Let It Shine (13 page)

Ivan clenched his big hands tight around the steering wheel, glancing at the flowers and chocolate in the passenger seat. He and Sofie had made it through so much. Marches against injustice. The splintering of the movement. X, King, Kennedy. The years of worry that his draft number would be called and he’d be sent to die in a jungle, or to jail for refusing. His trips criss-crossing the country for the anti-war movement. Hers ferrying desperate women all over, sometimes to Chicago, sometimes to New York—anywhere they could receive help that was safer than a wire hanger. When was the last time they’d taken a moment to just enjoy the act of being together?

Being an activist wasn’t easy, and being a married activist was a hell of a lot harder.

Ivan sometimes wondered how many hours they’d given to other people; he was sure Sofie kept a running tally, along with the other lists that had become a part of his everyday life: 
Monthly Organization Meetings; Draft Dodger Resources; Women’s Health Center Networks; Days since Last Period.

He glanced at the flowers and candy again once. Maybe he should have gotten her jewelry, too? He was no good at this. He knew Sofie didn’t care about Valentine’s Day, but he wanted to make her happy, dammit.

The familiar oak tree that was growing up through the sidewalk in front of Mr. Lyons’s house was illuminated by the light of his car. Almost home. Dirty snow clung to the curbs of the suburban street. One of the neighborhood kids had outlined a crude penis in the snow that dusted Mrs. Davidson’s windshield. Or maybe it had been Sofie; the woman was the only one in the racially mixed cul de sac who insisted on making her prejudices known.

The rude neighbor was forgotten as their small aluminum-sided house appeared in front of him, and a familiar feeling threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t good with words, but he didn’t think there was one in English to describe it, or Yiddish either. It wasn’t love, or lust, or anything pedestrian like that. It was knowing that Sofie was close and soon he’d see that familiar smile, her deep brown eyes, and maybe the crease that formed between her brows when he said something just to push her buttons. That crease had prefaced a lot of good times for them. Ivan hadn’t teased it into appearing for months now, though.

He sighed, struggled with the door, and then grabbed the flowers and candy on his way out. The bags and boxes of memories could wait in the car. He was more concerned with the future.

He opened the door and was greeted by a crown of dark ringlets bent over a pile of blocks in the hallway. At the sound of his footstep on the hardwood floor, the head popped up and he was met with a drooly, snaggletoothed grin.

“Hi.” The greeting was said with the cute nonchalance of a human just learning to speak that slayed Ivan every time.

“Hey, buddy,” Ivan said as he hung up his coat and started down the hall. The voices of two women could be heard from the kitchen.

“He’s been so withdrawn.” Not Sofie speaking, thank goodness. “Sometimes it’s like he’s still out in the jungle for all the response I can get from him. But I’m just glad he’s alive.”

Ivan paused next to the toddler, his leg serving as a support as baby Paul wrapped his arm around Ivan’s calf and pulled himself to his feet.

“I-ben.” Paul held up his small hand and Ivan took it. He tried not to squeeze the soft little mitt hard. Tried not to remember Sofie curled up into a ball in the center of their bed, sobbing for a loss he could never feel as keenly as her. He was sure a part of them had been left in their bedroom that day, when he’d struggled for the right words and had found only silence. Now that things were calm…he hoped that they’d be able to retrieve whatever it was, or to form something new, stronger, to replace it.

The reticence and fatigue he’d been feeling dropped away when he stepped into the kitchen, replaced by the deep-rooted nostalgia and heady hit of new appreciation he always experienced when he hadn’t seen her for a while.

She was leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest and head tilted in that way she had of making people feel like she was really listening to them. Her brown corduroy pants belled out at the hem, but the flare at her hips was more than a trend: it was all Sofie. A tan blouse, tucked in and belted, completed the look. Her hair was pulled up into the afropuff ponytail style he thought made her look even younger than her years.

She was nodding at their neighbor, Marjorie, when her gaze swung to him. A bright smile lit up her face and suddenly they were dumb kids again, or even dumber teenagers. Her smile faltered when she glanced at his hand clutching Paul’s, but she shook it off like a boxer acting as if a jab hadn’t left him dazed for a second.

Marjorie’s gaze swung between Sofie and Ivan and a conspiratorial grin lit her face. She brushed a shock of blond fringe out of her eyes. “Welcome home, Mr. Friedman. I’ll be on my way now. It’s almost bedtime for this little guy and his daddy is supposed to tuck him in.” She was through the kitchen in a few steps, then swooped up her little boy, blowing a raspberry on his brown belly that sent him into a fit of giggles. “Later, Sof. I’ll leave you two to…catch up.” She winked at Ivan and then trotted down the hallway.

“Bye, Marj,” Sofie called out after her, but a gust of cold wind and the slamming of the door signaled they were alone.

She stared at Ivan and he wished he could read her as well as he could the opponents he used to fight. Then, he’d been able to tell when a blow was coming, even if he couldn’t dodge it. But he couldn’t understand the flash of apprehension in her eyes now that they were alone. She’d had time to think over the last few weeks, too. What if her thoughts had led her to a different conclusion?

She finally walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek; behind all her dynamite moves she was still shy with him sometimes. Sometimes it felt like a good thing, but Ivan wasn’t sure this was one of those times. When she took his hand and led him to the love seat in the living room, he let himself relax a bit.

“How’s the old man?” she asked. “Or old men, rather. Did you give your dad my housewarming gift?”

Ivan laughed, remembering his father’s expression when he’d unwrapped the small framed print that said “I’m black and I’m proud.” His dad had laughed, and Ivan had been glad that his wife and his father were friendly enough to joke about things now. It hadn’t always been that way.

“Oh yeah. It’s hung in a place of honor. Right next to the picture of Nixon.”

Sofie grinned. “I know your father has his issues, but even he wouldn’t torture himself like that.”

“Not him. My stepmother apparently thinks Nixon has a certain sex appeal.”

Sofie’s eyes widened. “No.”

“I wish I was joking,” Ivan said. He frowned. “I certainly didn’t need to hear the words ‘sex appeal’ from the mouth of a woman who used to pinch my cheeks before temple.”

Sofie let out a peal of laughter, and the sound allowed Ivan to relax a bit more. “‘Nixon’ and ‘sex appeal’ shouldn’t be in the same solar system let alone the same sentence, but I’ll try to reserve judgment.”

There was a silence as they looked at each other, letting the novel lightness of their mood just be. They examined each other, taking in the changes of the last few weeks. The last few months. There was lots to talk about, but Ivan had spent the last few weeks drowning in memories. Every part of Richmond had reminded him of Sofie, and now he was readjusting to her as she was in the moment: beautiful, strong, and still crazy enough to stick with a schmuck like him.

“Are those for me?” She motioned to the gifts he was clutching in his other hand and it was only then he remembered it was Valentine’s Day, not Stare at Your Wife Day.

“Oh yeah.” He handed them over. “Nothing but the best for my lady. These were purchased at the finest Texaco in all of Ohio.”

“What a lady killer,” she said in a faux breathy voice as she accepted. She sniffed the flowers. “Diesel? You shouldn’t have.”

“Premium, baby,” he said, sliding his arm over her shoulders. He let the familiar shape of her against him, of them on their couch, take hold of him. Things felt…normal. “I want to take you out for dinner, but this will have to do for now.”

Sofie pressed herself closer to him by a fraction of an inch. “I’d rather stay in, if you don’t mind. I feel like we haven’t done this in forever. Just sat and…existed. Together.” His arm rose and fell as she sighed deeply. “I’ll have a chocolate, though.” She pulled off the top of the shiny red cardboard heart, and Ivan watched as her features pulled into the same helpless expression she always wore when she fought against emotion. Her gaze flew to his.

“Where did this come from?” She settled the box on her lap and grabbed up the picture on top of the stack of photos that had replaced the chocolates at the center. She stared at the photo in awe, and all the heaving and sweating and aching of the house clearing Ivan had done was worth it in that moment.

“I found them in a box of my mom’s stuff in the basement,” he said. “I don’t remember this day at all, do you?”

“No,” she said, smiling as she shuffled through. “We were always making up games like this.”

His mother had probably snapped the photos of young Sofie and Ivan playing in the Friedman’s backyard after she received a Kodak Tourist camera from his dad for her fortieth birthday. She’d fancied herself a photographer for a few weeks in the summer of ’54, taking photos of everything—apparently, sometimes without the knowledge of her subjects.

Ivan watched as Sofie examined each photo. In one, they both had their arms spread like birds taking flight. In another, they appeared to be in conversation with an invisible person who was much shorter than them.

Ivan rested his free hand on Sofie’s thigh as they flipped through the memories because even though she was tucked against him, he still needed more of her. “We were pretty cute, huh?”

“You still are,” she said, glancing at him with a sweet smile. “Sometimes.”

He squeezed her thigh and she giggled.

“These were taken before you chipped your tooth, so we’re what? Ten?” She shuffled to the next photo, and her hand shook a bit. In the picture, a young Sofie held a long stick pointed toward a young Ivan. Her eyes were squinted against the sun as she issued some command. Ivan had his hands in the air and was smiling at her like she was the best thing since sliced bread. Stepping into the frame was Sofie’s mother, his family’s help back then, a look of amused exasperation on her face as she reached for the stick from behind Sofie.

In the next photo, Ivan was chasing Sofie out of the frame. Her mother was staring straight into the camera, stick in hand, sharing a knowing smile with her photographer.

“I really look like her,” Sofie said. “Don’t I? Here, in the cheeks and eyes?”

“You do,” he agreed.

“Sometimes I forget what she looked like.” She took a deep breath, then placed the photos neatly on the table beside the couch before turning and kissing him on the lips. She was soft and warm and smelled of the Raveen hair product she used that he wasn’t allowed to touch. He’d once bought a jar of the pomade while on the road, just to get a whiff of her. He hadn’t told her that, though—he’d said it was on sale so he picked it up for her. A man had to have some secrets from his wife.

She pulled away and looked at him like he was the alpha and the omega. “Thank you, Ivan. This is…well, I know I told you Sidney Poitier was the perfect man, but maybe, just maybe, I was mistaken.”

“I think he’s perfect, too, but I’m a pretty swell consolation prize,” Ivan said as she stood and walked to the other side of the room. He leaned back against the soft pillow of the couch, watching her. “It’s funny, the games we used to play when we were kids. We were always fighting against injustice—invading aliens or evil kings—even back then. I guess we really are a perfect match, huh?”

Sofie was walking back to him now, a flat gift-wrapped box in her hands.

“Guess?” The crease formed between her brows.

“Let me rephrase,” he said holding up a hand as she sat down. “We really are a perfect match.”

“Damn right, we are,” she said, raising her brows at him. She sat the box on his lap and looked at him expectantly.

He unwrapped the perfectly tied ribbon, then ripped through the carefully taped and folded wrapping paper. Her fidgeting leg shook the couch a little as he removed the lid and stared down at the silky gold boxing shorts decorated with white trim.

“Thanks, baby, but these are a bit small, don’t you think?” he asked with an incredulous laugh as he lifted the tiny, meticulously sewn shorts out. “These are small enough for a—”

Everything came together as he read the words stitched below the waistline: BABY FRIEDMAN.

His head turned to her, whiplash fast. “Sof.”

His heart thudded so hard in his ears that he almost didn’t hear her shaky inhale. This wasn’t the first time they’d sat like this, her sharing the happy news with him. The part of his brain that remembered what happened later, that dark day in their bedroom, the part that remembered their crushed dreams, fought against the joy that surged through him, but his fear was nothing against the love and happiness that crashed through him.

“Sof.” He said her name again because he still couldn’t find the words.

“I didn’t want to tell you until…until the odds were better.” She was crying, but not tears of sadness. He was crying, too, he realized, and he couldn’t wipe away the tears because both of their hands were joined between them. When had that happened?