The Language of Sisters (26 page)

“They told us they were in a fight,” Irina Bessonova said. “That their friend was hurt.” She turned eyes of pride to her boys. “Our boys are protective of their friends. They get it from their father.”

My sisters and I each held out a pillow that we had made for their family. Irina Bessonova, made such a fuss over our “perfect stitching,” our “exquisite embroidering.”

“Please, come in,” Stas Bessonov said.

“Oh no, we did not want to intrude!”

“Please, you must,” Irina said.

We ate dinner with the Bessonovs that night and had a wonderful time. Irina put our pillows on her couch. We were so proud.

We were invited to eat beef with them—beef—spiced so well it melted in my little mouth, and Mr. Bessonov had “the best” vodka, according to my parents.

“New friends,” my father said as we left.

“Yes,” my mother agreed, her arm around Valeria, swaying a bit from the vodka. “And what is a little criminal activity between friends?”

“Nothing.” My father waved his hand. “And Stas kills only the bad guys.”

“Certainly,” my mother said. “Only the bad guys.”

We were close friends with the Bessonovs from then on out, dinners at their house, and ours.

I was so relieved. Now I could marry Bogdan!

How were we to know how much that family would help us in the future?

* * *

It is not surprising that Valerie became a prosecuting attorney.

She believes that abusive/murderous, etc., men and women should be locked up to protect society. She is particularly an avenging angel when a woman or child is hurt. She has been that child.

She goes after them, in each case, as she did those boys who attacked her: with relentless ferocity and determination.

But Valerie is not blind, either. Several times she believed the “criminal” was innocent, or the charges against him had been inflated. She searched for further evidence and let him go, or charged him with a lesser crime.

There were other occasions where she believed that the police had stacked the deck against the defendant. She doesn't tolerate that and raised hell when it happened. She was ruthless in getting three cops fired and an assistant police chief forced into retirement. She also was a driving force in getting two inept, racist prosecutors pushed out. Though she believes in the law, she is also not overly punitive, especially if it's a young person who committed a nonviolent crime. She is fair.

But if you have hurt or killed someone, especially a child, or if you are a serial criminal, you are toast. Valerie will slice, dice, and lock you up.

Valeria Kozlovsky has never forgotten being that child, her dress ripped, up against a wall, in an alley, next to a bakery.

* * *

The photographer had taken super photos of Leah and her tiny house on wheels. One was of the whole home, flowerpots on the porch. Others were of her loft with her fluffy comforters, her kitchen, her living space, and her flower paintings. The last photo was a picture of Leah sitting outside reading in front of her tiny home and old blue truck, a lantern nearby, the sunset spreading behind her, on fire with cotton candy pinks, tomato reds, and swirling purples.

Ricki came by the morning after she saw the photos. “Leah made me want to chuck everything and buy a small house and drive it from Alaska to Florida, like her.”

“You couldn't,” I told her.

“Why? I could be outdoorsy. Fish. Hunt. I could learn how to use a lantern. I could learn how to be quiet in nature.”

“There would be no room for your shoes.”

Ricki grimaced. “Now that would be a problem. Megaprob-lem. Insurmountable problem.” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe I could have the tiny house, and pull it with my new bright red truck, and inside the truck I could have boxes and boxes of my shoes.”

“I don't think that's the point of tiny-house-on-wheels living.” I mused. “And what about your handbags?”

She puzzled that one out. She snapped her fingers again. “That guy I'm dating. He could follow me in another truck, and that truck could hold the handbags and clothes.”

“I think you're set then, Ricki.”

“Me too. I like being a cougar.”

“You're not a cougar. Men aren't called cougars for going after younger women, so why do you have to have an animalistic label because your boyfriend is younger?”

“True. But we call men who go after much younger women lechers. Or midlife crisis creeps. Or dirty old men. Or pathetic. Or victims of young women who want them only for their money. Personally, I'd rather be called a cougar than that. Cougars are sleek, dangerous, smart. Me.”

“You have me there. I'd take the cougar title over midlife crisis creep any day.”

“He is chocolate chip cookie batter to me, though.” She turned. “Want to get a drink after work?”

“You betcha.”

14

The whole Kozlovsky family went to the opening night of Anya's play. It was titled
The Many Splendored Lives of Marie Bennett
. Anya was Marie. She was absolutely brilliant. Hilarious, serious, honest, raw, demanding, charismatic, flawed, lovable.

Long, long standing ovation.

No one would ever guess that the night before, gorgeous Anya had called me because she was worried she had “contracted a rare disease. I can tell by the slight pimples on my left arm ...”

The critics adored it, the show sold out, they added three more weeks.

* * *

“I saw your
Peace Out and Head Out
blog, Dmitry.” It was midnight. I was in the wheelhouse, wrapped in my white fluffy robe. I'd eaten apples dipped in melted chocolate for dinner in my bathtub. I washed it down with a blend of carrot and orange juice. Sometimes I try to be healthy.

“Hey, thanks for reading it. That blog is getting a lot of comments.”

“Let's see,” I said, reading his blog out loud. “ ‘Twelve Ways to Peace Out,' by Dmitry Kozlovsky. One, dude, get rid of the people in your life who are mean or sink your spirit or crush your courage. Two, let go of the crap people have done to you that hurts you. Three, go see a shrink. I've been to two women shrinks and they helped me sort through a lot of messed-up stuff.

“ ‘Four, get outside, camp by a river, fish. Five, have some wine at the beach and sit and be with those waves. Just be. Six, learn how to cook. Nourish the body, man, and you'll nourish the soul. Seven, volunteer. You need to share your generosity with other people. Eight, get a dog from the pound or a cat. Or both. They'll learn to like each other. Probably. Nine, listen to music, all types, and think about life while you're listening. Ten, read a bunch of books. Eleven, hang with people who reach your soul. Twelve, make someone's day better every day.'

“I like the ending.” I read it aloud. “ ‘I don't want anyone thinking the way to peace is easy. I'm not even on that road today. Peace seems like it's somewhere off in the distance, beyond a desert, over a mountain range, through a thunderstorm, so don't think I've got it all together, man, I don't.

“ ‘Be truthful about your life to other people so we all don't get the impression that everyone's happy except us. Here's the truth of my life: Some days are better than others for me. I'm trying to work things out that happened when I was a kid in Russia that I don't understand. The past keeps snatching me back. I have problems. I have memories and flashbacks and nightmares that I don't understand that are all jumbled together. I get angry sometimes, and it's like, man, Dmitry, cool off. What are you so angry for? And I've got a problem I'm trying to solve right now that is not going away, it's only getting worse.

“ ‘I move from place to place and camp and couch surf and wander the world. I can't settle down, I can't be in one place for long, I can't commit to a woman because I'm not whole enough to be someone else's “whole,” do you know what I mean? So, I've got my own stuff to deal with and have to follow my own advice. But if my advice helps anyone else, I'm glad of it. Peace everybody. Peace.' ”

I leaned back in my chair. “Dmitry, that's an honest blog. I like it.”

“Thanks, Toni.” We chatted about the usual things, mostly about our crazy family, then I asked how he was sleeping.

“Better the last few nights. I don't know why. It comes and goes. But it was strange the other night, too. Right before I went to sleep, I saw a necklace, a gold locket. It was a heart and I saw two pictures in it, but I couldn't see their faces.”

“A locket?”

“Yes. It was old. It was engraved with flowers, I think. It was on a white tablecloth.”

“And you've never see it before?”

“No.”

“I haven't, either.”

“One more object in my head. I don't know if it's me losing my mind or if there's truth behind the object.”

“I think there's truth behind the object.”

“You've said that before, Toni, and I appreciate it. It makes me feel better. As if the things I'm seeing are truth, not the figments of a brain that is cracking or I've got some crazy neurological disease.”

“I think everything you're seeing is in your past.” You are not losing your mind, Dmitry, but that I have kept a secret that could have helped you to understand your past, without you thinking you were cracking up, makes me a terrible sister. Terrible.

“I think they are, too. I don't know, however, if I'll ever be able to put them altogether.”

“I don't know, either.” That would depend on two people and what they knew and didn't know and what they were willing to share.

* * *

All the Kozlovskys were at my uncle Yuri's and aunt Polina's to celebrate their anniversary. It was at their home, about a half mile from ours, brick, stone, traditional colonial style, built about forty years ago. The event was catered, and we were having French food, French wine, and Russian-made vodka. “For the fancy,” my aunt Polina told me. Aunt Polina had done the flowers, of course, from her shop.

My father gave a long, long prayer before we ate to “bless this marriage, and all other marriages and the children and grandchildren, protect us, we Kozlovskys. Thank you Lord for ...” and he went on and on.

My mother was resplendent in a red dress. She hugged me tight when I walked in, kissed both my cheeks. “Ack, Antonia. I could barely leave. Your papa.” She sighed, poor woman. “He cannot resist me in this color, this red. I almost late. I put on my lipstick, see my lipstick, match the dress, but then your papa”—she glared at me—“he kissed me and I have to do it.”

“Mama, please.”

She rolled her eyes. “You old enough, Antonia.”

“No. No, I'm not. I will never be old enough to hear what you and Papa ...”

“How that saying go? He a lover, not a biter.”

“Uh, no. It's ‘He's a lover, not a fighter.' ”

“He a nibbler. You know that word, Antonia? Nibbler. He take a nibbler, but he no take a bite of me.”

“Oh, my Lord.” I put my head in my hands.

“Yes, he a man of the Lord,” my mother said, crossing herself. “But the Lord gave your papa lot of the passion in the bedroom. I tell the Lord, give me break, but no! No break from your papa. The Nibbler.”

“Mama!”

She laughed and tapped my shoulder. “I think you a prune, Antonia.”

“A prune?”

“Yes. I hear that on TV. Husband say to wife, ‘I think you prune.' ”

“No, Mama. He must have said, “ ‘I think you're a prude.' ”

“No.” She wagged her finger. “It
prune
. You eat the prune for the, what the word? Contraception? No. Not that. Constellation? No. I have it. Constipation.”

“That makes sense to me now. I'm a prune for constipation.”

“I know. I right.” Victorious! “Give me hug and kiss, Antonia. You have no hug and kiss for Mama?”

I hugged and kissed my mama.

She whispered in my ear, “I bring you some lymonnyk, the lemon pie you likie. Same with Elvira and Valeria. In my car. You need eat-y more, too thin, I tell you. Eat-y more.”

* * *

My next conversation was with Tati and Zoya, the naughty twins, they of the stripper clothing business. They were dressed in high heels, shiny shirts, sequins, tight jeans.

“No dates tonight? I thought you both had a boyfriend.”

“Two boyfriends,” Zoya said, kicking up a silver heel. “Right now.”

“You have three,” Tati said.

“No, two. No.” Zoya put her hand up, fingers counting. “You're right. Three.”

“Aren't you exhausted?” I asked.

“No.” They smiled.

“It does wonders for your skin,” Tati said.

“Yes, and for your blood pressure.” Zoya took a drink of champagne.

“I read the other day,” Tati said, “that sex loosens up your bowels.”

Was this happening? Constipation and loose bowels in one evening's conversation?

Zoya peered at me. “Your skin is porcelain, Toni.”

“It is. Always has been,” Tati said. “Must be the Jolly Green Giant Sex God we've heard about.”

“Please don't tell my parents. They'll name a special after Nick at the restaurant, make an announcement in church, start calling him their future son-in-law ...”

“We know,” they said together.

“That's why we haven't told our father, either,” Zoya said.

“We kept it to our twin-self,” Tati said. “One brain.”

Zoya handed me a box. Red. Gold ribbon, as all their stripper /sexy lingerie clothes are wrapped. “This is for you. It's to make you feel womanly again.”

“Thank you.”

It was red, lacy, flowing. I sniffled. “It's the most beautiful lingerie I've ever seen.”

“Don't cry, Toni, or I'll cry! It was Zoya's design,” Tati said. “She's so clever.”

“No, it wasn't. I drew a rough outline and Tati did all the rest. She's the smart one.”

“Give Zoya the credit ... no, give Tati the credit ... We love you so much, Toni.” They sniffled.

“Love you both, too.” Three-way hug. I love my cousins.

The Jolly Green Giant Sex God would love the lingerie.

* * *

I visited with JJ, who said, “I'm going to fix your hair, Toni. Didn't you brush it today? Did you lose your brush?”

“It looks fine.”

“No,” JJ snapped. “It does not.”

She put her hand on my back and pushed. We went to her parents' huge bathroom, and JJ had my hair up in a ball with a couple of braids in minutes.

“Much better. It doesn't look like you walked through an Iowa windstorm. You're so pretty, Toni.”

“Thanks. How's Chelsea and Hope?”

JJ wrapped her brown hair into a French twist, rather ferociously. “Chelsea continues to wear black all the time, which is unflattering with her coloring. She pierced her eyebrow again last week and looks like she has a pincushion on her face. She still wears black eye shadow and resembles a ghoul. She won't let me fix her hair, which is, currently, pink and scraggly. She bought black combat boots last week, so she looks like a biker gang member, and she won't come in on Friday and Saturday nights until two. She is sneaking into clubs downtown via, get this, the ceiling. Yes, she crawls in through the roof. However, she did sit down with me the other night, and we had a serious conversation about college because she has decided she wants to study chemistry.”

“Chemistry?”

“Yes, she is apparently part witch and likes to mix things up. She is taking three science classes this year because she loves it. On the other hand, Hope is getting more and more pregnant by the day. My teenage daughter has morning sickness.” JJ started to cry and perched on the rim of the two person bathtub. “I can't believe this.”

“I'm sorry, JJ. I don't know what to say that won't sound inane. I love Hope and I love the baby and you and I'm sorry, all at the same time.”

“Yes.” She rubbed her temples. “I get it.”

Valerie walked in. We knew she would be late because of the trial.

“What? You have a mop on top of your head, Valerie!” JJ screeched. “What did you do, run it through a leaf blower and then cut it yourself with a hatchet?”

Valerie peered in the mirror. “Wow. It does seem I've been in contact with a leaf blower.”

“Sit down right this minute.” JJ fixed her hair. “Valerie, don't go out in public like that again. You're disgracing my salon.”

Valerie nodded, smiled, but she was worried, tight. We would talk later. I knew what it was about.

* * *

“How's the musical?” I asked Pavel.

He smiled, ear to ear. That kid has a beaming smile. “It's so much fun, Aunt Toni. I can't wait until the opening night. But I'm scared, too. I'm glad Dad knows. Now I don't have to lie and have a secret. I hate secrets.”

“I hate them, too.” Oh boy, did I hate secrets. “Your dad took it pretty well.”

“Yeah, I know. Want to see my ballet number for
Bennie and the Music
?” I did. I clapped.

“I like what JJ did to your hair, Aunt Toni.”

“Thanks.” Interesting that he knew JJ did it and not me ...

* * *

Hope gave me a hug. “I can't believe I'm pregnant.” She burst into tears. I took her to Aunt Polina's bathroom, and we talked on the rim of the tub. I was spending a lot of time in there.

* * *

Chelsea came up to visit later. She was carrying a mug. I'd bet it was vodka and Coke. She was dressed in a black dress and black combat boots. Her face did not look like a pincushion. Her hair was pink.

“You have another piercing,” I said.

“Yes. Mom and Dad hate it.” She frowned. “But not that much. I'm not the problem daughter anymore.”

I could see that troubled her, poor thing. “I hear you like chemistry?”

“Yes. I accidentally started a small fire in the lab on Thursday. It made this loud booming noise ...”

* * *

Kai gave me a hug. He was holding Koa, who leaned over for me to hold him. “Aunt Woni!” he said, resplendent in a blue cookie monster outfit. “I yove you.”

“I yove you, too, Koa.” I talked to Kai about his job. “I've had enough of arresting people and rolling around in the dirt or on the street downtown. I don't want to get shot at again. I'm retiring as soon as I can and Valerie and I are going to Hawaii where we can surf all day. She's going to wear a bikini and I'm wearing Hawaiian flower shirts.”