Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “He’s better. Calmer. Doesn’t drink as much.” She leans back, and I notice that her smile touches her eyes. Her haunted look is starting to vanish. I still haven’t found the courage to ask her about her black eye so many months ago, but the fact that, except for the day of the great deforestation, I haven’t heard a fight or seen any bruises makes my hope that I was wrong take a firm hold. Even stronger is the hope of a better future. I didn’t expect their problems to change overnight with the news of Vasilley’s salvation, but maybe my expectations were too low.

  “What did he tell you?”

  Olya grows a little red at this and looks down at her cup. Oh, Olya, we’ve come so far, don’t retreat now. I wait for it.

  “He said he realized what a terrible man he’d been. And that he found forgiveness.” I cover her hand with mine. She looks up at me, and her eyes glisten. “He is a better man every day. Nathan gave him a Bible. And he visits us. He is teaching Vasilley about Jesus.”

  I didn’t know that, but warmth swells inside me at the thought of Nathan teaching Vasilley, and Chase persevering and even tasting vodka so he could earn Vasilley’s trust. I should have trusted Chase—I know that now.

  “Is this why Vasilley is different?” Olya asks.

  “Yes. Imagine you are Vasilley. He knows he’s hurt you and others. If God were to judge Vasilley based on his past, do you think he’d let Vasilley into heaven?”

  She makes a face, shaking her head.

  “But Vasilley’s been forgiven by God. He’s been given a second chance to live this life on earth, and because of God’s forgiveness, he’ll live forever in eternity. I suppose that’s what is making the difference in his life.”

  The can starts to bang against the pot. I get up to turn down the heat, but she stops me. “Let it boil. It needs to boil to become a sweet filling.”

  She takes a towel, lays it out on the table and then takes the hot pads and dumps the shells from the mold. Golden brown, they look like hollow walnut halves.

  “I want to be a better wife, too,” Olya says as she sits down, and this time she meets my eyes. “Can you tell me how?”

  While there have been days that I thought I had that job nailed, now I’m not so sure.

  “I know that being a wife is about more than just following your husband across Russia,” I say, more to myself than Olya. “It’s about forgiving, and being patient and gentle and learning how to make peace. But I know that I can’t do that without help—God’s help.”

  She’s looking at me hard, struggling to understand, and I’m trying to find the right words. “I know life hasn’t been kind to you, Olya. And I know this is going to sound too easy, but God loves you. You know how you feel about being apart from Albena? That’s how God feels about being apart from you. But you can have a second chance, too, just like Vasilley.”

  She says nothing, and we watch as steam rises from the boiling pot, gathers on the ceiling and dissipates. The room is warm, almost too hot.

  Finally she gets up and takes the can from the pot with tongs. She sets it on the counter to cool.

  “Vasilley and I have been married ten years,” she says, her back to me. She takes a can opener and pries the lid off the can. “I think it’s time for a second chance.”

  The milk has thickened into a light-brown caramel and smells sweet, like boiled sugar. She takes a walnut half and, using a spoon, fills the hollow with caramel. She fills another half and then puts the two halves together.

  “Boiled sweetened condensed milk makes caramel?” I hand her a plate, and she puts the cookie on it before handing me the spoon.

  I take it and fill my own cookies, delighted by the sweetness inside the hard crust.

  “Do you want me to take these to the post office?” Olya has a box full of orders ready to go. The Secrets of Siberia ladies are barely keeping up with the demand, but our happy group has full coffers and is trying to decide what to do with their cash.

  Most importantly, Olya nearly has enough for her tickets to and from Moscow.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say. Olya is smiling as she leaves the community center, her arms full of goodies.

  I leave right behind her, heading for the house to change clothes before the afternoon Women’s Day program at the detski-sod. The smell of chicken soup cooling on the stove is evidence that Nathan has been here. He must be over at Olya’s for his weekly Bible study with Vasilley. I have to say, I’ve noticed the change in Olya’s husband—I saw him helping her milk the cow. I know, but still, nothing says “I love you” like holding old Bessie while your wife milks her and then carrying the milk inside.

  As for me, I am looking forward to Nathan’s visits more and more these days.

  At least he talks to me.

  Chase just drinks his tea and listens to us.

  I’ve always loved Chase’s ability to fit in, to listen before he talks, to analyze his role in an unfamiliar society, to blend in. Many people actually think Chase is Russian.

  But it is exactly this ability that plagues me. I know that Chase managed to do an end-run around Vasilley and his birthday imbibing, but that trick can only work so many times. And worse, what if Chase blends in so well that he starts to adopt the Bursk male mind-set?

  It certainly feels like he’s turned into Ken. Not Barbie’s Ken, but Santa Barbie Ken, the One Who Ignores His Woman.

  By the way, Sophia was right. Ken was cheating on her and she should have left him, because she can be happy with CC (who adores her), but no, she has to pack her bags and fly off to surprise Ken. And she’s going to be bitterly disappointed because he doesn’t love her. Maybe he never did! He doesn’t see how she feels betrayed, how he’s losing her….

  Yes, I’m getting my weekly updates at the Banya. And not just about Santa Barbara. Ulia hasn’t left Anton yet. Although I’ve never been so clean in my life, I feel like a dirty little spy. A naked, double-crossing secret agent. All this information I hold would be invaluable to Chase and his study, not to mention his friendships. I think a guy would like to know if his wife was about to leave so he could fix things, don’t you?

  Or maybe that’s meddling.

  I get so confused about these things.

  By the way, Chase sailed right through Valentine’s Day without a nod.

  Okay, yes, I forgot it, too—it’s not like they celebrate it here in Russia. Everyone’s too busy trying to keep warm. (Although one would think Valentine’s Day would be a mandatory holiday for exactly that reason.)

  So I’ll cut Chase some slack.

  Especially because I notice a bouquet of flowers sitting on the table as I enter the house. Roses of all colors, surrounded by baby’s breath. Oh, Chase! He remembered International Women’s Day!

  I’m not sure where Chase tracked those down, but then again, this is the man who brought home a washing machine for Christmas.

  I breathe in the smell, letting it fill my cold, nearly iced-over senses. I touch one of the flowers. It’s smooth and soft, and silly tears prick my eyes. Chase and I are going to be just fine. I don’t know why I worried. Even though I jumped to conclusions, he knows I’m on his side.

  After all, I am here in Siberia.

  And right now, Siberia seems to be in the clutches of a deep freeze. I thought the ice would break at the beginning of March. Instead, we got a blizzard. What is the saying about March—in like a lion, out like a lamb? What about in like a wildebeest?

  Thankfully, life doesn’t stop in Siberia no matter how cold it gets. The people trudge on and find celebration in every moment. I change into a skirt, keeping on my wool tights, then bundle up again, smell the flowers one more time and head out to the community center.

  I’m wearing my parka and, yes, finally, the Cossack boots. I can’t believe I’ve been cold-pressed into wearing the furry boots out in public. On Women’s Day, no less. Hence the skirt—my attempt at femininity.

  I can’t help but feel I’m an embarrassment to fashionable females around the globe. />
  I suppose it should cheer me that under all this padding, no one would really know that I’m a woman—I’m more of a thing. A blue, puffy thing in fuzzy footwear.

  Now I’m depressed.

  The community center is humming with conversation. Olya and I spent most of the morning packing away our supplies and hauling chairs for the afternoon program by the kindergarten and grade school. I find a seat.

  “Oh, look at that Chloe,” Nathan says as he sits down next to me.

  “I know, isn’t she adorable?” I wave to my daughter, who is wearing the traditional brightly colored dress of a Nanais native. Under her costume, she’s also wearing three layers of snow clothes, but the costumes are designed to be large.

  And her hair has grown enough for tiny, high pigtails to sprout above her headband.

  She waves at me as the teachers line the students up to do a little dance. Maya sees her wave and follows with a wave of her own. She seems different lately. She smiles when I greet her in the yard.

  Justin is also in line, fiddling with his shirt—a silver-and-blue pullover that of course goes over his own snow attire. He isn’t smiling. He told me yesterday that boys aren’t supposed to dance. Thank you for that, Chase.

  “Where’s Chase?” Nathan asks.

  Yeah, good question. I scan the room. I don’t see Olya or Vasilley, but there’s Ulia sitting in the front row, and a number of the other ladies from Bible study. I can’t look at Ulia without feeling like I’m an accomplice in her crime.

  “Chase?” He’s probably out skinning fish with his teeth or something.

  Uh-oh. Did I say that out loud? Nathan is looking at me strangely.

  “He’ll be here,” I say.

  The music starts, and my little Nanais children skip in a circle, clapping and singing with their classmates.

  “What are they saying?” I ask Nathan.

  “I don’t know. It’s traditional Nanais. But probably something about Mom, and spring and fertility.”

  Perfect.

  Justin isn’t smiling, and he keeps kicking the boy in front of him. Apparently Chase—and Justin—are correct about the nondancing thing.

  Chloe, however, is twirling, watching her skirt fly out. Oops. She falls. Oy, there goes the entire circle…

  Just when should a mother get involved?

  “You want me to get them?” Nathan asks as other mothers rise.

  I sit there in silence, grimacing. See, this is part of motherhood—dealing with your child’s foibles.

  “By the way, I stopped by the house,” Nathan says. “I went ahead and put your flowers in water.”

  I glance at him. He’s giving me the strangest look. Almost…embarrassed. And pleased.

  Like a man might look if he gave a girl flowers.

  Oh. No.

  “Did you…Are the roses from…”

  “They were on sale in Khabarovsk. I had to wrap them inside my coat to keep them from freezing on the snowmobile ride north. I thought you needed something cheery to put a dent in these gray days. I wanted to thank you for letting me sleep on your sofa and invade your kitchen.”

  I dredge up a smile.

  But inside, everything turns just a little colder.

  “What’s the matter, Josey?” Nathan’s smile is gone, and he’s frowning.

  “Nothing,” I say, but the catch in my voice gives me away. I try to turn up the wattage on my smile.

  I probably look like a hyena.

  Nathan isn’t buying it.

  I’ve got to come up with something. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.

  “I think Ulia is going to leave Anton.”

  See, I’d make a horrible spy. At the first hint of bright lights, I’d spill everything.

  Nathan lowers his voice (apparently he’d make a better spy than me). “What?”

  “I’m not sure, but the way she’s been talking…”

  Now I feel sick, like the time I ratted out H for breaking the window at the high school during our Girl Scout meeting.

  “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  Nathan scoots his arm around me, turns toward me, his face tight with concern. “What makes you think this?”

  Um…okay, the way she thinks that Sophia should leave Ken for CC and, oh, boy, never mind.

  “I’m probably jumping to conclusions. The Banya does make a girl a little thickheaded.”

  Nathan isn’t appeased, though. “The last thing this village needs is the mayor’s wife leaving him. Who knows what that kind of behavior will start?”

  Oh.

  “You’ll tell me if you hear anything. I could talk to Ulia or Anton—”

  “No, are you kidding?” My shrill voice, laced with panic, makes him wince. I lower it to a stage whisper. “Let’s wait until we know for sure, and then we’ll talk to him.” Hey, not only is the Banya at stake, but let’s remember that I’m dependent on Anton’s benevolence to keep our little village business running. No need to rush things or make a mountain out of a molehill.

  Besides, Sophia is staying with Ken for now. Maybe things will turn out all right.

  And really, I’m not sure any of this is our business anyway.

  On stage, Chloe has untangled herself, and the teachers are helping the children down from the stage. Justin, however, is still wrestling with one of the boys.

  Chloe is streaking toward us. I hold out my arms.

  “Daddy!” she yells and barrels past me.

  I turn.

  Chase is sitting behind us. He doesn’t look at me as he scoops up Chloe. But as he holds her tight, he closes his eyes.

  As if he might be in pain.

  I love this Siberian village at night. Did I actually say that? Did I use the word love? Okay, I did. I’ve fallen for Bursk the way one might fall for a mangy puppy with sad eyes or a worn-out teddy bear. Bursk does have charm. Take, for example, the stars blinking against a velvet black sky, undimmed by city lights. Or the pastoral elegance of snow piled up along a faded blue fence.

  A husky trots out from a yard, looks at me and heads down the street. Snow falls lazily from the sky and blankets the roofs and yards.

  The village is quiet at this time of day, right before dinner, when light from the houses pushes through the cracks in the shutters, and the air smells of coal smoke from stoked furnaces. A cow lows, waiting for relief. I relish the walk home from the community center, alive with the excitement of our flourishing business. We have stayed late three nights in a row now to complete orders for Mother’s Day, which is still nearly six weeks away. My eBay early reminders are paying off.

  My feet crunch on the freshly fallen snow, and I stick my mittened hands in my pockets and burrow my nose into my wool scarf. I’m warm, despite the winds, because I now dress like an Arctic explorer.

  Warm, of course, in body, rather than heart and soul because Chase is avoiding me like I’ve cut out his heart. Am not sure why—is he mad because of Ulia’s secret? He said nothing when he left the community center, and nearly nothing since.

  I open the door and am greeted by the smell of soup—perhaps chicken—simmering on the stove. Hanging my coat on the hook and unlacing my boots, I slip into wool slippers and enter the house.

  I’m not surprised to see Nathan sitting at the table with Chase.

  I am, however, taken aback by what they’re up to. They have a bowl of dough before them, and flour covers the table. Chase has a small rolling pin and is rolling out little circles the size of a biscuit. Nathan is filling them with meat and then gathering the edges and pinching them together to form a sort of dumpling.

  They are works of art.

  “What are you doing, and please tell me those are edible.”

  “Making palmeni for the soup,” Nathan says, as if that should have been obvious. He looks up and smiles, though. “It’s something else I just learned in Khabarovsk from my Russian landlady. Palmeni is delicious in chicken soup.”

  Chase’s reception isn’t as warm. “Y
ou’re late. I was getting worried.”

  I’m going to translate that as, “I missed you, and didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Which makes me sort of irritable, and is a disguise for how much I love you.”

  I think every marriage could use some creative translation now and again.

  “Can I help?” I ask as Chloe runs to me and hugs my leg. Justin rolls off the sofa, where he’s watching a Russian cartoon, and jumps at me.

  “Sure. You can roll out dough,” Chase says as he scoots over. “I’ll help Nathan make the palmeni.”

  I can do that, probably. My first few are misshapen disks, but after a while, I start to get the hang of it.

  I’m mesmerized watching Chase. He takes the circle, plops in the meat, closes it with the other hand and deftly twists it into a ball. I always knew he was magic in the kitchen.

  Only, it’s not just his form I’m marveling at. It’s his speed.

  And the fact that Nathan has picked up his pace to match Chase’s.

  Chase is now twisting dumplings nearly as fast as I am rolling out the dough. Nathan grabs one from my hand and Chase gives him a dark look.

  “That was mine.”

  “She handed it to me.”

  “No, she didn’t. You reached over me to get it. It’s not yours.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Chase says nothing, but I see his jaw grinding.

  “I’ll go faster,” I say. “I can keep up with both of you.”

  “No!” they both bark.

  O-kay.

  “Maybe I’ll just add this to the soup,” Chase says, picking up the tray of dumplings.

  “It’s not ready yet. It has to be boiling. Don’t rush it.”

  “It’s ready. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

  “You’re going to turn them to mush and wreck the entire supper.”

  Chase dumps the palmeni into the pot. “It’s my soup. Make your own.”

  He chucks the board into the sink and walks away.

  Nathan looks at me, something on his face I can’t read. Then he puts down the piece of dough he’s been folding. “I’m going to go,” he says, and gives me a tight smile.

  I’m left alone in the kitchen with flour, half a bowl of dough and raw, ground chicken.