When I rang the doorbell, it wasn’t Katya who answered but a tall, sandy-haired man who I assumed was Yuri’s father.
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand as he pulled open the door. “I’m Maggie Topper, Yuri’s English language arts tutor.”
“Yes, my wife told me you’d be coming for his lesson. I’m Sasha.” He shook my hand and gestured for me to come in.
As soon as I entered the hallway, I was taken in by a toasty smell wafting in from the kitchen.
“Something smells delicious,” I said as I inhaled the comforting yet unfamiliar aroma. “What are you cooking?”
He laughed. “Something from the old country. Kasha and onions.”
I slid off my coat. “In my house, I only know pasta. Sorry to sound so ignorant, but what’s ‘kasha’?”
“Buckwheat groats. It’s our comfort food.” A soft smile formed at his lips, and I instantly recognized Yuri in him. “It’s rich in vitamins. Good for the boy, you know?”
Sasha lifted his chin in the direction of the living room, where I knew Yuri was waiting for me.
“I brought something for you and Katya,” I said, handing over the cider. “And a pumpkin with Yankee stripes for Yuri,” I leaned closer and whispered. “But don’t tell him yet. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Well, if you brought us something, I have to return the favor . . .” Sasha lifted his hand as if stopping me in my tracks. “Let me get you a bowl of kasha,” he insisted, clearly touched by my gesture. “In Ukraine, we believe we warm our souls from the inside out.”
He lifted the jug of cider. “And kasha with a glass of cider is much healthier than with vodka!”
* * *
• • •
“DAD took the day off,” Yuri told me as I settled into the chair next to him. The paperback copy of Shoeless Joe was bent at the cover, and several of the pages were dog-eared. My pulse quickened.
“Looks like you’ve been reading, Yuri.”
He smiled, and the mirror image of his father was now reversed before me. “It’s a good book, Ms. Topper.”
Seeing that I had succeeded in finding a book he enjoyed made my heart leap inside my chest.
“How far did you get?”
“I got to the part when his wife’s parents come to town. But they don’t have any faith he can build his own baseball field, even though his wife and daughter do.”
“And what did you think about the way the author wove the story of Joe Jackson into it?”
Yuri was quiet for a moment. “Well, the first thing I thought of was that Shoeless Joe’s childhood sort of reminded me of Mariano Rivera’s. My dad told me Mariano Rivera had no money when he was growing up and he loved baseball so much, he made a glove for himself out of strips of cardboard.”
“I didn’t know that.” I loved that I was learning from Yuri.
“Yeah. My dad said when Mariano showed up for spring training, he was the only player without a glove or a pair of cleats.”
“But he wore his talent,” I added proudly.
Yuri beamed. “Yeah! Exactly! My dad loves all the backstories of the Yankees’ ‘Core Four.’ Jorge Posada comes from Puerto Rico, Andy Pettitte from Baton Rouge, Mariano Rivera from Panama, and Derek Jeter from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Even though they’re from different places and backgrounds, they all learned to work together and make each other shine.”
“That’s such a great way of looking at the team, Yuri.”
“Yes, and my dad loves their histories because it shows anything is possible in America if you work hard enough. He said it wasn’t like that back in Ukraine.”
“I think that’s why so many immigrants came to the United States for the opportunity for a better life,” I agreed.
“But part of the book upsets me, Ms. Topper. I keep wondering if it’s true. Did Joe really throw the series?”
I had read a bit about the 1919 World Series and the so-called Black Sox Scandal. Several of the White Sox players had been accused of accepting bribes from gamblers to lose the series, and once news of the scandal broke out, those players, including the great Shoeless Joe Jackson, were banned from baseball for life.
“I just don’t want to believe he’s bad,” Yuri said with such innocence.
“You know, Shoeless Joe was almost illiterate,” I explained. “The thing he loved most in the world was baseball. Probably if he had really understood what the gamblers were asking of him, he would never have willingly agreed to throw a game. Plus, he had a fantastic World Series.”
Yuri looked toward the window. The bird feeder was without seed. Only a lone squirrel scampered on the deck. Wet leaves were plastered to the wood, like large brown footprints.
“I just hate to believe he did anything bad on purpose. Maybe if he did do something wrong, it was only a misunderstanding?” Yuri’s earnestness was touching. “Makes you realize you need to be smart, even in baseball.”
“Absolutely,” I laughed. “And, in the spirit of baseball, let me present you with a very special pumpkin to usher in the autumn season.” I lifted it from my bag with great ceremony.
“He has Yankee pinstripes, but no number,” I pointed out. “Which one should we give him?”
Yuri’s face beamed. I could hear his dad’s footsteps coming closer, and when I looked behind me, Sasha was standing there carrying a steaming bowl of kasha.
“I like Jeter. But my dad loves Mariano Rivera.”
“The pumpkin’s for you, Yuri. So you choose.”
He decided on Mariano Rivera. “Put number forty-two on it. He’s great under pressure, doesn’t even break a sweat, and always closes the game. Maybe it will bring me good luck.”
I took out a Sharpie from my handbag and drew a 42 on the pumpkin.
“Anything for a bit of good luck, right?”
I lifted the bowl of kasha and inhaled its nutty perfume. The first spoonful filled me with a warmth that reminded me of my mother’s cooking. The hearth of a loving home.
* * *
• • •
IN addition to bringing along the pumpkin for Yuri that afternoon, I also brought the writer’s notebook I had made when I was at Teachers College. My students at Franklin had already been given a composition notebook, and I instructed them to decorate the cover with images that were important to them. It was a way to get a better understanding of the student’s inner self.
The images they selected would be “artifacts” about themselves. They could be anything. A student could tear out pictures from newspapers or magazines. They could cut out letters and form words that described themselves, like “artist” or “athlete.” They could use old family photographs or postcards they had collected from past vacations. After they were done, I’d cover their books with contact paper to keep them protected.
I had covered mine with a postcard from Capri, an old childhood photograph of my brother and me, and another of my parents on their wedding day. I added foreign stamps and stickers that I had collected when I was little. And since I love food, I also cut out a triangle of pizza and pasted on the letters that formed the word “tiramisu.” I took images from Richard Scarry’s What Do People Do All Day because it was my favorite book when I was three. Lowly Worm and Huckle Cat were like old friends of mine. I finished it with an excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit about how only love can make us real.
I had just spent the morning and afternoon showing the notebook to all my classes so they could see what a finished one looked like. They had only glanced at it from afar on the first day of school when I mentioned it would be part of the writing curriculum for the year. Now, with those early days behind us, they perked up at the thought of doing a craft, particularly one they could tailor to their own specific interests. I passed around my notebook.
“Cool. So we can glue on it anything we want?” Finn asked. He was wearing a Derek
Jeter jersey, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Yuri.
“Yes, Finn. Anything that sums you up.”
“Can we use photographs?” Oscar asked.
“Yes, you can.”
Rachel raised her hand. “Can we make it three-dimensional?” I could see she was going to be the artist of the classroom. Like Suzie, she had a certain way with her clothes, using them as a means of self-expression. Rachel wore bangles up to her elbow in different colors and came to school with mismatched socks poking out from her Doc Martens. Today she had clipped a purple feather into her hair.
“Well,” I laughed. “You have to be able to open and close the book. So don’t go crazy. But, yes, creativity is encouraged.”
When he saw my notebook later that day, Yuri asked if he could hold it. Immediately, I saw how his mind was racing to connect all the assorted images that I had assembled to define me.
“You like pizza?”
“I love it, Yuri.”
“And you’ve actually been to Italy?”
“Sure have . . . spent my junior year abroad in Rome. I was also able to travel a bit after my program ended.”
“So you saw the Colosseum?”
“I did, Yuri.” I smiled. “It was amazing.”
“I’d like to go there one day. My dad got me a book on ancient Rome.”
I nodded, impressed. Not many parents introduced Roman history to their twelve-year-old boys.
I could see his imagination taking over. “This is the kind of homework that I like.”
I laughed. “Later on in the year, we’re going to be writing an essay about each artifact and why you picked it. But for now, your assignment is just to start working on covering your notebook. Got it, champ?”
“Got it!”
Yuri’s face always brightened when I called him “champ.” I gave him a playful punch on his arm and handed him a blank composition book.
“But you should keep on reading Shoeless Joe, too, because I want you to also write a one-page description on which character you most relate to.”
It was part of the curriculum to ask the students to write about something that they particularly connected with, and as we moved along in the year, they’d be responsible for writing in their notebooks every day. Some days it would be independent writing, and other days, it would be specific assignments. But the goal was to have them writing as much as possible.
“I can’t wait to see what you’re going to write about, Yuri,” I said with unabashed enthusiasm. “And one of the things I tell my students is if you ever want one of your entries to remain private, all you need to do is fold over the page.”
Yuri made a face. “Okay. That’s good to know. But in the meantime, I can’t wait for you to see my cover,” he added cheerfully. “We both love baseball and pizza.”
9
THE images on Yuri’s writer’s notebook cover were still sticky with glue. A photo of a ballet dancer. An image of a glass laboratory beaker. A Russian Orthodox saint. A Jewish star and an evil eye. Unsurprisingly, there were quite a few Yankees baseball cards. Derek Jeter. Mariano Rivera. But there was also a pizza slice, a sticker of a broken heart, and a picture from a magazine of a smattering of puffy white clouds against a pale blue sky.
“I’m not finished yet,” he said as he handed it over.
“This is great, Yuri. So much interesting stuff here. We’ll wait to put contact paper on it until you’re completely done.” His cover was full of clues. My heart quickened. I felt as though I had been given a broken glass with all the intricate and jagged pieces. Over time, I would witness the glass being made whole.
“Thanks. I had a lot of fun doing it.” Today, his face looked fuller, and I felt happy that he seemed to be getting stronger. “I did the written assignment, too.”
“Great.” I picked it up and opened the notebook, eager to read his work.
The character I love the most in Shoeless Joe is the wife, Annie. She never gives up believing in her husband, even though he is a real underdog. Everyone except her and their daughter think he’s crazy and believe he can’t make his baseball field. But Annie believes.
She reminds me of my mother, who believes I will get better. She doesn’t listen to anyone who tells her anything else. My mother believes in me just like Annie believes in Ray.
10
APRIL 28, 1986
KIEV, UKRAINE
FOR three days the sky burns brightly. By now, the men and women are all sunburned, even though it’s only April.
But then a dark cloud hovers over the city and the sky turns black. The color of ash. People begin to whisper a rumor about a terrible fire at the Chernobyl nuclear reactor. That night, as Katya comes back from the dance studio, Sasha is sitting inches away from the television.
The news channel is reporting that three days ago, an accident occurred in the town of Pripyat, where the Chernobyl nuclear power plant is located. But the information is sparse and the images are limited.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” the broadcaster recites on the air. “The government is taking all necessary precautions.”
Katya walks closer to the television screen and sits down on the couch next to Sasha. She peels off her tights. Her feet are red and blistered from her toe shoes. They look like painful gnarled fists, and she begins to massage them.
The television flashes images of a helicopter dropping sand, clay, and lead on the fire burning from the nuclear reactor. Boron, a radiation-absorbing material, is also dropped.
“Comrades, the men and women of Pripyat have been evacuated. The people of Ukraine are safe,” the broadcaster emphasizes.
Sasha is staring at the screen; his face is white.
“The accident is under control. Firefighters have been on-site since it occurred on Saturday,” the reporter continues.
Katya curls her naked legs beneath her skirt and nestles her head against Sasha’s shoulder.
“They tell us not to worry, my love.” She reaches for his fingers and pulls them to her lips.
He wiggles his fingers from her grip. His eyes are still focused on the television screen. The flames of the reactor burn a hundred different shades. Red. Orange. Blue. White.
“The reactor is only one hundred kilometers north of us, Katya.” Sasha is already doing calculations in his head. She can see the scientist in him. He is suspicious of the calming words the government uses so freely. He wonders what the fire from the reactor has already burned into the atmosphere.
She shakes her head. “The government says they have everything under control.”
He is quiet before he says another word.
Then, underneath his breath, she hears him whisper, “But even they can’t control the wind.”
11
“THERE’S a new substitute teacher for the orchestra,” Suzie whispered in my ear over lunch. She was wearing a hot pink silk tunic with little crystal beads at the collar and palazzo pants. She had even matched her lipstick with it.
“Mr. Barton had to go back to Iowa to take care of his sick mother.”
We were sitting in the faculty room together, and I was looking at my limp tuna-salad sandwich. I had a hard time eating things that were cold when the weather began to change. My body had its own barometer. Once the air pressure dipped and the leaves started to fall, I wanted a thermos of warm minestrone soup and a piping hot grilled cheese.
“He’s a fox,” Suzie whispered, her face beaming. “Have you seen him yet?”
“Who?” I was thinking about what passages of Shoeless Joe I wanted to focus on when I saw Yuri later that day, so I was not concentrating on what Suzie was saying.
“The new orchestra teacher! Are you even listening to me, Maggie?”
I looked up at her and immediately noticed she had lipstick on her teeth.
“You’ve got
a little, um . . .” I tapped my finger to my tooth.
“Oh, thanks.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, erasing the smear of hot pink.
She was about to begin describing the new substitute when I suddenly saw her face freeze. “That’s him,” she whispered, leaning in closer.
I felt like we were two sixth-grade girls rather than the teachers. But in truth, immaturity has no age limit. I surreptitiously nudged my pencil to the ground and then turned my head as I was retrieving it.
Suzie was right. He was handsome. Dark brown curly hair and green eyes. Tall with broad shoulders, he was wearing a navy roll-neck sweater and pressed khaki pants. I wouldn’t have called him a fox, but he was boyishly handsome. When I looked at his face more closely, I noticed a small red scar near his temple in the shape of a horseshoe.
“Ask him to sit down, Maggie.” Her eyes were popping. Her voice was urgent. “Ask him, I beg you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk toward the Mr. Coffee machine and pull out a cup from the dispenser. He tore open two sugar packets with his teeth and added them to his coffee.
I wrinkled up my face. “Why don’t you do it, if you’re so eager? I’ve got some classwork to do.” I crumpled up the aluminum foil over what remained of my tuna fish sandwich.
I pushed my chair out and was just about to get up when I heard a soft, almost melodic voice behind me.
“Hi, I’m Daniel. The new music teacher. May I sit down?”
* * *
• • •
HIS voice was as smooth as custard, and the politeness of his request hit me in the gut. I had fifteen minutes before my next period. So I did what I thought anyone would do in my position. I went up and got Suzie and myself two cups of the worst coffee on earth and joined him.
“So you’re replacing Mr. Barton, is that right?”
“Yes, I’ve been told he had to take time off for family reasons.”
We both nodded. But I was now only half listening. My eyes focused on the tiny scar. It made me instantly curious; it suggested a story.
The Secret of Clouds Page 6
