The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  “Thank God for some sunshine,” Suzie said as she extended her arms to embrace the crisp autumn day. We were sitting outside having our lunch while the kids were at recess, warm fingers of light ricocheting over the grassy field. Over the summer, she had gone to healthy-cooking classes at the YMCA and started taking late afternoon walks, so she had slimmed down considerably. She was still crunching on her cruciferous salad of shredded Brussels sprouts, carrots, and jicama when Finn shouted over from the soccer field a hearty hello in our direction.

  “Do you know he gave Yuri his baseball trophy? Yuri brought it along to the hospital for good luck.”

  Suzie put her fork into the empty container. She closed the lid and was quiet for a moment. I could see her looking at Finn as he navigated the field, the swirling black-and-white soccer ball moving deftly with every one of his dribbles.

  “You know I’m always complaining about how bad some of the kids are, how they don’t clean up their messes at the end of art class, how they talk half the time I’m trying to explain the difference between tempera paint and acrylic. But when you see a kid like that, you know how damn lucky we are.” She let out a long sigh. “Sometimes that gold just rubs off on you.”

  65

  DURING each of my visits that autumn, Yuri expressed increasing concerns about his favorite team, as the Yankees almost had a late-season collapse. Still, they managed to hold on and eke into the playoffs. The Mets, however, finished strong and easily won the National League wild card.

  Both teams won their first two playoff series, finally ensuring that the Subway Series would happen. Finn and I went to Yuri’s house to watch the first game, and the boys relished—at my expense—seeing the Yankees win it in extra innings.

  “It’s not over, not by a long shot,” I warned, shaking my finger like an old schoolmarm. “Don’t underestimate my Mets.”

  Although I didn’t make it to the Krasnys’ for the second game, I couldn’t wait to see Yuri the next day. Everyone was talking about the crazy drama that had happened at the game, when Roger Clemens threw a piece of a broken bat at Mike Piazza in an incredible display of poor sportsmanship.

  “Yuri, what was up with Clemens? There isn’t a teacher alive who would have allowed that sort of behavior in their kindergarten class!”

  Yuri was propped up on several pillows. His hair was just as I remembered it when I had first met him, blond feathers askew like a baby bird. A plastic cup with a straw was within arm’s length of his chair.

  “I couldn’t believe it myself,” he answered weakly. “But maybe it was an accident, like he confused the bat with the ball.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t fool me, Yuri. You know what a hothead he is. If he was on the Mets, you’d be having a field day mocking me right now.”

  Yuri squirmed and smiled mischievously. “He’s a great pitcher, though . . .”

  I was happy to have something to distract him with. Katya said he had spent most of his days since his discharge from the hospital sleeping downstairs and that he had little interest in anything except when the Yankees were on TV. Katya had thought it best to wait to arrange any further tutoring for him until he had regained his strength, so I suspected Yuri’s days were passing more slowly than usual.

  “I would have given Clemens a lot more than just a time-out . . .”

  “I bet you would, Ms. Topper.” He forced another smile, but I could see he was feeling low.

  “Have you seen Finn lately?”

  “His mom dropped him off for a bit the day before yesterday, and we relived the highlights of the first World Series game. But it’s getting more difficult to see him now because of all his basketball commitments. He’s the point guard this year. I imagine he’s got a lot of pressure on him.”

  Yuri slowly adjusted himself in his chair and stifled a cough. “I hate that I can’t go to school this year. I’m so mad that just when I was making all those friends, this had to happen.” He pointed to his chest.

  My heart broke for Yuri. Part of me wondered whether I had made things worse for him—and his health—by urging Katya and Sasha to send him back to school last year.

  “You just need to get stronger, champ. In a few months you might be able to return. And anyway, if you were in school right now, you’d have missed all those midafternoon playoff games.”

  “That’s the good part,” he said, faking a bit of optimism. “And maybe I’m going to end up stronger than I was before the operation. That’s what my dad keeps telling me.”

  “Your father’s a smart man,” I said with great confidence. “So I’ll place my bets on him.”

  “Well, in that case you’d better switch baseball teams,” Yuri chuckled. “Because the man who first got me to be a Yankees fan was my dad. And he started rooting for them in 1987, when your team was on top of the world.” He lifted his hand and started to gleefully count on his fingers. “Since then, the Yanks have won three World Series and the Mets have barely made the playoffs.”

  “Another bit of proof that he’s a genius, Yuri. So I’m going to listen to whatever your dad says about your recovery. And after you’re back to a hundred percent, we can talk about me switching teams.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ON the way out, I saw Katya hunched over the kitchen table reading a magazine, a cup of steaming tea at her fingertips. When she heard me rustle in my bag to find my car keys, she looked up and our eyes met through the doorway.

  “I’m so happy he’s out of the hospital,” I said as I walked closer to her. “And that he’s back home.”

  I pulled one of the small kitchen chairs over and sat down.

  Katya pointed to her cup of tea. “Can I make you some?”

  “Thanks, but I had some coffee before I came . . .”

  She nodded and brought her mug up to her lips.

  “He seems like he’s getting stronger every time I see him,” I said. “It looks like the surgery was a real success.”

  “Yes, we’re just so glad it’s over,” Katya murmured.

  She reached into her blouse and took out a necklace with a small crucifix dangling from the chain. “Sasha hates that I’ve started wearing this again. But I can’t tell you how many times I prayed when we were in the hospital.” Her voice cracked. “The doctor wouldn’t tell us about Yuri’s chances of surviving the surgery. Can you believe that?” She was wringing her hands so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

  “But Sasha always demanded statistics. He wanted to know if it was worth cutting open Yuri’s chest for such a risky operation. He kept pushing the doctor for answers . . . Was Yuri more likely to die from the surgery than from his failing heart?”

  She fidgeted in her seat and put the crucifix back inside her blouse. “I told Sasha, ‘I’m a mother. I just want to take care of my son.’ I don’t question the doctors, I can’t think about statistics or survival rates. Every day I just wake up thankful he’s still sleeping in that bed.” She paused and sucked in her breath. “He sleeps most of the day, but I can hardly shut my eyes. I feel like I’m back to that time when he was a few weeks old. I’m constantly afraid something could happen to him if I let myself fall asleep for even a second.”

  “You’re exhausted, Katya,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you let me sit in the living room while he naps, and you go upstairs and rest.”

  “No, no . . . you were just leaving . . . and I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to be but here,” I said as I reached over and touched her shoulder.

  “Go upstairs and I promise I will watch over him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  YURI sleeping. His eyes closed, the lids a pale shade of blue, almost lavender. I sit staring at him as he slumbers, wondering what it must be like for Katya to watch him like this. For me, he is an image of
boyish sweetness; his relaxed features soften as he rests. His mind is far away, lost in dreams that I am not privy to. I wonder whether in his dreams he is playing sports, whether he has another life where he is active and his heart is strong.

  I don’t find myself worrying as Katya described herself doing. Perhaps it’s because I’m not a mother. I hear his measured breathing, see his small chest rising and falling from underneath the cotton coverlet, and I trust his body to work as it should.

  Instead, I savor the quiet calm of just seeing Yuri resting. I imagine only good things. His return to Franklin, joking with friends. Playing ball with Finn.

  I watch the maple leaves falling from the branches in their backyard and the squirrels gathering acorns on the wooden deck, and I feel lucky to be guarding over Katya and Sasha’s precious little boy.

  * * *

  • • •

  I didn’t see Yuri again until the fifth game of the World Series. I brought Daniel along despite the fact that he was a Yankees fan, having grown up in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, where if you were caught rooting for the Mets, you’d risk being hung up by your toenails. When he picked me up that afternoon, he couldn’t help but make an off-color remark about the Mets jersey I was wearing.

  “Now, if my jock brother saw me escorting a girl who has her own Al Leiter jersey to a World Series game, I think he’d advocate disowning me from the family.”

  I laughed. “You mean, despite the fact that I’m cute and good with kids?”

  “He wouldn’t see past those annoying orange and blue colors.”

  “I tell you what,” I said as I handed him the eggplant rollatini my mom had made for me to bring to the Krasnys. “I promise not to wear this when I meet your brother. I’ll let him fall in love with me first before I break the news about the Mets. Deal?”

  Daniel opened up the car door with one hand and I slipped inside. “You’re too smart for your own good, Maggie.” He handed me back the eggplant to put on my lap.

  “That’s right, brains over beauty,” I teased back. “You wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  He turned on the ignition. “Luckily with you, I got both.”

  * * *

  • • •

  KATYA had made a feast for dinner, so my mother’s eggplant was in good company on the dining room table. The food was all set out in a generous buffet: potato and meat pierogi, stuffed cabbage, a tray of grilled kielbasas, and bowls of brightly colored borscht.

  Everyone but Yuri ate all the delicacies she had prepared. Katya, who had the least amount of baseball knowledge and interest, was far more preoccupied with whether Yuri was getting anything down than with who was winning the game.

  His white paper plate, with a sampling of glistening pierogi, rested on his lap and remained untouched. But what he lacked in appetite, he made up for in enthusiasm for the game.

  “It’s too bad Finn couldn’t be here,” he said, turning to me. “But his uncle is in town, so his parents are having their own party.”

  I looked over to the fireplace, where I saw that Yuri had placed Finn’s baseball trophy on top of the mantel for good luck, just like he had done at the hospital.

  “But you’re wearing your favorite Jeter jersey, and you have Finn’s trophy on display over there. So I think you have your superstitious armor all set.”

  Yuri grinned and pointed to my Mets jersey. “And I see you do, too, Ms. Topper.”

  “Yep,” I said as I settled down into the sofa. I took my fork and ate my first bite of one of Katya’s pierogi. The warm potato filling reminded me a little of my mother’s gnocchi, though I could detect onion and black pepper on the inside.

  Sasha lifted the TV remote and increased the volume.

  The Yankees had won three of the first four games, needing just one more victory to clinch the series.

  “If the Yankees win tonight, we’re all toasting with some ice-cold vodka that’s in the freezer,” Sasha announced.

  “Even you, Yuri,” he kidded.

  “Most certainly not.” Katya cut him off. “We’ll have the fresh gingerbread and whipped cream I made to celebrate.”

  * * *

  • • •

  BERNIE Williams started off the scoring with a solo home run in the second inning, and Yuri and his dad were hooting and clapping like madmen.

  The Mets pulled out two runs off of Andy Pettitte, the Yankees’ pitcher, but then Yuri’s favorite player, Derek Jeter, hit a home run to tie the game at 2–2.

  “Woo-hoo!” Yuri yelped. His hand landed on one of the cushions in his makeshift bed.

  Daniel, it seemed, did not share his brother’s love for baseball. Instead, he looked amused by the fact that the score made both sets of fans squirm. He helped himself to another kielbasa, and I was sure I saw Katya smile as he filled his plate.

  * * *

  • • •

  IN the top of the ninth, the Yankees scored twice, when a throw by the Mets’ center fielder hit Jorge Posada as he slid into home plate. The ball rolled into the dugout, and Scott Brosius was able to score, making it 4–2 Yankees. Their superstar reliever, Mariano Rivera, would then try to close out the game in the bottom of the inning. Even I had to admit that, at this point, it was unlikely my team was going to win.

  “It’s not over till the last out,” Daniel chimed in, hoping to give me some support. His hand rested comfortably on my leg, and I returned the gesture by placing my own hand over his.

  What Daniel didn’t realize was that I didn’t ultimately care whether the Mets won the World Series. Or rather, I would have cared a lot more had I never met Yuri. Either way, there was a win in it for me.

  In the bottom of the ninth, with a runner on and two outs, Mike Piazza hit what looked like a sure game-tying home run off the great Mariano. But Bernie Williams caught it in the deepest part of the ballpark, and the Yanks won the game and the series.

  That evening there were fireworks lifting off of Yuri’s eyes. And I secretly was joyous, despite the fact that my team had lost. Nothing could have rivaled seeing the sheer happiness on Yuri’s face as the Yankees ran onto the field and lifted Mariano onto their shoulders, tearing off their baseball caps in ecstasy. I had always told Yuri that I loved the Mets because they were New York’s underdog team. But the Yanks had made Yuri feel like a champion, and for that, I silently thanked them as I lifted my fork and happily dug into Katya’s fluffy square of gingerbread and cloud of whipped cream.

  66

  I had last seen Yuri just after Thanksgiving, and although he was still recuperating, everyone in the Krasny household seemed in good spirits. Katya’s holiday wreath of corn husks and dried cranberries signaled a bit of warmth and festivity. I had stopped by with a plate of my mother’s lasagna to share with them. “More food?” Katya said as she took the tray from me. “I can hardly move, I’ve eaten so much over the past few days.”

  “That’s America,” I joked. “The land of plenty and then some.”

  Katya smiled and pointed toward Yuri.

  “He misses school, and all the friends he made last year.” She shook her head. “But the doctor doesn’t want him to return yet.”

  Katya placed the lasagna in the refrigerator and then moved effortlessly toward the stove.

  “Tea?”

  I nodded yes.

  “Finn still visits him,” she said, trying to sound positive. She turned on the burner on the stove. “But I have to be honest, he seems to spend a lot of time looking out the window since the operation, just staring at the clouds.”

  I was glad Finn had continued to come see Yuri even though we were no longer having our weekly reading-group sessions together. At the beginning of the school year, I had seen Finn in the hallway at Franklin and had been amazed by how much he had grown over the summer. He was now nearly the same height as me, and his shoulders had broadened an
d his face had become more angular. There was less and less of that translucent stage that Suzie and I had found so fascinating, as now a young man had nearly fully emerged.

  I missed having Finn in my class, as I did Yuri. I found myself filled with a bittersweetness when I saw my former students move through the corridors. I knew I would never have them in my classroom again, but I also realized they would go on to accomplish a myriad of other things when they left Franklin. This part of the cycle of teaching never ceased to pull at my heartstrings.

  * * *

  • • •

  BUT the upside, the part that always restored me, was my new batch of students. I had just assigned my latest class the task of writing their own personal narratives in their writer’s notebooks, and I knew their passages would bring me closer to their inner thoughts.

  The days slipped by quicker than I would have liked as I tried to squeeze in time with Daniel and my parents among all my responsibilities at school. I was going to get in touch with Katya and schedule another visit with Yuri before Christmas, but Sasha’s call came before I had the chance.

  The phone was ringing when I pulled into the driveway at the cottage. I have a thing about ringing phones. While other people have no problem letting the answering machine pick it up, I will do anything in my power to reach it before it starts recording.

  After quickly unlocking the front door and flinging my bag onto the ground, I managed to get to the phone just before the machine clicked on.

  “Ms. Topper?” The voice was barely audible. I will never forget the sound, because it didn’t resemble Sasha’s voice at all. It was the quietest whimper.

  “Mr. Krasny?”

  There was a horrible silence that followed. And in that silence, I knew almost intuitively that something terrible had happened. It was the lack of words, the inability to say what would make it concrete. I heard it all on the other end of the receiver, though I didn’t want to believe it.