by Pamela Morsi
Her pleading, as always, won him over. Teddy accepted the book from her hand and together they sat, side by side, at the library table.
He opened the book up before him and Claire began to leaf through it.
"The first part was very unorganized," she explained. "It is just sort of a calendar of some very boring day-to-day activities. Start reading here."
She pointed to a place almost midway through the journal. No date was written at the top of the page, but from the entry before it, several pages earlier, it was the early summer of 1898.
With Claire leaning over his shoulder, the two began silently to read the words that were written.
I saw him today. Him, you ask? Him who? (Or whom.) The man of my dreams. The man of my destiny. And no, I have not run from home. I am not now sitting in a garret above a street cafe in Paris. I am within the comfort and warmth of my very own home. Fate has seen fit to send the man to me.
My first sight of his face, his form, was in the meadow west of the house. Standing amid the early wildflowers, the breeze tousled his hair. The sun gleaming through its burnished color turning it to gold. I saw him there and he turned to look at me. He had a shovel in his hands. He was building a wall. It was a wall between us. It was between us then. Right there at the beginning. It was there immediately.
The flash of passion, the lure of romance, the temptation of love. And as I gazed upon his visage for the very first time, I knew in my heart that this man, this exquisite masculine creature, this strange foreigner who had traversed the stormy seas and crossed the gaunt and empty plains, had done so because heaven and fortune intended him for me.
His name is Mikolai. Nicholas, from the Greek. Meaning "victorious people." The patron saint of children. A generous and giving name. Is my Mikolai generous and giving? Only if he gives his love. Only if he gives his love to me.
He is not a suave and tender man. He is forceful and primordial. There is no elegance about him. Except the natural elegance of manhood in the prime of life.
"Papa!" I heard a child's call.
A toddler came running toward him, giggling and grinning, holding a captured dragonfly before him in his chubby hands. He pulled the child up into his arms and accepted the offering with grace and pride.
"Where is the boy's mother?" I thought the words, not spake them.
He looked at me, directly at me, and I could see the emptiness in his eyes, like an abyss where a soul should be. "She is dead," his heart answered. And I knew I was placed on this earth to bring joy back to this man's sad world. To bring love back into his life. And to bring life back into mine. He owns me, this man, this hero of mine. He owns my heart, my soul. He owns my body. It is his now, today, just for the asking.
Teddy leaned back in the library chair and stared at the book before him as if it were a snake.
"Oh, my gosh," he said, amazed. "It's worse than you even said."
"So you believe me now?" Claire asked. He nodded. "Golly, Claire, what are we going to do?"
"What else can we do? We must bring them back together."
Chapter Seven
MIKOLAI STEFANSKI SAT casually glancing through the evening paper in the sparsely furnished masculine office in the far east corner of his big brick house. He loved his house. It was a symbol of his affluence, his achievement, his Americanization.
In the partitioned part of Poland held by Austria where he was born, Mikolai had lived in a thatched-roof serf's cottage that was cold enough to freeze the water in his washbowl from October to March. When his father had died, they hadn't even had that. Living as unwelcome additions in the cottages of relatives and friends, his mother had not lasted the first winter.
After that his Uncle Leos had stared resentfully across his crowded supper table at the five extra mouths he had inherited. It was no wonder that his brothers, Bartos and Dawid, left to look for work and never returned. And then his sweet sister Edda married a grizzly old friend of Uncle Leos's. The lecherous old man had wanted the pretty fifteen-year-old body in his bed so badly, he'd agreed to take their youngest brother, Rhysio, to raise. Edda's sacrifice was for naught. Rhysio had been stricken with typhoid the next year. He was buried in the churchyard with Matka and Tatus, his mother and father, before his sixth birthday.
With a deep sigh of regret and sadness, Mikolai folded the paper and lay it upon his lap as he gazed once more around the lush, marvelously paneled room that was his own. With his family dead and scattered, his victory seemed a hollow one.
Still, there was Teodor. It was all for Teodor, he reminded himself. His Teodor would have a life in America. He would never be caught between old ways and new. He was an American. That was all that mattered.
In the front hallway the huge German ten-day clock rang out the quarter hour. It was after nine and Teodor was still not home. Frequently, Mikolai was honest enough to admit, he worried about his son when he was out. A young handsome man with more money than good sense could get into a lot of trouble. Mikolai had always dreamed of his son taking over the brickyards. Stefanski and Son. He had almost had the very first sign painted that way. Fortunately, his good sense had held.
In his son's future plans, which the young man shared across the dinner table with his father, there were big and exciting things, faraway places and unusual happenings. The Stefanski Brickyards was not often mentioned in Teodor's dreams.
His son had plans for college. Notre Dame. He would play football for the great coach. And earn a fine education in the process. Then he would go back East, New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and he would conquer those places.
Mikolai's heart ached to think of his son, his only son, the only person in his life, so far away. But children were like delicate wildflowers. A man who tried to press them close to his body and keep them safe would only crush them.
Nothing could foul the young man's plans for college, Mikolai decided. He would see to it that nothing did.
Steps and the rattle of the front door indicated that the subject of Mikolai's thoughts had just returned to the house.
'Teodor!" Stefanski called out. "Come here, please."
A moment later the handsome young man stuck his head through the doorway.
"Evening, Father," he said. "Sorry I'm late."
"No matter," Mikolai answered with a shake of his head. "Sit," he said. "Sit here, Teodor. I want to talk with you."
Teddy looked uncharacteristically a bit ill at ease, but joined his father in the study. The two big leather tufted armchairs sat opposite each other. And although the younger man knew one of the chairs was considered to belong to him, he sat in it rather hesitantly.
"What did you want to talk about, Father?"
Mikolai shook his head, smiling. "Nothing of importance. Nothing really. I just want to talk to my son. When you were small you delighted to tell me everything. Now I hear about you from strangers on the trolley."
"Who was talking about me on the trolley?"
"They talk of football," he answered. "And when the men talk of football, they talk of Teodor Stefanski."
There was more than a modicum of pride in the older man's tone.
Teddy nodded, but Mikolai noted that his son did not appear as cocky and confident as usual. His concentration seemed to be on the Aubusson carpeting rather than on the heartfelt compliment he was being given.
Mikolai's bushy blond eyebrows furrowed. "Is something not good, Teodor?" he asked.
Teddy looked up quickly. "No," he assured his father quickly. "Everything is fine, Father, just fine."
Mikolai wasn't easily convinced. "Fine, yes," he said convincingly. He stared at his son a long minute. "Yes, I'm sure all is fine or you would tell me otherwise."
Teddy's cheeks flushed with guilt. The young man and his father were closer than might be expected. Mikolai Stefanski had not simply tried to be mother and father to the boy. He had tried to be the doting grandparent, the stern uncle, the cautious older brother, and the carefree friend. Teddy had been the centerp
iece of his ambition, his goal, his life. And the young man was very much aware of the fact.
"I . . . ah . . . nothing's wrong at school if that's what you're thinking."
Mikolai's expression never changed. "That's good," he said, obviously still waiting.
Running a nervous hand through his hair, Teddy looked up at his father in frustration. "It's not really something I can discuss with you, Father," he said. "It's . . . well, it's personal."
"Ahhhhhh," Mikolai said with exaggerated comprehension. "I understand personal." He continued to nod thoughtfully. "When I was young, I too had things that were too personal to speak of with my father."
The two looked at each other for a long moment. Slowly Mikolai's expression lightened. "Just do not allow anything personal to keep you from schoolwork. A man must know more than play football if he is to go to college."
"Don't worry, Father," Teddy said.
Mikolai raised his bushy eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "Teodor! To worry is the duty of a father."
Teddy grinned at his attempt at humor. "And I know you always do your duty." As the young man's smile faded, he hurried to begin a new subject for conversation. "What's happening at the brickyard?"
Mikolai shrugged. "We are making bricks."
Teddy grinned. "As hard as I sweat there during the summers, I still miss the place when I start back to school."
"Hard work is good for the soul," his father replied. "But the soul of a young man shines with goodness anyway."
Momentarily Teddy looked uneasy again. Hastily he continued talking. "How are the sales going? Are you having another record year?" he asked.
"Sales are fair, but not like the past," Mikolai answered.
"The steel-and-concrete builders are really taking a cut into the business," Teddy said, nodding knowledgeably.
"Yes," his father admitted. "But we continue to do well enough. This is to be expected. Fashions change even in buildings. We must be at peace with the variations, even if we've no wish to conform to them."
Teddy nodded. "And the new stylized bricking is a great start. Beauty is our advantage, we must use it to compete."
Mikolai acknowledged his son's words with pride and respect for the younger man's discernment. "Yes we must, Teodor, and we will," he said. "But we compete with the civility of gentlemen. Stefanski's is no longer a new, struggling brickyard, youthful and full of energy, growing by leaps. We are an old established business now. Like a man in middle years we do not run as fast or risk the dangerous trails, but we continue to journey down the road nonetheless."
"You talk like you're getting old, Father," Teddy said.
Mikolai shrugged. "Yes, perhaps I am getting old. The brickyard gets established, the man gets old."
"You're not even forty," his son reminded him.
"No, I am still healthy and strong. But in my heart I am no longer the young boy fresh from Poland, eager as a bridegroom and foolish as a pup.
"I can't imagine you as ever foolish."
Mikolai's expression darkened slightly. "A man can be very foolish when he is young."
Teddy's brow furrowed as he stared at his father. His next question came out half stuttered and ill-conceived.
"Have you ever been foolish about women, Father?"
Momentarily surprised, Mikolai stared at his son for an instant before laughing out loud.
"All men are eternally foolish about women, Teodor. It is simply the way of nature."
Stefanski's chuckle was a warm, strong, masculine sound, most welcomed by his son. Teddy joined in his father's humor, but his own laughter held a strained quality that Mikolai fortunately did not notice.
When the noisy humor faded, Teddy felt compelled to ask his next question.
"What was my mother like?"
"Your mother? Ah, Teodor, you know this story only too well," he said. "Lida was very beautiful, my son. She was kind and gentle and very much a woman to be admired. I had known her since she was a babe in her mother's arms. I desired her from the time she became a woman."
Mikolai paused. He really had no desire to say more, but his son continued to stare at him hopefully.
"She was a curvy little woman, little tiny hands and feet, but such legs." Mikolai smiled fondly. "Lida had legs to inspire the poets. Oh, how they inspired me. There was no other girl in the village that I yearned for so. And I was not alone. All the lads in the village sighed after her as if she were a goddess come to bless our fields."
Teddy gave his father a long, thoughtful look. "You must have loved her very much."
Mikolai glanced up, his expression sobering somewhat. Momentarily thoughtful, he gave his son a long measuring look as he considered the best course. The complete truth vied against a more acceptable tale. Stefanski saw the young man before him, a strong, honest young man. The kind of young man that he should deal with openly and with frankness. He shook his head.
"No, Teodor," he said quietly. "I failed your mother. Failed her because I never loved her at all."
Teddy's eyes widened in surprise; he was clearly shaken by his answer. "You never loved my mother?"
Mikolai felt the disillusionment that swept his son and worried that he should have kept the truth to himself. But Teddy was no longer a child. If he was old enough to ask about love, he was old enough to know the truth about it.
He glanced around the room at the symbols of those things he had achieved as if the presence of them might offer him strength. "I didn't love her. I needed her. I needed her, Teodor, because I was afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes," Mikolai admitted frankly. "I was afraid. I had decided to come to America. It was what I wanted, what I felt that I must do. The old world was so crowded. There was no room for a man with ambitions. I knew I must strike out, but I was afraid to leave all that I knew. With a woman beside me, a beautiful woman, a woman other men would envy, to depend upon me, I thought I would become fearless."
Mikolai looked deep into his son's eyes, willing him to understand. "Your mother never wanted America, Teodor. She wanted me, but not this place. It was my dream and I swept her into it."
"I'm sure she was never sorry," Teddy told him quietly.
"I do not know if she was ever sorry, but I am," he answered. "Had I not brought her here, she'd still be in Poland, maybe be a jolly, fat granny sitting in the morning mass with a bright-colored babushka covering her hair."
Silence lingered in the chestnut-paneled study as Mikolai sat, his vulnerability unshielded from the young man who shared his name.
"Maybe not, Father," Teddy said quietly. "Maybe if she'd married someone else she would still have died too young."
Mikolai turned to regard his son. He smiled.
"You are a good son, Teodor," he said. "I cannot so much regret marrying your mother, because I am so proud to have you for my son."
Teddy blushed, embarrassed at the approbation in his father's words. The young man cleared his throat and deftly shifted the direction of the conversation.
"Have you ever been in love with someone else, Father? Have you ever felt with another woman that you were in love?"
Mikolai shook his head and laughed humorlessly. "Love is a thing for young men, Teodor, like yourself. Young men with light hearts and few worries." Mikolai sighed. "I have never been such a man."
"You have never been in love?" Teddy's tone was rife with disbelief.
Mikolai raised a curious eyebrow. He leaned forward in his chair slightly, making his words seem more confidential. "No, I have not been in love," he answered his son quietly. "If we are talking about being in love. If you are asking me if I have made love to women other than your mother, I have."
Teddy cleared his throat nervously. His father's steady gaze was unnerving. "I didn't mean to pry."
Mikolai sat back into the comfort of the heavily tufted leather armchair and eyed his son thoughtfully. "I do not suppose that it is prying to ask such questions of a father," he said finally. "Who else should a youn
g man ask?"
Teddy's face was blazing red from the flesh around his collar to the bright pink tips of his ears. "You don't need to tell me anything," Teddy assured him.
"No, perhaps I should. My father was in his grave before I was the age you are now. I don't truly know what is right or wrong to say to my son. But the truth is what I would give to another man who asked it of me. Surely I should offer no less to my own flesh."
"Father, really you needn't—"
Mikolai held up a hand to halt Teddy's protest. "From time to time," he said with matter-of-fact clarity, "I have sought the company of accessible women. It is not a thing of which I speak with any pride."
"I should not have made you speak of it at all," Teddy said.
"No, you are wrong about that, Teodor," he said. "I'm sure you have questions about such things. What I have told you in the past about men and women could just as easily have been said about dogs or horses. But with humans there is more involved and it is not unseemly that we speak of that."
"I never meant—" Teddy began.
"What are your questions, Teodor?" his father asked. "I will be as honest as I am able."
Teddy's brow was furrowed with concern. Clearly his thoughts were in a whirl. It took him several minutes to formulate his question.
"Who were these 'accessible women'?" he asked.
Mikolai seemed almost as uncomfortable with the question as Teddy was. But he'd decided to be frank and open with his son and he was not going to back down.
He cleared his throat, willing his words to honesty. "There was an older woman when you were a baby," he said. "She was a widow and greatly admired my strong back. I left her when I left Chicago."
He hesitated, letting that memory spill out and be gone before dredging up another. "Several years ago I assisted a wronged wife in a commensurate revenge upon her husband. It was mutually satisfying for a couple of months." Mikolai scanned his son's face for signs of shock or disgust.
