her in.

  She takes down a pot from the shelf, fills it with water and puts it on the stove. Then she peels the label off the can of sweetened condensed milk and puts the can in the pot
, the water covering the top.

  “What are you doing?”

  She gives me a cryptic smile and turns the burner on high.

  “That’s going to…” I search for the word explode but come up blank. “Boom!” I accentuate with the appropriate accompanying hand gestures.

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  O-kay.

  We make a dough that resembles a tea cake—butter, flour, walnuts and honey. She forms it into balls and pushes them into the mold. I check the can. It’s boiling nicely, although its texture still seems hard. (One needs to have a sense of humor in Russia. Especially when you’re cooking potentially explosive materials.)

  She turns on a burner and holds the mold over the flame like she’s roasting marshmallows. Clearly I’m the only one afraid of burning the house down.

  “What are we making?”

  “Arehki.”

  Nuts. Nuts? I take a pot out, fill it and put on water for tea. I check the can. Still boiling.

  I reach for two cups on the shelf and notice that the bucket under the sink needs emptying. At least the cold doesn’t take my breath away when I go outside. Instead, it just finds the nooks and crannies where I’m not quite warm and bites. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see spring again.

  Maybe I’m just overreacting to the cold chill from Chase’s side of the bed.

  I did, after all, apologize. And I saw the old Chase in the way his eyes softened, the way he reached out and caressed my cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “You were trying to help.”

  I was trying to help. We all know that, right?

  But something is still not right.

  When I come back in, Olya is taking the mold off the burner and laying it aside to cool. The teapot whistles and I pour water into our mugs. I hand her a sugar cube and she surprises me by filling her saucer and dredging the cube in the tea. Apparently she knows that trick, too.

  I’m saturating my own cube when she says, “What did Chase do to Vasilley?” She puts down her cup, and I know she means this in a positive way, because she’s smiling.

  “What do you mean?”