Bad to the Last Drop (6 page)

Abramov might have been best known for his perpetually discussed dream of winning the lottery. He planned to use the money to buy an island, where deer and alligators would be the only animals and brandy was omnipresent and where he'd wed and bed several Russian women.

But those who made more time to listen to Abramov were privy to another side of him, which was kind, compassionate, and highly intelligent, albeit scarred by his two tours in Vietnam.

"I know he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder [PTSD], and I know it firsthand, because I do, too," said Lopez, also a Vietnam veteran. "This is a mechanism that he used to escape reality. He would speak a couple of sentences that were really very intelligent and compassionate, and then he'd go back into that odd character. I understood why he did what he did, and I accepted it as what he had to do to survive."

Inescapable past pain

Though Abramov made references to previous major life events—such as his military service and his run for Ashland mayor—many of his life details were shrouded in mystery. Only after his death have his Chapple Avenue friends learned more about him.

A graduate of Bayfield High School and later a sociology student at Ohio State University, Abramov was an American whose family believed strongly in military service, said his sister-in-law, Alice Abramov of Hurley. Alice Abramov's husband, Jacob, also served in the military, like his brother, Joe.

"It was a family that believed in patriotism, a family of engineers and military men, even in Russia," she said. "So their history of being in the military is very firmly entrenched."

Alice Abramov remembers that when her husband was called to go to
combat in Vietnam, brothers weren't allowed to simultaneously serve in combat situations. Seeing that his brother had a wife and child who would be affected by his going, Joe Abramov decided to volunteer, rendering his brother ineligible.

"That did interfere with their relationship for many years, because Jacob thought it was his duty to go," Alice Abramov said.

Joe Abramov distinguished himself as a friend on the battlefield. "He was one of those people they referred to as a 'soldier's soldier,' which meant that if you were in any kind of combat situation, that's who you wanted next to you, because that was the person who could help you stay alive," Mrs. Abramov said.

When Abramov returned, he suffered from PTSD-related dissociation and could have qualified for 100 percent service-connected disability status, but he refused, denying that anything was wrong.

"He refused, I think, because he did not want to take anything from the government; he was so paranoid and so distrustful of the military," Alice Abramov said.

"Like a brother"

Though Abramov spent some of his post-service time homeless in Florida, his home, for the most part, was Ashland. He strayed from his regular Chapple Avenue spots to visit with Heike Clausen and Gabriele Schmitt, of Heike's Blumen Garden and Gabriele's German Cookies & Chocolates on Main Street, who were charmed by him.

"He stopped at least three to four times a day at the flower shop, and he bought chocolates, and he wanted to win the lottery and buy an island," Clausen remembered. "And I was supposed to be the lady who took care of the flowers on the island."

Beyond his expressed fantasies, Schmitt remembers that Abramov was very well-spoken about classic pieces of literature, like
Anna Karenina or Doctor Zhivago.

Clausen also remembers him as a lonely man—she visited his apartment when he spent Christmas alone—and as a man who discouraged others from joining the military.

"My daughter, Anne—she's—thirteen—and he told her, 'Anne, you're too smart to go into the military. ... Don't go into the military,'" Clausen said.

Sometimes Abramov's persistent questioning or his insistence upon early morning conversations with people waiting in the coffee line could be bothersome to Chapple Avenue-goers, who'd try to ignore him.

Luanne Johnson, a cook at the Black Cat, called Abramov a great friend, but she also remembered how his energy could become unmanageable in public situations. When rumors circulated of an impending Iraq War draft, Abramov overheard Ashland former Mayor Carl Johnson talking of how he was afraid his son could be drafted. Startled by the conversation, Abramov abruptly suggested a way that Johnson could keep that from happening.

"Joe flew off the handle and said, 'Just take his hand and smash it with a hammer. Smash it with a hammer!'" Johnson recalled. "When people heard that, everyone fled the building."

Abramov showed his friends he cared about them by weaving them into his fantasies. He promised many people posts on his island: Johnson was to be his cook, Schmitt was to feed him and his wives chocolate in bed, and Lopez would be his security guard.

Alice Abramov said she thinks her brother-in-law would be pleasantly surprised by the feelings expressed in the memorial. "I think sometimes Joe felt that no one ever really cared or noticed, and I think he would've been surprised to know how much people really did," she said.

Lopez said Abramov will be a much-missed part of the Chapple Avenue landscape. He plans on raising his veteran's flag at an upcoming ceremony and has distributed buttons that read "Remember Joe." ..." He plans to maintain his memorial through Abramov's Tuesday funeral service. "This is the least I can do for a fellow veteran. I consider people like Joe my brother," Lopez said. "We gave something of ourselves by doing what society asks of us as warriors. And I look at Joe as being one of those kinds of people and a brother in that respect."

There was definitely a winter chill in the air for Joe's memorial service. The two women stood by the open grave, and as she looked up at the overcast sky, Pat could almost feel the snow in the air.
When it comes, we could be in for ten or twelve inches,
she thought.

Tall, stately oaks graced the small cemetery on the edge of town. Pat imagined that in summer, wild flowers would grow in the grass near Joe's grave—he might like that.
Of course,
Pat chided herself;
I really don't know what Joe would like. Still, he might be pleased at this turnout.

As the rent-a-preacher droned on about a Joe she didn't recognize, Pat let her eyes move around the crowd. She was surprised at the number of mourners, most of whom jiggled from foot to foot in the cold. She noticed the Russian women—the three friends—Babe, Katrina, and Sonja, who stood bundled together with their arms around each other. Joe's sisters, Anastasia and Helga, were there, too, of course, huddled sadly together. Pat noticed for the first time that Anastasia was shorter and heavier than her sister, although both women had inherited the traditional stocky Russian build that their brothers had. Anastasia had penetrating brown eyes, high cheekbones, and—under less trying circumstances—a ready smile. She was clearly more outgoing than Helga. Now, however, she appeared to be visibly shaking.

Helga was the more conventionally attractive sister—thinner than Anastasia and with a small narrow nose and delicate features. She seemed quiet but appeared to Pat to be a rock of serenity.

Babe was a sprightly woman, standing about four foot ten. A nurse who usually dressed in bright red, she had boundless energy and passion for life. Her positive attitude was infectious and a likely source of strength to her friends during this sad time. Babe appeared to Pat to be performing ballet moves to keep herself warm during the service.

Katrina was the bravest and most adventurous of the Russian women. Fiercely independent and self-sufficient, she had left her abusive husband behind years ago to pursue a career as a linguist. She appeared to follow the service closely, more clearly able than the other women to understand every word.

Sonja appeared to be the frailest of the Russians. Dark-complected, with a medium build, she walked with a hitch in her gait, appeared to wear a constant mantle of anxiety and responsibility that etched itself in her features. Unknown to most, she had harbored a secret desire for many years that someday she would marry Joe. She held a bright blue handkerchief to her nose, constantly wiping her taut, lined face.

The brother, Jacob, whom Pat had not seen until today, stood a bit apart from the women with his wife. Pat looked at him more closely—he was heavyset, with thinning gray hair and a gray beard. If she hadn't known better, she almost might have thought it was Joe standing there, so similar were their facial features and eyes. Jacob, however, was at least ten years older. Jacob's visible grief was etched into his face. Pat recalled at that moment how Joe had volunteered to take his place in the war.

Standing by the minister were six honor-guard soldiers in dress blues, representing the army color guard, waiting to give the salute. And behind them, men of different ages from the community, some in uniform, were there to pay their final respects to a fallen mate.

There was Ernest Lopez, a gray-haired Native American Vietnam vet, who now devoted himself to making peace in the world. Next to him was James Adams, a stocky middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, who also served in Vietnam as a medic and who had evolved into a know-it-all, left-leaning political junkie.

Ernest's son-in-law, Stuart Reuben, stood soberly nearby. Stuart was in his late twenties and had recently returned from his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He was becoming reacquainted with his family and hometown after being discharged with honor from the Marines.

There was Lulu, a woman Pat recognized as the owner of a shop on Main Street that seemed to have stopped in time in the sixties. She was crying quietly and holding a tie-dyed hanky to her nose. Next to her was a man Pat didn't know—perhaps Lulu's husband—looking cold and a little grumpy. Then there were a few who worked at the co-op and a whole group of servers and cooks from the Black Cat, which seemed only right to Pat. And there was Bill, one of the local artists, who was always in the Black Cat, too.

Mike Williamson, the local banker, was there with his wife, Susan. He looked sharply dressed in a tailored Lord and Taylor black trench coat with a red tartan wool scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Sarah Martin, the local decorator, stood tall and stately against the old oak tree, glancing repeatedly at her watch, having arrived hurriedly at the last minute.

Father Luke Grayson, the Catholic priest, hatless and wearing his black suit and collar, stood in the midst of a group of elderly women, wearing an expression of what appeared to be slight dismay. Father Luke had a long neck, stiffly held, and he cocked his head upward in such a way that the casual observer would believe that he was looking down his nose at the "rental preacher."

As Pat's glance traveled around the crowd, over farmers and professors and even a few students, it stopped at the very back of the crowd on two men who seemed out of place. It wasn't that they looked that much different—they were two average-looking guys in black overcoats and sunglasses. Like Pat, the men seemed to be watching the crowd. Suddenly, one glanced at Pat and held her gaze, looking at her straight in her eyes. She smiled slightly, feeling her face turning red, as he continued to look at her without expression. Embarrassed, she turned her attention back to the service as the minister intoned: "Into your hands, oh merciful Savior, we commend your servant Joe. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen."

Babe sighed heavily and Anastasia leaned over and put her arms around her.

The pastor continued. "As God has called our brother from this life, we commit his body to the earth from which it was made. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Deb stood huddled beside her friend.
Who ever thought of those words? What kind of comfort are they to a family?
she wondered.

Deb's glance settled on the big lake down the hill in the distance, and she realized at that moment that she had loved Ashland almost from the minute she had set foot in it. There was something about the lake—actually, a lot of her love of Ashland had to do with the lake. She felt such a connection, knowing that every day when she looked down the street, she would see that deep water. But Deb also loved Ashland for the community. Funny—she had lived in a small town before but it had been nothing like this. When she and Marc were first married, they'd moved to rural Ohio for ten years. She should have liked it. After all, she finished her law degree there, Marc started his first private practice there, their two oldest kids graduated from high school there, and Deb had given birth to their two youngest kids. They'd even tried rehabbing that blasted 150-year-old brick monstrosity. Despite all that, she had never been able to put down roots.
I never felt the connection like I do in this town.

As the service droned on, Deb let her mind wander away from the service, instead settling on her first month here....