Moonlight in Odessa

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  ‘He doesn’t treat you right. Have you ever thought of divorcing him?’ she whispered to me when we went to get orders in the kitchen.

  I’d been thinking of it more and more.

  ‘He’s mental,’ she said.

  ‘Mental? You mean insecure?’

  ‘It’s more than that. Something’s wrong with him. It’s like he’s stalking you. Maybe I should call Skeet, ask him to have a talk with your hubby.’

  I nodded.

  ‘How are you ever going to last two years?’ she asked.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  He was angry all the time; so unlike the gentle man I thought I’d married. I didn’t have a father or grandfather or uncle to compare his behavior to. He didn’t behave so differently from my old boyfriends. Even Vlad had followed me around town in his sedan . . .

  To celebrate the arrival of summer, I invited friends over for a real Odessan meal. I cooked and baked for days – all of Boba’s best recipes. A bright beet salad that melts in your mouth and brightens any day. And borscht because Molly wanted to taste it. Boba never put eggs in the vareniki dough – she was used to the hard times of the Soviet Union, but I decided to be decadent and added one. For the pelmeni, I rolled the meat into small balls and wrapped them delicately in the dough, creating a fan shape, then threw them into boiling water. When they rose to the surface, I fished them out and put them in a serving dish with a little butter so they wouldn’t stick together. I had a good cry when I cut the onions. While they sizzled in the olive oil, I peeled and boiled the potatoes. Before mashing them, I drizzled the onion-flavored oil onto them. It tasted heavenly. I didn’t understand Tristan’s pathological hatred of oil (which he called fat). I read that in countries like Italy and Spain, olive oil is revered.

  I made a Napoleon cake (I’d read in France it was called a mille-feuille, or a thousand leaves), stacking the layers of cake and cream just like Boba did. I also baked Molly’s chocolate cake and pecan sandies (in Odessa we make them with walnuts). I invited Oksana and Jerry, Molly and Toby and their little ones. Anna and Steve, Rocky, Pam, Raymond and his wife. Tristan was in his comfort zone – at home, drinking beer and laughing with Toby and Jerry.

  We sat at the dining table, so close our elbows touched. It was cozy and wonderful. Anna and Steve held hands and fed each other little bites. He whispered in her ear and she blushed and smiled a secret little smile at him. Maybe she’d told the truth when she’d said things were great. They had such complicity. Seeing it at my table made me happy for them and yet sad for myself.

  I turned to watch Oksana eat. Her eyes were closed and she chewed slowly, savoring every bite. ‘It tastes like home,’ she said. ‘Delicious.’

  Everyone agreed.

  Oksana raised her wine glass and said, ‘To the hostess and her lovely hands.’ Her English had improved in just a few months thanks to our lessons over the phone.

  After dinner, everyone admired Farley’s hamster. He opened the door to her cage, but she stayed on her wheel. ‘Come on, girl. Come on, Clementine,’ he encouraged.

  Her nose twitched nervously.

  ‘Leave her alone, buddy,’ Toby said. ‘She doesn’t want to come out. She feels more comfy in her cage.’

  Just like me in my Emerson cage. The door was open. I just had to work up the courage to escape.

  After the guests left, I asked, ‘Are you happy with the way things are between us?’

  He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. ‘Yeah.’

  Trailing him from the kitchen to the living room, I said, ‘But you seem angry all the time.’

  He turned on the TV and flipped through the stations.

  ‘How would you feel?’ he asked, his eyes focused on the screen. ‘I done everything for you and you’re not grateful.’

  ‘I am grateful. Is that what you’re angry about? That I don’t seem grateful enough?’

  ‘You don’t do what I say. That makes me angry.’ He turned the volume up.

  ‘So your moods are my fault?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ he asked sharply, suddenly turning on me.

  Swing-swung-swung. He seemed poised to jump at me, his body tense, his teeth bared. No. This was my gentle schoolteacher. Only he wasn’t a teacher. Still, he wouldn’t. Would he? I squeezed my eyes shut. If only I were brave. If only I were honest. If only I could tell him that we shouldn’t have ever married. If only I could find a way to tell him I wanted out . . .

  Perhaps I could propose a half measure just to test the water.

  ‘Maybe we should spend some time apart.’

  ‘Are you telling me you want a divorce?’ His breathing sped up and he stared at me intently.

  So intently it scared me. I changed my tactic.

  ‘Well, you want a child and I don’t seem able to conceive. Maybe you should consider finding someone else.’ I looked down at the beige carpet. Waiting for his verdict. Would he accept this form of plea bargain?

  ‘I don’t want anyone else. And you’re crazy if you think you can find anyone who will love you like I do. Who else would put up with your shit? Man.’

  ‘You’re right. You deserve someone better than me.’

  ‘Is there someone else?’ he asked. ‘That dishwasher down at the café. I’ve seen how he looks at you. How they all look at you.’

  ‘This is about us,’ I tried to sound calm.

  ‘I’ll kill myself if you leave. I’ll kill myself. I’LL KILL MYSELF. Who put this separation idea in your head? Was it Oksana?’

  I shook my head. He stood. I took a step back.

  ‘Was it Anna? You’re there every day. I don’t like her.’

  I shook my head. ‘No one put the idea in my head. It just seems we’ve . . . grown apart.’

  ‘Did Molly tell you about Lena? Or was it that bitch Serenity?’ He stepped towards me.

  I took another step back. ‘Who’s Lena? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Nobody. Nothing.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair and muttered, ‘You haven’t given us time to grow together. Every marriage has its ups and downs. After all I did for you and now you just want to give up? Well, I won’t let you.’ He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. Hard. When he released me, I was so shaken that I fell back onto the sofa.

  A good wife makes a good husband. That’s what we say in Odessa. If a husband cheats or beats or drinks, then his wife is clearly doing something wrong. Her cutlets aren’t tender, she doesn’t serve him as she should. Perhaps she nags him when clearly, she should just let him be.

  I took more and more baths when he was at home. I just wanted to lock myself away from him. I turned off the light and sat in the tub until the water became tepid, reciting Akhmatova, the grocery list of foods I didn’t buy, counting the empty days – anything to avoid thinking about the inevitable. I had imagined divorces happened like this: a couple sits at the kitchen table – tense, terse, certainly, but making a joint decision. Now I realized that this was just as naïve as the image I’d had of conceiving a child when I was little. The papa hugs the mama very tightly and a baby starts to grow in her belly. No mess, no effort.

  (‘Sweetie, what’s for dinner?’ Tristan called out.)

  Now I realized that when it comes to divorce, one person knows first. It is a terrible knowledge.

  I forgot the clothes in the dryer. When I finally took them out, they smelled singed. I didn’t want to see friends. I didn’t want to talk to Boba. It was so sunny outside and so dark in the temple of my heart. I just wanted to hide in the water. I hate the light of monotonous stars.

  A terrible knowledge to walk through the door knowing that soon everything will change. That your home is no longer your home. Knowing that you will break the promise you made in front of friends, in front of God himself. Knowing that you will break a heart. So let the snow flow down like tears.

  It is easier to be abandoned – sniveling and wailing, ‘W
hy did you go? What did I do wrong? Why don’t you love me anymore?’ The decision is made for you. It hurts, but the burden is off you. You are not accountable. You did not make it happen. It happened to you.

  (‘Do you want to make something?’)

  I imagined deep down a person knew that a divorce was the right step. This was not my case. Every time I decided to leave him, another part of me would say, You owe him, give it time, he’ll be a wonderful father, he can change, you can change, be patient, what if you leave and you end up on the street? Odessans’ worst fear is change, because what if we make a change and our situation gets worse?

  I remembered the way he spoke about children so passionately. I remembered how he loved Molly’s children. Giving Farley endless piggyback rides. Helping Ashley with her math homework. Going to every single one of Peter’s football games, cheering louder than anyone. He would be a good father.

  Roots. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Stability. A home. In America. How was it that I got exactly what I wanted, yet it wasn’t at all what I wanted?

  (‘Why isn’t there any food in the fridge? Didn’t you do the shopping? I guess I’ll order pizza. Man.’)

  In the same minute, I could be scared, thrilled, sad, resigned, happy – all depending on which way my decision swung. Yes, no, maybe, definitely, impossible. To divorce or not to divorce, that was my question. And I found that there was no easy answer.

  (‘Half cheese for you, half supreme for me. How’s that?’)

  Chapter 23

  My Darling and Dear Granddaughter!

  Greetings from the Pearl of the Black Sea!

  Dasha, Dasha, I haven’t had a letter from you in so long! What are you doing with yourself? Don’t you have time to write to your grandmother? Or has something happened to you? I’m worried. You work so hard. Are you eating enough? Getting sufficient rest? Everything will be fine, everything will be fine. That’s what I tell myself. I think of you every moment of every day. God protect and keep you.

  I felt horrible that I’d made Boba worry so. It was just that I didn’t know what to do, and as usual, when I didn’t know what to do, I did nothing.

  Thank God you left this rat-infested country. Prices at the bazaar doubled then tripled. Someone broke into the downstairs neighbor’s flat. Obviously young hooligans – they stole her CD player and television. The poor young woman, a foreigner who doesn’t know what to think of this city. I made her some blini and compote. Some solace.

  Boris Mikhailovich comes by more than ever. Says I’m not safe on my own, wants to protect me. Changed the light bulb in my entryway and paces there like a sentry, waiting for, hoping for, an invasion. I told him I didn’t need a man ‘You don’t need one,’ he said, ‘but do you want one?’ He even proposed. Imagine the gall!

  What Odessan flair! Over sixty and she still had it! Even as I was angry that she didn’t tell me her response, I admired her panache. Maybe he was why she never replied when I asked her to consider coming to America. Had Boba found love? Another thought invaded: had she had love all along, but put it on hold for me?

  I was dying to call, but knew she’d never say anything. Even on paper, I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed by him or merely pretending. It is nearly impossible to get a straight answer out of an Odessan. Paper will endure anything – that’s what we say in Odessa. A letter does not blush.

  Dear Boba,

  Tell me everything! Immediately! What on earth did you answer?

  All is well here. I’m just trying to figure things out . . .

  I couldn’t be angry at her for keeping things from me – after all, I, too, had my secrets. There are some things you can’t tell a grandmother, some things you can only tell a real friend.

  ‘He said he’d kill himself if I leave,’ I told David during his weekly call.

  ‘Good. You’ll be rid of him and inherit his house.’

  ‘You’re horrible,’ I said with affection.

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve never threatened suicide to keep a woman. Anyway, guys like him never do it. He’s pathetic. He just wants attention. I can just see him, sawing away at his wrist with the sharp edge of a sheet of paper.’

  I laughed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be with someone like him . . .’

  His words felt open-ended, and I was suddenly breathless. I wanted him to finish his sentence. ‘Who should I be with?’

  ‘Someone who can hold his own with you, that’s for damn sure.’

  I waited for him to say something. He didn’t. We just sat there, each on our end, waiting. I broke the silence. ‘How’s Olga?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My Russian improved. I heard her refer to me as the dirty old Jew to someone on the phone.’

  ‘Which part offended you?’

  ‘I’m not old,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said in a serious tone of voice so that he would know what I meant.

  ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Not until she started dating you. That’s when she stopped hiding her true feelings from me.’

  ‘You could have said something.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have believed me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Daria I knew always had an escape plan. She was always three steps ahead of everyone else. What would she do?’

  ‘It’s different. I’m married now. For better or for worse.’

  ‘Has it ever been better?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘So stay. Stay in America, but dump him.’

  ‘He paid all this money to bring me here.’

  ‘So get a divorce and write him a check.’

  ‘With what money? I’m a waitress.’

  ‘A waitress!’ he roared. I pulled the phone away from my ear so I didn’t hear the obscenities. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a village four hours from San Francisco.’

  ‘In the country?’ he asked, appalled. ‘Go to a city. Get a real job. There’s a branch of ARGONAUT in San Francisco.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you contacted them? Kessler can make sure you get a job there.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, believe me.’

  ‘What’s holding you back?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You’re the one making it complicated. You’ve put in the time, it’s not working out. Cut your losses. You’re young and a year seems like a lot, but it’s nothing compared to a lifetime. Get out now before you have kids.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I owe him.’

  ‘So he did a nice thing for you. Are you going to pay for the rest of your life? He had a hot wife for a year. That’s payment enough. Ciao!’

  ‘I told you, he threatened to kill himself . . .’

  ‘Then find him someone before you leave. God knows you’re an expert.’

  That stung so hard I flinched. ‘I’m through with matchmaking.’

  ‘Do you have any money?’

  ‘Money, no,’ I fingered the diamond. ‘But Vlad gave me a ring.’

  ‘Sell it.’

  ‘I’ve been considering that.’

  ‘Why haven’t you done anything?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You’ve changed. You’re probably depressed.’

  ‘I’m in America. How could I possibly be depressed?’

  ‘It can happen anywhere. Leave him before you turn into a total wimp.’

  I felt my spine straighten and my chin lift. ‘How dare you, you presumptuous –’

  He laughed. ‘And she’s back.’

  I subscribed to the San Francisco Chronicle, paying by check from my own account. Each morning, I scoured the housing and employment pages. Could I live on my own? I’d never been alone, not even for a weekend. Was I brave enough? Was the city safe? How much would an apartment cost? How m
uch could I earn? Would it be enough?

  Caressing Vlad’s gift, I remembered the emerald Tans had given to Jane. I thought about Jonothan, who bought and sold jewelry. I wondered how much he could get for my ring. Perhaps if it was enough, I could?. . .

  Escape. And start over. The diamond was large and bright, and everyone I knew said that Soviet gold was the best in the world. But then the people who had said that were all Soviets. And they had also said the Soviet system was the best in the world. Maybe the ring wasn’t worth much after all. I called Jane, who gave me Jonothan’s number and warned me to be careful. After I described the ring, he volunteered to drive up and appraise it the following day.

  We met at the café, while Tristan was at work. I unhooked the dainty silver chain and let the ring slide off of the necklace onto Jonothan’s palm. He held it between his thumb and index finger, turned it around slowly, taking it in from all angles. When he pulled out a jeweler’s magnifying glass from his shirt pocket and fitted it into his eye socket, he went from looking like an easy-going party animal to a hard-nosed diamond merchant. The change startled me.

  ‘I can get ten thousand for it,’ he said authoritatively.

  ‘Dollars?’ I exclaimed. Of course he wasn’t talking about grivna or rubles. Finding out it was worth so much made me hesitant, and I fought the urge to snatch it back. Common sense and greed warred within me. Jane had told me that he was a ‘cokehead.’ What if he used the proceeds from my ring to buy drugs? I would be a fool to trust him. But what other choice did I have? I needed money, and he had connections. He held the ring in the palm of his hand, silently offering to give it back to me. Pam walked up and said, ‘My gawd, is that thing for real?’

  ‘Sure is,’ he said. ‘I’m proposing to my girlfriend next week and wanted to show Daria the ring.’

  ‘Isn’t that sweet?’ she said, her eyes fixed on the glittering diamond. ‘Who would say no to you?’

  ‘Ninety percent of the girls in the Bay area.’

  ‘All it takes is one.’ Her head lilted to one side and she sighed. ‘I’ll never have anything so beautiful,’ she said, then made her way back to the kitchen to answer the bell and deliver her order.