Perfect.
My palmeni don’t exactly look like Chase’s or Nathan’s, but I finish half an hour later and put the board of little dumplings out in the entryway (aka our second freezer).
I ladle out the soup for the kids. Nathan was right—the dumplings are mushy.
Chase is sitting on the bed in the dark, peeling flour and dough off his hands.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down next to him. “Good soup.” (Liar, liar, but I’m using the adjective good in the sense that he is taking care of and providing for us, which is good. Thus, good soup. So, I’m not lying, if you take a step back and work with me here.)
He leans his head back against the wall and sighs. In the darkness, I see the fatigue on his face. “I think I’m beginning to understand why Siberian men feel overwhelmed.”
I hear disappointment and frustration in his voice.
“I totally forgot Women’s Day,” he says, his eyes now cutting to mine. “I’m sorry.”
My smile comes easily. “I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t. You should be really angry. You should probably not talk to me, for at least a month or two.”
Uh…okay. I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls it away.
“What are we doing here, anyway, GI?”
I’m sitting in the dark, brushing dough off my sheets. But perhaps he meant something bigger. “Helping?”
“Yeah, but how?” He leans forward. “How?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t find the right words. I have all sorts of cosmic platitudes, but none of them fit. Because we’re improving their economic base? Teaching them how to use eBay? Putting a dent in their collective social depression?
“Nathan has had more of an impact than I could ever hope to.” Chase is looking at me now, something strange in his eyes. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe you would make a good pastor’s wife.”
Except, Chase, you’re not a pastor.
I’m frowning at his words when he smiles. I see it’s forced, and it makes my stomach hurt.
“I have to go to Moscow next week for a six-month recap for Voices International.”
Bagels. I get bagels! I get to see Maggie! Okay, maybe my priorities need a little adjusting. But…I get bagels! I flip on the light.
Chase is wearing a familiar grimace. The last time I saw it was when I confronted him about the ambush he and Marc planned. The one that brought me to Siberia.
Yeah, that look.
“What?”
“They only sent one ticket.”
Of course they did. “That’s okay.”
“No it’s not.” He stares at me, then suddenly gets up, pulling me off the bed with him.
“Is Nathan still here?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll be right back.”
He yanks off his apron, wads it into a ball and chucks it into the kitchen on his way out. In a moment, he’s back with Olya, who’s grinning.
What’s going on?
Chase kisses me, grabbing my hands and pulling me through the house. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
I glance at the kids, but Olya is already sitting with them, singing them a little song. Practicing for when Albena returns, I hope.
We bundle up and head outside. Night has fallen. Chase turns toward the river.
“Where are we going?”
He takes my hand, or rather, my lump, because it’s hard to hold hands in mittens. But we shuffle and slide together down the street. It is getting warmer out, the days almost above freezing. Spring could be fighting for purchase.
I hear a sound in the distance, something like wind chimes. Overhead, the sky is perfect and clear, a million stars winking at us. There is little wind, and in the distance, a village dog howls.
The tinkling sound continues, a crackling, almost. I glance at Chase, and he’s wearing a tiny grin but refuses to look at me.
“What is that?”
“Don’t rush it,” he says, but pulls me faster.
We reach the dip in the land the village calls the harbor. The snow is caked along the shore, and the moon glints off a thousand pieces of ice that move with the rhythm of the awakening water. The noise is louder now and I have to raise my voice to be heard above it. “What is that?”
“Close your eyes.” Chase turns to me. “Close them, GI.”
I do, and his arms go around my waist, his hands in the pockets of my coat, pulling me to him. His breath is in my ear. “What do you hear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think. What does it sound like?”
I lean my head against his chest and let the sound envelop me, slide through me. It’s like raindrops on glass, or maybe glasses at a party, clinking.
“How about the railroad? Cars going past—click, click, click.”
I listen, and yes, I hear it now. The railroad tracks, like the ones near his house in Gull Lake. I nod, and open my eyes. “Yes.”
“It’s the ice, flowing over itself, banging against each other like pieces of chandelier glass. The first time I heard it, you know what I thought of?”
I haven’t a clue how to answer.
“That time we walked home from school. Remember? I wanted to walk home on the railroad tracks and you were scared, but I talked you into it?”
I start to smile. Yes, I would have done anything for Chase in fourth grade. And fifth. And sixth…
“And then the train started to come, and I got scared.” He is holding my scarf now, his face close to mine. “You grabbed my hand and pulled me off the tracks, and we hid on the side until it passed.”
“I didn’t know you were scared.”
“I was terrified. But I couldn’t tell you that.” He grins. “But I knew that day that I couldn’t ever let you go. I held on to your hand and knew I loved you.”
The wind burns my eyes, and they water a little. “It only took you fifteen years to tell me.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to tell you ever since.”
Oh. Well.
He brushes away a tear that escapes down my cheek. “But I’m not doing a very good job lately.”
“Chase—”
“No, listen. I’m so sorry I missed Women’s Day. And Valentine’s Day. And that I scared you with Vasilley and my hunting trip. I’m sorry that I put you in the middle of nowhere without plumbing.”
“I really don’t care about the plumbing anymore.” I smile up at him.
He doesn’t smile back. “I do. And I know you miss Gull Lake.” He looks out at the river.
I lean my head against his chest and his arms go around me. “It really does sound like the tracks. Like home.”
We stand there a long while, as the moon and stars light up the ice, making it glitter like a river of gems.
“I did something. I hope it’s okay.”
I lean back and see a glint in his eyes. I’m almost afraid to ask.
“I asked H to come and visit you. You said she wanted to, so I e-mailed her. She’s going to keep you company while I’m in Moscow. I can’t take you to Gull Lake. But maybe I can bring Gull Lake to you.”
He’s grinning now, and it’s shy, cute and perfect. “Happy Vale Women’s Day.”
Oh, Chase. I stand on my toes and kiss him. Really kiss him.
He’s smiling when I pull away. “I did a good thing?”
“You did.” I pat his chest, right over his thumping heart. “You did real good.”
Chapter Sixteen
H
H and I became friends in sixth grade when her father took over as head coach of the Gull Lake Gulls. She was determined never to date a football player.
I, however, lived for the whole sports enchilada.
Okay, I admit it, I was a football groupie. I sat on the sidelines, watched practice and memorized numbers (as in jerseys, not plays).
Mostly, however, I watched Chase. He started at halfback, moved to fullback, and when he began catching the ball on a regular
basis, became an all-state wide receiver.
H, on the other hand, was a musician. She spent her time after school in band practice, and I’m not talking marching band. She put together her first garage band at the age of ten, by thirteen was writing her own songs, and by fifteen had gone on the road twice for summer gigs at local fairs.
H lives to play music. And not just the punk music she loves (and I don’t understand), but nearly anything. Case in point—she accompanied our classical choir on the piano, punk hairstyle and all.
So I understand as she sits at my kitchen table, talking about Rex and his decree that she should hang up her guitar and “start acting like a married woman.”
“Jon Bon Jovi is married. Does he have to give up his life?”
I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that my friend is here, in the middle of Siberia. Chase left two days ago, and Nathan met H yesterday in Khabarovsk and ferried her up to Bursk on the now-running boats.
She looks good, too. I can’t believe I haven’t seen her for three years. Last time, she had purple hair and was walking down the aisle with said oppressing husband. I had just given birth to the twins and was hoping my pregnancy weight might mysteriously vanish.
Things haven’t changed much. She still has purple hair (although now the ends are tinged with a fetching midnight black, and she’s gotten another piercing, right above her eye), and let’s not talk about that pregnancy weight, shall we?
“He can’t expect me to just surrender everything I am for him, can he?”
I’m probably not the best person to answer that, given that I’m pumping water to add to my above-the-sink holding chamber. “Does he want you to stop playing all together?”
“No, but he has a job teaching band at the high school and wants us to limit our gigs to the week-ends—in town.”
I expected Chloe and Justin, having never seen anyone with purple hair, to shrink behind me when they met H. But that thing they say about children seeing past outside appearances to the heart must be true because Chloe went right up to her with kitty paws and purred.
Justin waved and said, “Nu Pagadee!”
I translated that very loosely to “He’s really glad to meet you.”
“So I moved out,” H finishes, pouring herself more tea. She’s tired, her droopy eyelids evidence of serious jet lag.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I say, sliding the sugar cubes toward her. “Let me teach you a Siberian trick Nathan showed me.” I show her the cube-in-the-saucer treat, and the sugar rush revives her.
“I can’t believe you came all the way to Siberia to see me.” This is an understatement. It’s like when Jasmine came to Moscow, only this is better because I was in labor when Jasmine arrived and couldn’t take time to show her how well I surfed the subway or bartered for food at the market. Finally, I get to show someone from back home that I really do have this Russia thing well in hand. Sort of.
“I can’t believe you actually have an outhouse and a water pump.” H leans back just in time for Chloe to climb into her lap. She twirls one of Chloe’s pigtails around her finger. “Tell me about this guy who picked me up.”
“Nathan? He’s a friend of Chase’s. He’s from South Dakota and is planting a church here in town. I hold the weekly women’s Bible study at my house.”
“Still doing that Bible thing, huh?”
“Still doing it.” I get up and pour water into the bucket above the sink. I splash myself as I pour and it’s so cold it snags my breath. “The truth is, H, I’d never make it here without God’s help.”
“He’d better help. He got you into this mess.”
Ah, yes, H—my lovable agnostic.
“There’s a verse in James that says that when we go through trials, our faith is refined. Everything fake is burned off. I’ve heard that Siberia brings out the best—and the worst—in people. I’d like to hope it’s made me a better person. And if that’s the case, then yes, I’ll be happy to blame God for that.”
H is staring at me, an expression on her face I’ve never seen before.
“I don’t get you, Josey. Your husband drags you all the way to the ends of the earth, and you’re happy about it?”
Happy? Let’s take a moment to define that. Happy is…what? Seeing Olya and Vasilley walk hand in hand down the street? Smelling soup on the stove when I tromp in from a blizzard? Listening to the crunch of snow as I walk through the village on a crisp, sparkly night?
Hearing Justin and Chloe laugh as they slide down the street on their sled. Snuggling in close to Chase’s warm body as the frigid wind buffets our windows.
“Yeah, maybe I’m happy.”
“Unca Nate!” Justin springs across the room as I see the door open. Nathan grabs him up and puts him on his hip.
“Hope I’m not too late to help with dinner.” He holds up a bag of frozen chicken thighs and leg quarters.
Oh, yeah, right. Still, I appreciate his implication that I have something to do with food preparation in the house. “No, you’re right on time. In fact, why don’t you take on the cooking for tonight?”
He winks and moves past me as I sit down at the table again.
“Bush legs,” he says as he pulls them out of the bag. “Named after President Bush One when he started sending humanitarian aid to Russia.”
I’m assuming the trivia is for H, who is watching Nathan with some interest. He pours water into a pot, sets it on the stove to boil and adds a bouillon cube.
Now, just for the record, I have started to do more cooking. All this watching Chase and Nathan over the past few months has taught me much in the way of culinary skills. I’m now a whiz at peeling potatoes. And opening a can of tomato sauce? I’m a master.
Nathan disappears into the entryway and I hear him rustling around in the potato bin. When we arrived and Chase informed me we had two fifty-kilogram bags of potatoes, I thought, what, are we feeding the Vikings’ defensive line?
Yeah, we’re on our third bag. Ask me how to prepare potatoes and I have flashbacks to Bubba Gump Shrimp—baked, boiled, fried, mashed…I’ll be happy if I never see another potato.
Nathan returns, potatoes cradled in his arms. He dumps them on the table. “Start peeling, soldier.”
I laugh, grabbing a bowl and a potato peeler.
If Russia holds the market on anything, it’s potato peelers. This one molds perfectly into my palm. And I have developed the hand strength of a sixty-year-old babushka. If I was planning to eat potatoes again once I got stateside, I would bring this back to America with me.
Nathan sits down and grabs his own potato. Soon we’re racing and have piled up naked potatoes on the table.
“When I was a kid,” Nathan says, “my mother would make potato pancakes on Sundays. I would peel all Saturday afternoon. I think she did it on purpose, to make my hands sore for Sunday, so they’d stay folded.” He laughs. I love Nathan’s laugh. It’s warm and deep.
H is watching me, holding her teacup. “I remember Josey hiding out on Saturdays, when Jasmine and her mom rolled out three billion pecan buns.” She quirks an eyebrow.
“I would have rather mowed the lawn than bake.” I finish the potatoes and dump them back into the pot for Nathan to wash. “I was never a chef.”
“Although you make a mean chocolate-chip cookie,” Nathan says, picking up the pot. He releases water from the upper chamber and lets it run into the sink. “And you’re pretty good at everything else.”
His compliment turns my face warm. He’s so sweet.
Justin drapes himself over my lap. “I need to go out.”
Right. I bundle him into a jacket and we tromp out to the outhouse. The sun is low, but the smell of spring hangs in the air. No longer do my ears hurt or my sinuses sting when I leave the house. The streets are getting muddy. And I smell a freshness, a new life, in the breeze.
Out like a lamb.
H is outside when we finish, leaning against the house, smoking a cigarette. I nudge Justin inside and stay wi
th her while she finishes.
She is wrapped in an army jacket, a purple scarf and black boots that lace up to her knees—hey, I have a pair of those!
“Nathan come here a lot?” she asks, watching the sky.
“About once a week,” I say. “He’s a great cook.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says. She takes another pull on her cigarette. The wind suddenly lifts my hair and whistles in my ears. Maybe I was wrong about that spring thing.
“I’m not sure I should be taking marriage advice from you,” she says, blowing out smoke through her nose.
Her words hurt and I’m too stunned to respond.
She drops her cigarette, smashing it with her boot. “I think I understand, now, exactly why you’re happy in the middle of Siberia.”
“What?” I stare at her, something sour in my chest. She raises a spike eyebrow and says nothing. “Nathan? Oh, please. H. He’s Chase’s friend—”
“He seems to be your friend, too.”
“He stays here—cooks for us.”
She shakes her head. “You never cease to surprise me.” Her tone suggests that’s not in a good way.
“Or you, me,” I say and tramp inside to be with my true friends.
I’m not sure what I did to make H angry, but she’s treating me like the time I asked her if she was still going out with Jeff, and if not, would she mind if I took a shot at him? Offended. Betrayed.
Okay, yes, I broke the universal girlfriend code with that smooth move. But why she acts now like I’ve sold her out for a song…Her concern about Nathan is ridiculous—she’ll see that soon enough.
More than that, I’ve done everything I can to show her a good time. Nathan and I taught her to make palmeni, and we showed her around the village, stopping in at Olya’s for some of her delicious plum perogue. Yes, I opted out of banya (c’mon—it’s one thing to get naked with a bunch of Russians, but I’m definitely not going there with my own kind!), but I did spend the afternoon making birchbark boxes with her and introducing her to the Banya Girls. Nathan had a delicious pot of tomato borscht waiting when we got home. And one night, we invited Maya over for potato soup, and we spent the night laughing over stories of the munchkins at the preschool. I know we don’t live the high life here in Siberia, but we’re keeping her warm and fed.
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 19
