The MisFit: The Early Years

by AB Plum

  He made no mention of why we were leaving the only home Dimitri and I had ever known. The chalets in Switzerland and Finland we visited during school breaks were vacation retreats—never homes. He said he expected us to behave at the hotel like Russian princes instead of like Finnish heathens. The doorman certainly greeted us like aristocrats. The concierge all but kissed my father’s feet, welcoming him back, including me and Dimitri in his effusiveness, snapping his fingers at the bellboy.

  We entered the suite reserved for me and Dimitri first. My father gave a cursory glance, then ordered us to dress for dinner. He went through the connecting door to his suite without inviting us for a look.

  Dimitri and I agreed in whispers that dinner in the dining room would be a test. If we passed, we might have a decent place to live after we left the D’Angleterre. If we knocked over a glass or belched or passed gas or made any kind of gaffe, we should resign ourselves to living in a hovel.

  The dining room with its plush maroon drapes, thick Turkey carpets, sparkling chandeliers, and heavy chairs belonged to a different era. When Dimitri and I entered, dressed in suits and polished shoes, hair slicked back, shoulders squared, the dozen or so other diners seemed to draw in a collective breath.

  “They rarely see children your age in here,” my father said. “You must set a good example.”

  We nodded like Tivoli marionettes. Memories of the night before exploded inside my head. Cavorting with Kristina through our house had felt so natural. What had happened to her?

  “I recommend the plaice,” my father said. “It requires little dexterity to eat it. The roast beef on the other hand . . .”

  “We had roast beef last night,” I said. “Kristina was a wonderful cook.”

  “I’m glad to hear she possessed another talent,” my father said in a dry voice that sounded surprisingly appreciative. “I hope I can find a suitable replacement in your new home.”

  “What about Kristina?” Dimitri studied the drapes.

  Shocked by his daring, I held my breath. Why hadn’t I asked the same question?

  My father laughed, then held up two fingers as the waiter came to lay our napkins across our laps. He presented the menus like pieces of treasure, then swept away to give us time to contemplate.

  “Kristina?” my father asked. “What would you think if she ran the house I find for the two of you?”

  Chapter 28

  A Dream Deferred

  Two women more different than Kristina and her replacement, Emma, did not exist.

  Past middle age. Skinny as an eyelash. Taller than my six-foot-five father. Dull, blue eyes devoid of curiosity. Emma had the sexual attraction of a broom. A plain silver cross on a tight chain adorned her drab black dress. It fell to her ankles. They were, ironically, thick—as if all her body fat had accumulated above her sturdy black shoes.

  The house where my father deposited us was equally stark. No paintings on the walls. No sculptures in every room. No Oriental rugs on the pine floors. Small, ugly windows blocked the light in the six main rooms. Four cell-sized bedrooms occupied one wing. Dimitri and I would, for the first time since my birth, occupy separate rooms. My father claimed the largest of the rooms, but he slept there only twice the first week.

  Lying in bed, I swore I’d never again live in such a place. Royal Danish china. Baccarat crystal. Georg Jensen silver. Monet and Manet originals. No matter the cost, I would demand beauty in my homes and office. If luxury was good enough for my mother, I would certainly settle for nothing less. Lovely things would make up for my parents’ lack of physical warmth.

  Dimitri and I adjusted. He far better than me. We never spoke of Kristina, but I secretly vowed to find her one day. In the meantime, I studied Emma. Every day. My patience grew as I searched for ways to divert her loyalty from my father to me. Surprisingly, she never gave any sign she knew about Kristina. Emma was cool, but not outwardly hostile. Quasi-robotic.

  A perfect candidate for manipulation, I decided two weeks after moving into the new house. Neither parent came or sent gifts for my twelfth birthday. Was I disappointed?

  Not really. I thanked Emma profusely for the ho-hum birthday cake she made. Dimitri gave me a biology book which I read after dinner in my room.

  I found I enjoyed being alone so I could plan.

  Chapter 29

  First Plan Executed

  The long nights passed quickly while the longer days at school dragged. My teachers recognized my intelligence and gave me advanced assignments—generally insipid and dull. Toward the end of March, assistant headmaster Petersen ordered me to his office. He had telephoned my mother several days previously, but she hadn’t returned his call.

  “Is she ill, perhaps?” He peered at me over the tops of his bifocals.

  My shoulders came up in a shrug, but I caught myself. “I don’t know, Herr Petersen.”

  He squinted at me, telegraphing his disbelief. Repressing a laugh, I sat unmoving as he stared.

  “I’d like to speak with her—and your father, but I understand he is out of the country. Do you know when he’ll return?”

  “I haven’t heard from him for a while.” The truth. Six weeks was a while. Now I understood his absence from the new house.

  “Perhaps you can take a note home to your mother. I need her permission to find a new tutor for math and biology. Herr Dahl says you now know enough to teach him.”

  “Herr Dahl tries.” I studied my shoelaces and listened to the little voice in my head whisper not to agree that I could teach Herr Dahl. Danes extolled modesty as a virtue.

  My problem?

  I had no idea how to pull off acting modest.

  For a fraction of a second, Herr Petersen cocked his head. Was I being disrespectful? Unlike my Danish classmates, I never blushed. It occurred to me to twist my hands as a signal I was embarrassed. Herr Petersen’s bland Danish face settled back into deeper blandness

  Triumph surged through my veins. I’d been looking for an excuse to put the next phase of my plan into effect. Herr Petersen had just handed me the perfect excuse.

  Chapter 30

  Burying the Past

  “Mrs. Romanov is indisposed.” A middle-age woman probably descended from Danish pigs not that long ago moved to close the door in my face.

  Dimitri’s foot shot out, blocking her attempt. “Hold on.”

  Blood suffused her face. She pushed harder. Dimitri applied his shoulder, and the door swung open.

  “Are she and Herr Karppinen indisposed together?” I arched one eyebrow, then wiggled it like a sophisticated man-about-town.

  “You impudent—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know he’s here. His Grosser is a classic, but unless it drives itself magically, Herr Karppinen goes wherever that car goes.”

  Dimitri snickered. We might be twisted in many ways, but we loved cars. As a challenge to our boredom two years earlier, we tracked down every car used by every ambassador in Denmark. We discovered that Herr Karppinen drew his share of criticism for driving a German-made vehicle—no matter that his classic auto dated thirty-seven years before the War.

  The Danes, like the Russians and most Finns, have long memories.

  “Nora?” My mother appeared in the drawing room doorway. Her silk robe clung to her thin figure, and I wanted to chortle.

  Ohhh, poor Mommy. She’s lost weight since Alexei’s accident.

  She took one look at me and spat, “Get out of here. I never want to see your faces in my house.”

  “Does that mean, Mor, that I can never expect your forgiveness?” My emphasis on Mor was deliberate.

  “Don’t you dare insult me in my own home you thug. Nora, call the police.”

  “Not necessary, Nora.” I tossed the envelope from Herr Petersen at my mother’s feet. “The assistant headmaster asked me to deliver this. He’s under the mistaken impression that you give a damn about my education.”

  She met my stare head-on, surprising me with her bravado. “Inform Herr Peterse
n of his mistake. Tell him in the future not to call or contact me in any way. Divorcing your father, I divorce you as well.”

  Her eyes flashed. She whirled away from me, and her robe rustled sensuously. One thin arm encircled her waist as if she was about to vomit. Her swan-like neck gave her the appearance of a queen. Her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle into the drawing room.

  I waited until her fingers closed on the brass handle, then called, “Give my greetings to Herr Karppinen, the bottom feeder.”

  Dimitri laughed at my pun on Karppinen—meaning carp, a fish no cultured person would consume.

  Quicker than lightning, she swerved toward a small side table. Her hand shot out. She picked up the heavy crystal vase as if it weighed nothing. Turning, she threw her missile.

  Dimitri tackled me below the knees. The vase sailed through the open front door. Thunk. It landed on the marble front step intact.

  My ears rang. Nora made a small noise. Sympathy?

  Not likely.

  When I raised my head, my mother stood in the drawing room doorway smiling as if she’d just seen the face of God.

  Chapter 31

  Sweet Revenge

  “My mother is a bitch.”

  Dimitri nodded as we walked down the front path of our childhood home. “Why did your father marry her?”

  “She’s beautiful. She’s rich.” We stepped onto the sidewalk, and I left the gate open. Maybe a dog will come in and shit on the fresh snow. “Her father left her a fortune.”

  Dimitri cocked his head. “Who told you that?”

  “Opening a safe’s easy—especially if a stupid woman leaves the combination in her desk drawer and goes off for a week.”

  “Where was I?”

  I laughed. “With Kristina.”

  Passengers were boarding the bus, but we still had to hurry. The doors swung shut before we finished showing our passes. There were no vacant seats, and no one offered us one. The bus shot forward, swerving on a patch of ice. We stumbled toward the rear. We rode the entire five miles without speaking, but we laughed as the bus lurched before and after each stop, throwing us against each other like puppies.

  I imagined my mother riding in Karppinen’s Grosser—a car fit for a queen—and my chest tightened. What was wrong with my father? Didn’t he care she was fucking Karppinen? Didn’t he want her money? Was he still smitten with her?

  When we piled off the bus with half a dozen other passengers, the howling wind sent them hustling in all directions. I spotted a pastry shop and pulled Dimitri toward its warmth. The plan I’d been working to finalize for months crystalized.

  How better to celebrate than with something buttery and sweet?

  Chapter 32

  Extreme Satisfaction

  The cozy lighting inside the bakery welcomed us out of the cold and late-afternoon darkness. The small place was packed. Resentment stirred my guts at the lone teenage girl seated at a table reading a book. Eyes on its pages, she ran her index finger around her empty plate, then picked up her coffee cup, also empty, and drank with her eyes still on the damn book.

  Waiting adults would have approached the table as a gentle hint to share its occupancy. Why should she ignore us because we were younger than her? I pulled off my gloves and hitched my chin toward Dimitri. The girl elongated her neck. She didn’t look up.

  “Will you be much longer?” I asked.

  She turned a page, but kept her eyes averted. “Until I finish this chapter.”

  “Will that be in this century?” The edge in my tone was unmistakable.

  She glanced up—to a spot over my head. “I’d say fifteen minutes. Or less, without interruptions.”

  “Even with interruptions, you’d need less time if you read without moving your lips.”

  She snapped the book shut, and her nostrils flared. “You are the rudest little boy I’ve ever met.”

  Little boy? I simply laughed. “And you are the rudest cow I’ve ever met.”

  While she sputtered, I turned and walked with Dimitri out the door without ordering. The wind howled, and the snow gusted in our faces, but my insides boiled.

  “Can’t blame her for wanting to stay warm.” Dimitri rubbed his hands together.

  “She doesn’t own that table.”

  “We’re kids. She’s older. She—”

  “She’s a cretin. Yet she treats us like mental defects.”

  “There’s another bakery around the corner. Let’s—”

  “She should pay. Are you with me?”

  Chapter 33

  Just Desserts

  The girl must’ve had several interruptions.

  Half an hour passed before she emerged from Lille Bagerie. Dimitri and I flattened our backs against the building next door. The smell of warm bread hit my stomach like an anvil. Despite fur-lined boots, my feet had gone numb, but my gloved fingers twitched inside my coat pocket. Dimitri and I snugged our ski masks tighter.

  Head down, chin tucked into her coat, the girl walked past us as if we were invisible. We waited until she rounded the corner, then we stepped out of the shadows and picked up the six large snowballs we’d each fashioned.

  Passing streetcars and buses muffled our footsteps. She turned the opposite direction from the bus stop where we’d gotten off earlier. No passersby came our way. She turned another corner. A children’s park lay ahead. Electricity jumped in my veins. I motioned Dimitri to fan out on the other side—staying back so that she couldn’t see him.

  When she reached the middle of the empty park, I gave the signal. Dimitri’s first snowball hit her in the middle of the back. Mine hit her above one covered ear. A third slammed into her skull. She screamed. Stumbled. Fell. The contents of her book bag flew in all directions. She lay face down in the blood-stained snow, arms covering her head, and begged us to stop.

  Dizzy with elation, I bent and whispered, “Maybe in fifteen minutes.”

  She whimpered. “Please. Please . . .”

  “Please have some snow.” I stuffed a snowball down her back, enjoying the sight of her cringing. Not as gratifying as imagining Alexei on the train tracks, but quite rewarding. I kicked her book away from her and stomped on a small coin purse.

  Dimitri yipped, scooped up her book bag, and hurled it into space.

  She curled into a fetal ball, her body wracked with shudders.

  We finished off our snowball-stash silently then sauntered back to Lille Bagerie.

  I drank the best cup of hot chocolate I’d ever tasted.

  Chapter 34

  Blood Vows

  By dinnertime the night of our snowball attack, our hot chocolate and kringle had worn off. Our stomachs grumbled as if we’d worked at hard labor all day. We came to the table as soon as Emma summoned us. We ate her dinner of watery pea soup and roast pork with burned potatoes like starved animals. Baked prune pudding finished the meal, and we devoured it, thanking her in faux sweet, boyish voices.

  Fake as those smiles were, she beamed and nodded as if we’d suddenly transformed into angels. We went directly to our separate bedrooms while she cleaned the kitchen. Her nightly routine varied by seconds. Cleaning the kitchen took her twenty minutes. Next, she entered her tiny en suite bath and took a shower for twenty minutes. By eight-thirty, the blue light of her television flickered under her door. Television sets did not occupy every room in Danish homes in 1976, but our father had bought one for Emma.

  No explanations to me and Dimitri. He considered homework our after-dinner entertainment. Our real entertainment was Morse-code taps on our adjoining walls. We’d resorted to this form of communication shortly after the move to the new house. We mastered the long and short taps quickly and delighted using them at school during lunch.

  That night, Dimitri and I agreed to leave our rooms while Emma showered. He stood watch. I raced to the kitchen and grabbed two butcher knives and a wad of paper towels. I gave Dimitri one knife. Emma turned off the water as we turned our respective doorknobs. Seconds lat
er, we were tapping out our plan for the evening. We stopped at ten o’clock while Emma checked all the doors in the house, returned to her bedroom, and turned off her lights.

  At the pre-arranged time of three minutes after ten, Dimitri slipped into my room with his knife. His eyes shone. I grinned and slipped a chair under the door handle. We spread three layers of paper towels on the bare floor. Neither of us spoke.

  We had already agreed I would go first. I rolled up my sleeve and extended my arm.

  Dimitri took the knife. I gritted my teeth. He sliced an X a few inches above my watch band. The sudden pain felt good. Blood trickled down my arm, reminding me of the girl’s blood in the snow. We dabbed the X with sterile gauze soaked in peroxide. The sting added a dimension to the wound that I found satisfying.

  Jaw set, Dimitri extended his arm. I repeated the procedure. He gasped as the knife penetrated his epidermis—deeper than he’d made his cut. I repressed a smile, but I guessed he read my small reminder that I was the leader of our duo.

  Blood vows. Formulated on our walk from the bakery. From that moment on, we would never again let anyone bully us or manipulate us or take advantage of us for any reason.

  Chapter 35

  Time Passes

  Two weeks after the scene at my mother’s, I still had received no communications from my father. My inference?

  He didn’t give a damn?

  She didn’t contact him?

  The latter seemed unlikely. Highly unlikely.

  My hunch was she’d sent him a letter bordering on hysteria. Accusing me and Dimitri of annoying her? Provoking her? Threatening her?

  She was divorcing him, but she undoubtedly made demands . . . demands my father couldn’t satisfy at that moment, wherever he was. He’d take care of me when he returned.