And I’m saving this for last—if Chase turns down the pool job, my dad has offered Chase a job maintaining the grounds.
See, everything’s going to be just fine.
I look around for Igor in the lineup of black sedans along the sidewalk. Everyone in the building seems to have a driver today—except me.
Where is Igor? I walk the length of the row. Okay, I waddle the length of the row. To a few smirks. I’d like to dare one of those men to spend even one day in my body. Then we’ll see who’s smirking.
No Thug.
Where is he? Yes, it’s not as if I’ve been traveling much these days. A biweekly trip to the orphanage. Another to Daphne’s office, although I do a lot of my letter writing at home. Maybe a trip to the apteka, and the clinic, although it’s embarrassing to ask Igor to drive a half block, and sometimes to the market.
But today, I need him! Then again, how much does a box of Jell-O weigh? I can do this. I need the exercise.
I hate opportunities that involve exercise. Casting one last look along the row of cars, I waddle off down the street, and descend to the subway.
This time of day, the subway isn’t crowded, and I find a seat without a problem. Getting off at the gold ring, I surf over to purple line, take that to the mint-green line, then get off, walk a half block and get on a bus.
It’s crowded. And hot. And I stand at the back, surrounded by men in short-sleeved shirts holding the overhead bar. Yeah, you get the picture. The bus empties out at the first stop when I spot a seat. It’s a high seat in the back and it’s empty. I beeline toward it, pulling myself up, and tucking my bag on my lap.
The bus fills again, and we ride one more stop and pick up more men with short-sleeved shirts.
As the bus takes off again, and I’m about to asphyxiate, one of the men turns to me.
And hands me money.
I stare at it, blinking, confused. I look up at him, at his unshaven face, the sharp scent of vodka…and comprehension washes over me.
He thinks I’m the bus lady.
Can’t he tell that I’m pregnant? He might be a bit drunk, and a man, but certainly…
“Na,” he says, thrusting the money my direction. The bus rolls to a stop, the doors open. He’s looking at the door, nearly frantic.
Fine. I swipe the money from his hand and he dashes off the bus.
I am staring at the five-hundred-ruble note, about fifty cents in real money, when another man hands me his fare.
I’m suddenly seeing the golden lining. By the time we reach my stop, I’ve collected roughly ten thousand rubles.
I exit the bus and head down the street to the International Store. Lined up outside is the collection of beggars. I gladly fill their outstretched hands with the windfall of the day.
Entering the food store, I have just enough left in my pocket for the Jell-O and maybe a package of Oreo cookies. Pulling my cap down low—because the official attire at the IFS is black pants, mink jacket, spike heels and the aroma of mafia money—I shuffle down the French food aisle. Where, of course, the Jell-O is shelved.
Finding the package—and they’ve helped the average international consumer by pasting Russian directions over the French, which probably attributed to my less-than-successful attempt at Christmas—I am beelining to the cookie aisle when I pass a display. Of watermelon.
Watermelon! I’ve never seen a watermelon in Moscow. Ever. And they’re on sale! Watermelon is summer and beaches and barbecues and Gull Lake and Chase and I having a seed-spitting contest, recapturing our youth.
Without a second thought, I grab a watermelon and head to check out. I have just enough left for bus and subway fare. But the watermelon won’t fit into my bag, so I have to clamp it under my arm as I trudge back to the bus.
I get on the bus at the front this time and the crowd separates like the Red Sea for watermelon-shaped me and my auxiliary watermelon. A young lad arises—not to call me blessed, sadly—to give me his seat.
The waning afternoon hours have brought out the crowds, and when I get to the subway it’s full. First purple, then gold and by the time we’ve reached the blue line, I hate the watermelon. It is the bane of my existence with its propensity to want to rocket out of my arms at every stop and I’m positive it’s gained ten pounds—that’s less than five kilos, though, which sounds a lot better at the doctor’s office—since leaving the store. I wonder if it’s pregnant?
But no one will be allergic to watermelon, I hope, and frankly, now that I’m committed, I need the watermelon. I need normalcy and fun and a reason to drag my body out of bed. I might be just a little addicted to food for happiness, but right now, food is all I have.
It’s my friend.
It doesn’t stay out late, or embarrass me by flirting with other women. It doesn’t decide to disappear—unless I choose so—when I need it, and it would never mistake me for a bus lady.
I will get this watermelon home if I have to drag it and my exhausted body down the street.
I exit the subway, holding the watermelon in front of me like a load of wood. Get on the escalator. Three thousand stories later, we reach street level. I can barely see over the top, but I fix my eyes on the pink apartment building set before me and trudge home.
Kids are out of school. They race by, laughing, jostling each other. If even one of them bumps me…
A car horn blares beside me and I jump, nearly upsetting my package. But I’m too quick, too steady. A dog leaps out from his leash where an elderly woman is walking him. I smile and nod at her. Good try, honey.
Sweat runs down my back, which is shooting pain out to every cell in my body. I nod to the gatekeeper, who barely looks up from his paper. No, don’t help the fat bus lady.
Crossing the parking lot, I am home free. I glance once more to see if Igor has returned. No.
And, as I look back, I misjudge the obscured step below me. Trip.
The watermelon flies from my grasp as I brace myself for the fall. I hear the sickening sound of fruit splatter as I go down on my hip, saving Junior, spraining my hand and rolling to my back.
I hate my life.
I lie there a long moment, looking up at the sky, reeling, checking to see how many places hurt. A shadow slants over me. “Zhozhsy?”
I blink, and recognize my neighbor, the Mayor of Moscow. He holds out his hand. Wiping a tear that’s escaped, I then take his hand and he pulls me, with some effort and unnecessary grunting, to my feet.
“Vso normalna?”
No, everything’s not okay! Don’t you see the broken dreams splattered in pink and black over the sidewalk? My arms are trembling and I can’t speak as tears form. I shrug.
“Eedee soodah,” he says, his eyes kind.
I head inside, up the elevator and let him usher me to his flat. Mrs. Mayor greets me at the door. “Shto slychilas?”
I fell. With a watermelon. But Mayor is already explaining that to her. She gives me a sympathetic look. Points to the baby. “Maybe…doctor?”
So relieved to hear English, I get my hopes up. “No, I’m okay, I went to the doctor last week. I think—”
She’s wearing a glazed look.
“Vso normalna,” I say. Everything’s just fine.
She smiles. And then disappears into the kitchen, returning with my baking pan. Oh yeah, the peanut-butter brownies. “Vkoosna,” she says. Tasty.
“Spaceeba,” I say back. See, peanut butter. It’s an all-around happy thing for people who know how to prepare it.
Who know how to prepare it? Hmm…
The Mayors let me out, and I climb the stairs to my flat. Inside, the place is quiet and clean. I check the fridge. Sveta has left a cucumber salad and salmon cakes.
Dumping my purse on the counter, I head for the bathroom. Unplug the heater. Test the water. It’s a perfect temperature.
This day may end okay after all. I swirl the water to combine all the temperatures, then go to my room for my robe. Undressing, I throw Scary Pants in a corner, s
trip off the shirt and grab a towel. It covers roughly half of me.
Heading back to the bathroom, I stop by the kitchen to grab a glass of juice. Chase found apple juice in his office building mall and brought it home. Since when does he have time to shop?
The sun is low and sinking into the horizon. I stand for a moment, drinking my juice, watching the sky turn orange, then red, then dark as the day surrenders. It occurs to me that my day, even this year is like the sunset. Turning from bright and cheery to dark and scary until I surrender.
I turn and enter the bathroom. I must have dislodged the plug because I’m just in time to watch as the last of my perfect water swirls down the drain.
“Maybe you’re too tired to go.” Chase is leaning against the door frame, his arms folded, wearing a white T-shirt, a pair of jeans and leather sandals. I hate him for his cuteness and the fact that I can’t even pry myself off the bed to go over there and kiss him. Which I wouldn’t anyway on account of his accusations.
“I’m not tired.” Just because I nod off at all hours, including yesterday during church, does not mean that I’m tired.
“Well, you’re certainly crabby.”
That’s it. I’m going to the May Day party even if it kills me. And if it does, I’ll haunt him until he realizes that my death was all his fault. I sit up, groaning as I push myself off the bed. Chase comes over to help and I slap at his outstretched hand. “I’m not an invalid!”
He raises his cute eyebrows and dares to look surprised. “I’m just—”
“Don’t—” But I’m falling back so I grab at his arm, balancing myself as I find my footing. He smirks. “Not a word,” I snap.
He wisely keeps his mouth shut as we head toward the door. While I slip into my Birkenstock sandals, he retrieves the orange salad from the fridge. So far it looks okay. I dissolved the sugar extra long. And translated the directions, just to make sure.
Chase holds the door open for me. I feel as wide as a Zamboni as I get in the elevator and ride down. Gorky Park is only a half block away but I’m already sweating as we exit the building. The air smells of summer, and I hear loud music pulse from open windows. In Red Square the military will have rolled out their Kaytusha rocket launchers, a tank or two and representatives of every military branch. After a few speeches, including one by Putin, they’ll sing the Russian national anthem. It’s a tremendously patriotic event and always makes me wish for America. But Red Square has been barricaded for days and it would take about five hundred dollars and an edict from Putin to get us foreigners past the gates.
The WorldMar group is gathered in a grove of aspen trees. Someone has spread out blankets, and even found a table. Chase sets the Jell-O salad down at the table, then greets his adoring audience, who are wearing shorts so short they just might be illegal. And someone needs to tell them that see-through blouses require some sort of undergarments. I avert my gaze and look for Janet. Then remember that she and Jim shipped home.
My ally is gone. Even a sloppy drunk ally is better than none.
I sigh, go and sit by a tree. Lean my head back. Close my eyes. I’m counting the days now. Forty-three. And two hours.
“Josey, are you okay?”
Chase. He’s kneeling before me, concern on his face. I’m so surprised to see him that I’m blinking. “Uh, I’m just feeling tired.”
Little does he know it is an adjective that describes my life. My pregnancy. Our marriage. I smile at him, but it doesn’t touch my eyes. I’ve done everything I can think of to hear the words noble wife. I’ve been supportive. Long-suffering. And hopeful.
Now I just feel defeated.
“Do you want to do something?”
Again, I just stare at him, those words not registering. As if he senses my discomfort, he looks away, and I see a pained expression. Oh, Chase. Have we drifted this far apart that we can’t even find anything to do together on this beautiful sunny day?
I glance past him and spot the giant Ferris wheel. “I want a ride,” I say quietly.
Chase follows my gaze, then smiles, reaching out his hand.
Helping me up, he leads me out of the picnic area, and along the sidewalk. “Can we slow down?” I ask.
He flushes. “Sorry. Of course.”
We’re holding hands. Old feelings rush at me, the ones I’ve been trying to deny these past few months. This how I imagined Moscow. Walking with Chase on a beautiful day.
A line jags out from the Ferris wheel, curling around the metal barriers and out into the sidewalk.
“It’s a pretty long line,” I say, eyeing it. And thinking about my feet. My back. My bladder.
“It’ll be okay,” Chase says, and pulls me into the line. Maybe he didn’t get that subtle hint. He smiles, but it’s an odd, non-Chase-like grin.
We stand there in silence, watching passengers embark, go round, disembark. I let go of Chase’s hand, lean on the metal barriers. Stretch. Shift from foot to foot.
Check my watch.
The Ferris wheel has a periodic screech that sent my teeth to clenching. Around me, I smell hot dogs, cotton candy, popcorn. My stomach has awoken, or maybe that’s Junior, but something is calling for food. And then Junior sits on my bladder.
We’re only halfway in. Chase is sweating, but he’s still wearing the funny smile.
“Are you sure,” I ask again. “You look hot.” Again, a hint.
Chase glances at me. “I’m okay.”
Just say it, Josey! But between us I feel a gulf that is not unlike Siberia. Cold. Impenetrable.
Ten minutes later we are at the loading gate. The attendant—a guy who could double for my uncle Bert except in a sweaty button-down shirt and pair of polyester pants—is about to unlatch the gate when he spies me. And my stomach. “Nyet.”
Nyet? My eyes are round, but Chase fills in for my silence.
“Nyet? Pochemoo?”
The fact that he’s learned enough Russian to not only ask why but understand the attendant’s explanation stuns me. What else don’t I know about Chase?
Don’t answer that.
“What do you mean she’s too pregnant?”
Oops, I guess that’s the extent of Chase’s fluency. I glance at him, and I’ve never seen this Chase before. Red-faced, anger in his eyes. “Listen, pal, we’re getting on that Ferris wheel!”
“Chase, I—”
He glares at the man, who is glaring back at them. I’m seeing “international incident” and tug on Chase’s arm.
He yanks it away from me. “Josey, you want a ride on that Ferris wheel. You’re getting a ride.”
He’s announced that at a volume that they can probably hear in Red Square. Over the reverberation of the rocket launchers. Then, as I watch, trying to figure out what happened to my quiet, sweet Chase, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of rubles. “Here!”
The stunned operator, being savvy as well as underpaid, takes the money. Opens the gate.
“After you,” Chase says, his voice suddenly morphing into knight in shining armor. I gulp, offer the attendant an apologetic smile and climb on the Ferris wheel.
To be fair, there might have been a reason I wasn’t allowed the ride. Because the bar barely clears my immensity. “Chase—”
He puts his arm around me. “’Bout time we spent some time alone.”
Oh. The Ferris Wheel lurches forward. And in a moment, we’re rising above Gorky Park.
The view steals my breath and everything horrible about the last thirty minutes. In a way, it even resets the past six months. The canvas of Russia is beautiful. Lush trees, apartment buildings, a sparkling Volga River with paddleboats, Red Square filled with people.
“Looks a lot better from this perspective,” Chase says, echoing my thoughts.
I nod. “Wish I’d seen this in winter. I’ll bet it was gorgeous.”
Chase looks at me, and again I see that pained expression. “G.I., I need to talk to you about something.”
Something in his tone turns my
hands slick on the bar crunching Junior and me. “Sure.”
He sighs, and looks away from me.
“I’m a terrible husband.”
I watch small people paddle boats on the Volga.
“I didn’t think it would be like this, G.I. I thought…well, I thought somehow I’d be better at being married.”
I see a family buying cotton candy. The husband, dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and black pants delivers the pink fluff to his daughter. She grins at him, and the wife gives him a kiss. Nice.
“I guess maybe it was the pregnancy thing. It threw me.” He glances at me. I don’t meet his eyes. “I always wanted kids, but…I keep thinking…what if I turn out like my dad?”
I knew he was afraid of that. Did I say it? I did—at least in my head. And now that we know I was right, we can deal with the problem. I look at him and I’m not sure whether to hit him or feel sorry for him. Especially due to his current wounded expression.
“You’re not your father, Chase.”
He clenches his jaw, turning away. “I just…I’m failing at my job, and I can’t seem to make you happy. You’d think a guy who studies people could figure out how to make you happy.”
Happy would be you coming home each night. A guy doesn’t need a textbook to figure that out. As if he reads my mind, he sighs. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much this year.”
I’m waiting for him to say he’ll do better, but it doesn’t come. And I can’t absolve him. Because I wouldn’t mean a word of it. And, probably with me way up here in the air, God can see me and my lies.
“I just wish I could fix this.”
Fix what? Him not loving me anymore? Or the fact that we’re going to be parents? Or this entire abysmal year? Is Chase apologizing? Or setting me up for the “I’m leaving” punch line…? Oh please, God, don’t let me end up like Sveta!
Chill Out, Josey! Page 19
