The Silence of Trees (9 page)

"Mark, you always overdo it." Zirka pinched her brother until he yelped.

"Hi, Mama. We brought a chocolate cake." Christina opened the box and pulled out a beautiful torte covered with strawberries and whipped cream.

I sighed. "Christina, I have food here. I know how to bake. Save your money. You don’t need to bring me gifts. Just come and visit. Bring my grandchildren."

Mark awarded me a light smack on the behind.

"How could I resist such a target?" he said, stepping away.

"Are those pussy willows for me, son?"

"Uh, they will be," he grinned sheepishly. "But not yet. I’m waiting for Katya so I can give her a proper welcome. I haven’t seen my sister since Christmas." Yes, so much like his Tato.

He nibbled on a piece of coffeecake. I looked back at the torte he brought; it did look delicious, but I had to watch my weight. It was bad enough that everything was beginning to sag.

"Can I slice this? Or will you be angry?" Christina asked while carefully measuring the slices for the torte.

"Cut, cut. It’s too late now. But you must take the leftovers home with you. Pavlo and I are too old to eat so many sweets."

I looked down at the table. No one had touched the babka I baked that morning.

"What! No one wants my babka? It’s fresh and sweet. You eat coffeecake and torte, but not my babka. Do not insult me. Eat."

I walked into the living room to find Mark and Christina’s daughters.

I found Pavlo asleep in his recliner, a Ukrainian newspaper in his lap, and the willow still clutched in his right hand. Mark’s two daughters, Tamara and Petrucia, sat on the couch watching television. Catching the girls’ eyes and bringing my finger up to my lips, I stepped behind Pavlo and carefully eased the branch out of his hands. He let out a snore, but didn’t wake up. I saw that he was not wearing his hearing aid again.

The girls giggled as I tiptoed over to the chair next to them and sat down. "Now, tell me why you come to Baba’s house and don’t come into the kitchen to say hello."

"But Baba, Dido was telling us a story," Tamara, the youngest, said while turning off the television.

"Funny that your Dido can tell a story while he’s asleep. Come give Baba a kiss." They jumped up, and I tapped each one lightly on the behind with the pussy willow.

"I’ll tell you a quick little story. Do you know why pussy willows have these fluffy white buds?" I asked them. They shook their heads. "Well, once there lived a mean old farmer who had a pretty little brown cat—"

"What was her name?" Tamara asked.

"Her name was Kasha," I answered, "and one spring day, Kasha had nine beautiful baby kittens. But the mean old farmer didn’t want the kittens, so he took them all and threw them into a great big sack."

"Oh no," the girls said in unison, looking around for Khvostyk, who stared at them from under the table.

"Well, he took the sack down to the river and tossed it in, waiting for it to sink to the bottom. Kasha sat on the riverbank mewing and crying for her lost babies until a willow tree nearby asked her what was the matter. Kasha told the willow what had happened, and because willows are naturally kind trees, the tree plunged her branches into the water and pulled out the sack. Kasha ripped a hole in it to free her babies, but all but one of the kittens had drowned. Ever since, willows everywhere bloom with kitten-like buds in memory of the drowned kittens and their sad mother."

The girls sat wide-eyed, staring at the pussy willow in my hand. I smiled, remembering that I had first heard that story when I was Tamara’s age.

The doorbell rang, and Pavlo’s eyes opened wide. He looked toward me, and then toward his empty hand. "Nadya," he growled playfully, "you give that back. I need it to greet my children."

I rose and walked toward the door. "No, I will greet them. You get some coffee so you don’t spend all afternoon sleeping."

At the door, my son, Taras, held little Pavlyk, his grandson and my first great-grandchild. "Hi, Mama."

He was beaming with pride. I still could not believe that my son was a grandfather.

Taras kissed me on the cheek. "Natalie and Jerry should be along in a second. I’m going to go show this little guy off."

Taras walked into the kitchen while I waited for his wife, Anna. After hugs and more willow taps, I followed her into the kitchen. Everyone cooed at the baby, passed him around, and exchanged observations. He was only nine months old but already a big boy, round and healthy for his age. He definitely took after Jerry.

When it was my turn to hold Pavlyk, I took him into my arms, rubbed my face against the top of his head, and inhaled his smell. Baby powder and apple blossoms after the rain. Sweet and soft and delicious. I rubbed my cheek against his soft black hair.

At this moment, Jerry came into the kitchen carrying the diaper bag and beaming his usual toothy grin. "Hi, Baba," he said giving me a quick kiss. "He’s getting heavy, be careful."

"All these warnings," I said, "You forget I had six children." But I did sit down because he was getting heavy.

Little Pavlyk settled into my arms, and as I bounced my knee up and down, I whispered to him the lullaby my Mama used to sing to me and my sisters:

"Liu li, liu li, liu li, sleep my little Pavlyk,

Soon the dawn will bring new hopes.

Now the night promises new dreams.”

I looked up and saw that my Pavlo was watching me from across the room, his thin lips in a soft grin. I blushed, caught in a private moment.

My oldest daughter, Katya, burst into the room. Pavlo and I looked away from each other, embarrassed. The air tingled with Katya’s fiery presence. I felt her even before I looked in her direction.

“Well, hello! I guess you’re all tired from whacking each other with willows. I think this is the first time I didn’t hear arguing when I walked down the gangway.” She rushed over to Pavlo and gave him a big hug and then to me, sweeping little Pavlyk out of my arms.

“My turn, Mama.” She kissed him on the top of his head, then spun around, the baby giggling in her arms.

Suddenly everyone began talking all at once. I looked at Christina and tried to focus on her face, but her words began to run into each other. My daughter-in-law loved to talk. I remembered the first time I met Christina. I thought she was so quiet. I could not imagine how she would ever communicate with my son. Mark has the temper of a bear and a loud growl to match. But apparently she talked loud enough to get a few words in, because they’ve been married for twenty-eight years. But oh, how she liked to talk.

“And Darka’s daughter is engaged to a concert violinist from Toronto. His mother used to sing opera in Europe. They have a lot of money, I hear. He stands to inherit . . .”

Still, she was a good mother. She gave me two beautiful granddaughters. Mark, certainly enjoyed talking as well, especially about things he was passionate about, like computers.

“You know, Taras, you wouldn’t have so much trouble if you got yourself a real computer,” Mark said, smiling smugly as he reached for another slice of babka.

I gave up trying to make sense of it all. My mind wandered. The month before, when I was at Mark’s house, he tried to show me his computer and explain all that it could do. He tried for such a long time to explain it to me. All I know is that it’s some kind of electronic magic, like a television that listens to your requests. But Mark told me he has conversations on the computer. I watched as he typed in questions and someone named Shorty31 answered back. I knew Mark didn’t do it because I watched his fingers carefully.

Maybe it’s not so different from the way my Baba used to gaze into the stream and talk with the rusalky, or the way Mama used to talk with the domovyk, the house spirit, to ask them to keep us safe when Tato would go to the city to trade. Back home they were called spirits; here, they are called “modems.”

My sons’ voices were getting louder, but they blurred together. Both Mark and Taras had the same sort of growl, which they had inherited from their father.

“See, if you have a slow network connection . . . it’s harder to surf the Web.”

This Web, Mark tried to explain it to me. But I told him that I already understood. Finally computers are teaching people what my ancestors have known for hundreds of years. My own Baba taught me many years ago about the invisible threads that connect everyone. They are made from the holy waters that became the Universe. These threads connect us with the people who came before us and those who will follow us; they also connect us with all living things. Bright like moonlight, this essence flows from inside us to everything else, because we are all made of the same waters: the waters of our souls.

I looked at Pavlo, but he sat quietly, ripping apart pieces of kolach—Ukrainian braided bread—and dipping them in a puddle of honey on his plate. He was watching his family, a grin on his face. I don’t think he understood it all either, but he liked to have them around.

But for me, at that moment, it was too much. Too many voices. Too loud.

I stood up and walked onto the porch, grateful for the break. I sat on the sofa and gazed through the doorway into the kitchen. My family.

I watched as my young granddaughters rushed into the kitchen hitting each other with willows, each saying over and over “It’s not I but the willow—“

Their mother grabbed the branches. “Girls, you stop that right now. Shame on you. Those pussy willows are blessed. You should not be fighting—“

They ran back into the living room, laughing. I smiled to myself; this house needed more children’s laughter. It kept the domovyk happy.

Taras walked over to the bathroom armed with his willow, waiting for Katya to walk out. Mark and Peter talked about houses. Anna and Christina washed dishes, and Zirka stood beside them showing off her new anniversary ring. Pavlo sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. In a moment, he would be snoring, unnoticed by his children who sat engrossed in conversation, gossip, and disagreement.

This house had been the backdrop for most of our life together. Sitting there, watching my family framed by the doorway, I watched time shift with each breath, bringing me back through the many memories these walls have witnessed:

I was twenty-six when Pavlo carried me over the threshold of our first house in Chicago. I placed bread outside the door and a candle in the window to welcome our ancestors. Pavlo chuckled at my superstitions but didn’t resist. That night, as the children slept on the queen-sized mattress we had been given by friends, Pavlo and I scrubbed the floors stained with dirt and cat urine. In the weeks that followed, we stripped the blue-gray paint off the doors and windows and laid new lemon yellow tile in the kitchen. A little work each day made it our home.

I taught all my children how to make bread. Elbows deep in dough, they stood on chairs and kneaded. “Don’t sneeze into the bread,” I warned, “and never wipe your noses.” That night we ate their loaves. The children beamed with pride, flour still on their faces.

Once, while waiting for Pavlo far past the time when work was done, I embroidered a blouse for Katya’s school play, sitting beside a candle to save electricity. He staggered in, cigarettes and alcohol trailing behind. Before I could yell, he collapsed in front of me, head in my lap. He wept silently. A whisper: “Laid off.”

A scream froze in my throat. Hands stained red from shredding beets, I stood staring at the door after the chaplain left. Mykola, my youngest son, was dead. Vietnam. No more hopeful morning candlelight vigils. I made the necessary calls. My heart sank beneath the house, buried with his uniform. Somehow the other two boys came back alive.

Girls drifted in and out of the kitchen, trying to win my boys, impress their Mama. Sofia, tall and blonde, laughed loudly at Pavlo’s jokes. I caught her smoking outside of church. Tatiana, tiny and petite, smelled like baby powder. She chewed her fingernails and washed dishes with gloves. Alexandra, round and pretty, never stopped talking. She kept touching Mark’s knee. Christina, bubbly and strong. She brought me a cake and served me the first piece. Anna, pretty and quiet, with the eyes of a doe. She washed the dishes and put them away. She listened to me.

Katya and I sat in the kitchen after she moved her books and clothes into her tiny apartment. We drank tea together; she twirled her curls around her fingers. We had so much silence between us. I gave her a wooden cross for her bedroom. I didn’t know how to keep her safe.

The wheel of life turned on and on, and just as I thought I began to understand, everything changed again. My Baba always used to say "the past is present," but I never understood until recently. She would explain that stories are the connection; they are our way of touching those invisible threads that connect everyone. Stories are our hope for the future.

But what then of the missing letter? What of that empty envelope that sat so heavy on my thoughts? I tried all day to keep busy, to chase away the ghosts. Still it sat inside that box, taunting me with possibilities, haunting me with questions. I thought about my family, safe in my kitchen. Unaware that something was creeping toward me, threatening to shake my world apart. But then again, maybe it was nothing. Maybe I should not allow myself to bring the dead to life because then I would have to bury them again.