Moonlight in Odessa (46 page)

‘Get your green card yet?’ Raymond asked.

‘Nope. It takes two years.’

‘Two years? I thought foreigners were supposed to get one when they married an American.’

‘You and me both,’ I said, liking the way the casual phrase rolled off my tongue.

‘It’ll be good when you have it. Then you can stay, no matter what.’

I smiled, touched by their concern. They’d become like a family to me. I enjoyed the time we had together in the evenings, even if we spent it serving and cleaning up after strangers. They worked so hard. I wished that life were easier for them. I looked from Pam, who was skittish, to Ray, the strain around his gray eyes permanent, to Rocky, who was becoming a man in front of our eyes, and I realized this was an America that we never see on TV. There, everything looked so perfect and bright, all Beverly Hills and Santa Barbara. Here in Emerson were the real workers, the real Americans. Why didn’t the television show them?

Ray constantly worried about his wife. Even double shifts didn’t cover the medical bills. When he worked, she was on her own in their trailer house. Pam’s ex made threatening calls and she was afraid for herself and her children. She said the police couldn’t do anything about the ex until he actually did ‘something.’ And they didn’t consider death threats ‘something.’ Rocky didn’t say much, he just fiddled with the straw in his extra-large Coke. Though he was in high school, he was already part of this adult world. He understood Ray and Pam’s suffering. We knew that he wanted out of the house. Of course, I didn’t have to tell them about my problem: he came in almost every evening.

Tonight I served him a cola, as usual. He watched every move I made, as usual. When Rocky came out for a break to do his homework, he smiled at me when I brought him a plate of fries.

‘Quit staring at my wife!’ Tristan yelled.

The whole restaurant – six people – looked at him. Ray came out of the kitchen to make sure everything was okay.

Mortified, I went to his table and hissed, ‘What’s wrong with you? He’s a kid. A nice kid who works a shit job to escape his asshole stepfather. Leave him alone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Rocky.

Pam’s eyes met mine and I knew she understood. One more thing I couldn’t tell Jane, couldn’t tell Boba or Valentina, yet Pam knew. I wasn’t shy or proud with her.

‘He doesn’t treat you right. Have you ever thought of divorcing him?’ she whispered to me when we went to get orders in the kitchen.

I’d been thinking of it more and more.

‘He’s mental,’ she said.

‘Mental? You mean insecure?’

‘It’s more than that. Something’s wrong with him. It’s like he’s stalking you. Maybe I should call Skeet, ask him to have a talk with your hubby.’

I nodded.

‘How are you ever going to last two years?’ she asked.

I shrugged.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

He was angry all the time; so unlike the gentle man I thought I’d married. I didn’t have a father or grandfather or uncle to compare his behavior to. He didn’t behave so differently from my old boyfriends. Even Vlad had followed me around town in his sedan . . .

To celebrate the arrival of summer, I invited friends over for a real Odessan meal. I cooked and baked for days – all of Boba’s best recipes. A bright beet salad that melts in your mouth and brightens any day. And borscht because Molly wanted to taste it. Boba never put eggs in the
vareniki
dough – she was used to the hard times of the Soviet Union, but I decided to be decadent and added one. For the
pelmeni
, I rolled the meat into small balls and wrapped them delicately in the dough, creating a fan shape, then threw them into boiling water. When they rose to the surface, I fished them out and put them in a serving dish with a little butter so they wouldn’t stick together. I had a good cry when I cut the onions. While they sizzled in the olive oil, I peeled and boiled the potatoes. Before mashing them, I drizzled the onion-flavored oil onto them. It tasted heavenly. I didn’t understand Tristan’s pathological hatred of oil (which he called fat). I read that in countries like Italy and Spain, olive oil is revered.

I made a Napoleon cake (I’d read in France it was called a
mille-feuille
, or a thousand leaves), stacking the layers of cake and cream just like Boba did. I also baked Molly’s chocolate cake and pecan sandies (in Odessa we make them with walnuts). I invited Oksana and Jerry, Molly and Toby and their little ones. Anna and Steve, Rocky, Pam, Raymond and his wife. Tristan was in his comfort zone – at home, drinking beer and laughing with Toby and Jerry.

We sat at the dining table, so close our elbows touched. It was cozy and wonderful. Anna and Steve held hands and fed each other little bites. He whispered in her ear and she blushed and smiled a secret little smile at him. Maybe she’d told the truth when she’d said things were great. They had such complicity. Seeing it at my table made me happy for them and yet sad for myself.

I turned to watch Oksana eat. Her eyes were closed and she chewed slowly, savoring every bite. ‘It tastes like home,’ she said. ‘Delicious.’

Everyone agreed.

Oksana raised her wine glass and said, ‘To the hostess and her lovely hands.’ Her English had improved in just a few months thanks to our lessons over the phone.

After dinner, everyone admired Farley’s hamster. He opened the door to her cage, but she stayed on her wheel. ‘Come on, girl. Come on, Clementine,’ he encouraged.

Her nose twitched nervously.

‘Leave her alone, buddy,’ Toby said. ‘She doesn’t want to come out. She feels more comfy in her cage.’

Just like me in my Emerson cage. The door was open. I just had to work up the courage to escape.

After the guests left, I asked, ‘Are you happy with the way things are between us?’

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. ‘Yeah.’

Trailing him from the kitchen to the living room, I said, ‘But you seem angry all the time.’

He turned on the TV and flipped through the stations.

‘How would you feel?’ he asked, his eyes focused on the screen. ‘I done everything for you and you’re not grateful.’

‘I
am
grateful. Is that what you’re angry about? That I don’t seem grateful enough?’

‘You don’t do what I say.
That
makes me angry.’ He turned the volume up.

‘So your moods are my fault?’

‘What are you getting at?’ he asked sharply, suddenly turning on me.

Swing-swung-swung
. He seemed poised to jump at me, his body tense, his teeth bared. No. This was my gentle schoolteacher. Only he wasn’t a teacher. Still, he wouldn’t. Would he? I squeezed my eyes shut. If only I were brave. If only I were honest. If only I could tell him that we shouldn’t have ever married. If only I could find a way to tell him I wanted out . . .

Perhaps I could propose a half measure just to test the water.

‘Maybe we should spend some time apart.’

‘Are you telling me you want a divorce?’ His breathing sped up and he stared at me intently.

So intently it scared me. I changed my tactic.

‘Well, you want a child and I don’t seem able to conceive. Maybe you should consider finding someone else.’ I looked down at the beige carpet. Waiting for his verdict. Would he accept this form of plea bargain?

‘I don’t want anyone else. And you’re crazy if you think you can find anyone who will love you like I do. Who else would put up with your shit? Man.’

‘You’re right. You deserve someone better than me.’

‘Is there someone else?’ he asked. ‘That dishwasher down at the café. I’ve seen how he looks at you. How they all look at you.’

‘This is about us,’ I tried to sound calm.

‘I’ll kill myself if you leave. I’ll kill myself. I’LL KILL MYSELF. Who put this separation idea in your head? Was it Oksana?’

I shook my head. He stood. I took a step back.

‘Was it Anna? You’re there every day. I don’t like her.’

I shook my head. ‘No one put the idea in my head. It just seems we’ve . . . grown apart.’

‘Did Molly tell you about Lena? Or was it that bitch Serenity?’ He stepped towards me.

I took another step back. ‘Who’s Lena? What are you talking about?’

‘Nobody. Nothing.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair and muttered, ‘You haven’t given us time to grow together. Every marriage has its ups and downs. After all I did for you and now you just want to give up? Well, I won’t let you.’ He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. Hard. When he released me, I was so shaken that I fell back onto the sofa.

A good wife makes a good husband. That’s what we say in Odessa. If a husband cheats or beats or drinks, then his wife is clearly doing something wrong. Her cutlets aren’t tender, she doesn’t serve him as she should. Perhaps she nags him when clearly, she should just let him be.

I took more and more baths when he was at home. I just wanted to lock myself away from him. I turned off the light and sat in the tub until the water became tepid, reciting Akhmatova, the grocery list of foods I didn’t buy,
counting the empty days
– anything to avoid thinking about the inevitable. I had imagined divorces happened like this: a couple sits at the kitchen table – tense, terse, certainly, but making a joint decision. Now I realized that this was just as naïve as the image I’d had of conceiving a child when I was little. The papa hugs the mama very tightly and a baby starts to grow in her belly. No mess, no effort.

(‘Sweetie, what’s for dinner?’ Tristan called out.)

Now I realized that when it comes to divorce, one person knows first. It is a terrible knowledge.

I forgot the clothes in the dryer. When I finally took them out, they smelled singed. I didn’t want to see friends. I didn’t want to talk to Boba. It was so sunny outside and so dark in the temple of my heart. I just wanted to hide in the water.
I hate the light of monotonous stars
.

A terrible knowledge to walk through the door knowing that soon everything will change. That your home is no longer your home. Knowing that you will break the promise you made in front of friends, in front of God himself. Knowing that you will break a heart.
So let the snow flow down like tears
.

It is easier to be abandoned – sniveling and wailing, ‘Why did you go? What did I do wrong? Why don’t you love me anymore?’ The decision is made for you. It hurts, but the burden is off you. You are not accountable. You did not make it happen. It happened to you.

(‘Do you want to make something?’)

I imagined deep down a person
knew
that a divorce was the right step. This was not my case. Every time I decided to leave him, another part of me would say, You owe him, give it time, he’ll be a wonderful father, he can change, you can change, be patient, what if you leave and you end up on the street? Odessans’ worst fear is change, because what if we make a change and our situation gets worse?

I remembered the way he spoke about children so passionately. I remembered how he loved Molly’s children. Giving Farley endless piggyback rides. Helping Ashley with her math homework. Going to every single one of Peter’s football games, cheering louder than anyone. He would be a good father.

Roots. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Stability. A home. In America. How was it that I got exactly what I wanted, yet it wasn’t at all what I wanted?

(‘Why isn’t there any food in the fridge? Didn’t you do the shopping? I guess I’ll order pizza. Man.’)

In the same minute, I could be scared, thrilled, sad, resigned, happy – all depending on which way my decision swung. Yes, no, maybe, definitely, impossible. To divorce or not to divorce, that was my question. And I found that there was no easy answer.

(‘Half cheese for you, half supreme for me. How’s that?’)

Chapter 23

My Darling and Dear Granddaughter!

Greetings from the Pearl of the Black Sea!

Dasha, Dasha, I haven’t had a letter from you in so long! What are you doing with yourself? Don’t you have time to write to your grandmother? Or has something happened to you? I’m worried. You work so hard. Are you eating enough? Getting sufficient rest? Everything will be fine, everything will be fine. That’s what I tell myself. I think of you every moment of every day. God protect and keep you.

I felt horrible that I’d made Boba worry so. It was just that I didn’t know what to do, and as usual, when I didn’t know what to do, I did nothing.

Thank God you left this rat-infested country. Prices at the bazaar doubled then tripled. Someone broke into the downstairs neighbor’s flat. Obviously young hooligans – they stole her CD player and television. The poor young woman, a foreigner who doesn’t know what to think of this city. I made her some blini and compote. Some solace.

Boris Mikhailovich comes by more than ever. Says I’m not safe on my own, wants to protect me. Changed the light bulb in my entryway and paces there like a sentry, waiting for, hoping for, an invasion. I told him I didn’t need a man ‘You don’t need one,’ he said, ‘but do you want one?’ He even proposed. Imagine the gall!