Îò àâòîðà: Ïîñëåäóþùèé òåêñò ïåðåñêàç òðåõ ìîèõ ðàññêàçîâ íà Àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå. Íà ðóññêîì ÿçûêå ýòî ïîâåñòü "Òè÷åð", ðàññêàçû "Ïóòü äàëåê ëåæèò" è "Ñíåã âûïàë òîëüêî â ÿíâàðå". Ýòî ìàêåò êíèæêè, êîòîðàÿ, Áîã äàñò, áóäåò êîãäà-íèáóäü èçäàíà. Ëþáèòåëÿì Àíãëèéñêîãî áóäåò â ðàçâëå÷åíèå. Îñîáàÿ áëàãîäàðíîñòü îðãàíèçàòîðàì Ïðîçà.ðó çàùèùàþùèì âñÿêóþ ïóáëèêàöèþ àâòîðñêèìè ïðàâàìè.
The Redneck Teacher
and Other American Stories
The Redneck Teacher
Chapter 1
“Liar! Liar!!!” Cameron was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking as he
tried to drown out the roar of excitement from two hundred eighth graders packed into
the auditorium. The news had just been announced, and it sounded almost too good to
be true: at the end of the year, the entire class—accompanied by the principal himself
and a few teachers—would be taken to Six Flags in Dallas. Free buses. Free food. A full
day of roller coasters and cotton candy, courtesy of some mysterious benefactor.
There was only one condition: for the remaining forty-five days of school, students had
to behave.
That promise was enough to send the room into chaos. Kids popped out of their seats
with questions, hands flapping in the air:
“Can I invite my cousin from another school?”
“Can I wear a dress, not pants?”
The principal, suddenly transformed from despised tyrant into beloved hero, answered
with fatherly authority:
“Yes, you may invite a friend, but they must pay their own way.”
“Yes, a dress is fine, just not too short. And don’t forget the Texas sun.”
No one listened to Cameron. His shrieking—“Don’t y’all believe him! He’s lying! He’ll
never take you anywhere! He brings up some bulsheet like that every year. It newer
works!”—was swallowed by the roar of hope.
The principal ignored him too. His eyes landed instead on me, sitting right beside the
boy. His look said, “Shut him up.” I just smiled into my mustache and let the stare slide
past. Cameron wasn’t wrong. Dr. Adrian was bluffing. Everyone knew it. The promise of
Six Flags was nothing more than a carrot to keep wild kids somewhat tame until the
final bell of the year.
Two guards hauled Cameron out. The meeting broke up. I lined my class and marched
them back to the lesson—though what lesson could follow that frenzy?
It was a bad habit of the principal’s, this summoning of students mid-class for
“emergencies” that were nothing more than his grand announcements. A man who had
once taught himself should have known better. But to him, it was a display of power. To
me, it was pathetic.
Just a week earlier, we had failed the annual state test. At the teachers’ council that
followed, Adrian had tried to put a bright face on it, claiming that—if you looked closely
—we weren’t really the worst school in town. His loyalists nodded vigorously, cheering
every word. The rest of us—our small “coffee club” of honest teachers—watched in
silence.
Sam, the assistant principal, didn’t smile either. His broad, bright grin—the one I once
compared to Crocodile Gena from a Russian cartoon—was gone. The others had been
puzzled by the comparison, but Sam had thrown back his head and laughed. He even
asked me to retell the story. I did, promising to find him an English translation someday.
There wasn’t one, which seemed strange to me.
At that meeting, the principal had stopped suddenly and asked, “So what should we
do?”
His lackeys shifted nervously, trying to sense the “correct” answer. No one dared speak.
I finally broke the silence:
“We should go along with the Bible. Separate the goats from the sheep.”
A shudder went through the room. Mentioning the Bible on school grounds had recently
become unwelcome, almost taboo. Adrian fixed me with his frosty stare.
“Would you care to clarify your remark?” he asked, his words clipped with politeness
that only underlined his irritation.
I didn’t hesitate.
“I want the special ed kids out of my classes. They can’t focus, and they keep everyone
else from learning.”
A wave of discomfort spread through the room. Heads turned away. Even those who
secretly agreed shrank back, unwilling to face Adrian. The loyalists bristled, looking at
me with contempt.
The principal’s anger was no longer hidden.
“So, tell us,” he said, scanning the room, “who are the sheep here, and who are the
goats?”
It was an insult, yes. But I didn’t mind. Speaking openly was already a small victory. In
that moment, I could feel every teacher in the room knew it too.
Chapter 2
The Special Education students, children with peculiarities such as emotional,
behavioral, or cognitive impairments, were included in regular classes about a month
ago, when the principal ordered us to stop the curriculum and switch to annual test
preparation. No — “included” sounds too gentle. The Special Ed crowd was rudely
mixed into the body of relatively normal kids. To me, it all looked outrageous.
In my science class I had saved the most interesting topics for the end of the year, and
now my students were deprived of an introduction to quantum mechanics and
astronomy. Those fields of physics are certainly too complicated for middle school, but I
had already managed to explain relativity in simple terms, and the kids had received it
with delight. They were waiting impatiently for my explanation of how the atomic bomb
works when everything was interrupted by the order to abandon our plans. The classes
were re-formed.
All the eighth graders were divided into five groups, each with a portion of Special Ed
students added — about a quarter of each class. Those students didn’t have to take the
annual test at all. The principal’s explanation, that it would still “help them” to repeat the
material with regular kids, was nothing more than shrewd cunning. The real reason for
this pitiful reorganization was the presence of stern Special Ed teachers, famous for
their ability to control the most difficult troublemakers. Now they were charged with
overseeing the regular kids as well.
In fact, it proved effective. The second teacher made a difference. Even though the
classes grew larger, discipline improved. I was lucky — my assistant was Mrs. Jackson,
a Black grandmother who deserved a quiet retirement far more than the daily bedlam of
school. I had known her since my first American school, and we were friendly.
Occasionally we would chat. I always thought it remarkable that while calling parents
often had little effect, especially with certain boys, the involvement of a grandmother
carried real weight. Mrs. Jackson was such a grandmother.
She was truly a great help. As soon as the newly formed class poured in, hamming,
chattering, and yelling as usual, she would rise at the front and say firmly:
“I need silence, and silence I will have.”
Had I spoken in the same way, nothing would have happened. But when Mrs. Jackson
spoke, everyone heard her, and silence always followed. Then I could begin the lesson.
For more than a month we went over old material, and I must admit, it turned out to be
useful for many of the eighth graders. They enjoyed giving correct answers and
collecting good grades, so important at the end of the year. It raised the spirit of the
school. Discipline improved — for a time.
But the regular teaching plans were gone. Our kids would graduate undereducated.
They were the ones to pay for the principal’s failure.
The silver lining was not bright enough to light the entire cloud. Most of the Special Ed
students could not keep up with the regular kids. A few showed interest; most lagged far
behind. Attention deficit disorder, which afflicted many of them, took its toll. Mrs.
Jackson did her best to control the troublemakers, but I could see at times how much
effort it cost her.
Still, we went on. I tried hard to teach this mixture of quick and slow children. The slower
ones got little; the brighter ones were weary of the simplified explanations I had to give.
No wonder the results were meager.
Betty, an “A” student with rich golden hair tied into a gorgeous braid, sat with a thick
book hidden in her lap. Her writing showed an exceptional journalistic style; I was
overjoyed with her essays and paragraphs. I urged her to think about a career in
journalism, but she dreamed of becoming an engineer, and nothing could turn her
aside. I even spoke to her father, a thoughtful factory worker. He listened politely,
flattered, but gave no certain answer. At least I tried, and perhaps my concern made his
day.
Andrea, a Black girl, looked through a biology book. She dreamed of becoming a
neurosurgeon. Once she asked me about studying in Russia; I firmly talked her out of it.
The last thing I would wish for her was to face real racists.
Mr. President, as usual, sat upright in his seat, making careful notes of what he already
knew. I admired this young Black gentleman. Nowhere in the state could one find a
better candidate for school council president, and naturally he was elected without
competition. He seemed born for public service, so conscientious and attentive was he.
I always supported his talents as much as I could, addressing him not by name but by
title: Mr. President.
And then there was my favorite — Prince. He stared dreamily at the ceiling while rolling
scraps of paper into heavy wet balls, useful for throwing later. For the moment he
behaved, only storing them in his pocket. The little rascal!
His parents had registered him as mentally retarded to receive more welfare, and
doctors had subjected him to unnecessary treatments. As a result, the boy — who had
been perfectly healthy — became unusually sharp. The school program was nothing to
him. In math and every other subject he was always the first, living up to his family
name. I once explained to him that Prince comes from the Latin princeps — “the first.”
Overjoyed, he puffed out his cheeks and straightened himself, trying to look taller. He
was not of great stature, but he always stood out. His inquisitive gaze, his restless
interest in everything around him, and the gap in his front teeth — the result of a fight,
with the other teeth shifting slightly toward the empty space — made him impossible to
overlook.
He could even use that gap to whistle loudly, piercingly, and it took me a long time to
discover he was the culprit. His face remained innocent, and only by watching the
suppressed smiles of the other kids did I finally catch the prankster.
No one ever used his first name. Even twenty years later, I cannot recall it. To all of us,
he was only Prince.
At that time he was angry and bored with the slowness of the Special Ed kids. Eager to
shout out the answers, he was tortured by my rule that whenever he blurted out an
answer, the credit went to the student he spoke for. The rule worked perfectly, but it
drove him to despair. He would pound his fist on the desk and groan with anguish.
Once he asked me why I was only a teacher and not a lawyer or a doctor. “Those
people make much more money,” he said. “They have big houses and yachts.”
Instead of answering, I asked him what plans he had for himself. “Medicine or law?”
He laughed. “Neither. Both are boring, and neither pays enough.”
“Then perhaps you should try being a mafia boss,” I suggested. “More fun, more money,
plenty of risk — and memories to cherish while serving a long prison term.”
“There you go!” he exclaimed, delighted.
With his cropped curls, his bright eyes, and his crooked smile, he really did resemble a
young convict in a movie. The path was possible. For in addition to all his talents, Prince
was a thief. Petty stealing was his art, and now and then it drove him into real trouble.
Chapter 3
There were about fifty students in my class in those days. The room was big, with two
doors on opposite ends. Large windows stretched along one wall, filling it with plenty of
sunshine. At first glance, it all looked perfect. But the never-ending hum of the window
air conditioners was a constant annoyance. I had to speak at the very top of my voice,
and the students’ chatter always sounded louder here than in other rooms. It was never
easy to hold their attention.
The “special” contingent sat together on the left side of the room. Those poor souls
weren’t allowed to leave their seats, talk to one another, or walk to the windows to peer
outside. Everything they were used to in their regular classes was forbidden here, and it
did nothing good for their spirit. By the end of the day, they could hardly sit still, and
even Mrs. Jackson could do little about it. For them, the regular classes turned into
torture, and within a week or two, they began to pay back with mean-spirited pranks.
Still, little by little, we lived through the ordeal and somehow brought the entire swarm of
eighth graders to the day of the annual test. The bright ones passed without much
trouble. The vast gray majority failed. No matter how hard the principal tried to comfort
the staff with his numbers, it was obvious: of all the middle schools in town, we were the
worst.
I heard from some teachers about another school, much like ours, that was eventually
disbanded for the same reason — its hopeless inconsistency. Most of the teachers were
laid off, the students reassigned elsewhere. The old ugly red-brick building stood
abandoned for a time, until it was finally torn down. In its place, a new division of the city
library was built.
Such a fate seemed unlikely for our school, since it was the only middle school serving
a large part of town. Nevertheless, the test results made our principal restless and
vexed. He gathered the teachers’ council, hoping to gain support for his conclusions.
But my unexpected revolt ruined his plans. After that, the grovelers kept their distance
from me. My friends from the coffee club, however, looked at me with hidden smiles and
silent approval. They knew I didn’t care much about my position for the next school
year. None of us in the coffee club could be certain of our future anyway. The principal’s
ruthless habit of rejecting “undesirable” teachers in the very last week before the new
year was well known. His parting line was always the same: “Enjoy your vacation,
collegians!”
Chapter 4
I must admit, I liked him very much in the beginning.
When I first saw the principal, I was startled: he looked exactly like my first father-in-law.
Like a twin, with only one difference — the principal’s skin was a bit darker. That could
be explained easily enough: my father-in-law lived in Russia, where the sun is far less
aggressive.
My father-in-law was Jewish; the principal passed for African American, and everyone
accepted him as such. My father-in-law had fought in World War II and was rewarded
with orders and medals. The principal, much younger, hadn’t even had the chance to
serve in Vietnam, though he had once been in the U.S. Army. At times, he appeared at
school in military uniform and high boots — the image was undeniably impressive.
My father-in-law had been chief of supply in a large research center, a very respectable
position in Russia. The principal impressed me in another way: he held a Ph.D. in
Philosophy. That was a degree I knew I could never achieve.
As much as he could, the principal tried to shape the school in military style. Students
wore khaki pants with shirts of three different colors: one for sixth grade, one for
seventh, and one for eighth. The eighth graders were marked by electric-green shirts.
Boys and girls alike.
Every week, teachers submitted discipline scores. If the combined number was high
enough, students were rewarded with “Jeans Friday.” The principal, however, reserved
the right to grant jeans day even when scores were low. It was a cheap trick to buy
popularity — and it worked.
Another of his tricks was more humiliating. He often burst into a classroom mid-lesson
with some unimportant announcement, no apology given. The interruption itself was the
point: it showed who really owned the place. Students respected Dr. Adrian. To them,
he was the master of the school, the one to complain to about “vicious” teachers, the
arbiter of disputes. And I must admit, he could be good at settling conflicts.
But our duties as teachers were reduced to drill-sergeant rituals. At lunch, we had to line
the students up in pairs, demand complete silence, and march them in formation down
the hall. If even a whisper was heard, they went back to class, sat down, then lined up
again. Sometimes it took several tries before the procession was fit to move.
The principal sat at a small table along the route, papers spread before him, glancing up
to review the line. If he didn’t approve, back everyone went to start again.
That was the breaking point for me. In his rigid pursuit of discipline, he made no
distinction between students and teachers. To him, we were no more than drill
sergeants to his generalship. And what can a drill sergeant teach you, really? Discipline,
yes — but never knowledge. My respect for his Ph.D. in Philosophy vanished.
I stopped trying to conceal my dislike. When I met him in a crowded hallway, I would
deliberately turn my back. While others scrambled to show vigilance during recess, I
stood calm, made no effort to restrain the children in his presence. Did he notice?
Perhaps. I didn’t care. I knew my first year at that school would surely be my last, and I
had no regrets.
Then came an unexpected turn.
The students discovered my recently published novel on Amazon. It was about a
Russian university professor, and suddenly their curiosity about me surged. I was the
first real writer they had ever met.
Even my colleagues in the coffee club were amazed. Some ordered the book, asked me
to sign it. Though there was no similarity between me and the main character, they
began calling me “Professor.”
I was told that whenever Dr. Adrian heard my new nickname, he frowned.
Chapter 5
Cameron did not show up in my class anymore. It seemed he had been placed on home
detention, though we, teachers, were never officially informed. His “Liar!” outburst
clearly hadn’t been forgiven, so his disappearance wasn’t a surprise. He had lingered in
the eighth grade for too long, making no progress. His discipline was a constant
problem. Dr. Adrian finally had enough reason to get rid of him by transferring him
somewhere else.
Cameron was too old for middle school and too incompetent for high school. He looked
like the perfect candidate to join the prison population, though he hadn’t yet been
caught in anything serious. Still... everyone knew he was a real gangster. He was
involved in drug dealing, had been arrested twice for loitering and fighting, and then
released without bond or court charges. Obviously, the police were tolerating the gang,
biding their time while tracing its connections. I can’t explain it otherwise.
He was surprisingly smart, though he lived by his own moral code and some unwritten
street rules. In my science class, he could show sudden bursts of genuine interest. One
day he was fascinated by the second law of thermodynamics; on another, he sat staring
blankly at the window, ignoring every demand to return to his seat. More than once, I
had to press the emergency button for the guards. They were visibly uneasy around
him, but Cameron didn’t care about being escorted out. The next day, he’d be back,
ready to dive into a new lesson as if nothing had happened.
We had plenty of difficult kids, but Cameron was different. It was as if he were marked
by some dramatic fate. I studied him closely, trying to understand his psychology. Once
I explained existentialism to him and even gave him a collection of Albert Camus’s
stories. He flipped through the pages absently, as if searching for pictures. Finding
none, he pocketed the book politely. Whether he read it or not, I never knew. A week
later, I found it left on my desk.
His special respect, however, I earned in the most unexpected way.
To supplement my thin teacher’s salary, I delivered pizzas a few nights a week. My
delivery routes often crossed the neighborhoods where my most troublesome students
lived. The district of project apartments and low-income housing was considered
dangerous. We never delivered after 9 p.m., though everyone knew you could just as
easily be robbed at 8:45. At first, the kids mocked me for the second job, but eventually
they accepted it. After all, seeing their teacher arrive at their door with steaming hot
pizza was far better than receiving failing grades from him.
The robbery attempt happened elsewhere, in a quiet, well-to-do neighborhood with no
real history of crime. A huge man in black ambushed me with pepper spray and
demanded my money bag. By the rules, I should have handed it over, but some rules
are too hard to follow. First, I was a teacher—I couldn’t simply yield to a thug. Second,
the insult of being sprayed in the face was unbearable. What am I, a cockroach to be
fumigated? The outrage lit me up.
Adrenaline countered the sting of the spray. (Don’t trust pepper spray too much, ladies
—it’s not as powerful as they promise. Buy a gun instead.) Dancing around like a boxer,
ignoring the blows I took, I kept aiming for his nose while shouting at the top of my
lungs: “Fire! Fire! Call 911!” The old Russian trick—turning robbery into a fire—worked.
Realizing the street would soon be full of onlookers, the coward bolted. I was left with a
few bruises, but full of pride, as if I had just won a sprint.
No one at school ever knew. The spring break that followed gave my bruises time to
fade. Only Cameron seemed to notice. I’m sure he knew who had tried to mug me,
though he would never say. But his attitude toward me changed. At least in my class,
his delinquency stopped.
Chapter 6
It was already quite green outside; those purple blossoms that flood the Midwest in
spring had spread across the trees. April, once cold and stubborn, had softened into
warm, windy days.
After the annual test, the combined classes remained intact. For the sake of his
precious “discipline,” the principal sacrificed the rights of the regular kids. My smart
ones visibly suffered in the company of troublemakers, many of whom could barely
read. Desperately trying to catch up with my broken teaching plans, I poured myself into
my brightest students. But the others — despite Mrs. Jackson’s help — were a constant
disturbance. The most painful thing was watching the average kids inevitably gravitate
toward the worst company. Apostle Paul was right: bad company corrupts good morals.
On top of all the nonsense, the trip to Dallas completely scrambled their young brains.
The principal basked in popularity. He posted a chart of bus seats on the wall and
traded spots like poker chips, taking “payment” in the form of good behavior. The eighth
graders were wild with anticipation; they could talk of nothing else. Discipline referrals
piled up. The kids who were doomed to stay home, punished and furious, tried to
provoke others into ruining the trip for everyone.
Fights had always been part of the background, but now they grew more frequent and
fierce. That year was marked by a new twist: girls fighting. Soon the girls even started
beating the boys. In eighth grade, changes come fast, and for some, this age is
especially brutal.
I had four excellent black girls in my advanced class. They were close friends, full of
chatter elsewhere, but in my class they sat upright, watchful, raising their hands for
every answer. They seemed grateful for my simple rules: copy everything from the
board, keep your notes in order. I gave extra credit for that sort of small diligence. They
took it seriously — one of them even amazed me with a colored chart of the sciences,
showing how one discipline reduced to the next: History
;
Physics
;
Mathematics
;
Philosophy
;
Biology
;
Chemistry
;
History again. She’d turned it into a merry-go
round of colors, drawn with flow masters.
But by year’s end, all four were drifting. Especially Laisha. Her mother confessed she no
longer knew how to reach her unhappy daughter. Laisha’s face was rarely free of a
scornful frown; her whole manner said, What y’all trying to sell me? Don’t make me an
idiot. She was an ordinary girl, really — but her new aggressiveness made her stand
out. And that made her popular with the troublemakers.
One day, I was in the middle of explaining momentum. I’d just told my smart ones how a
tiny bullet could knock down an elephant when — whack! An acorn, slung from a
slingshot, struck me square in the forehead and sent me sprawling from my chair onto
the floor.
It was so perfectly illustrative that, despite the sparks in my eyes, I laughed.
Unprofessionally, stupidly — but I laughed. The class went dead silent. They thought I’d
lost my mind, that I’d leap up and kill them all. How could they know it wasn’t madness
that made me laugh, but recognition? That with them, I too longed for summer break.
That with them, I too hated this idiotic school.
I knew who’d risked my eyesight that day. But I didn’t want Laisha in trouble. She’d
already learned enough from her mischief. Instead, I invited her mother for a parent
teacher conference.
When the two of them sat across from my desk the next afternoon, Laisha looked as
pale as a black girl can look. She braced for me to expose her. But I didn’t mention the
acorn. Instead, I spoke about her age, about responsibility, about the dangers of bad
company, about the attention she wasn’t giving to her studies — all the usual teacher’s
nonsense.
Laisha burst into tears. She sent me a look of pure gratitude and promised to do better.
And she did. She turned into a good student, and later, a teacher herself.
That was my small pedagogical victory — a fight in which I could easily have lost an
eye.
Chapter 7
In the next fight, I did not win. Had I been smarter, I might have avoided it. But I was
distracted, thinking of something else, not ready for a fight at all. Meanwhile, it was in
full swing right on my way.
I was climbing the stairway to the second floor when I heard an agitated roar that
quickened my steps. In the middle of the corridor, I found a dense crowd of kids,
buzzing with excitement, their attention fixed on some disgrace unfolding before them.
A tall, slender Creole girl—one of those poor, troubled souls—had Shorty Sean pinned
on the floor. Sean, small and underfed, maybe even sickly, was trying to cover his face
with his hands while her long legs delivered furious, punishing kicks.
I rushed in, pulled Sean away, and planted myself between them, arms spread wide as
if asking: What’s the big idea? Are you insane?
Her response was immediate. A fist landed squarely on my jaw.
A collective gasp ran through the crowd. She froze, stunned at what she had just done.
Not waiting for her recovery, I seized her arm above the elbow and, with a firm push,
steered her unsteady steps down the hallway, toward the office. She obeyed for a while.
But when we arrived, she exploded.
The first computer monitor went flying under her blow, shattering against the floor. The
elderly secretaries shrieked and scrambled under desks, hiding behind filing cabinets.
The girl, emboldened by the chaos, swept across the office like a storm. She toppled
desks, sent chairs clattering, smashed flowerpots with wild, triumphant laughter. She
plunged at the windows as though ready to hurl herself through the glass.
And I—standing by the door, jaw still aching—watched in a kind of awe. At last,
someone was tearing this cursed school apart!
A moment more and she might have flung herself outside. But then the side door burst
open, and the principal appeared—dressed sharp, almost like a soldier. With a move
both swift and practiced, he seized her from behind, twisted her arms, and locked her in
a stranglehold. Two guards rushed in (where had they been all this time?) and clamped
handcuffs on the raging beauty.
And then, another little story began.
Chapter 8
The bell rang; I went to class. The fire extinguisher on the wall was gone. I couldn’t
remember the last time I’d seen it there.
I looked at the students in their places and calmed down. Prince pretended to flip
through the textbook with interest. I grinned to myself: he never read any textbook. He
remembered everything at once, completely and forever.
I announced a homework check and moved along the rows, glancing at the kids’ paper
slips. The homework wasn’t hard—hardly a science assignment at all. After all, Dr.
Adrian had devised a clever compromise for our uneven classes: each teacher was to
give the students ten rarely used English words. The task was simply to compose three
sentences with them. Easy enough, but useful. A computer dictionary program offered
plenty of “word of the day” options, so I never had trouble finding words. Even our
“Coffee Club” crowd agreed it was a smart strategy.
This time the words were: Egregious, Bleak, Sanctimonious, Trite, Hapless. I had to
admit; it was amusing. Most of the principal’s fawners grumbled about this exercise, but
I was just glad—my English was improving.
“What makes you smile?” Andrea, the future neurosurgeon, asked as I stopped at her
desk.
I chuckled lightly. “All your sentences are about medicine. Even with words like these,
you stay in your subject. That’s real dedication. As a sign of appreciation, I’ll give you
ten extra credit points.”
“She doesn’t need them,” one girl protested. “She already has a straight A!”
“‘My cup runneth over,’ Psalm 23 says. Exactly the case here,” I replied.
“You’re not supposed to teach us religion!” another girl shot back.
“I don’t…” I muttered. “It’s just a reference.”
At that moment, I came to Prince’s desk. He sat there with his bored face, but on his
desk lay a neatly written homework slip—the very same I had seen just a moment ago
on Ben’s desk. Ben had slipped it to him while my back was turned. I placed it quietly
back on Ben’s desk.
“No points for you today, Ben,” I said. “They all belong to Prince now.”
Then I turned to His Highness. “And you, Prince—please come see me after class. Your
failure to turn in written work has put you in real trouble. Despite your talent, you barely
have a C. But—” I cut off his indignation with a wave—“I’ll give you another chance. I’ll
prepare an assignment that might save your grade.”
I moved on without looking back. But I knew he would come. Prince never missed a
chance to prove he could solve anything in math or physics.
And indeed, after classes he appeared, determined, seating himself at a desk and
staring at me from under his brows. He was ready for any test. Instead, I gave him only
a long, steady look. Then I stood, walked to the bookcase, and drew out a camcorder
hidden behind last year’s student crafts.
His face darkened. A flash of regret, of annoyance, crossed his eyes—he hadn’t known.
He’d thought me so na;ve. But I wasn’t about to leave my camera unguarded where he
might snatch it. I had planted it just before he came.
“Tonight,” I said, “you’ll watch a movie. With your parents. At six o’clock, in the
principal’s office. We’ll enjoy together the recording of how you stole the fire
extinguisher. That’s all for now. Go tell your mom so she’s prepared.”
Prince sulked. “It’s empty now. No use in it anymore.”
“It can be recharged,” I replied.
“No…” he sighed deeply. “It burned down.”
“What?!” I froze. “Was it you who made the morning news?”
I remembered the breakfast report: an abandoned house had gone up in flames, ending
with an explosion. Police suspected a drug lab, the FBI was even involved, but they
found nothing. A mystery. And now—was the culprit sitting here in front of me?
Prince said nothing. He looked crushed, weighed down.
“I’m not an investigator,” I said at last. “Let’s agree we never spoke about this. You told
me nothing. Here—take this test. Work it out at home.”
I opened my drawer and pulled out a list of the last two weeks’ vocabulary. “Definitions
for each word, and three detailed sentences. Not short ones. Do it all in this notebook,
in your best handwriting. Dr. Adrian should see your effort before agreeing to raise your
grade.”
I set the new notebook on his desk.
“Now go. That’s it for today.”
Chapter 9
Here it was again—a piece of paper with names, dates, and times of conversations.
One more. Amazingly, the more “socialism” seeps into public schools, the more
paperwork multiplies. It painfully reminds me of the Soviet Union—long gone, but alive
in every bureaucracy.
This sheet listed the phone calls I had made last week to my students’ parents. I could
hardly say those calls were much help. In rare cases, a student would improve
afterward. More often, the troublemakers, after parental scolding, would straighten up
for a few days only to return to their malicious tracks within a week. The second call
added little. The third one usually turned parental irritation against me—the pesky,
incapable teacher.
Obliged to make the calls anyway, I invented my own technique. After the second call, I
would provoke the incorrigible one into something good—as if answering a trivial
question or completing a simple assignment. Then, the same evening, I phoned his
parents with a glowing report of “remarkable improvement” thanks, of course, to their
efforts. A cheap compliment like, “Parents like you are the foundation of America’s
future,” transformed them into allies—ready to help next time the obnoxious child acted
out.
Still, the list in my hand—about ten calls—felt useless. Try restraining kids in springtime,
when hormones burst into their blood, when classrooms overflow, when summer break
is close, and the merry-go-rounds at Dallas Six Flags are spinning their young heads.
Sam was on the phone when I entered his office.
“Due to her pregnancy, we can’t allow her to attend classes. We’ll provide assignments
she can complete at home. That way, her year won’t be lost.”
I raised my eyebrows, silently asking if I should come later. Sam gestured me to the
armchair. I sat quietly until he hung up.
“My God, Sam—who’s pregnant now?” I asked.
“Well… I shouldn’t tell. But… it’s Quiet Katherine.”
“What?!” My amazement burst out. “I can’t believe it.”
Quiet Katherine was the last girl I would have imagined. She had joined us in October,
withdrawn and unsociable. The kids soon lost interest and left her alone. Her
appearance was more than ordinary: neat, pale hair in a ponytail, always buttoned and
zipped as tightly as possible. She looked dressed like a suitcase. A straight “B” student,
with no ambition for an “A.”
“What’s the story?” I asked, still stunned.
“Stepfather,” Sam said simply. “He should be detained. But both mother and daughter
are deeply attached to him. I spoke with him—he looks like a decent, hardworking
fellow.”
“What a nightmare,” I muttered. “And how do we deal with that?”
“Their attorney asked for a week to move them back to Mexico. Otherwise, the man
gets his term. A long one.”
“And then two unhappy souls—no, three, maybe four—visiting him on weekends,” I said
bitterly. “Still waters run deep. Or, as we say in Russia, demons infest quiet waters.”
“I hope the judge lets them all return home,” Sam sighed. Then he glanced at me.
“Listen, I passed your class the other day. It’s constant hubbub in there. I heard you
trying to teach, but who’s listening?”
“A few smart ones,” I said. “Mrs. Jackson was a big help at first, but even she’s
frustrated now. Is it better in the other classes?”
“I’d say quieter,” Sam admitted.
“So, the thing with me is—I’m a tamer,” I sighed. “A good lecturer. A bad policeman.”
“Come on, you can do something. I know you can. Take some measures.”
“Measures can be taken,” I said slowly. “But collectively. By all of us, the teaching staff.”
“What do you mean?” Sam leaned forward with interest.
“Joseph Campbell describes an old tribal practice,” I began. “When a teenager needed
taming, the villagers placed a cauldron in the center of the settlement. In front of
everyone, the delinquent received a club to the head, and a fine meal was cooked from
him for all to enjoy. That African proverb, ‘It takes a village to raise a child,’ has its roots
in those customs. Effective, certainly—but hard to implement in our situation.”
Sam stared at me, dumbfounded. His Crocodile Gena smile vanished.
“I’m not a cannibal,” I continued, despite his interruption. “The very idea of devouring
some of our villains makes me want to throw up. But God is my witness—out of
necessity, for the sake of our profession—we must at least pretend to enjoy it.
Otherwise, what are we? Clawless lions? Toothless dragons?
“At home, as you well know, those kids get whipped and bitten enough. But in school?
Go on, try it. I’m not saying we should return to legal public spanking—it’s no less
humiliating than eating them for dinner—but I am sure of one thing: the goats must be
separated from the sheep. For the sake of the smart children, who truly suffer in the
wrong company. Their parents pay the taxes that finance this public school, and they
expect us to do our best.
“And what can I do with the ballast of the mentally retarded? A squadron at sea is only
as fast as its slowest ship. A battery pack is only as strong as its weakest cell. This
slogan, ‘No Child Left Behind,’ ruins the lives of the best in favor of the worst. Am I still
in Soviet Russia, where everyone must be forcefully equalized?”
“Wait, wait a minute—you’re not at a street rally. Tell me, technically, how would you
separate the good from the bad?” Sam interrupted my tirade.
“The school has two wings, left and right. Why not start the delinquent classes half an
hour earlier, arrange their recesses differently? That way the bad company won’t
seduce the gray majority, who otherwise will drift toward the likes of Betty, Mr.
President, and Andrea. Isn’t it worth a try? Can’t we at least test it next year?”
“Next year you and I will be in different schools, I bet,” Sam sighed sadly.
“I certainly will. But what makes you think your service won’t be welcome at this
school?”
“I’d rather not talk about that. As for your strategy—don’t even think of it. You’ll never
find supporters. You’d better look at this.” He handed me a sheet of paper.
At first, I saw the imprint of a rubber sole. Then I realized it was a draft of song lyrics,
written in jerky, half-legible handwriting, covered with corrections. With some effort, I
read:
Another morning with
No sun, no wind, no sky,
Another foggy day breaks,
Starless, murky night.
I see no hope within
The long hours ahead,
When all is gray,
When all is dull and dead.
Refrain:
I see no sense in life, in love, in happiness.
My God, why did you send me here—alone and distressed?
Take me back, I beg you, I implore.
Don’t leave me here. I can’t endure it anymore.
I know for sure
That in another, perfect world
I was beloved one,
I was cherished and adored.
I dwelt in the presence
Of Your glory, I was strong.
Oh Lord, just tell me—
What have I done so wrong?
Refrain
So many dull and nasty
Foggy days ahead.
I’m still so young—
I can’t expect to soon be dead.
But death’s the only way
To come back to You, O Lord.
Hear my prayer,
I’m waiting for Your word.
Refrain—and the sound of the shot in the silence.
“Who else but Sheila Carpenter?” I said. “The Edgar Poe admirer. Yes—here’s the
rhyme from her beloved Raven: implore—nevermore. She has talent, no doubt, and I
believe she’ll succeed—if she survives her follies. This is alarming. What are your plans
—suicide watch?”
“You think she’s capable of… something?”
“Who knows? When I was in school, we had a strange guy in my class. Talented with a
pencil—he could have become a fine artist. But he, too, filled his work with suicidal
themes. It became so common that we stopped taking him seriously. We even
nicknamed him Hangman, and he liked it. And then one day he jumped from the roof of
a nine-story building.”
“It’s time to refer her to a psychologist. I’ll make the call,” Sam said.
“You may. But it’ll take a few days for one to show up. Let me try something first. I’ll talk
to her about this poem. Make a copy for yourself, but I’ll return the original. She’ll
believe I found it and didn’t pass it to you—the authorities.”
“Try that. Then tell me how it goes.” Sam shrugged his broad shoulders.
Chapter 10
Sheila Carpenter… I would call her an indigo child. She was never quite “normal.” Her
individuality set her apart. Quiet, thoughtful, withdrawn into herself—yet incredibly open
minded. She read books on strange religions. On “jeans day” she dressed in a witch
hippy style, favoring dark colors: long skirts, purple nail lacquer, and beads—small and
large—woven into her long, soft, wheat-colored hair. The black girls suspected her of
practicing black magic. The books she read only confirmed the impression. Once, a girl
who dared to pick on Sheila was badly injured in the gym. Some swore Sheila had
stared at her just before she fell. They whispered it was her spell. Sheila didn’t mind the
reputation. Indeed, there was something daunting in her pale blue eyes. To say it short:
Sheila was an outsider—and comfortable with it.
In some ways, she reminded me of Julia, my third high-school love. Julia—slim, blond,
freckled, among the best in grades. I was a hooligan, yet when I once stood at the
chalkboard and recited Pushkin from memory, she looked at me with delight. The
assignment was to choose a Pushkin piece. I read:
Not by old masters, rich on crowded walls,
My house I ever thought to ornament…
That reading made Julia see me differently. We went together to lectures at the
Tretyakov Gallery, walked through bleak Moscow winter streets, spoke about everything
—but nothing certain ever came of it. Later I learned she was deeply in love with a
Jewish boy, preparing with his family to leave for Israel.
Julia was a wounded soul. She could not bear rudeness. She longed for eccentric
brilliance from me, some spark. Instead, I smothered her hope with my sheer simplicity.
Once I asked her: “Why on some paintings Christ’s wound is on the left side, and on
others on the right?” She turned pale, as if recoiling from something vulgar, and avoided
me for days.
Years later, in the rough nineties, when rudeness became the Moscow norm, Julia
broke. She was placed in a mental hospital and died there, still in her early thirties. Her
secret dream had always been to leave Russia and live in the West, in some land of
freedom and happiness.
Sheila was born in such a “La-La Land.” But unlike Julia, she found no special charm in
it. With her mom, a Balzac-style dyed blond in her second youth, she had come to our
town a year earlier, to care for her aging grandmother. Their shabby house, half-sunk
under heavy trees, stood on one of the least sightly streets about a mile from the
school.
One day Sam asked me to cover the English class during my planning period. Their
regular teacher was one of those “sing-along” types—shrill, demanding, vengeful. The
kids sighed with relief when they saw me instead.
I divided the chalkboard in two. On the left I wrote:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
On the right I wrote:
Bright are the stars that shine,
Dark is the sky.
I know this love of mine
Will never die,
And I love her.
The class watched without much enthusiasm.
“Today we’ll break some rules,” I said. “For trifles, I’ll give points—points that will count
toward your next science test.”
That woke them up.
“Who are the authors? Right side—ten points. Left side—twenty.”
Benjamin Johnson—Prince’s accomplice, a musician from God—raised his hand. “I
know the one on the right. It’s the Beatles.”
“More precisely,” I pressed.
“Lennon,” he said.
“Why not McCartney?”
“By the style. Bright are the stars… That’s Lennon’s voice.”
I nodded. “I agree. Officially it’s Lennon–McCartney, but it feels like Lennon. Ten points,
Ben. Sing it, and you’ll get another ten.”
He hesitated a second, then sang—quiet at first, then louder, carried away. His voice
was deep, mellow, velvet. The room hushed. When he finished, applause and whistles
filled the room.
“Now, Ben—try the left side.”
He frowned, thoughtful. “It looks good. I’d say… King Crimson?”
The boy amazed me. “Well then—let’s hear it in King Crimson’s style.”
Ben closed his eyes, caught the rhythm, and sang Byron as though it were prog-rock.
His voice rose in a wild vibrato, and a loose piece of metal in the heating vent resonated
along. We all burst out laughing. More applause.
“Forty points, Ben! But it isn’t King Crimson. Anyone else?”
“She walks in beauty… It’s Byron. Lord Byron.”
The last thing I expected was the right answer, but it came from the back row. Sheila.
She had closed her occult paperback and looked up calmly from her window seat.
“That’s right—Lord Byron. Twenty points. Will you read for us something else of Byron?”
“I’m not sure I can do it by heart,” she said. Smirks spread among her rivals. Sheila met
them with fire. “But I can read another one. No worse than Byron.”
“Come on up,” I invited.
Sheila strode to the board, stepping firmly in her high heels. Then she surprised me
even more.
“Edgar Allan Poe. The Raven.” She pronounced it and began:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…
Each word she spoke was sharp and deliberate. Her rivals shrank under her straight,
demonic gaze. I shivered when she reached:
What that grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore’!
It turned into a remarkable class. After Sheila, my troublemakers recalled swaggering
street rap. I was generous with points. Everybody left happy.
It was about five minutes before the bell when Ben left his seat and joined Sheila at her
last desk. That short time was enough for them to discover one another. From then on,
they always sat together—to the jealousy of the black beauties.
Their sweet relations didn’t last long, though.
Then the weird poetry piece popped up.
Chapter 11
Did I really believe that Sheila can commit suicide? Of course I didn’t. I just didn’t want
Sam or someone else to talk to her about that all. A special protocol of different
procedures for students with suicidal thoughts or behavior should be applied to her.
Julia, the third high school love of mine, would certainly hang herself if treated like that.
No doubt Sheila would do the same. I had to invent something to make Sheila look
happy again. But what?
I looked over the class. The kids’ things left at the desks. They all were outside in the
school yard; I heard their voices. It was about ten minutes left before they are to be
back to fill their sits for my class. Sheila’s shoulder bag lay thrown carelessly on her
desk. Unzipped.
I checked my briefcase. Here it is. A cheap copy of the New Testament with Psalms I
rescued a few days ago from getting wet. It flew out from the passenger window of
some car in front of me and landed on the wet pavement. I stopped my car, got out into
the rain and picked it up. Cursing the sinners that ran fast through the yellow light I
shook the water off the blue paperback and dropped it into my briefcase. I lay forgotten
there since then.
I found John 15:9, took the yellow marker and highlighted: “As the Father has loved me,
so have I loved you.” A narrow strip torn out of a copy paper list served as a bookmark.
The I opened 1 Corinthians and marked the verses: “Don’t you know that you yourself
are God’s temple and God’s Holy Spirit dwells in your midst? If anyone destroys God’s
temple, God will destroy that person.” Though the Apostle Paul was talking about some
wrongdoing communities, it could easily be applied to a someone’s self. To me the Bible
speak against suicide intentions in those verses. Another narrow strip torn out of the
same copy paper piece as a bookmark. I walked to the last desk and slipped the God’s
Word into Sheila’s shoulder bag.
The bell rang. In a few minutes my class was full of the excited kids. They were
chattering, yelling, pushing one another, running... they all were well and sound but
Sheila. She strolled indifferently to her window seat pulled out one of her quirky books
out of her bag. Thanks God she did not notice the Bible I placed deep. She’ll surely will.
At home.
Ben was talking to some girls in the other end of the class. It was already few days
since they sat separately paying no attention to one another. I realized that the Bible in
this case might not be enough. I surely had to manage something else to break the ice
core in between the two youngsters.
The class started. I passed out the quiz on the science movie the kids watched the day
before and sat at my computer. It should be in some of the folders. I hoped it was still
there. I prayed for it. At last, I’ve found what I was looking for. It was my own lyrics on
“The Souvenirs” by Demis Rouses. The singer was hardly popular in the US but much
beloved in Russia. Once I found the original lyrics of the song too weak for the beautiful
music and composed my own version. An exercise in poetry writing; no more than that.
For the situation, however, it could work out well.
This torture no more I can stand
Along the waves over the sand
I walk and see your dear outline ahead
But never I can see you clear.
You're gone, and here I'm alone
This life I carry like a stone
I envy you, you're free of pain, of life, and death
Of sorrow and of happiness.
Refrain:
I will enjoy your eternal love to me
As if you're near and you can feel and see
Though I'm here and though you are already there
Our souls together everywhere.
I should forget and go on
Reset myself to carry on
Till with the time you'll fade forever from my mind
But looks like I'm not of the kind.
The surf rolls waves along my way
Your outline is so far away
I'll come again to this forgotten empty shore
To be with you forever more.
Yea... it should work. - I decided. I printed out two copies. One of those I put into my
desk and the other I took to my lab. The kids, busy with an easy assignment, looked all
right. Mrs. Jackson was sitting at the back of the class observing them. So, I closed the
door behind me, cramped the copy of the lyrics in my hand, sprinkled it with some water
and tramped it with my feet to give it natural look. Now i t looked natural to be found on
the hall’s floor. Exactly as I needed it to appear.
The class, eventually, came to its end. Since it was the last one, the kids were gone in a
minute. Only Sheila Carpenter wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t take a school bus; she just
walked home. Leisurely she put on her bag’s strap over her shoulder and walked to the
door.
‘Hey, poetess! - I caught her on the way. - Isn’t it one of yours? I found it on the floor.’
She came to my desk, took my lyrics, glanced without any interest. It looked like she
would just reply “No” and leave, but she read it to the end.
‘No, it is not mine.’ - She said. I saw she was intrigued whose creation it might be.
‘Then its Ben’s, I think. Okay, you may dismiss. Have a good one.’ - I stretched my hand
for the lyrics.
‘May I keep it?’ She asked holding the piece of cramped paper at her chest.
‘Sure, you may!’ - I waved my hand nonchalantly as if my whole soul wasn’t jumping
with joy.
When Sheila left, I took the other copy and rushed to the first floor to the very end of the
school’s left wing where the music classes were located.
I found Ben sitting behind the pile of drums, sticks in his hands, ready start a loud drum
roll. I lifted my hand colling for his attention. Thanks God there was no one else in the
room.
‘Read this.’ - gave him the piece of paper.
First, he frowned: what good could come out of such a teacher’s appearance? Then he
realized, it was no more than lyrics and relaxed. He read it to the end and said:
‘Cool. - He looked at me with question. - Who wrote it?’
‘I did. - I said. - A long time ago. I gave a copy of it to Sheila and told her I think it is
yours. Don’t be surprised if she asks you about it.’
Ben frowned even more.
‘What for?’ - he asked.
‘To raise her interest in you. I don’t know what happened in between you, guys, and this
is none of my business. I just want her well and sound. If you want her in the noose, or
poisoned, or drowned in some pond, keep avoiding her. If she asks whether it is your
lyrics tell her the truth and let her take her life. It’s all up to you, boy. I did for you two all
I could.’
‘What if she won’t believe it is my lyrics? What if she’ll never ask me about it?’
‘She will. I bet she will.’ - I said and left him full of thoughts.
Chapter 12
Did I really believe Sheila could commit suicide? Of course not. I just didn’t want Sam or
anyone else to start talking to her about it. A special protocol of different procedures for
students with suicidal thoughts or behavior should be applied to her. Julia, the third high
school love of mine, would certainly have hanged herself if treated that way. No doubt
Sheila would do the same. I had to invent something to make her look happy again. But
what?
I looked over the class. The kids’ things were still at their desks. The kids were all
outside in the schoolyard; I heard their voices. About ten minutes were left before they
would be back for my class. Sheila’s shoulder bag lay carelessly on her desk. Unzipped.
I checked my briefcase. There it was: a cheap copy of the New Testament with Psalms,
the one I had rescued from the rain a few days ago. It had flown out of the passenger
window of some car in front of me and landed on the wet pavement. I stopped, got out
into the rain, and picked it up. Cursing the sinners who ran fast through the yellow light,
I shook the water off the blue paperback and dropped it into my briefcase. There it had
lain, forgotten until now.
I opened to John 15:9, took the yellow marker, and highlighted: “As the Father has
loved me, so have I loved you.” A narrow strip torn from a sheet of copy paper served
as a bookmark. Then I opened 1 Corinthians and marked the verses: “Don’t you know
that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in your midst? If
anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person.” Though the Apostle Paul
was speaking about wayward communities, it could easily be applied to someone’s own
self. To me, those verses spoke clearly against suicide. Another strip of paper marked
the place. I walked to the last desk and slipped the Word of God into Sheila’s shoulder
bag.
The bell rang. A few minutes later my class was full again — the kids chattering, yelling,
pushing one another, running. They were all well and alive… all but Sheila. She strolled
indifferently to her window seat and pulled one of her quirky books from her bag. Thank
God she didn’t notice the Bible I had placed deep inside. She would. At home.
Ben was talking to some girls at the other end of the room. For days now, he and Sheila
had sat apart, ignoring one another. I realized the Bible, in this case, might not be
enough. I surely had to find something else to break the ice forming between the two of
them.
The class began. I passed out the quiz on the science movie the kids had watched the
day before and sat down at my computer. Somewhere in one of the folders it had to be.
I hoped it was still there. I prayed for it. At last, I found what I was looking for: my own
lyrics written to the melody of “The Souvenirs” by Demis Roussos. The singer was
hardly popular in the U.S., but much beloved in Russia. Once, finding the original lyrics
too weak for such beautiful music, I had written my own. Just an exercise in poetry. No
more than that. But in this situation, it might work.
This torture no more I can stand
Along the waves over the sand
I walk and see your dear outline ahead
But never I can see you clear.
You're gone, and here I'm alone
This life I carry like a stone
I envy you, you're free of pain, of life, and death
Of sorrow and of happiness.
Refrain:
I will enjoy your eternal love to me
As if you're near and you can feel and see
Though I'm here and though you are already there
Our souls together everywhere.
I should forget and go on
Reset myself to carry on
Till with the time you'll fade forever from my mind
But looks like I'm not of the kind.
Refrain
The surf rolls waves along my way
Your outline is so far away
I'll come again to this forgotten empty shore
To be with you forever more.
Yes… it should work, I decided. I printed two copies. One I left in my desk; the other I
carried to the lab. The kids, busy with their easy assignment, looked fine. Mrs. Jackson
was sitting at the back of the class, watching them. So, I slipped out, closed the door
behind me, crumpled the copy of the lyrics in my hands, straightened is, sprinkled it with
a little water, and trampled it with my feet. Now it looked like something naturally
dropped and lost on the hall floor. Exactly the way I needed it to appear.
The class eventually came to an end. Since it was the last period, the kids were gone in
a minute. Only Sheila Carpenter wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t take the bus; she just
walked home. Slowly, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
“Hey, poetess!” I stopped her. “Isn’t this one of yours? I found it on the floor.”
She came over, took the page from me, and glanced at it without interest. It seemed
she would just shrug and say No and leave. But instead, she read it to the end.
“No, it isn’t mine,” she said. I saw at once she was intrigued, wondering whose creation
it was.
“Then it’s Ben’s, I think. Okay, you may go. Have a good one.” I stretched out my hand
for the page.
“May I keep it?” she asked, holding the crumpled paper to her chest.
“Sure, you may!” I waved casually, though inside I was leaping with joy.
When Sheila left, I grabbed the other copy and rushed downstairs, to the very end of the
school’s left wing where the music classes were held.
I found Ben behind a pile of drums, sticks in his hands, ready to start a loud roll. I raised
my hand to catch his attention. Thank God there was no one else in the room.
“Read this,” I said, handing him the page.
At first, he frowned — what good could come from a teacher suddenly appearing? But
when he saw it was only lyrics, he relaxed. He read them through, then looked up:
“Cool. Who wrote it?”
“I did. A long time ago. I gave a copy to Sheila and told her I thought it was yours. Don’t
be surprised if she asks you about it.”
Ben frowned harder.
“What for?”
“To raise her interest in you. I don’t know what happened between you two, and it’s
none of my business. I just want her well and alive. If you want her in the noose, or
poisoned, or drowned in some pond, then keep avoiding her. If she asks whether it’s
yours, tell her the truth and let her take her life. It’s all up to you, boy. I’ve done for you
two all I could.”
“What if she doesn’t believe it’s mine? What if she never asks me?”
“She will. I bet she will.” I left him with his thoughts.
Chapter 13
“No! Don’t! Hold it, I said!”
Randy Dawson, a sly kid, had invented a new trick he’d been practicing for three days in
a row. Randy was Black, thin, medium height, not much different from any other boy in
appearance—but shrewd, clever, always ready for mischief. It was 8:35 in the morning.
The class had just started, and I saw the mocking glint in Randy’s eyes. He was
straining to pass gas.
“Don’t you do it!” I almost cried out. The class burst into laughter. Randy looked
delighted. His trick had worked.
“I’ll give you the restroom pass, Randy—but first I want you to hear what will happen to
you on this very day, about forty years from now.”
“What will happen to me?” Randy looked startled. The others—even Mrs. Jackson—
turned toward me with interest. Now it was my turn to mock the prankster. I stood up
and took a few steps in front of the class, pulling all eyes toward me.
“I don’t have a crystal ball, and I’m not a gypsy fortune-teller. But your future, Mr. Randy
Dawson, I can see quite clearly.” I paused for effect, then went on. “After graduating
from school, you’ll try yourself as a factory worker. You’ll find it boring soon. You’ll start
longing for different places, different people, even different countries. So, you’ll enlist in
the Marine Corps. And despite the hardships, you’ll like it so much that you’ll set your
sights on the United States Merchant Marine Academy. And you’ll get in.”
A few shouts of approval followed. I raised my hand for quiet and continued:
“Here the fog rolls in and obscures my vision, but I see you a few years later as a
prominent businessman, still restless, still convinced you’re capable of something
greater. And you’ll succeed. In about ten or twelve years, you’ll take the office of
Governor of this state.”
Gasps and murmurs filled the room. Mrs. Jackson smiled at her back desk, nodding at
my “divinations.”
“More than that,” I went on, “in forty years I see Mr. Randy Dawson as President of the
United States of America.”
The room exploded with whistles and applause. Randy jumped to his feet, raising his
clenched fists like a victorious athlete. I had certainly made him the hero of the day.
“But…” I added with a sigh, “an unexpected interview in a leading magazine will ruin the
President’s spotless reputation. One of his former classmates will recall how funny
young Randy Dawson used to be, with his very special habit. Every day at 8:35 in the
morning, he would pass gas in class.”
My last words drowned in a roar of laughter. Even Mrs. Jackson couldn’t resist
chuckling.
“Here’s your restroom pass, Randy. Go—take your time there, pondering your bright
future.”
Concealing his aggravation, Randy snatched the restroom pass from my hand and left
the room, still followed by laughter.
More than twenty years have passed since then. I’ve lost track of Randy Dawson. I wish
him well. Whether he graduated from the naval academy or chose another path—bless
him, Lord. Bless all those kids who are grown now, struggling through their own lives.
Bless them, Lord.
Yet the little event hadn’t lifted my mood that morning. Sheila’s window seat was empty.
She hadn’t shown up, and I felt uneasy. Did I do something wrong, interfering? Why did
I even care about that disdainful girl—and about Ben, the musician? Only one reason:
they reminded me too much of myself and Julia back in our teens.
“It’s good you came. I was about to call you,” Sam said as I entered his office during my
planning period. “Did you talk to Sheila Carpenter about something yesterday?”
My heart sank. “Well… actually, I did. Has something happened?”
“Nothing serious, but…” He hesitated. “Her mom called her in sick this morning. I spoke
to her myself. She said Sheila needs a day or two at home. I asked if it was because of
Sheila’s period—she could have just said yes—but she hesitated. To make it short,
something unusual is going on there. What did you talk to her about yesterday?”
I didn’t mention the trick with the Bible. He would have to report it to the principal, and I
didn’t want Dr. Adrian involved. Instead, I told Sam only about the lyrics I had passed on
to Sheila as Ben’s creation. It sounded innocent enough, and Sam calmed down. I
calmed down too. Nothing bad had happened. It was natural for such a sensitive girl to
overreact.
With plenty of time left in my planning period, I went back to my classroom to enjoy the
book I was reading.
I opened the door with my key and... saw Cameron sitting in the chair on the other side
of my desk.
Chapter 14
My first thought was: how did the boy get in here? Then again… for a street gangster, a
locked classroom door isn’t much of an obstacle. But there was something different in
his look, almost unrecognizable. His brows. They were gone — as if he’d shaved them
off, or… scorched them?
‘What a funny look, Cameron,’ I greeted him. ‘Did you just escape from a fire? What
happened?’
He shot me a glance, as if I’d guessed exactly what he wanted to hide. His face went
pale for a second, but then his defiant mask snapped back into place. A street animal,
ready to bite the moment you touched it.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Cameron said.
‘Then speak, since you came,’ I answered, taking my seat.
He thought for a moment, then forced it out:
‘Remember when you talked about the second law of thermodynamics?’
‘Well… yes.’ I was both surprised and flattered. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s easy,’ he frowned his bare forehead. ‘Like you said: “You can’t warm it up, it’ll cool
down.”’
‘Exactly! So, what? Have you built a perpetual motion machine?’
‘No. I just thought… if everything eventually cools down, if the Sun will expand and burn
the Earth to ashes, then what is it all for?’
‘What’s all?’ I pretended not to understand, though I did. I wanted him to keep sinking
into his sorrow for the universe.
‘All of it — achievements, art, buildings, fancy machines. If everything falls to entropy
and nothing resists it, then what are humans for?’
‘Eventually, yes, the Sun will expand and burn everything down. But you and your
descendants still have plenty of time to live a peaceful, prosperous life. Five billion years
— isn’t that a decent stretch?’
‘But it’s still a deadline. No matter how hard we try, it all ends with the Sun’s expansion.
So does life have any sense? Why do people lie?’
‘Hold on. Let’s separate the questions. We can’t do without lies. People lie out of fear, to
survive, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Insects, birds, animals — their camouflage
is a kind of lie. People lie when they dream, when they make up things that never
happened just to look better. Maybe pathetic, but hardly a mortal sin. People lie to profit.
Once, scientists put a group of students on a deserted island with one rule: no lying.
Within weeks, they nearly died of boredom because there was nothing left to talk about.
Lies are natural. Are you a never-liar? If I ask you what you do on the streets in the
middle of the night, will you tell me the truth?’
‘No. I’d lie to survive. But I’m talking about people who promise things they don’t even
plan to do. That’s like stealing. You can get killed if you don’t keep your word.’
‘In the gang world, yes, breaking promises can get you killed. But in ordinary life, lying
for advantage is common — disgusting, sure, but common. Even Dante, in The Divine
Comedy, put those who betray trust into the lowest circle of Hell. But what of it? Fighting
lies is like fighting windmills.’
Just then, the door opened and one of those “sing-along” teachers stepped in.
‘What are you doing here?’ she exclaimed, staring at Cameron. ‘You’re expelled — you
can’t be on school grounds!’
‘Look, Cameron’s my student, and this is my class. I’m the one in charge here. And I
haven’t seen any written notification about his expulsion. So, I politely ask you to leave.’
She looked at me as if I were insane, then left.
‘That old fool sings in our church choir,’ Cameron muttered, ‘once even tried to preach
forgiveness. And she’s the last f… bastard herself.’
‘Listen,’ I cut in, frowning, ‘if everyone around you is wrong, maybe the problem is you.’
‘And our pastor,’ Cameron went on as if he hadn’t heard me, ‘he gathered us recently
just to scare us with Hell. I asked him about Paradise. He had nothing certain to answer.
But ask him about Hell’s tortures — he knows all of them! “Bliss,” he yells. “Just enjoy
bliss in Paradise.” But how can you enjoy bliss without grief? When I pushed him, he
just yelled: “Think about where you’ll spend eternity!” Another old fool. Eternity has no
end — you can’t “spend” it.’
‘So, what does the second law of thermodynamics have to do with that?’ I asked,
glancing at the clock — only fifteen minutes left before the bell.
‘That’s the problem,’ Cameron said, locking eyes with me. ‘To keep from cooling down,
you need energy. Energy and matter are one, and matter has gravity. All our troubles
come from gravity. In this material world, gravity is an endless burden. That means this
world is Hell.’
I looked at Cameron with real admiration. I had posted E = mc; on the wall. I had
explained relativity in the simplest words I could. And here was this God-forsaken
gangster, chewing on it. All the strange gibberish he was spitting out — it was my
achievement. If even the worst of my students was so deeply impressed, then maybe
the better ones were too. Maybe, as a teacher, I was worth something.
‘One thing I can promise you for sure,’ I said. ‘There’s no gravity in Paradise. That’s the
best place to end up. You should work on it, my friend.’
‘Can you tell me about Paradise, about the Kingdom of Heaven?’ Cameron asked,
smirking.
‘Apostle Paul has already done it for you: “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor have
entered into the heart of man, the things God has prepared for those who love Him.” So,
you better be good and expect the best waiting for you there.’
‘In general,’ I added, ‘you’re asking the right questions. The philosopher Arthur
Schopenhauer said life is something that shouldn’t have been. In your reflections, better
focus on the main question of philosophy — the question of Life and Death. The rest will
follow. Here’s a book to help — clear and easy to read. Will Durant’s The Story of
Philosophy.’
I pulled the book out from my desk and handed it over. ‘First edition, collectible. I got it
for myself — but take it as a gift.’
The loudspeaker crackled. The voice of the same teacher who had just stormed out:
‘All teachers must present form 315 by the end of the day.’
Form 315 — code for: dangerous person in school. Lock the kids down. No movement
in the halls.
Cameron didn’t need it explained. He knew. It was time for him to leave. But it was too
late. The door burst open, and two school guards tumbled in.
‘Don’t you see I have a class here?’ I shouted. ‘Leave immediately!’
Startled, they retreated, shutting the door behind them. We were alone again — but not
for long.
‘Here’s about a hundred bucks,’ I emptied my wallet and shoved the cash toward him.
‘You’ll need it in jail. Pay me back someday.’
He slid the money into his inside pocket, eyeing me.
‘No. I won’t see you again,’ he said. ‘So, I have a present for you too.’
From his oversized jacket, he pulled out a Colt .45 and laid it on my desk.
The gun was absurdly alien among kids’ handouts, graded in red. It seemed too heavy
for the boy—too real for a joke.
‘You crazy idiot!’ I hissed. Voices were already outside the door. I yanked open my desk
drawer and whispered, ‘Toss it in!’
He did. A second later, the door flew open. Real policemen walked in, the principal
behind them. Cameron barely had time to shove the philosophy book into the same
pocket his gun had occupied.
Handcuffed, he looked straight into Dr. Andrian’s eyes and spat:
‘Liar.’
I shivered, realizing what Cameron had come to school for — with a Colt .45 in his
pocket.
Chapter 15
Of course, the principal was never going to forgive me for his disgrace. Thanks to me,
Cameron called him a liar. Had I gotten rid of that little bandit in time, none of it would’ve
come to pass. But Dr. Adrian didn’t say a word to me. As if nothing happened at all.
That was his mafia style: as long as a guy was useful, no heads rolled. And he never
threatened anyone directly. If someone crossed him openly, he’d quietly set him up for a
fall. It always looked like the stubborn idiot destroyed himself, and the principal even
made sure to offer pity, to sigh and sympathize with the poor fool.
There was one case. Some flunkies got hold of my cell number and started ringing me
from a stolen phone. Spouted garbage, promised to shoot me in the street — blowing
off steam, basically. I didn’t react, which only made them angrier. They even left
messages. I let the principal listen to them. He nailed the voice right away — Brian
Vilch. A standard-issue type, every school in the world’s got at least one. Quiet, capable
up to seventh grade, and in eighth a desperate hooligan. Almost ashamed of his earlier
success, he made up for it in mischief, deliberately grabbing Fs, though his brain still
worked fine. The devils just kept dragging him where it was dirtier.
One time, Brian told the principal to go F... himself. Out loud. In front of everyone. The
room froze solid. The principal even went a little pale. Brian got a week at home. And
that was all.
He wasn’t even such a hopeless case. One solid whipping from his mom would’ve done
the job, but she loved him too much. Brian was black as night, scrawny, bespectacled.
His mom worked in an office, spoke beautifully, and somehow — maybe it was her fall
coat — reminded me of a Moscow woman of the early nineties. A weary, loving mother,
bewildered at what on earth had suddenly happened to her child.
The principal shipped the boy off to boot camp — a shockingly harsh punishment for
such a pretend hooligan. There, under military drill, they hammered scoundrels into
material for the proud army. It was the substitute for jail for incorrigible eighth graders.
Into that fine company, to his mother’s horror, Brian was sent. The principal explained to
her that for all his tricks, the boy needed a heavier hand. He showed her a thick stack of
disciplinary referrals and said boot camp was the only way he’d finish school. He
skipped mentioning the death threats against a teacher, but even so, it was too cruel,
too filthy: Brian was punished just as a scarecrow for others, far more worthy of military
drill.
Although in the end, the principal was right again. A few years later, I heard Brian had
distinguished himself in Iraq and gone on to a prestigious military academy.
Later I kept asking myself whether Cam had been sincere when he pressed that gun
into my hands as a “gift,” or if he simply wanted to get rid of it and leave me holding the
risk. Most people would shrug: a street gangster found a sentimental fool. But I don’t
want to believe that. My soul balks at such utilitarian logic. After all, he could have just
asked me to hide it—I would have, and he knew it. Instead, he called it a keepsake. I
gave him philosophy; he gave me his tattered youth. I want to think that’s what it meant.
Years have passed, and the pistol—damned expensive—still sits with me. No one ever
came for it. Sometimes I take it to the range. It roars so loud heads turn. The principal
should have been dead by now—but he lives on, still raising children, by fair means or
foul. And good for him: he’s doing his work. Only later did I learn to value that—after
teaching was already behind me. But that part belongs to another story.
I knew I wouldn’t be around the next year, and that thought made me feel like a
graduate too. At this school, it was tradition: two-thirds of the teachers gone every year.
Some left on their own, others were shown the door by the principal, who kept only
obedient yes-men. Even Sam knew he wouldn’t last. Too cheerful, too kind, too popular
— and popularity was never welcome here.
Chapter 16
Brooding over all that, I absent-mindedly flipped through the quiz papers, scribbling in
the points. Neat work — more. Sloppy work — less. Some of the kids’ doodles were so
illegible I kept thanking heaven my subject wasn’t English. Though I could’ve taught
English too. Once I got invited to a school that was short on English teachers, and I had
to rush through a certification exam. What exams haven’t I taken in my life! Even History
of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union — I remember I scored excellent there. All
because I read forbidden stuff and tuned in to Western radio voices. That’s where I
picked up my dates and facts, not from the damn CPSU textbook.
Not long ago I spotted something on eBay. My father, back when he went on a business
trip to Japan, had brought home a great shortwave radio. National Panasonic — solid
build, exotic design, amazing reception. It was so sharp it could slip past the jammers,
and the Soviet regime spared no expense on those. Under the sly voices of those
overseas broadcasters I grew up, longing for the Western world where you could say
what you wanted and not get jailed for it. That set also gave us rock music — my friends
and I were crazy about it. That radio was a beckoning beam. Thanks to it, I slid out of
Soviet Russia the moment the door cracked open. How could I pass up such a chance?
Of course, I put in a high bid and won that Japanese set. Now it stands like a bright
monument in a place of honor in my house. Though it plays nothing anymore. In the age
of the internet, shortwaves are silent. Maybe Prince was right? Did I really cross over to
the West just to end up a schoolteacher? Maybe I’m the indigo child myself? One
thing’s certain: money was never the point. Life just had to be thrilling.
The classroom door creaked, and something unfamiliar slipped in. Well, familiar — just
not like this.
“Sheila?..” I muttered in surprise.
Dressed in something white and lacy, with a glittering band in her flaxen hair — Sheila
was suddenly someone else, unrecognizable. She walked up to my desk, sat down in
the same chair Cameron had occupied not long ago, and quietly asked:
“Do you believe in miracles?”
It was like a dream. I sat there, stunned, staring at her, ears ringing. If the devil himself
had walked in like that, I’d have felt the same. Sonia Marmeladova flashed through my
mind, asking Raskolnikov if he believed in the raising of Lazarus. Dostoevsky, of
course, would’ve spoiled such a moment with some filthy suspicion. Me — I just felt like
I was in a madhouse. That’s all. And like a lunatic, I answered:
“Sure I believe. Why the hell wouldn’t I? You’re the first miracle yourself.”
Sliding back into sarcasm brought me to my senses. The girl — dressed in a second
hand wedding gown — was clearly bent out of shape. What the hell had hit her now?
“Well then, spill it. - I said. - What smacked you so hard you’re showing up all in white?”
I had pulled myself together and slipped back into my usual redneck-lout persona.
She unzipped her bag and pulled out that very Bible. I didn’t blink, as if I were seeing
the thing for the first time.
“Can you explain this to me?” she said. “I’ve got no one else to talk to. Believe me, a
while ago I threw this out of a car window. Had a fight with my mom and tossed it into
the rain. After that it felt like something was pressing on me. I had horrible dreams, you
know… And then, imagine this — I find it in my own bag. Like a lightning strike. I
couldn’t believe it.”
Sheila kept talking, but now I was the one struck dumb. Do I believe in miracles? How
could I not, when one was sitting right in front of me.
Cchapter 17
Well, the principal — what a crook! That’s the guy you could really take lessons from. I
bet Cameron would have settled the score with him in a heartbeat. Then again, maybe
not. If the kid had been truly set to kil the principal for lies, he wouldn’t have come to me
at all. Dr. Adrian would still be strutting around, and Cam would’ve slipped back into the
night streets with his Colt .45, right where he belonged. Or maybe he’d have gone off
anyway — God knows, with all the school shootings in America.
Cameron was unpredictable. But what happens, happens. Cam wound up behind bars,
under heavy suspicion of blowing up a house, and the principal carried on with his noble
mission: fighting kids and lying, same as any adult.
The Six Flags trip was still swirling the kids’ heads, but the real chatter now was the
upcoming Prom. Back in January, after the eighth graders staged a mini rebellion
against marching in lines to lunch, the principal yanked the Prom off the calendar. He
announced that unless the classes shaped up, there’d be no dance. To every parent
pestering him, he repeated the same line: the matter would be decided in early May by
the disciplinary committee. It sounded so Stalinist that even the most insistent moms sat
down and shut up.
Prom, honestly! What’s there to celebrate? They’ve still got three years before real
graduation. Statistically, half these kids will wash out long before that, too dumb or too
restless for the coursework. And yet, every September, the mothers start asking about
this idiotic dance. For them it’s a tearjerker holiday. By some dumb tradition, that night is
a license to lose virginity — boys and girls alike. So the moms send off their darlings
with wet eyes, almost as if it were a wedding. Fine, maybe, at the end of twelve grades.
But eighth grade? Are they out of their minds?
And as if he hadn’t made enough mess of the school year already, the principal
announced a Talent Show. Most schools hold one in March or April, a regular thing.
Ours hadn’t had one in years. Not for lack of talent, but for some twisted reason of his
own. The man carried a built-in reverence for scarcity. In that he reminded me a sheer
Russian attitude: “don’t spoil people, don’t give them too much.” The creed stretched
even to movies. He banned frequent showings just because the kids enjoyed them too
much. Teachers had to file special requests to show a film — something I’d never seen
in any other school. Even a measly instructional video had to be earned, so imagine the
idea of a talent show.
The whole school went wild. Kids danced in the hallways. The music teacher, a fragile
blonde, panicked — she had nothing ready. The drama teacher got permission to pull
her actors out of class. She started planning a musical, with the rowdiest kids signing up
for the chorus. Their absence made life easier for me and Mrs. Jackson, but even with
the rest, teaching was hopeless. So I dropped the paperwork and just showed them
Science Guy films. They answered questions I whipped up on the spot. On other days I
tossed them easy lab work. And so it all rolled downhill toward the last bell.
Chapter 18
Just a day or two left before the talent show. After class I was killing the last few
minutes on Russian websites. The door cracked open, and Ben slipped in.
“What do you want, love-struck musician?” I asked.
He and Sheila had made up and were back in their corner together, to the burning
jealousy of the flunkies.
“Well, uh…” The Black boy hesitated the way any boy would — white, yellow, whatever
— when coming up to an adult with something way too personal. “I, uh… I set your
lyrics to music.”
“Well, sing then.” I yawned, more from pleasure than boredom.
“Nah…” He broke into a grin at my answer and laughed, no longer shy. “I want to sing it
at the talent show.”
“Of course. I bet it’ll be good.”
“Only I’ll say the words are yours.”
“No way. A gift’s a gift. No take-backs — very bad luck.”
“But I’m not a poet. Never wrote a verse in my life.”
“So now you will. And who told you you’re not a poet?”
“Just never thought about it.”
“Well, now you’d better start. Can you make a sandwich at home better than
McDonald’s?”
“Of course I can.” Ben snorted with contempt.
“Then you can write lyrics better than the junk you hum all day long. You know what?
Ask Sheila to read you some real poems. Listen. Poems have their own music. I’m
telling you. You’re a poet. A real one. You just don’t know it yet.”
Ben left, and I sat there turning my own words over. You just don’t know it yet. What do
we really know about ourselves? Did I know I’d end up a teacher? Am I even a teacher?
Or just some stray who landed here by accident? Can I make a scary face, yell at kids,
turn wild like a real teacher? I can’t. More to the point, I don’t want to. So what am I
doing here, after all? Why do I keep messing up in all these childish problems? I feel
much more at home among their fathers — working men. I’d much rather drive a truck,
build a house, do manual labor, just like the Apostle told Christians to do.
Long gone are the happy days when I coached Moscow bookworms for their entrance
exams in history. No chance to reach such a tranquility here. Along with the smart ones,
my classes are packed with scoundrels, in whom I always see myself — stupid,
useless, my younger self. Looks like I pissed off my own teachers so much back then
that the Almighty cooked up this punishment for me — sit in the same damn chair.
Maybe that’s enough already, Lord?
That’s when I remembered big Ron, first-class chatterbox. He’s the one who dumped
me into that hard plastic chair. I let him sit in my comfortable armchair while I wrote on
the board. He leaned back — and went down with a crash. The class howled. Ron
flailed among the wreckage, red-faced, and I just waved it off and called for order.
Ron was a slow thinker, but when he crossed the line with too much chatter, he took his
punishment with a clear sense of justice: “earned it — got it.” Just the day before he had
stayed after class and neatly written forty times on a sheet: I will not talk in class
anymore. He did such things about every two weeks, then honestly tried to keep his
word. But his talkativeness always got the better of him, and he ended up in trouble
again.
For the busted chair he apologized as best he could — sweating, his Black face pale,
mumbling he’d fix it. I barely managed to get rid of him. He was a kind kid, not mean at
all. By now he’s probably turned into a decent father and working man, the sort America
really stands on. I’ve seen plenty of Black kids, shoved into these schools they hate.
Back when I worked as a substitute teacher, I went through just about every school in
the city. Thousands of kids passed before my eyes. To this day I wonder why our town
is still mostly white. Where did all those Black kids go, the ones who filled my classes?
White faces were always fewer. Did most of them really end up behind bars? Where
else could they be?
Chapter 19
The Talent Show, to my surprise, went off well. After the flag procession, of course, it
opened with the cheerleaders—girls in sporty dresses, arms and legs flinging, climbing
over one another to build pyramids from shins and ponytails and bright little muscles. A
seventh-grade dumpling won both tenderness and pity—and the urge to cheer her on.
Tiny, chubby, knock-kneed, a round-cheeked girl with a mop of red curls—she strained
not to fall behind. Clumsy among the willowy Black beauties, she still tried to jump
higher than anyone and kick just as sharp, to make the devils queasy. And in honor of
her grit, her Black teammates lifted her to the very top of the final pyramid, then tossed
her almost to the ceiling so that her small head eclipsed the spotlight—and for a
heartbeat her hair flared like a golden halo. That’s how she stayed with me: flying and
shining. Years have passed, and I still sometimes remember her brief free flight and
smile. That little shorty—she’s my symbol of America, the country that will hold up even
the weakest, if only they want to fly.
Next, the marching band barked out an off-key march and clattered away behind the
curtain. Then came a short skit in which Mr. President—bashful—played a troubled
teen, while his girlfriend begged him to ditch the hooligans. Our real rascals played the
hooligans, and of course they were perfect. Then the art teacher took a trumpet and
was magnificent, earning a thunder of applause. Then something else—already
forgotten.
At last our music teacher—also the emcee—announced the finale. What she said after
that was swallowed by a wild roar. Some kids actually leapt to their feet. But spotting the
principal heading for the stage, they went quiet fast. The principal, uniformed like a
soldier, stepped to the mic, held a pause, and announced dryly that the show would end
immediately if the audience didn’t calm down.
Silence—and the curtain opened, revealing Ben with his friends. Ben stood by the black
speaker stacks with his guitar; from behind a pile of drums, to my surprise, peeped little
Sean. Sheila, dressed in wedding tulle, hair loose, stood at the keyboard. The hall
roared again and, before the principal could reach the mic, Sheila unleashed a long,
intricate run. Sean answered with a crisp drum riff, and Ben’s guitar carried the whole
overture upward—straight into the highest air of young souls—its electric snarl drowning
out the noise of three hundred throats. Diving down, the music suddenly sketched the
opening of the Star-Spangled Banner, in the very key Hendrix once played it.
The ovation turned feral. Ben had bested the principal himself, who now stood at
attention, right hand on his chest. His gesture—so many gleeful eyes on him—was
instantly mirrored by everyone, from teachers to the worst troublemakers. The
swaggering melody—comically reminiscent of that Russian barroom roar “Khaz-Bulat
Udaloy”—was heard with delight. I grinned full-on and even laughed through the
patriotism—Ben had cornered the principal so cleverly. He played insanely well; I think
Hendrix would have approved.
“Hey, everybody!” Ben yelled when the last squeal of his guitar died somewhere in the
curtains. “It is so great to finally play something for you!”
Applause, whistles, screams forced me to plug my ears. Ben had hit the bull’s-eye. The
kids had long dreamed of hearing him at full power. The teachers stood with tears in
their eyes—proud as could be. Ben was everyone’s darling, and now they melted at his
success. Sam stood frozen, wearing some bright dream of a smile, even forgetting to
clap. And over it all—an ache with a tear in it: how could such talent have been kept
under a bushel? No dances all year, not even a single party—oh, principal, principal.
And when did these three learn to play so tight? Sean hammered like an imp. To hell
with homework—you could see he hadn’t left his rattles all winter. How he pounded—
without a miss—and with that magical understatement, the hidden secret in any art.
And Sheila? Come on—can she really be fifteen? She led her guitarist like a mother by
the hand; remove her arpeggios and Ben would lose his footing—go looking for her.
Who’d have thought?
And Ben himself—good as gold, as if God were guiding his fingers. Run after run, and
you couldn’t add or take away a thing. What joy. No comparing this to that band I once
played in thirty years ago.
Spellbound, I wasn’t listening closely to the words—then suddenly I locked in and
shuddered with recognition. The long ballad, breaking for a melancholy solo, was none
other than “Annabel Lee.” Hearing that simple music with a distinct Irish lilt, I realized
how perfect those verses are for this—but it had never occurred to a rock musician to
use them. And here—look at that. Bravo, Sheila.
“That was Edgar Allan Poe,” Ben announced when he finished his closing solo. “And
now, one more piece—we really love this one. Go, Sean!”
I hadn’t told Ben that I’d written my own lyrics years ago to a Demis Roussos melody
but the kid had somehow found the same tone. Grownups and kids around me simply
melted with delight. Cunning Ben didn’t name the lyricist, and nobody asked; they just
listened and blissed out. I blissed out too—never could I have imagined that my
adolescent scribbles would sound right after that genius mystic Poe. He’d flattered me
so royally. I was so pleased with myself that the tune flew right out of my head the
moment the song ended.
Ah, I thought, clapping till my palms hurt—God grant you, kids! Though it’s written that
the race is not to the swift, nor riches to the clever—still, may God grant you.
Or maybe they didn’t play quite that well. Maybe I was just stunned by all the noise and
couldn’t judge straight. And the clapping, the shrieks, the teachers’ tears—well, you
don’t need genius for that; sometimes plain middling talent will pass for brilliance.
Chapter 20
Roughly that’s what I was thinking the next morning, scolding myself for yesterday’s
laziness. It was cool—the day was only just getting started. I sat on a bench under a
spreading tree in the schoolyard. It was my free period, so I’d stepped out for fresh air,
to sit under the rustle of leaves. In an hour they’d start marching kids out here—sixth
graders first, then seventh, then I’d convoy mine over too—unless, of course, the
principal spun us around mid-route for talking in line. Wouldn’t put it past him. He’ll pull
a face like it’s the sergeant—me—who’s at fault, and then the kids will raise hell in
class, jump to the windows, get mad, and dream up new mischief.
Ah, it’s good here. I remember when I finished high school, for several years in a row I’d
take a day off and celebrate September 1st with a long walk along the Moscow–Volga
Canal. I’d ride the suburban train to Levoberezhnaya and walk on to Vodniki. No people,
dark water, a light hint of autumn in the birch leaves. Silence, and the repose of the
then-unknown graves of the poor souls who fell building that canal. Do I ever get
nostalgic? Hardly.
On a bench like this by a school—under a tree, tucked against a brick wall—in that
faraway Russia the F-students would be sneaking a smoke, no question. Here? Just try
it. The principal has two special wardens: Mr. C and Mr. P. The school would be a
different place without those two…I don’t even know what to call them. Men—true, but
not quite. Teachers—closer, but wrong; they’d had no such training. Staff—probably the
most accurate, but clumsy. Let’s call them wardens.
Mr. C looked like Othello on a provincial stage. A massive, aging athlete with a heavy
face. Everything about that face was sculptural: a high brow with a swollen vein, a nose
that seemed flat along the ridge the way painters draw it “by the rules,” big granite lips,
and a jaw so heavy it felt muscular. Add to that the eyes of a medieval inquisitor. Even I
bristled under that piercing gaze—what to say of the kids? At times an unusual,
cavernous quiet would fall on a classroom: that meant Mr. C was peering through the
little glass in the door. He’d survey the room for a minute, then move down the corridor.
You could feel the class exhale. This fearsome man embodied all the punishments of
their community; you did not joke with him.
Mr. C. didn’t run regular classes. He was the master of Detention—that special room
where our troublemakers were sent to be straightened out. I’d stop by, drop
assignments for my own charges, who sat there soundless—the whole room. Mr. C
himself took the work. Explaining the tasks to him, I half-felt like I was reporting to my
own jailer.
Mr. P, by contrast, didn’t cut an imposing figure. Tall and thin, he wore a flat cap on a
shaved head. He kept his stretched black lips pressed together, which made him seem
shyly smiling. When he spoke, his lower lip hung a little; he must have known that and
preferred silence. In Mr. P. I saw an America of the past—the one where I, too, would
have had a hard time. Once, when I worked real estate, I spent time with an old white
man named Charlie who wanted to dump a rental: a lot with a house. The place had
been torched by the last tenant—a Black fellow who wouldn’t pay. After endless fights
and death threats, clean little Charlie—he lived with an equally neat wife just a few miles
away—went to his car, took out his six-shooter, and stood in the yard waiting. The
tenant wasn’t stupid; he didn’t show his nose. Charlie stood there till dusk, till his
worried missus came. That night the house went up. Police looked for the tenant and
his family—never found them.
Still pale with rage, old Charlie told me how just fifty years earlier you wouldn’t see a
single unfamiliar Black man in those parts. He and his friends even ran checks on the
night buses Black travelers used to pass through their town headed south. “We’d yank
’em off and send ’em back north, in the beds of trucks. Up there they could sit with
whites in the movies—even if in the worst seats. There they got their ‘leniencies.’ With
us—no.” The tidy old man said it with heat. “We kept that scum in line.”
In his youth Mr. P must have been counted among that “scum.” I always tried to
encourage him, to draw him out, but even my handshake at first embarrassed him. It
was as if he felt awkward that a foreigner—me—was breaking old customs. Shaking my
hand—which clearly pleased him—he’d dart his eyes to see if anyone noticed. Few
people offered him a hand; most just nodded and hurried past, not expecting a quip or
even small talk. Mr. P loomed in the hall like a black idol, scanning the tide of students
rushing to class. He had no qualms about catching mischief. A dark shadow, he would
appear behind a culprit, and without hearing excuses he’d call security on the radio;
they’d haul the kid to the office. At the sight of him, rowdies cooled. Black, white, boys,
girls—Mr. P made no distinctions there.
Chapter 21
One sunny January day, Mr. P stepped away from his bench—the one under the tree by
the brick wall where he could survey the whole yard. Kids were everywhere: some
playing basketball, some chasing each other, some just basking in the sun. All as usual
—but no Mr. P wasn’t on the bench. It was me and our ROTC instructor sitting there
instead, and across the yard by the chain-link fence stood the security guard in a police
uniform, holster on his hip.
At first, I didn’t understand the nature of noise I heard. It was like someone beating a
muffled drum far away. But the commotion was starting right beside us. A knot of ten
kids clustered together, shielding something—which meant, of course, something bad.
Others ran over, and by the time the ROTC man—an Afghanistan vet—and I reached
them, the fight was in full swing.
Two Black girls. I’ll call them Russian style names: Tusia and Dusia. Dusia—lanky, a bit
mannish—was pummeling Tusia, who was massive, almost elephantine. Dusia had
long arms and big hands. When balled into fists, those hands were the source of that
drum sound, thudding into Tusia’s bulk. Enraged, Tusia tried to crush Dusia with her
weight, but Dusia slipped a punch straight in, and Tusia toppled onto her back. With
surprising quickness, she got on all fours and lunged to grab Dusia by the leg, but Dusia
recoiled like she’d been scalded—and bolted. We piled onto Tusia as she roared like a
beast; beneath it you could hear the words clearly: “I’ll kill you, bitch!”
She didn’t even notice us. We came off that fifteen-year-old like feathers. Tusia barreled
after Dusia, but Dusia was already gone.
A minute later, the ROTC man and I were braced in the doorway, blocking Tusia from
storming into the building. We couldn’t have held against two hundred kilos, but the
ROTC man had locked the door with the key Mr. C had lent him, and Tusia, reaching
between us, yanked the steel pull bar with both hands. The door shook in its frame.
Thick white foam dribbled from her mouth; she was heaving, her whole-body
convulsing. It was awful. The kids watched from a distance, ready to scatter. The
security guard didn’t dare come close; he shouted into his radio, calling for backup.
“Don’t look her in the eyes,” I told the ROTC man, remembering a zoologist’s advice
about wild animals.
Tusia shrieked, spraying foam. Her new enemy—the steel door—trembled like an
aspen leaf but held. Finally, the police arrived with sirens. Three big officers brought
Tusia down and cuffed her; by then she was beyond reason.
They took her away. We never saw Tusia again. I didn’t miss her: she was an ambitious
plodder. She had enough sense to bargain with me for a decent participation grade and
to turn in homework, but she flunked the tests hopelessly. Questions she couldn’t
answer infuriated her, and that fury rolled onto me—only after this fight did I realize the
risk I’d been running.
Dusia was different—a student I was glad to have. Her family was poor and big—seven
brothers, I think. I knew some of them: shy, quiet, younger than her. It was like Dusia
woke up in eighth grade and really set herself to study. Hard going for her—she
belonged in third grade, really—but she valued the time I spent with her, tried to write
neatly, and if the class earned five free minutes, she’d grab a brush and sweep the
floor. Behind her you could almost see her oppressed forebears.
Why did they fight? I never found out.
Chapter 22
Prom. At last.
The day before prom we teachers handed out the honorable—and the not-so-honorable
—certificates. Sam and I sat there trying to dream up something kind even for the ones
who poured sweet juice from cartons into our computers, who slipped tacks onto our
chairs, pinged acorns at our foreheads, and in general raised inspired hell. End of the
year, end of the road. A Christian should know how to take leave—that is, know how to
forgive.
Only it’s never that simple. The principal made himself felt even here. The few he
refused to pardon were sent to detention. Home—out you go. And for some, school
wouldn’t end for a while yet—summer classes. Prince got swept up in that dragnet too.
He’d snatched something expensive enough; they’d even hauled him to court. Ah,
Prince! I’d prepared my best certificate for you. Where are you now? Years have
passed, and not a peep. In his town they used to say of Tom Sawyer he’d be president
—if they didn’t hang him first. You could’ve been a campus celebrity and a successful
businessman later. With your memory! But it seems those bad habits carried you far,
and you got famous at other things and in other circles—mercifully unknown to me.
Prom. How suddenly stunning our eighth-grade girls turned out to be! Take a well-fed
sixteen-year-old who’s spent a whole day at the mirror and slipped into a dress her
mother selected with taste—“girl” no longer fits. She’s a young lady. And I, scoundrel
that I am, had been giving her F’s. She catches my awestruck look and lights up—well?
See? I’ll chirp along just fine without your lessons. She will, exactly. She learned to read
and write—now let her fly. What more do you want from this school?
How beautiful Betty turned out. With her loose, golden braid and that low neckline,
standing among her Black friends, she looked like a princess. No, more than a princess.
Princesses are fools with wind in their heads and emptiness in their gaze. Betty’s eyes
held intelligence, a sense of self, not a hint of coquetry. If only Pushkin could see her—
he’d fall in love on the spot and dash off a poem.
And who is that in the brocade suit sparking with gold thread? Ron—the hefty one who
smashed my chair. “I picked it myself,” he explained shyly. “Went a size up—Mom said
it’s good. There should be a lot of a good man.” You are a good man, Ron. Diligent,
conscientious—your mother’s joy. Your wits will come; if only you knew what a fool I
was at your age! So I thought, happy for the boy, humming to myself: “The way you
were is the way you’ve stayed.” Ron even had gold-rimmed glasses and crocodile
shoes. And just look at everybody’s shoes! I felt a stab of shame for my comfortable,
broken-in boots—and was caught.
“You didn’t even put on your new shoes? You have them—you wore them last week!”
Andrea, the future neurosurgeon. Not mocking—more like wounded for the dignity of
her night, with a little pity for a scatterbrained teacher caught out. “Blisters,” I joked.
“Too old to peacock in new kicks. I already miss my slippers.” I slunk to the corner. In
Russia they judge you by your coat; here, by your shoes.
If only these graduates could have a drink—slip the hooks—they’d cut loose and dance.
As it was they clustered in little circles, and no matter how our musician-MC tried to
wind them up, nothing. The cafeteria was sparsely decorated; the music thumped; but
the shyness held. Someone waved the MC off—Ben will come, he’ll dance for you. He
will, only the ones everyone’s waiting for aren’t here yet. True enough: the whole thing
was set for six; they were all out front waiting on each other till seven; now it was nearly
eight—and still no sign of Them. I knew why and just smiled. My African American kids
have a special trait: they don’t hurry. They say even in the New York subway they won’t
pick up the pace for a departing train. The doors clap shut right in their face and they
stay where they are. To hurry is to chase the devil. Hurry a serious matter and you’ll
only spoil it. I couldn’t stand the awkwardness anymore and stepped out for air.
From around the school’s corner a light-gray limousine nosed into the narrow turn. Long
and gleaming, like in the movies. It glided up to the entrance of our crummy school and
came to a smooth stop. Mystery was hidden behind the dark glass. The Black driver in a
cap took his time circling that endless car and opened the rear door. I stood there,
mouth open. After a silent beat, the limo’s belly stirred—and out came, one after
another, my most incorrigible troublemakers. Lord, how they were dressed—and what
an entrance for the crowd waiting inside. Hollywood on Oscar night could take a rest.
And there I was, the old fool in scuffed boots, planted on the sidewalk, gaping at the
fashion parade.
Who’s smiling at me? Why, it’s grime-streaked, pint-sized Sean—the drummer the wild
Creole girl once rag-dolled across the floor. Dressed like a doll himself, hair pomaded
and slicked devilishly behind his ears! And the rest of the stars! I didn’t even know our
town had places that could kit out riffraff like this. Sheila—the lone pale face among
seven Black gentlemen—shone with a restrained, almost adult beauty. She tossed me
an abashed glance and a faintly ironic smile, sharing my bewilderment, inviting me to
pardon all that glittering nonsense.
They filed inside unhurried. I stood five more minutes on the empty street, then
followed.
Now the awkwardness was gone without a trace. As if—without these glittering clowns
—life itself wasn’t worth living. Now everyone laughed and danced. Even stout Ron in
his brocade suit was foot-scribbling curlicues like he’d knocked back a shot. Betty and
Mr. President, entwined in a restrained waltz hold, drifted quietly in a corner. In both
their eyes—a calm fondness I hadn’t noticed between them before. The failing Black
girls, thick and beautiful, formed a ring and worked up something African, anciently
erotic—some shaking their generous bodies, others bending those wonderful forms with
barbaric grace.
Then the modern musical mush I’ll never love died, and from the ceiling speakers
poured something painfully familiar—heard before, though I couldn’t place it. Something
like late-fifties Bill Haley, dressed fresh. A happy squeal rose from the center of the
cafeteria. I edged closer and saw Ben and Sheila dancing straight classic rock-’n’-roll.
They were good. Where had they learned it, living out on the poor edge of town?
Spiraling lightly along her partner’s arm, tossing her flaxen hair, Sheila reminded me so
sharply of Julia that my heart lurched and I stepped away, unsettled. I slipped out—out
of the hall, the school, the celebration.
To the liquor store.
Chapter 23
The year ended. The principal announced that the trip to the amusement park was not
canceled, that he’d booked two buses for the following Monday. We needed to sign up a
hundred people, each to pay sixty dollars—the school couldn’t cover it all.
On sign-up day, no one showed. The kids had been on break three days already, and
sixty dollars was beyond most families. So, turns out, the principal hadn’t lied; he even
had a right to feel offended.
Chapter 24
I can’t stand a teacher’s summer. It crawls, implacably, toward its end. I had no real
urge to rest or travel; I stayed home, fished in the mornings, pecked away at a never
ending novel, and watched the calendar with dread. My hero was an older man who’d
gotten what he wanted, reached middle age debt-free, the kids grown, the wife
irreversibly silly, and nothing in the remaining years calling his name. He felt like a
business traveler whose tasks were done but the flight out hadn’t come—parked in a
small dull town on the off chance the bosses might still need him.
That gloom leaked into me. What was I supposed to do in this world? I longed for the
simple, steady life of a truck driver, a carpenter, a craftsman. I was tired of fighting
delinquencies, tired of pushing back at bureaucracy, tired of living for holidays and snow
days just to catch a breath. Haven’t I paid my debts to God Almighty? Doesn’t He see
I’m a plain redneck at heart?
Anyway—on to the new school. Nothing like the last. Forty-five students to a room. As
always, a handful of able ones, a huge middle, and—instead of obvious fools—a dozen
strange kids who tried, for a while, to sit still. That didn’t last. I realized with horror that
many could barely read. When I told the principal, she whispered—as if sharing state
secrets—that half of them didn’t really speak English. Kids from Mexican families.
“They’re not bad,” she said. “We just have to… somehow…”
Somehow—everything drifted. No Mr. P, no Mr. C. No marching to lunch, no dress
code. Instead of Sam there was a thirty-something gym-type—pure Pioneer Camp
counselor. Not much use: the chronic troublemakers were so many he spent all day with
them in his office. Writing referrals was pointless; nobody cared. Armed guards avoided
walking the halls alone. For the first time in my teaching life, I was without support—like
many others. Math and English had aides, like my Mrs. Jackson. I was expected to
manage alone, and I clearly wasn’t. I missed the lunch convoys, Mr. P and Mr. C, even
the principal in uniform. Sometimes I called Sam—he’d been moved too. He told me our
ex-commander had been handed two hundred more students and was drowning as
well. That didn’t cheer me. I even felt for the man. Despite everything, the former officer,
the Doctor of Philosophy, would wrestle his chaos down. Me? Unlikely.
There wasn’t much to hope for. Despite all my effort to tame the unruliness and teach
the bright little cluster around me, the end of my “teaching career” was near.
A fight broke in my room. A scrawny, street-tough, cowboy kid sat minding his business
until a well-groomed, mother-polished, curly-haired boy jabbed him with some remark.
Curly was glued to a pretty girl and wanted to impress her. From the cowboy’s eyes, as
he shook Curly right out of his desk, I knew I was about to have a killing—or at least a
serious maiming—on my hands. I flung them apart, and when they lunged again, I
rammed my teacher’s desk between them. By the book, each should have gotten forty
five days of home suspension. Instead, both were back in three.
The principal—again in a whisper, like she was leaking classified intel—explained: the
district had been promised a grant, three million dollars. The money was crucial, and we
had to “look good,” at least on paper—attendance above all. “We’ll deal with the
delinquents later. For now, we just have to… somehow…”
Her “somehow” cost me. Curly felt like a hero and got worse. I finally took him by the
shoulder to walk him out. The door was locked; for laughs he pretended to slam into it
and hurt himself. I unlocked it and set him in the hall.
Curly knew home wouldn’t be happy: first a fight, now kicked out of class. He decided to
rat out the teacher. Two days later the old principal called me in, hands shaking, and
slid papers across the desk. A complaint. His parents were taking me to court. On paper
it read like I’d smashed their darling against the door.
“Well, I’ll be…” I said. “I literally saved the kid; he’d be half-blind right now. And they’re
taking me to court. And you believe this?”
She shook her head hard. “Of course not. I’ve known that boy three years. Not the first
time. We should hush it up somehow. You’ll have to transfer to another school. I’m so
sorry…” And then she burst into heavy tears.
“Yeah—no,” I said. “If in a case this clear your school takes the thug’s side and throws
out the teacher, I’m done. Where’s your form?”
I signed my resignation. She hugged me good-bye and soaked my shoulder—maybe
realizing there’d be no one to replace me for a while.
Back in my room I packed with relief, pulled my posters off the walls, rolled them up,
and walked out—into air, into freedom, into a normal life for a happy redneck.
Epilogue
Driving my semi, I sit high above the road. Every week, pulling out of town on the long
run to California, I pass the long gray building tucked behind trees in the old working
class neighborhood. The building is still there. The middle school I taught at is not. Now
it’s an elementary school—new administration, new teachers, new kids.
Do I miss teaching? No way. I love what I do now. I love the wide sky, the prairies, the
mountains. I love choosing where I go. I’m a one-truck outfit these days. I pick the
loads, the routes, the rates. I work on my own—with only one authority above—God
Almighty. He forgave my youthful delinquencies and blessed this new life.
Sometimes, rolling past that gray building, I catch a thin whistle riding the wind. Maybe a
kid. Maybe memory. Either way, I smile and keep the wheels turning west.
The Road Lies Far Ahead
“Steppe all around; the road lies far…” —from the Russian song “Steppe, Steppe All
Around” (traditional; lyrics often attributed to Ivan Surikov)
The wind was sailing the rig along—I was tired of holding the wheel a little left. It kept
pushing us toward the shoulder, and if only it blew steady—but no, in gusts, and what
gusts! Good thing I wasn’t a lightweight, or it could’ve swept me off the road, tipped me
on my side. Easily. On a day like that they could’ve closed the highway altogether, but
the electronic billboards only flashed warnings. Fine by me. I wanted to get home; I’d
been on the road almost a week.
Another blast hit, and the phone rang. I did my usual—checked the mirrors to see if
anyone was alongside—then grabbed it and tapped the green answer bar.
“How’re you doing out there? You passed Santa Rosa yet?” asked my dispatcher.
“Not yet—give me thirty minutes. The wind’s chewing me up. What’s with Santa Rosa?”
“Listen, you’ve got to pick up a man there. Bring him in.”
“What kind of man?” I asked mostly for the sake of talk. Honestly, it was all the same to
me. Better if there was no man at all. I’m a hermit by nature and I prize my driver’s
solitude.
“Name’s Nikolai Ivanovich. I don’t know more. Small guy, older. Coming from Russia.”
“Well, if he’s small, I’ll pick him up. Where do I find him?”
“He’s waiting at the Pilot for one of ours to come by. I’ll text you his number.”
“Go ahead,” I agreed, and, after some contortions, tapped the red hang-up circle.
Unlucky, damn it! He’s waiting “for someone to come by”… And what if none of ours
comes by for three days? He just sits at the truck stop like a bum? Though why not sit—
food for sale, practically a little movie theater for truckers with comfy couches and a TV.
Showers and coffee too. Sit there until the cops show up to ask why you’re stuck.
Looks like one of our drivers brought this Nikolai Ivanovich as far as the Santa Rosa
turnoff and then headed south. That’s the only fork there. Fine—I needed fuel anyway:
with that headwind a tractor just guzzles diesel.
A text came in. California number. I called. He answered at once—polite, unhurried.
Addressed me with the formal “you” (vy). I should learn from him; me, I’m always
“c’mon, brother!” with any Russian I meet, never bothering with formality. He didn’t
sound worried at all, like he’d been expecting my call. I told him my truck was red, that
I’d be fueling, and I’d put the flashers on. He’d see me and come over.
I had just slipped the nozzles into the tanks when he appeared.
“Are you the one who came for me?” he asked in Russian. He really was smallish,
neatly dressed, a simple jacket done up to the top. Sneakers on his feet. Pulling a little
roller suitcase. What set him apart from the local bums was mostly how un-grimy he
was—and no rolled-up mattress strapped to the suitcase.
“Me. Who else would be flashing like that? Climb in.”
“Nikolai Ivanovich. Tsarev,” he introduced himself, thorough as can be.
Well then, clear enough, I thought. I know why you, Nikolai Ivanovich, are making your
way to us in Oklahoma.
I gave my name too, shook his square, firm little hand, opened the passenger door for
him, helped him up the tall steps with a hand under his elbow. Passed his plump little
suitcase after him. “Make yourself comfortable—I’ll be right back. Want coffee?”
“No, no. Much obliged, I’m fine.”
“My, ‘much obliged’…” You hear everything from our folks.
I was hoping my passenger would go right to sleep and not start in with conversation,
but his eyes were curious; he looked around, complimented me—“clean in here, unlike
some drivers”—and began studying me openly. I didn’t pay him much attention; I was
easing out, checking around, finding my way back to the big road. Only after I’d picked
up speed did I look at him: a broad forehead, gray hair combed back, a pointy chin, a
nose with a slight bump, lively eyes.
Like any Russian, he needed a minute to get used to my name, but he adapted and
asked only, “And in the faith—what are you? I see a cross on you, yes?”
He had a knack for asking questions—childlike ones—you don’t even take offense at a
stranger poking where he pleases. The little old man put you at ease. Though who was I
to call him old? If I was younger, then by all of five years. I answered:
“The cross on me is Orthodox; I myself am Lutheran. You know those?”
“Know? Of course! You lot are allowed to booze.”
I nearly lost the wheel laughing. A wind-gust smacked us so hard the tire dropped onto
the rumble strip, and the whole rig shook like mad.
“At least give notice when you’re joking, or we’ll end up in the ditch. And no—maybe
we’re ‘allowed,’ but I don’t drink. At all.”
“How come?” His curiosity really was childlike.
“It is written, ‘…and the Spirit of God dwells in you.’ Well, the Spirit living in me never
ordered alcohol. I used to like to knock ’em back. Then I got sick, had surgery, and
looks like they cut out some little ‘alcohol gland’ while they were in there—along with the
stupidity.”
“You reason well. And I see your chain isn’t gold, no fancy watch either—every Russian
here wants to show off.” That “show off,” clearly not his own idiom, he pronounced with
regret and a touch of mockery.
“And you—where are you from? How’d you end up here, in the middle of the plains?” I
asked.
Nikolai Ivanovich didn’t much want to talk about himself. Not that he had secrets—it’s
just his ordinary life in a town near Saratov seemed an uninteresting topic. He’d lived
there with his wife and divorced daughter, making do on little, living off their garden,
small pension, the daughter an orderly at a hospital… He far more wanted to discuss
what he’d seen here in America. He was visiting his younger daughter for the second
time and now, hitching the Russian way, was making his way to Oklahoma, to his sister
and brother-in-law. His daughter with her husband, and his sister with her family, and
half their village, back in the mid-eighties, had been shipped out—part of the
reconciliation with Reagan—to the enemy West. I’d heard such tales of the Soviet
authorities getting rid of “sectarians” more than once; I wasn’t surprised.
I thought he’d share the real reason for this trip, but he didn’t want to. Understandable—
not a pretty story. I didn’t let on that I knew it all. Let a man rest from his troubles;
otherwise it’s like every passerby already knows.
He must’ve been nervous while waiting for a ride; now he sighed with relief and started
telling me about the adventures of his younger daughter, settled in Sacramento.
“…one of them found out you can buy wrecked cars and fix them up. So, they bought a
bunch. Right by the apartments they’d been given, they set up a whole operation.
Weekend mornings, you know, the place is buzzing—banging out bodywork, spreading
filler, they hauled in a compressor, paint… A manager came—‘you can’t do this here,
not allowed.’ They said, ‘We’ll be done soon.’ He wouldn’t budge. Police showed. Their
case worker got called. In short—scandal. Finally they gave them some lot somewhere,
and they finished everything there. And then a problem with their church. At first the
church let them meet free, then started charging rent, then six months later they
doubled the rent. ‘Why?’ they asked. The pastor said, ‘Come to the parking lot.’ He
points: ‘These are our congregants’ cars. All modest, not new. And here are yours—
Mercedes, Porsches, BMWs. Not a single old one. So you’ve got money—and not a
little.’ And they had nothing to say. Fine, they thought it over: better to buy land and
build a church. They found a lot. What a lot! Not just a church—you could build a whole
subdivision. They figured about twenty half-acre parcels. Should be enough for
everyone. And that’s when it started!
“How to divide it? Some have kids—so they need more; others are young—so reserve
for future growth; some say they have relatives coming and want them next door. In
short—discord. They hadn’t even bought it, and they were already tearing each other
apart over the pelt of the not-yet-killed bear. So the council met and decided not to buy
anything at all, to avoid strife. The land was left alone, an empty patch. And just recently
they learned a Pilot truck stop—like where you picked me up—bought it. For two million,
against the sixty thousand they were bargaining for back then. Oh, the regret! They
could all have gotten rich if only they’d known.”
Nikolai Ivanovich even slapped his knee. His kind eyes flashed—he clearly disapproved
of his acquisitive brothers. But what is there to judge?
“Good thing they didn’t buy,” I said after a pause. “By now they’d be completely at each
other’s throats—fighting over who put in how much and who had the idea first. Been
there.”
“Beg pardon—what?”
“Just a saying. Did they ever build the church? Or still renting?”
“They would’ve, if there’d been agreement. But trouble there too. The first pastor they
arrived with gave his soul to God, and the deacons fell out with each other. Here there’s
freedom—you can interpret the Word how you like. One of them went to study at the
local Christian academy—so they nearly anathematized him: ‘Betrayed the faith of the
fathers!’ Another suddenly started preaching that Jesus was born of Joseph and that the
Holy Trinity is made up. Where can you go with that? An Arian outright. A third seemed
to be doing things right and led meetings for a few years, but people adapted to the new
country and moved away. Of those Pentecostals who came then, only five or six
families keep together. What’s there to rent? They gather at the pastor’s house. The
rest the winds have scattered every which way.”
“You yourself then are Pentecostal?”
“No, I wouldn’t say so… There are disagreements. My wife and I are simply believers in
Christ.”
“Still, it’s good to belong to some church,” I said after thinking.
“What’s a husband and wife if not a church? It is said: where two or three gather in My
name… And our daughter is with us. Neighbors, our daughter’s friends come, their
children too. We begin with Bible readings, say the Our Father and the Creed, and we
have Breaking of Bread. Everything as it should be. And anyway, you don’t rise before
God as a church collective, like a barracks—you stand each on your own, answer for
yourself…”
I got distracted then. I suddenly pictured Red Square on May Day. Only instead of
cheerful factory columns and model workers, there march across the cobbles the
representatives of every faith and confession: Buddhists lugging their cardboard, gilt
Buddha; the Orthodox, led by priests decked out in gold hats, walking a procession with
banners and icons; behind them trim Baptists in jackets and ties, wives in light
kerchiefs, singing their hymns; then Pentecostals marching, each muttering in some
tongue; Adventists bearing a portrait of Ellen White, all pink rosettes; Muslims in white;
Chukchi with shamans banging drums; Catholics with the Pope… All file past the
mausoleum toward the Moscow River—to the Kingdom of Heaven. In orderly columns,
to the Last Judgment…
Meanwhile Nikolai Ivanovich went on:
“I’ve been, thank God, to many different churches. The Orthodox—‘we are the one and
only; without us—no Grace.’ Look closer—just control over the laity, nothing more. I’ve
been with the Catholics too. Their Pope is lord of all; as he says, so shall it be. Same
control. Couldn’t have been otherwise: once the Romans realized the strength of
Christianity, they hitched it to their cart, and so it goes to this day—especially in our
East. As for ‘our’ Protestant churches—I’ve seen so many I can’t count them. Each with
its quirks. No, we prefer it home-style, in agreement. Why go far? We live in the
Kingdom of God.”
“H-how’s that?” I glanced at him. I was overtaking a camper getting battered by the
wind. A thing like that belongs in the quiet by a lake—what’s it doing out in this mess?
Nikolai Ivanovich must have thought the same. He went quiet for a few seconds. Only
when the poor thing was behind us did he go on, checking his side mirror first:
“Like this. ‘The Kingdom of God is within you,’ it is said. That ‘within’ in Greek also
means ‘among.’ And Paul says, ‘For the Kingdom of God is not food and drink, but
righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.’ ‘Food and drink’ means us, earthly
folk. And the Savior said the Father was pleased to give us the Kingdom. So who keeps
us from living in righteousness, and peace, and joy? And the Holy Spirit—He’s poured
out everywhere. Didn’t the Savior say, ‘I am with you always, to the end of the age’?
Rejoice, Christians; love one another; and thank the Heavenly Father for everything. If
the Savior is with us, then the Kingdom of God is among us.”
He ended with clear indignation, as if annoyed that people can’t grasp something so
simple. I looked over with a smile—interesting passenger; he’d delivered a whole
sermon in a minute.
“May I ask you something?” I said. “The Eucharist—Communion. Do you take it per
Luke: ‘Do this in remembrance of Me,’ or is it for you truly a Mystery?”
Nikolai Ivanovich studied me a long moment, as if he wanted a better look at who I was.
Then he said solemnly:
“Of course a Mystery. Before Communion you should read from John. Chapter six.”
“What did you do in life, if it’s not a secret? I see you know Scripture well, but also the
history with Rome. What’s your profession?”
“No secret. I’m a feldsher. Spent my life as a rural medic. Medical worker.”
“Must’ve paid you well if you can travel to America,” I needled him.
“Thank my son-in-law and daughter. They sent me an invitation again. And my sister
helped. So here I am…”
“Here you are! And you’re lucky. What if I hadn’t come by—would you have sat in Santa
Rosa? That’s a bad plan. You can get stuck for days.”
“It’s all right… With God’s help. They dropped me off there last night—name’s Pyotr—
and in the morning you picked me up. The Lord sent you. Thank you.”
I thought that if not for that whole business, maybe Nikolai Ivanovich wouldn’t have set
out to faraway America. Not that his whole clan, the whole church got alarmed—rather,
that particular youngster threw everyone into confusion.
“You should sleep after a night like that. Go on, Nikolai Ivanovich, rest. There, in the
sleeper—what a couch. Don’t be shy.”
“Thank you—don’t feel like it yet. Far to go?”
“Seven hours, I’d say—no less,” I estimated.
“Big country… And I see it’s not very populated.”
“Right. Most folks live within fifty miles of the oceans. Out here it’s cowboy country.”
“Where my daughter lives, in California, the people are plenty. And ours—Russians and
Ukrainians—many.”
“Your daughter goes to a Russian church?”
“No. She and her husband are Americans now, you understand. Almost twenty years
here. My granddaughters hardly understand Russian. What Russian church? They go to
Americans. Charismatics.”
“You sound grim about it. What’s wrong?” I asked, seeing him suddenly sink.
“What’s wrong is…” His face darkened; I even shivered. He paused, deciding whether
to speak. “I shouldn’t judge brothers in the faith, but a Christian shouldn’t be silent
either. On three points I can say what’s wrong with those charismatics.” Seeing I didn’t
object, he went on: “First, who told them they can manage the Holy Spirit? It is said,
‘The Spirit blows where He wills.’ But with them, if you sing and hop and clap for fifteen
minutes, the Spirit will show up—so they ask after the dancing: ‘Do you now feel the
presence of the Holy Spirit?’ Of course you ‘feel’ something—after you yelled and
hopped. And I’ve read: savages in the jungle do the same, beat their tom-toms,
summon their spirits; those come flocking too.”
He fell strictly silent. I asked, to steer him off, “And the second thing you don’t like?”
“They baptize whoever. At first I didn’t quite understand when they announced, ‘If you’re
ready to be baptized today, head over there; we have clothes and towels for you; all are
welcome.’ I thought they meant those they’d counseled and prepared somehow. I asked
my daughter—is that it? She says, ‘Not at all. Here we baptize anyone. We don’t
hinder.’ ‘Don’t hinder?’ I said. ‘A person should know that Baptism means being
baptized into the death of Jesus.’”
“And how would you explain that—briefly?” I asked.
“Briefly!—he exclaimed. ‘Briefly… You can be like Philip—preach Jesus. But that
eunuch Philip spoke with was still unspoiled—he didn’t have television to spoil him. And
he wasn’t seduced by earthly riches. Keeper of all the treasures of the queen of Ethiopia
—would he dream of riches? He’d have been glad to be rid of all that gold—that
responsibility! He knew the price of gold!’”
He continued, but my mind snagged on that last remark. True—the eunuch was a
special sort; can you equate every catechumen to him? My passenger preached
interestingly; I don’t recall ever having heard that wrinkle before…
“And at the end of the service,” Nikolai Ivanovich went on, “they put out these tubs,
baptisteries, and started seating people by the dozens and dunking them three times—
yes, with words, of course—but can you do that?”
I drifted again. I remembered reading a story: children brought home a wild kitten and
worried it would run away. The cook knew what to do: she grabbed the kitten by the
scruff, smeared all four paws thick with clarified butter, and tossed him into a corner.
After licking his paws clean with pleasure, the cat was faithful to his generous mistress
to the end of his days. Weren’t those charismatics following a similar scheme—thinking
that once they’ve dunked a newcomer in their church, he’ll stay? It’s a stretch, but
there’s something to the analogy.
I didn’t share that with him. I listened, and the farther he went with his arguments, the
more familiar they seemed. I took a pause and asked:
“I see you’ve read Schmemann—Of Water and the Spirit.”
“Who, pardon? Whom did you say?”
I didn’t press it, apologized for interrupting, and listened on—marveling how this modest
sectarian feldsher’s thoughts echoed a seasoned Orthodox theologian. Truly, the Spirit
blows where He wills.
“In general, you reason logically,” I said when he finished. “And the third?”
“The third—what kind of preaching is that? ‘Keep your pocket wide open.’ They gave
me an earpiece, so I listened in translation. ‘Believe and you will be blessed. Today you
rent; in a year you’ll own a house. Your car’s no good; believe and you’ll get a
Mercedes. Your job is low; you’ll be a boss. The Savior himself did not disdain fine
things: the legionaries wouldn’t cut up his tunic; they cast lots—valuable item! So it’s no
sin to ask for good stuff—to show how the Lord loves us.’ And on top of that—insistently
—‘Tithe!’ That Old Testament tithe was set for the tribe of Levi—the clergy. In the New
Testament there’s no such law. We should support the church by conscience, by the
soul’s prompting, not by the letter. Dragging a tithe out of congregants is a great sin. It’s
like shoving a man back into Adam’s times—as if crucifying Christ anew.”
Now he truly fell silent, and I thought he was reproaching himself for losing temper. Who
was I to him? He’d just met me.
The sky ahead went blue, gray clouds tore open into merry white ones. The wind hadn’t
quit, but blew steady now. It was clear they wouldn’t close the road.
“I understand you, dear Nikolai Ivanovich, and agree in much,” I said. “Only—don’t
develop such thoughts aloud to anyone here. At best they’ll call it bad form; at worst,
you could wind up in court for religious extremism. It isn’t customary to condemn any
confession. Here everyone chooses for himself. Whether to keep the pocket open, as
you put it, or to love your neighbor freely and give him your last—this is the freedom
here. And there’s another reason I’d advise you to keep it to yourself: the tithe is good
business. To demand it is crude, but strangely, it works. You remember Dostoevsky’s
opinion? He thought Jesus’s proclaiming Himself ‘King of the Jews’ was only the
outward reason for the crucifixion. Dostoevsky held the chief cause was the expulsion of
the merchants from the temple. So I’d be careful.”
Nikolai Ivanovich stared at me.
“For a trucker, you reason rather… not weakly,” he noted. “What’s your education?”
“Eh… nothing special. ‘Literary worker.’ A profession that often doesn’t require
schooling at all. Just lie with confidence—you’ll pass for smart.”
“So driving is all that’s left?” He looked at me strictly, reprovingly, but I didn’t bend. I
grinned:
“Remember that sketch in Yeralash, the kids’ comedy newsreel? A big lug sits in class
with little kids and solves every problem the teacher gives—on the fly. A girl comes in:
‘Ivanov, what are you doing in third grade? You’re in eighth!’ He answers: ‘You go to
eighth; here I’m the smartest.’ That’s me on the road. The money’s very decent, and no
intrigues, no backstabbing, no daily lying. And what other job will cheer when you park
in a quiet spot and go take a nap?”
He actually grunted at that and seemed ready to argue, but I hurried to change the
subject:
“Let me show you something interesting—confirms what you were saying. And we’ll
have lunch.”
We were approaching the far edge of New Mexico. Glenrio, I think the place is called.
The same bare endless prairie only here sprawls a huge truck stop with inviting ads for
little restaurants.
I slowed and took the exit.
Ah, spring weather is lovely—if only summers were like this! But no: the sun climbs to
the zenith, presses down, and the prairie bakes—forty degrees by day, thirty by night
Celsius. In Fahrenheit—scarier. Let a cold north wind sweep high above, the air twists
into a huge barrel, and spring tornadoes come rolling. Heat and dust stretch through
summer; then in autumn, tumbleweed balls start skittering across the steppe.
“Looks like Kazakhstan,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, taking in the distance.
“More like Afghanistan,” I said, threading into a parking slot. “We’re farther south. Leave
your jacket in the cab—you’ll boil. It’s warm now.”
“Pyotr told me many truck stops here have special trailers set as chapels, with
services,” he said as we walked toward a building with red letters: Russell’s Travel
Center. “They have one here too?”
“Here it’s not a trailer—there’s a whole hall set aside for believers. Services on
Sundays, but it’s open day and night. You can always go in—huge image of Christ on
the wall. Sit, pray if you wish. Only that’s not why we’re here.”
“What does this sign say?” he stopped at the glass doors, reading a sheet taped there:
“No shoes, no shirt, no service.”
“It means if you’re barefoot and shirtless, they don’t serve you.”
Nikolai Ivanovich buttoned the top button and we went inside. I watched him with
interest. He wasn’t like those Russian men who glare at anything unfamiliar as if to say,
“What haven’t I seen?” Even if they’re surprised, they show nothing: they know the price
of themselves and everything around. Goncharov described that type well—show them
pears and they’ll laugh: “Pears? We have pears back home”—and go on bragging about
their pears, not to be stopped.
The sales floor is vast, traffic from everywhere. There’s a cowboy in a ten-gallon hat
with a brim big enough to shade a horse, truckers in T-shirts and ball caps limping on
one leg—that’s professional—and bikers in leather vests, braids, beards, sunglasses
covering half the face. Nikolai Ivanovich stared at everyone without embarrassment.
Even the half-dressed girls with bare midriffs and such immodest shorts their behinds
nearly showed—those didn’t rattle him. Seems even in his Saratov region that’s no
longer exotic. I recalled a friend telling how she walked in New York, well covered—a
sweater to the throat—but the Lord had endowed her with a notable chest. A Jew in a
long coat and hat, reading some Talmud as he walked, ran into that packaged chest. He
looked up, saw the beauty, spat on the sidewalk, flicked his peyot, and hurried to the
other side. No, Nikolai Ivanovich looked at the girls with warmth: youth—what can you
say!
“Whoa—look at that! That’s almost my Izh!” my companion stopped at an antique
motorcycle on display at the edge of the hall. “I rode one like that for years! And what’s
this?” he said, astonished at an even older Ford.
“That,” I answered, “is the beginning of the local antique car museum. This way.” We
stepped aside, to the entrance to a big hall where rows of what stirs a man’s soul—
makes him work without rest, lures with open roads, winds of change, a dream
unreachable for many—stretched away. Here in the middle of the prairie, thanks to a
local millionaire, there’s a whole museum of American car-making and its memorabilia.
Along the walls: old gas pumps, Coke vending machines, stands with models of
convertibles, landaus, trucks, and other and other and other junk.
“Well I’ll be…” Nikolai Ivanovich said, looking around. “Where are the tickets?”
“All free. Out of the largesse of Mr. Russell, owner of the whole station. One of the
sights of the famous Route 66. Wander as long as you like. No charge to look.”
If you want to know a person better, take him to a museum. Any museum. For an
interesting person there are no uninteresting ones. I kept some distance, gave him
freedom, didn’t press with my presence or my opinions. He gaped at gleaming chrome
bumpers and headlamps, leather-seated convertibles, sporty Chevys and Dodges,
luxurious Buicks and Cadillacs from the fifties, forties, thirties. He only once turned to
me, pointing at something bulky with an overhanging roof and spoked wheels: “What’s
that?”
“Probably a Drawndouhlett,” I said, grinning.
“Was there really such a company?” he raised his brows.
“No—never. I’m kidding,” I said, and stepped away again.
He came up to one of the prototypes of our famous Chaika and stood long, pensive. I
saw our visit would last, and I didn’t mind. It got especially amusing when, done with the
cars, he dove into the trinkets on the walls: baseball bats and old sneakers, caps, toothy
smiles in black-and-white photos, police badges, toys, comic books, pipes, tin cans, big
eared Mickey Mice and brave Supermen—junk that only Nabokov’s Lolita could admire
—held him fast, wrapped him in its moldy aura, and seemed to ask the same question
that hit me when I first saw it: WHAT FOR?
He stopped by a full-scale Marilyn Monroe, skirt blown up. Lips pursed for a kiss. He
looked into her eyes and chuckled, almost to himself: “There’s the lust of the flesh!”
Shifted his gaze to an equally life-size Elvis Presley with a plastic pompadour.
“Well now… Love me tender, love me long…” He didn’t sing, just murmured. I
happened to be nearby and asked:
“You sing English too?”
“No. It just came to me. My daughter’s got the record—she used to put it on. You
remember, whether you want to or not…”
We wandered a long time. I didn’t rush him. I lagged behind, came back to Marilyn and
studied her, amazed how much she looked like that very Inga—because of whose sin
Nikolai Ivanovich was heading to Oklahoma. The same man-unhinging curves of a
chest, same build, same languor in the eyes. Only Inga doesn’t wear that fake beauty
mark and doesn’t paint her lips. What does it matter? You can’t hide such beauty. Eh…
story…
We had lunch in the diner. I paid. He was embarrassed for a second, then accepted it—
he would’ve done the same. Then we drove on.
A big overhead sign caught his eye.
“What does that say?” he asked.
“It says we’re leaving New Mexico—the Land of Enchantment.”
“Enchantment… means I haven’t seen much here.”
“You don’t see much from the big road. Near Santa Rosa there’s a beautiful natural park
with a clear lake, and plenty more sights.”
“Welcome to Texas,” announced my navigator. I crossed myself, saying, “Help us, Lord,
in Texas.” It’s my habit. I explained: “Entering each state, I ask higher blessing. Helps.”
“But of course…” Nikolai Ivanovich answered and crossed himself too. It was clearly a
familiar motion.
He was quiet a while, looking ahead. I figured he was tired from all the impressions and
was about to suggest again that he rest, but he said:
“I keep thinking about that museum. How much there is! And note—every single thing,
from cars to chewing gum, was bought by someone once, and more than that—kept.
People spent money on all that. Chose what to spend their labor on. Those people are
likely gone—and the tinsel remains. You only laugh and wave it off: you can’t take any
of it with you.”
“Well, you had an Izh motorcycle too,” I teased.
“I did. With a sidecar. Used it for work. Hauled patients to the hospital. And for
household needs—only means we had…”
He drifted into memories of youth, that bike, how once he rode at night down a good
asphalt road that suddenly ended—unfinished, and no warnings posted, visible
“enough.” What can you see at night in the beam of a headlamp? He got banged up
bad. Then, as I expected, he returned to the museum.
I’d taken him there on purpose—so he’d better understand what happened with his
nephew. Vovka and his pals worked roofing. Pay was good, but there were lots of
stoppages. Rain or snow—no work. Or the weather’s fine, but the other trades aren’t
done—so you can’t start. Wrong materials delivered—again the crew sits home. One of
the guys remembered a relative had an old Corvette in his garage. That was the first car
the boys dragged out of the grave. They tinkered half a year, but brought it to perfection.
Then, after riding it to their fill, to their surprise sold it for a very nice price. Of course
they searched the junkyards and found two more old sports cars. Vovka—Nikolai
Ivanovich’s nephew—was building his house. In the yard he poured a foundation and
put up a spacious, heated, air-conditioned garage with a paint booth. You couldn’t
dream up a better spot for car restoration. It cost more, but the expenses, naturally,
were sure to pay back. The guys now spent all their free time in that garage.
“Just look how long they are!” Nikolai Ivanovich exclaimed. We were passing a tractor
hauling a special extended trailer: a wind-turbine blade. Thousands of those stand in the
fields, but my passenger had never thought how huge a blade is. He stared at the
smooth lines of the fiberglass, even cracked a window and stuck his head out into the
wind. We passed one such rig, then a second, then a third. The boys had just started
rolling; once they got up to speed they’d fly, and you’d best keep away. Damn them—
such a load is limited to fifty-five, but they always push seventy. Then they brag how
Americans keep the law.
“Look—look how many!” He now looked to the horizon where white turbines spun
briskly. “And how much does one cost to put up?” He addressed me. I knew the answer.
“Three to four million. They pay back in two years. I talked to installers—hauled them
cables, transformers. One turbine can easily supply a hundred houses. That’s the local
practicality: why let the winds rampage for nothing? Make them give you power.”
“We could use those. We’ve got wind too,” he dreamed.
“To put up those, you need proper roads. How else get them there?”
“True. Our roads…” He paused. “There’s a man where my daughter lives who wants to
move the whole church to the mountains, far away—so they’d have their own water and
wind power, school for the kids, their own doctor… without temptations.” He fell silent
into himself.
I didn’t answer. What’s the point of discussing such nonsense?
Vovka was short, sturdy, round-headed. A light bristle of hair made him look younger,
and freckles on nose and cheeks made him look like a teenager. He was twenty-one.
He always frowned—looked like he did it for gravitas, but no, that wasn’t it. Once, he
was a cheerful, hardworking kid. Then he married. He and Inga grew up together; their
parents, Pentecostals, belonged to the same church. Inga was a simple girl, nothing
special—but marriage seemed to unseal a rare beauty. What beauty! Her gait changed,
her eyes began to shine, a slightly ironic smile lit her face. You could see how well she
felt without nagging parental oversight. It turned out she was tall, statuesque—and
desirable. Men couldn’t take their eyes off her. Women shook their heads. She wasn’t a
fashion model—she was a little full, wore dresses, didn’t look like those skinny girls with
bony shoulders and long legs. But wherever Inga appeared, every gaze turned to her.
She used no makeup, yet other women dimmed beside her, became ordinary. And
Vovka got jealous.
It’s not that he suspected her of anything unworthy; on the contrary, she preferred not to
be away from him—they were always side by side. But the attention constantly on her
began to irritate Vovka. For peace of mind, he would’ve kept her beyond the back yard;
and she would’ve obeyed—she was raised to respect her husband. But she had a good
job at a local bank; she was studying finance in college; and the choir director couldn’t
do without her—she had to go to rehearsals and sing every Sunday before the whole
church—and how she sang! She had a real gift. Attendance even grew. Grimy,
perpetually tired, frowning Vovka looked shabby beside such a wife—as if that cap
wasn’t for him. Nothing wrong with that—except some man told him, “You sure married
well, brother.” Vovka was too young to swing at an elder; he swallowed it, but something
slipped off the hook inside him. He grew sullen and silent.
Vovka beat Inga. On a Sunday, at home, after church. It was so shocking and
humiliating she ran out of the house crying, smearing tears across her face—home to
her parents. A ripe shiner was swelling under her eye. Unluckily, a local cop was driving
right toward the battered, weeping domestic violence victim.
They cuffed Vovka, took him to the station, then the county jail. The judge, seeing no
priors, gave him three months of community service. Instead of his usual job and
garage, he picked up trash along the highways with hooligans and drifters.
For Inga the story didn’t end there. The bruise faded, but that her dear Vova treated her
so brutishly wounded her soul. She seemed even a bit unhinged—kept asking, “Why?”
Who could answer? Now she’d wander the house and empty garage looking for him;
now she’d remember he was in jail and cry for hours; now she’d flare up and shout that
when Vovka returned she’d show him—and if he tried anything… Singing in the church
choir had to wait. The parents, and the whole congregation, got seriously worried and
appointed her a spiritual father for counseling. One was found—serious, with a
university degree in psychology.
Those talks ended—worse than ever. When Vovka’s time was up and he and his wife
came to church, Inga suddenly stepped forward, to the pulpit, and confessed before the
whole assembly that she had sinned with her educated spiritual father—and not once.
It was awful to look at Vovka. He stood up, green in the face, headed down the aisle—
stumbled, fell…
Her parents took her home. Vovka seemed to recover, went back to work. Of the
unfaithful wife he seemed not to think. Seemed.
“I nodded off?” my passenger stirred. He’d been out half an hour; I hadn’t disturbed him
—better he’d slept.
“What’s that there? Where are those people going? Good grief—what have they come
up with!”
Nothing escapes this old man. He woke just as we were approaching another Texas
“attraction.” In quotes because it’s just for laughs. Off the road, in the middle of the
steppe, car bodies are buried nose-down at an angle. Crowds mill around, walking the
path from the parking. The place never lacks attention.
I slowed a bit.
“That’s Cadillac Ranch—or, jokingly, Rancho Cadillacco. A measure of local taste. A
cultural object. A work of art. See how the metal is painted? Anyone can walk up and
add to it—even just ‘Vasya was here.’ Too late to pull over now—unless we turn
around.”
“No, don’t! What is there to see? Imagine, what they think up! Nonsense, really.”
“It’s not so simple. See how the cars go into the earth? As if diving down into their
grave. From dust you were made, to dust you shall return. It’s about the same thing—
lust, desires, passions… I read that a few years ago they repainted them all in rainbow
colors for some pride parade. Didn’t fly. This is Texas. Cowboys didn’t understand, and
the cars got repainted as before.”
“What a shame… How does the Lord tolerate it? He ruined Sodom and Gomorrah; and
Paul says it plainly—abomination before God. And you hear about it here and there; not
a single American movie of yours without it.”
I just shrugged. What do you say… He stared ahead, clearly thinking. A story was
coming—I could tell.
“We’ve got one fellow… I’ve known him, what, years,” he began with bitterness, as if he
shouldn’t tell it but his soul needed release. “I was at their wedding. They were young; I
played trumpet in our church orchestra, and we went to a neighboring village. Three
hundred guests—whole district invited. They built a giant tent—plastic roof—raised a
platform for the bride and groom and parents. Flowers everywhere, rich, splendid…
Then the bride, as is proper, came down, sat in a chair, and her girlfriends were to
remove the veil. They took it off slowly—and suddenly she started crying. I thought,
that’s just what they do; but she sobbed, you know, in earnest. And the more they
coaxed her, the worse it got. Couldn’t calm her. Everyone sobered up. Well, they
quieted her somehow. Later it turned out—she cried for a reason.
“You won’t believe it—she bore him sixteen children. Started there and then came here,
and no breaks. All alive. And he turned out to be a lustful hog, always cheating on her.
Not just with women—men too. Like he had a demon in him. The house was full of
people—kids’ friends, girlfriends—and he went after them too. And his own son. That
one openly became gay and said without shame, ‘Father taught me.’ California—no big
deal there. He didn’t hide it.
“In the end he got what was coming. They took him. No wonder the bride cried—she
saw water in a well. What a disgrace! Somebody reported; they investigated. Five
people confirmed he’d molested them. He hired a good lawyer; they wriggled out in
court but told him to leave California. They moved east. There he got put under some
supervision. Such a believer…”
“Lucky for him,” I said. “I know a man who got twenty-six years for minors.”
“Twenty-six years!!! And he’s in?” cried Nikolai Ivanovich.
“Been in ten years now. He’ll serve to the bell. Same sort as your guy—except he didn’t
have that many kids. That story is absurd. Two Russian girls, seven and eight, sisters,
went to play in a neighbor’s yard. A trampoline—kids jumping and laughing. The
American girl there, older, mentioned that a woman had come to school, explaining
what you mustn’t do with men, and if anyone suggests such a thing, you must tell
someone. The little sisters snickered—‘we do that with our uncle; it’s fun; he plays with
us and gives us candy.’ Then off they go, jumping. The girl ran home and told her
parents about the neighbors’ games. They called the police. Cops came, separated the
sisters and questioned them. Our ‘believer,’ the man, was home drinking tea—cops
show up, grab him, off to jail. That’s that. The court gave him twenty-six.”
“Serves him right—right!” shouted Nikolai Ivanovich. “They should shoot them on the
spot. The swine! Good laws!”
He simmered a long while, almost spitting from disgust. I regretted keeping that line
going. Why? What a topic. There’s filth enough around; it’s said, “the world lies in evil”—
what’s to be surprised at? I wanted to rinse it with something good. But what? The good
lies still; the bad runs far. The good’s not interesting—it’s the norm. I know lots of very
decent people, locals and our own—but what do you tell about them? They live quietly.
One rarely hears of feats.
Prairie gave way to development: warehouses, gas stations, motels, lots of equipment
yards—outskirts of a town. Green medians and streets—Amarillo stretched ahead. He
was so upset he stopped asking about anything, just stared at the flow of cars and big
rigs like us. I didn’t bother him. I myself flew far away—in an Oklahoma winter.
Right—there is such weather. In earlier years, they say, more often. I saw thirties
footage of Tulsa folk skating on a frozen pond in a city park. I’d never seen that, but
snowfalls—oh yes. Half a meter overnight. Kids’ joy—no school—like in Russia: grab
plastic slabs, cardboard, slide from hills, build snowmen, play snowballs. They
grudgingly clear the roads, life resumes; in three days it all melts.
You might as well crawl on all fours—and where to?
Ice tears down power lines, whole neighborhoods lose electricity. Trees can’t bear the
load—drop massive ice-laden limbs on roofs and roads. Cars slide into ditches, smash.
City services try, but can’t be everywhere. Ice, ice, ice… and cold—clammy, nasty.
On such a night four Russian lads sat at home. They laid in beer. Wires were down—no
problem: they hooked up a generator, lit the fire in the fireplace—music, pool… Nice to
let loose midweek, and no work tomorrow anyway—the site was closed.
They joked—slam a car door and in the woods the trees would go bam, boom, crack—
the ice load so big that the slightest air tremor dropped branches. On TV, news: police
and fire exhausted, can’t keep up. The anchor yells that authorities beg, don’t call
except for dire need—they’ll try to send a helicopter. On screen, a patrol tries to pull
someone out of a ditch—no use, slick as glass. One of the boys remembered a beat-up
off-road jeep in the garage they used in summer—drop the top, lay the windshield on
the hood, and tear around the woods firing rifles, or drive the jeep into a swamp and
fight it out. Boys will be boys. They had chains for those huge tires. Ice would be a joke.
Their eyes lit up. They dropped the beer, grabbed a chainsaw and a good tow strap,
and hit the town. Until morning they pulled people from ditches, sawed thick limbs,
dragged blockades with the jeep; they even saved a cat. Home at dawn, filthy, frozen—
but happy as can be.
“Sashka Fomin was there, his brother Andrei, someone else—I forget—and, for sure,
Vovka Tsarev,” I finished. I named Vovka on purpose. I looked at Nikolai Ivanovich, who
kept a poker face, though something flashed in his eyes.
Four friends… Once a church needed a roof replaced. Their company took the job but
didn’t count on the steep, pointed spire under the cross—covered in special slate—
needing repair too. When the church was built, they assembled the spire with the cross
on the ground and lifted it up with a very expensive crane. Now they needed an equally
expensive lift to get a worker up there—but no way the cost fit the budget. And why a lift
when you’ve got the boys?
Under the spire there was a narrow roof plane—there you could sort of stand, maybe
work. Higher… well. The city paper later ran a front-page photo of “crazy Russians”: one
of the boys dangling on a rope under the cross, working one-handed. OSHA wanted to
open a case on the company, but the job was done already. It fizzled.
“We want to talk him into the army,” said Nikolai Ivanovich.
“Who?” I looked over.
“Vovka. I can see you know everything. What a story… Boy’s gone out of his mind.”
“Won’t work. The army won’t take someone with a record.”
“What do you mean?” He looked at me, frightened—I’d smashed the family’s last hope.
“Just that. The bar for recruits is very high: you have to pass fitness, have good grades,
clean driving record. Out of ten who want in, one or two get accepted.”
“Mother of God… What do we do?”
I only shrugged. How should I know what to do with a boy like that? You can’t commit
him to the madhouse. Though there they’d take him for sure. I had once delivered pizza
to the psych hospital. Normal building, no sign, door with a bell and peephole, later they
added a camera. A “Cuckoo’s Nest.” I didn’t know it was a ward for the violent. The
manager explained. There’s a window—you say the name, they bring it, pay. Routine.
I’d been there more than once. Once I got buzzed in, and someone slipped in behind
me—a sullen man. He waited till I finished at the window and then went there too.
Mumbled something. They told him, “Wait.” Two minutes later heavy steel doors opened
and out came a scrawny doctor, it seemed, and two hefty orderlies. “What’s up?” they
ask. He says, “I can’t be alone. I’m always offended at someone. Nobody loves me.
Nobody needs me. I don’t want to go to work, and I want to punch someone.” I chuckled
inside—a simple Soviet man: give him a kick, send him walking—normal. The medics
thought otherwise. They swung open the big steel doors and led him in. Didn’t even ask
his name or where he lived.
And Vovka, with his twist, they’d put him in the deepest ward. Lucky it didn’t come to it.
He spilled his intentions. The way it came out—awful.
Inga had been with her parents for weeks. She didn’t step outside. Her “spiritual father”
skipped town. Vovka lived alone, seemed calmer, went to work. No one bothered him
with talk.
Once the guys went to a gun show. The big building at the fairgrounds—packed. They
browsed, priced, looked; some bought. I don’t like gun shows. I used to be nuts about
guns as a child. I remember we went to the Museum of the Soviet Army to see pistols
and guns, and I couldn’t imagine I’d one day walk around with a pistol on my belt. And
here guns are piled on every table like firewood. Boring to look at. Is that how you sell?
It should be a solemn pavilion deep in a park. Cypress-lined path. Inside—hushed half
dark. In the center, on a dais, under a glass dome on velvet, rests a six-shot Colt. Then
—respect. But this?…
All right—fancies. So the guys walk the rows, and Vovka hangs back. They look around
—he’s still at the table with knives, studying something. Fine. They walk on. Again, no
Vovka. Still there. He picks up a long knife, studies it, tests the balance—even tries the
edge with a tooth. They come over, laughing, “What—planning to stab someone?” He
answers without a smile: “I am. And I will.”
Damn. Turns out Vovka had read a terrible place in Deuteronomy: “If a man be found
lying with a married woman, both of them shall be put to death; the man and the woman
—so you shall purge the evil from Israel.” The boys were stunned. Vovka bought the
knife—very expensive, over three hundred dollars.
That price alarmed the whole community: he was serious—he’d do it.
The pastor spoke to him—explained a Christian lives not under the Old Law but under
Grace. Christ fulfilled the Law by His sacrifice and nailed it to the cross. We must forgive
our enemies and pray for those who hurt us; to ignore the Savior’s commands is to
disobey Almighty God. “Do you want to forfeit your salvation?” the pastor asked.
The crew boss, Uncle Misha, urged him: Christ said to the adulteress, “Neither do I
condemn you; go, and sin no more.” Inga needs not revenge but love; she must be
forgiven as the Savior forgave; the knife is a devil’s temptation—throw it in the river and
spit after it.
Even a friend recalled, “Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, says the Lord.” God’s not blind.
Vovka listened and only said that Christ did not come to abolish the Law but to fulfill it. If
it were anything else—but on this it’s written exactly what to do. So if he obeys, it won’t
be counted to him as sin. Again—it was clear: he’d do it.
Everyone was talking; Inga’s terrified mother ran to a lawyer—“What do we do?” He
urged her to get a Protective Order immediately. It’s very effective—used against a
potential aggressor: abuser or anyone posing a threat. Since Vovka already had a
battery conviction, the judge didn’t take long and granted a five-year protective order.
Now Vovka couldn’t approach Inga within a mile, couldn’t contact her personally or
through others, couldn’t call or write. Break it—jail.
Since their house was in both names and her parents lived less than a mile away,
Vovka had to move out.
The decision stirred the whole church. Vovka had built that house himself with friends,
to live and raise children—and now this. Maybe she’d even bring her “spiritual” lover
into it? The judge had included him in the order too. Inga didn’t show in public; Vovka
stopped going to church for the same reason—she might be there.
He now lived with relatives, went to work, but the guys couldn’t get him to fish or walk.
The garage was forbidden. Vovka sat behind a closed door, came out only to eat, silent
and sullen. It was clear—he hadn’t abandoned his intention. He’d stab her.
It didn’t unite the church either. There was kin on both sides; the talk—why go to the
authorities? It would’ve settled; now look…
In all that mess Nikolai Ivanovich was traveling.
“Vovka’s to blame,” he said. “Why did he attack her? And you can see her side—it’s
insulting! What for? If he’d been more restrained, maybe they’d be living peacefully.
She’s a good girl, they say.”
“No,” I said. “You’re wrong there. Sooner or later it would’ve happened anyway. She
shouldn’t have married Vovka.”
“How so?” He looked at me with a challenge, as if offended for his nephew.
“They say here, ‘domestic violence and adultery never happen once.’ Vovka’s the kind
that looks for a mother in his wife—expects life to go on as at home with mama: clean
house, hot food, care, sweetness, and in bed too—better than with mama. Inga is
different. Some families raise children tight as strings—no fooling around. A woman told
me once her father allowed only the Bible at home—no other books. Then somehow
Son of the Regiment fell into his hands, so he read it, was impressed by the story, and
made the kids read it too. Now there were two books. Inga comes from such a family.
Married off—now the husband is responsible. If this were in Russia—a grim, strict
husband like her father—maybe she’d have bent. Headscarf, eyes downwards,
meekness, submission. But this is America, and Vovka’s no despot; he was born here.
If not for relatives and the guys at work he wouldn’t even speak Russian. The young
chirp in English among themselves. Inga worked at a bank among locals; half the town
knows her; everyone says ‘Hi!’ Here you can’t hit on beauties—‘hey girl, let’s go there
and here’—you’ll go to jail for harassment, but smiling kindly is normal. And without
embarrassment. She got used to being loved by everyone. She did nothing bad—just
behaved like everyone here: feel like singing—sing; they smile—smile back; everyone
likes you—look your fill; I like myself too. If there were only locals around, there’d be no
problem. But ours are different. To them she’s ‘too much.’ And that simple soul belts out
hymns in church. So Vovka, like Sharikov with that cat, wanted to ‘teach’ her. Maybe
she understood ‘what for,’ as you said, but she wouldn’t accept it. And then this ‘spiritual
father’—the total opposite of Vovka. Imagine—what a goat to guard the cabbages…”
“What do we do now?” Nikolai Ivanovich asked, discouraged.
“You need to take your Vovka away from here—far—otherwise he’ll really stab her. He
has no other way out, except to finish himself. By confessing in church, she put him on
such a pedestal that now two hundred people stare like at a theater. You can’t invent a
viler revenge.”
“Did she really mean to take revenge?”
“Consciously, maybe not—but that’s how it turned out. A devil whispered to her and
made a mess. Vovka’s like Onegin now.”
“How’s that?”
“Simple. Onegin shot Lensky ‘to the joy of fools.’ Their quarrel got too known. He
despised that rural crowd but didn’t want to be called a coward among them, so he
killed his friend.”
“No, not like that,” Nikolai Ivanovich squirmed. “That’s not Christian. If she confessed in
church, then the whole church should decide what to do. What a circus—everyone
gossiping. Vovka can’t even go to meetings because she might be there. He grew up in
that church.”
“So did she. And now she’s a little touched. Sometimes she’ll ask someone, ‘Vovka
won’t stab me, will he?’ They answer, ‘No, he was kidding.’ And she looks down, glassy
eyes: ‘Then where is he?’ she asks. It’s happened more than once. Seems she misses
him. The court says they can’t be together—period. I knew a story where, after such a
thing, a man still climbed in his wife’s window at night—they lived that way. Here two
hundred are watching. If anyone tells…”
“What’s that up ahead?” he asked, peering. “Is that a cross? How tall!”
“A cross indeed. As tall as a twenty-story building. Famous nationwide—the Cross of
Groom. A local millionaire put it up. There’s a Golgotha there too, and life-size bronzes
of the Savior bearing His cross. Well done; impressive. First there was this one; then
Illinois put up a similar one, even taller; then somewhere else.”
“Mother of God… how tall! Where’s everyone? Closed?”
“Always open. You can’t write ‘Vasya was here’ there—they’ll haul you off. Sometimes
people stop. Not as many as at the Rancho Cadillacco. What’s to wonder—‘few find that
path.’”
We stared, enchanted, at the white cross rising to the sky. Well sited. As you watch it
approach, you think of many things. I read recently in some theologian: on the cross,
the crucified Savior points the way to God with His body—the vertical; and the
horizontal—His arms—embraces the world. Beautiful.
“Save and have mercy, O Lord,” I said and crossed myself. So did Nikolai Ivanovich.
We didn’t speak of Vovka’s Brazilian passions anymore. He sat thoughtful, then said:
“What a country! Everything is enormous—trucks, roads, that cross they raised, and
millionaires… One gives a free museum, another glorifies Christ like that. We could use
such men. It makes you think.” He shifted like settling in more comfortably, then looked
back at the sleeper and said, “I’ll go rest, if you don’t mind.”
“High time!” I said. “After that night. Make yourself comfortable. Blanket’s on the top
shelf; take it. Pillow there too. Rest.”
He took off his sneakers, padded over my mats, and a minute later he was asleep. And
I kept flying down the highway, driven now by a tailwind, home to my Oklahoma,
humming softly: “Steppe all around; the road lies far…”
What became of Vovka? He moved to his cousin in Washington State. On a little boat
he and a Russian crew go out into the Pacific. They fish.
Inga married an American. An officer. They live in Virginia. I hear she’s borne him three
children.
I got an email from Nikolai Ivanovich last week. He writes that the goat they bought last
summer didn’t meet expectations—never kidded. Money wasted on breeding. They
turned her into cutlets. Otherwise, they’re well. He’s planning another visit to his
younger daughter in America. God willing, we’ll meet again.
And the Snow Fell...
“By January arrived the snow...” Alexandr Pushkin.
It was November, a few years back. All evening the rain either poured or shredded itself
into a hanging mist. We were all waiting for snow, but that night it never came.
Tips had stacked nicely through the day, so the fogged windshield, wet feet, and fatigue
didn’t spoil my mood. Our customers—the pizza-eaters—had gone crazy. Starting
around four, the computer screen could barely hold the order list. Two kids rolled dough,
three ladled sauce, laid out pepperoni, showered cheese, and slid pies into humming
ovens. The cut table guys raced huge saber-knives through sizzling pies. The ovens
turned the little space into a ninety-degree kiln and kept climbing. Managers ran
between tables and ovens barking orders, helping the cooks, then dropped everything
to serve walk-ins. Pans clanged, cheap radios in opposite corners screamed different
rock stations, “CBS on top, please!”—“Three chef salads to the front!”—jokes, laughter,
and the strange chatter of Russian girls who never stopped talking—everything fused
into one loud, needling noise.
None of that turmoil much concerned me. I’d slip in for two minutes, trade a word or two,
grab the bags, and hit the road again. I’d grown attached to the warm, quiet belly of my
Honda. Books on tape and music sweetened the job and kept me oddly loyal to this
unglamorous work. On weekends I’d even call the manager begging for extra routes.
The steering wheel had long since lost its pebbled texture and, polished by my hands,
shone a soft black.
I don’t remember what book I had on that night—maybe Light in August. Soon I turned
onto a dark street where most curb numbers had worn away and had to guess which
house was my customer’s.
A porch bulb burned dimly—good sign. Not even trying to save my shoes from the wet,
unmown grass, I lugged the hot-smelling bag up the steps and, distrusting the doorbell,
knocked hard.
Through a burst of joyful barking—dogs who seemed to have waited just for me—I
heard voices. The door opened a crack. A girl of about thirteen peeked out. I opened my
mouth to say hello, but she turned and called into the house, “No, not him!” After the
usual shuffle of isolating their barkers, the scarred door swung wide and there stood a
woman. I kept my eyes from dropping to the low neckline and the pendant wobbling
there with cheap shine, said hello, handed over the pizza, and, staring at her shoes,
named the price. Just came from a party, I thought, taking her twenty.
“Two fifty-nine change,” I said, fishing in the company wallet, waiting for the usual:
“Keep it.”
“One second.” She vanished and returned with a palmful of quarters. “Sorry it’s coins.
Thanks for coming out in this weather.”
By the weight there were three extra dollars in there.
“Thanks—you’ve brightened my night, ma’am. Folks like you make America a great
country,” I said, delivering my stock compliments.
“Does Mitch not work tonight?” she asked suddenly.
I looked at her face. A mole on the cheek; otherwise, for her age, not bad. The eyes
saved her—big, brown, carefully lined.
Mitch was one of us—driver, friend of mine.
“Mitch? Sorry, can’t say,” I lied.
“Maybe it’s his day off. Otherwise, he would’ve come. He always comes,” she said, a
little sad.
“Want me to tell him hello?” I asked.
“Tell him,” she sighed, said goodbye, and shut the door.
At least she left the porch light on. Often it’s goodbye—click—and you crack your
forehead in the dark.
On the way back I turned the book off. Something in her voice made me think of Mitch
and of her. She hadn’t wandered in from a party—she’d been waiting for Mitch. She
didn’t even need the pizza.
The rain quit for a while. I killed the wipers and left more room behind the cars ahead so
they wouldn’t throw dirty water onto my glass.
When I first met Mitch, he reminded me of the rowdy kids from my Moscow outskirts.
Average height, well built, muscular. Short hair grown into a little pig-tail at the nape—
my old neighborhood boys would’ve laughed him out of town for that, but this was
America.
I ignored him at first. Why meet every rookie? Most didn’t last a week. Ten days later I
was on a stool behind the cooler, building box stacks, when someone started singing
along with the radio so well I put the boxes down to look. Mitch was bouncing and
singing “Have You Ever Seen the Rain.” I don’t know if John Fogerty danced like that,
but Mitch did it great.
“Hey!” I called when he stopped. “You sing, I’ll sell tickets. I only take sixty percent after
taxes, rest is yours. I’ll make you a star.”
He hadn’t expected an audience. As I spoke he tightened up—head flicked my way but
he didn’t look straight at me, just slanted his eyes, froze in place, then relaxed and
smiled.
“Come on, I’ll teach you to fold boxes,” I said.
He came over, smiling awkwardly, not sure how to talk with the Russian twenty years
his senior. He listened, head bent, watching me like a talking monkey, a little skeptical.
By day’s end we were friends.
He was twenty-five, had a daughter living with some grandmother on his ex-wife’s side.
The mother had lost custody for drugs.
When he learned I still did real estate on the side he lit up. The judge wouldn’t let him
get his daughter back because he had no home of his own. I asked about his credit,
income, all the basics. As I expected, his case was crumbs.
People like that are magnetized to me. I didn’t say it, just sent him to a banker friend—
she’d worked miracles before. A week later, nothing doing: hold steady at one job for six
months, pay down some debt, save five grand. You just wave your hand.
“See?” he told me sadly. “I’m poor.”
“Cut it out. You’re not poor—you just don’t have money. For now, got it? Never say
you’re poor.”
“That’s true,” he nodded. “I’ll be rich. We’ll both be rich. Let’s do something.”
“Like what?”
“I know a guy,” Mitch lowered his voice, glancing around as if we could be overheard.
“Buys old computers, upgrades them, sells them—six hundred each. Offered me ten at
a discount. We can make good money.”
“Let him find another fool. I’ve made enough dumb mistakes in your America.”
He didn’t argue. Boxes flew from under his hands—he was thinking hard. Soon it was
his turn to run deliveries. He shot out of the lot with squealing tires.
Mitch had tried many trades. The one that earned him the most made me bark with
laughter: he was a stripper. Sin and comedy. The cooks and drivers laughed, then
warmed to him. The guy who could dance and sing like that became a favorite. When
he mimed bar routines for the ladies, it was gross, but we howled “Go, Mitch, go!” and
he gave us a show—though not often.
The career ended badly. Invited to a birthday, he charmed the girls so much they forgot
their boyfriends; the boys got tired, a fight broke out, and Mitch took a knife under the
ribs.
All this ran through my head as I drove back by reflections of streetlights. Mitch’s Jeep
was in the lot.
“I think I met your mom,” I told him when I walked in.
“What mom?” he blinked.
“Nice lady on Jasper Street. Asked about you. I figured—your mom.”
“Not my mom. My girlfriend.”
“Your what?” I laughed. “Then why didn’t you take that order? Your girl’s not mine.”
“Her son can’t stand me.”
I liked his candor, though sometimes it grated.
“Her son? How old?”
“Four years younger than me,” he shrugged, keyed his driver number into the computer,
grabbed the bags, and vanished into the night.
Five minutes later I was back behind my wheel. No more Faulkner, no music. Mitch
hadn’t lied—the woman I met was his girlfriend.
Another of Mitch’s girlfriends was Tatyana, daughter of a Russian Pentecostal presbyter
who’d come to America in the late eighties. Ten kids. They’d all stayed in Russia then,
and now, one by one, slipped over to Oklahoma. Not all grew up devout, but most took
after their father. So did Tatyana. She wouldn’t leave the house without her Bible, a
frayed, note-scribbled treasure she lugged in her purse. At first she read it on breaks,
later, as the first stress passed, she stopped pulling it out. Instead she pored over a
Russian–English dictionary and a book of English idioms printed in Kazakhstan in the
early sixties—perfect for Queen Victoria and Jane Austen, less so for modern America.
Despite my skepticism, those books ranked right after the Bible for her. We once argued
about faith and since then she didn’t fully trust me. “Your God,” she’d say, “is just too
convenient.”
She even managed to sneak a look at her dictionary while running the electric dough
roller. On hearing a word important to her station, she’d flip pages or ask me—and
complain about “their poor little language.” I’d long since stopped trying to explain that
English has roughly half again as many words as Russian. Curious by nature and
talkative, she began to try out English. Awkwardly at first, then more boldly as people
liked her efforts. Bit by bit she gathered words; where they failed, she used gestures or
ran to me for help. She was a worker, and the manager valued that—she did everything
right. Plates washed cleaner than us drivers ever left them; the floor shone not just in
the middle but in forgotten corners. No pans piled up under the tables on her watch;
slop buckets never overflowed. Soon she made such picture-perfect pizzas they
could’ve gone on the poster. She didn’t walk—she almost ran, hauling stacks of pans or
shoving plastic tubs of dough across the floor.
She didn’t fuss with her looks. Soap and water were the full extent of skincare; she
looked older than thirty-five. A thread of gray at the crown, hair gathered with a brown
comb she’d brought from Russia. But her slimness and quick, elastic movement showed
through the clumsy uniform that made all our women look the same.
Once, she confessed, she’d put on makeup, and it almost brought her trouble. In their
church, rules were strict—no makeup. The devil must’ve tempted her when she went for
a passport photo. She mentioned it to a girlfriend, who laughed—“You can’t go looking
like that! Here, let me fix you up.” She painted her so well Tatyana didn’t recognize
herself. Ordered a color print, too—gorgeous. She kept that photo like treasure and
never showed her passport at church, where a worse story had happened earlier.
Two years before, Tatyana had a boy by a newcomer to their church—fresh out after
serving time. Kind believers helped him with a place to live. He was energetic, helped
old folks, spoke in tongues, but when elders advised him to wait on baptism and grow in
the faith, he got upset. They were right—within a month he got drunk and brawled in a
restaurant, then sank deeper. Worst: Tatyana got pregnant and kept living in sin with
the drunk. Gossipers added she drank with him.
She shouted that if elders hadn’t blocked his baptism, her man wouldn’t have backslid.
“You stand between a man and God!—she cried. —He came for salvation and you’re in
the way. You go against the Holy Spirit, hypocrites!”
They excluded her.
Life with the ex-con was a nightmare. He lost his job, stole her things, traded them for
liquor. Fights. Between truces she tried to reason with him; on the day she gave birth
they arrested him for robbery and later gave him twelve years.
The boy came healthy, bright-eyed, slept nights—joy to his mother. People from church
came, helped, took pity; she repented publicly and the scandal faded. But that passport
photo would nearly cause a new one.
She got an interview date at the American Embassy. Like her siblings, following her
father’s advice from Oklahoma, she’d applied for refugee status. Money was tight; she
scraped by on odd jobs; there was barely enough to feed the boy—and now a trip to
Moscow. The church paid for the ticket; family gathered what they could; she went to a
city she’d never seen and where she knew no one.
She and her boy waited with a roomful of wired souls whose fates were being decided
behind doors. Everyone whispered about how to answer, how to behave. Not everyone
got a visa. The worst luck was to face a certain woman who nitpicked and often refused.
An American Indian, they said, looked like a Siberian auntie, but you couldn’t ride up to
her on a goat. She knew Russian believers cold; if someone faked it, she sniffed them
out and bounced them. She knew Scripture practically by heart, especially the passages
churches read all the time. Panicked Pentecostals and Baptists rustled pages and
muttered verses by those doors. Rumor said if she slapped your passport on the table—
no America for you.
Tatyana got so rattled she didn’t hear her name called; her son tugged her by the hand.
They sat opposite a polished desk, and she came to herself only when the foul-mouthed
cashier from the corner store sat down across from her. How did she get here? Tatyana
thought. The woman pulled some papers and flipped them, then asked Tatyana’s name.
With an accent, without cursing. Tatyana realized she’d been mistaken. She settled
down, answered carefully, even volunteered what wasn’t asked. Everything seemed to
go fine.
“Do you wear makeup?” the woman asked.
“Goodness, never,” Tatyana waved it off, not expecting a trap.
The passport slid under her nose. “Then what’s this?”
Seeing the lined eyes and painted lips in the photo, Tatyana wilted. The woman asked
what Christ said at Lazarus’ tomb. Tatyana knew that place well, but the words blew
clean out of her head. She sat blinking—struck dumb.
The woman closed the passport and slapped it on the desk. Then she grabbed a pen
and started scribbling. Something came over Tatyana. First in a whisper, then louder,
she began to recite—the genealogy of Christ from Matthew chapter one, word for word.
The woman stopped writing, pulled a Bible out of her drawer, opened the place, and
followed while Tatyana rattled off the names, finished the chapter, and started chapter
two. “That’s enough,” the woman said at last. Tatyana stared, blinking, as if fallen from
the moon. That day the Holy Spirit Himself took her side—truly: When you are brought
before rulers… They stamped her passport.
Later, she learned she’d been admitted on “parole.” Refugee benefits were closed to
her; she’d be living on the mercy of relatives, though she did get a work permit. Only
late at night, in a rocking train berth, did it hit her; she cried with relief—her son would
eat his fill, have good clothes and a bicycle, then a car; he’d study engineering and live
like a human being, because in America, they say, even common men don’t drink, and
engineers especially don’t. She watched the gloomy, dark Russia smolder by in sparse
lights and prayed with all her heart.
Her father, the presbyter, lived on a tiny pension. His first wife, mother of his ten,
ordered him on her deathbed to marry her sister, so he did, and brought her to America.
His church sat across town, and every day he drove there in his little Geo Metro he
jokingly called Geometry. He and his wife were used to the heat and, to neighbors’
amazement, never ran the air conditioner—saving electricity. Behind their little house
ran an old railbed, now stripped of tracks; beyond it, a thicket so overgrown no one
could make use of it. He’d once gone for mushrooms—saw a big snake and hurried
home.
The narrow strip of ground between the house and the railbed became his garden. He
built a chicken coop there. Young apple trees, plums, even pears cast shade onto rows
of vegetables. They worked the garden in the morning and, when the sun turned fierce,
went inside to rest. Roosters, hens, geese, even a pair of turkeys strutted freely in the
yard and in the house, whose doors stood open on both sides, inviting the wind to push
out the heat. Flies of all kinds buzzed over bread crusts pecked by the birds; the place
looked, sounded, and smelled like a half-forgotten pre-collective childhood. Unaware of
building codes, the old man nailed on a terrace, a carport, a shed—from found boards
and discarded billboards. Evenings he sat in the shade, rejoicing in the abundance God
had granted the end of his life.
Tatyana and her son arrived in late August, the heat still unbroken. The first night, limp
from humidity and road-weariness, she sat on the back steps and stared at the same
stars that shone in Russia. A rustle came from the coop, then a full commotion. Her
father ran out; they rushed to help the birds. They found a goose laid out across the
doorway. From the corner, in the sweep of the flashlight, the devil stared at them—an
opossum, but Tatyana had never seen such a creature. Blinded, it froze; then it tried to
dart, but she was quicker. Like a cat, she leaped and grabbed it by the scruff. They
stretched it out over a log; one stroke of the axe—done. That’s how her new life had
started.
A few days later, she got her job permit. Church, a couple of thrift stores—that was her
first introduction to America. Everyone smiled; her father’s fridge was full; her boy’s
eyes burned with curiosity. What more did she need? Evenings they knelt in prayer, and
the presbyter’s trumpet voice seemed heard not only across the neighborhood but in
heaven itself, where God looked down at the happy family.
A week after arriving, Tatyana came to our shop—the only place anyone could help with
her English. That anyone was me.
“She has legs,” Mitch said, looking at Tatyana. She worked with her back to us,
unaware she was being discussed.
“No kidding,” I smirked. “Everyone has legs.”
“I mean good ones. She’s pretty, too. Think she’ll go out with me?”
“You nuts? She’s ten years older.”
“So what? All my women have been older.”
“Maybe she will. But you’ll have to take her father to the movies, too.”
Mitch smirked, eyes never leaving Tatyana. She worked in a steady, economical rhythm
—hours like that.
“Hey, Tania!” I called in Russian. “Mitch wants to ask you out.”
“What?” She startled; the dough wrinkled into rags under the roller. “What?” she turned.
Hair sprung loose from the comb; flour smudged her nose. Not exactly date-ready.
“He wants to take you to a movie,” I said in Russian. To Mitch: “Am I right?”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m asking if it’s the movies or a restaurant,” I deadpanned.
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“I’m not going with you,” I warned. “Figure it out yourselves.”
Tatyana stood listening, dough in hand.
“Well? Didn’t you get it? Movie. Tonight.”
“As if!” She snorted and turned back. The roller purred; she worked as before while
knowing we were watching.
Orders surged; I forgot them both. After nine, when things finally eased, I started
greasing pans—fifty large, thirty medium, forty small—paint, lid, stack; paint, lid, stack.
Punishment work for drivers’ easy money. Tatyana wiped stainless tables. Mitch
swabbed the floor and clowned around her, singing scraps of love songs. She liked his
voice though she didn’t understand the words. He puffed his cheeks and buzzed “Jingle
Bells” on tight lips, then popped it off with a loud cork sound.
Everyone around laughed; jokes flew. Embarrassed, Tatyana squeaked, “Cut it out,
fool!” and scrubbed even harder.
Mitch wouldn’t quit. Bored, he came up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders
—just a quick end-of-shift massage, common enough when your body’s wrecked.
Tatyana jolted as if shocked; if he hadn’t dodged, the dirty rag would’ve slapped him
square in the forehead. Her eyes flashed; she was searching for words to scold him.
The next day someone asked what would’ve happened if she’d really whacked him.
“She wouldn’t have,” Mitch said. “My reflexes are better.”
He boxed, too. Sometimes he entered challenge bouts with traveling pros and came
back bruised but happy—got decent marks. If I needed a taped box opened, I didn’t
fetch a knife; I held it out and Mitch crushed the glue seams with one punch. Once I
asked what he did at home after work. “Hit the dummy,” he said. Those rubber torsos
with cheerful faces. One had the misfortune of being Mitch’s. “You hit it all the time?”
“Almost all the time,” he said after thinking.
His reflexes were good—but I doubt he could’ve caught an opossum, especially after
crossing an ocean.
Meanwhile, Tatyana settled in. Her English came on fast. A month in, she knew every
word she needed and started speaking. People picked up her Russian, and soon our
shop crackled with a funny mix of both languages.
Her business with Mitch drew attention. Not exactly flirting—more a clumsy game
between two grownups. The age gap embarrassed her; she swatted away serious
thoughts. He, on the contrary, wasn’t embarrassed at all; he liked the obstacle—
something to win. Seeing her, he couldn’t stay calm. Overfull, he danced, sang,
invented bits. Once he squared up and feinted a playful punch at her like at his rubber
friend. She didn’t flinch—rang a light pan on his crown. The pan boomed; everyone fell
over laughing—including Mitch. Tatyana fled outside, mortified.
Two hours later he was again allowed to massage her shoulders. She’d learned there
was nothing much to it, but she stood ramrod straight, tense, getting no real relief. She
endured it as payback for having publicly shamed him. Soon she decided enough and
shrugged him off. The warmed-up truce was broken again by something else.
Not all her siblings were believers; some were “normal people” who wanted “normal”—
good—life. When Tatyana heard her sister Varvara had an embassy date, she said,
“That one will never get in.” Varvara always wore a plaster of makeup, smoked, and
loved a shot of vodka—often, since her husband hated drinking alone. They were the
last people the embassy Indian would ever approve.
Tatyana was wrong. Either the Indian woman took a vacation or God Himself opened
the door. Within a month, Varvara, her husband, and two daughters arrived. As
refugees they got an apartment, money, even a case worker—everything God-fearing
Tatyana had been denied. She worked sixty hours a week, barely scraping by. No
money for a computer for her boy. Her wage went from $5.25 up in small bumps. She
lived in a cheap place in a Black neighborhood, view of a vacant lot. Nights, some
unknown life tapped and argued outside. Once she heard a scuffle turn to gunshots.
She called the police but couldn’t explain well, and her son slept in the next room—she
was afraid to wake him. Ten minutes later the cruiser flashed its blue and red lights for
show and rolled off into the fog.
I told her she needed to marry. Split the bills, life would be easier. “What, marry for rent
money?” “Why not? My sociology textbook says marriage is a financial union.” “What
about love?” “Not in the textbook.” “Then trash the textbook. People without love just
fight.” “People live like that. Not even married—share a bed, share the bills. Tons of
them.” “Madness. I won’t marry without love.” Mitch walked in. “This one loves you,” I
said. “Look—another shiner. Hey, Mitch! You marrying Tatyana?” He twirled his empty
bag under the counter, turned, and belted a country wedding tune at full volume. “You’re
both idiots,” Tatyana snapped and left.
Varvara and her daughters soon joined the shop. They were tall, slim, dressed like for
Dillard’s, not a kitchen. Sixteen and eighteen—stunners. Varvara, a year older than
Tatyana but younger-looking thanks to self-care—rouge-and-milk skin, lacquered hair,
powdered face, lipstick blazing, eyes sparkling that said: You’re all clowns here. She
introduced herself as Barbara. Tatyana snorted—the Russian name was better than
some “Barbra” (she stressed the last syllable, so it sounded funny). Barbara smiled
sweetly and swore at her sister under her breath. Everyone understood the two couldn’t
live without each other. Hands were shaken. “Welcome to America!”
Tatyana, unused to such treatment, kept poking at the “Barbra” thing. I tried
peacemaking—explained it was a Greek name, pronounced differently in different
countries. Mistake. From then on, both ran to me to tattle on each other. Back in Russia,
Tatyana had ranked last among luckier sisters; now Barbara couldn’t accept her
authority.
Barbara had never done physical work; by day’s end she was wrecked. Tatyana was
fresh as always, pleased America would finally teach her sister honest labor. Barbara
muttered curses.
She’d managed a hunting lodge back home: first communists, then capitalists (with
girlfriends, rarely wives). Barbara knew hunters’ secrets and kept her mouth shut.
Mistress of the lake house, she entertained her own family there. In America, from day
one, she had to work as a simple hand and cursed the new country, saying she’d only
come for her daughters. The girls, however, loved it.
The manager, seeing how deftly Tatyana guided her sister and nieces, gave her
another fifty cents. The girls caused no trouble; Barbara couldn’t stand the monotony,
begged for smoke breaks. Through me, the manager explained he couldn’t make
exceptions—company rules. Barbara complained she couldn’t stand all-day standing;
she tried making eyes at him—no effect. He offered a station change, which still
required standing. She looked at him like an idiot and cursed softly in Russian. Later,
scared of being caught by her father who drove them home, she smoked behind the
shop in plain sight. I told her only prostitutes lit up there and she’d land in jail. “To hell
with all of you,” she said, and puffed harder.
A month in, Barbara ached for home. Nights she got drunk and called Russia. The
phone bill hit five hundred. Her husband had just found a welding job at eight an hour—
nothing to cover it. They turned to her father. Worse, the Pentecostals sniffed tobacco
and booze and the old man had to lay down the law. Barbara cried bitterly. In a country
where the roads were full at six a.m., where no one knew rest, where everything came
down to money—she hated everything, especially her own people, who had set her
under surveillance.
Despite their differences the sisters bonded—argued by habit, then allied out of
necessity. Every night before closing one of us drivers took out buckets of unused
dough. The company guaranteed freshness; dough had to be made daily. The sisters
called it a crime. Grabbing my elbow, they summoned the manager and delivered a
sermon about fattened Americans, hungry children and old people in Russia, and the
reverence for bread that should live in anyone tied to the earth. I translated. The
manager blinked and tried to hide behind policy. Useless. The women grew hotter, and
to help him escape I whispered: “Let them take it home.”
Done. The manager knew their wages were tight; this was a way to help. There was a
lot of dough. They took it to their father, who baked loaves and gave them away at
church. This sparked other ideas—weekends Tatyana cleaned the manager’s house,
mowed his lawn, skimmed leaves from the pool with the long-handled net. Her son
splashed nearby—everyone content.
Barbara hated it. She snarled that her sister would lick the boss’s boots. Tatyana called
her a fool and said when she became assistant manager she’d make Barbara work for
real. Barbara swore she’d hang herself first. Another fight.
Once the manager drove Tatyana to the central office for a test. On the way back he
bought her lunch. Barbara squinted, smiled crookedly—“Now I get it!”—and chuckled to
herself all day. It drove Tatyana mad. Barbara became certain her sister had hanky
panky with the boss (my translation of shury-mury stuck to her tongue). The drama
almost cured her homesickness. Now, looking at her sister with an enigmatic smile, she
worked way better. She seemed almost happy, humming some tunes and breaking to
sudden guffaws. Soon she got a raise, too.
Mitch, meanwhile, tried to liquidate his “business.” Renting a flea market booth cost too
much. Sneakers hung everywhere already. He opted for old-school canvassing and
went town to town, draped in rubber shoes, knocking on doors—sold some, but the take
barely covered lost delivery tips. He asked if he could sell them in Russia; I told a few
disaster stories; he dropped the idea. In the end he found another eager entrepreneur
and dumped the lot. He kept a few pairs for himself and felt victorious. He sang again,
impressed the Russian girls with new shoes, and trailed Tatyana.
She didn’t chase him off—maybe protecting the manager’s reputation. They massaged
each other’s shoulders openly now and chatted on breaks. She still refused actual dates
and held a line. Mitch was happy even with that. It felt to him like a real romance. He
watched for her glance, glowed when she laughed at his jokes, and belted out songs
with that big, beautiful voice. It seemed he had finally found in Tatyana what he’d
always looked for in other women.
“You need to study—get a diploma, be somebody,” she lectured. “My boy’s thirteen—
sharp as a knife at math! Your schools here are a madhouse. Problems we did in third
grade he’s getting in eighth. I bought him College Algebra at a garage sale—he solved
the lot. Stop pawing me.”
“What for college?” Mitch shot back. “You never finish paying. I know guys—millionaires
with no diplomas. You want me poor forever?”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Poverty isn’t in your pocket—it’s in your head.”
Seeds from Tatyana began to sprout; sometimes he went quiet, thinking.
Barbara watched everything—sister, Mitch, manager—wore a knowing smile. “She’ll
never give it to him,” she told me for no reason as we stuffed empty boxes into the
dumpster. “Give what—to whom?” My head was elsewhere. “Tanya. She’s faithful. She
won’t sleep with two at once.” Thank God Tatyana didn’t hear.
Mitch once brought his daughter on his court-appointed third Tuesday. Thin, blue-eyed,
ponytail. She clung to his leg while we all came out to stare. He petted her head, smiling
—fatherhood fit him.
“Wanna show them?” he asked. She looked up, unsure. “Come on,” he winked. He held
out his hands; she climbed him like a monkey, stepped onto his palm, and stood high,
balancing. Then stretched into a swallow. Cars on the street slowed; some even
stopped at the curb. Mitch bent his elbow and tossed her; she flipped and landed into
his support. The little crowd applauded; someone whistled.
Only Tatyana stayed cool. Varvara’s girls begged me to translate. Mitch, they said,
shouldn’t rot in this stupid shop—he should go to New York, or Hollywood, perform on
the street; a director would spot him like Alain Delon and put him in movies; or someone
would build a show. Their eyes burned—maybe their lives would change too, no more
dumping trash and laying pepperoni on cheese. I translated; people joked; I looked for
Tatyana—gone.
“Why’d you leave?” I asked an hour later. “Man did a whole circus for you alone.”
She didn’t answer at once. Lunch was over; evening hadn’t started. The manager
hunched in his nook over papers; even the radios were quiet; only the oven fans
groaned. Tatyana gathered herself.
“Can you talk to Mitch?”
“About what?”
“Tell him it’s no good. Nothing will come of it. He’s too young.”
“You’ve told him that a hundred times.”
“He doesn’t care. Maybe he’ll listen to you. I’m tired of it. Why tear our hearts?” She
wiped a tear.
“Maybe it’s fine that he’s young. I don’t know what to say.”
“I love someone else,” she said, blew her nose.
“Who?” I thought of the manager and cursed Barbara in my head.
“You don’t know him. Met him on the train to Moscow. A deacon from Ufa. We talked all
night. I can’t forget him.”
“Then marry him. Blessings and love.”
“Don’t,” she waved the handkerchief, frightened. “He probably doesn’t remember me.
And he’s in Canada now.”
“Easier then. Give me the name; I’ll find him through Canadian immigration in a snap.”
“You think everything is simple. No. I don’t chase men. If it’s meant, he’ll find me. Will
you talk to Mitch?”
“Pointless. Say it yourself. If you’ve decided, tell him plain; why waste time for both of
you?”
My shift ended; I went home.
Next day I met the woman who’d asked about Mitch. Gray day. Morning fog, then a bit
of clearing, but the sky stayed low. A gusty wind drove leaves and trash down the
streets. Then rain again—on and off. November. We expected snow; it didn’t come.
I killed the book-on-tape. I kept thinking about the woman and Mitch. What would
Tatyana say if she knew he visited that one while courting her?
I knocked at gates of mansions with guards and fences; at doors of middle-class
homes; at grimy doors where I had to find a clean spot to knock. The last group often
ordered drunk and tipped five bucks like nothing. Regular folks gave the standby two.
Rich ones sometimes gave more but studied your face first, as if to see what their
money would be used for. They knew the price of money. There were a few houses
where they tipped a ten; I rushed to those and let other orders wait.
Mitch worked hard, too, desperate to stack five grand for a down payment. I still sold
real estate part-time; we were almost ready to house-hunt for him. His mother in Atlanta
promised help. When did he find time to twist women’s heads?
Late evening came. Orders eased. Most drivers went home. The cooks began deep
clean. Tatyana took off her sauce-stained apron, fixed her comb, and went to Mitch.
She’d decided to talk. They stepped out into the cold wind.
A minute later Mitch came back pale, lip trembling, angry sparks in his eyes. It was his
turn to go. Without looking at anyone he loaded bags, grabbed tickets, and strode out. I
heard his Jeep’s tires scream—and then a heavy boom. We all ran outside. He’d
collided with another car. His head stuck through the windshield. It could’ve been one of
his gags, but dark blood streamed from his temple and the horn wailed under his
weight.
He was unconscious three days. Tatyana was beside herself. Working, she muttered
prayers nonstop. Maybe her prayers saved the fool. We told her it wasn’t her fault—
Mitch should have looked, at least buckled up before turning left. She waved us off—“I’ll
sort it out.”
She wanted to visit, but they wouldn’t let her. When we finally got permission and drove
to the hospital, we were told the patient was gone—his mother had come from Atlanta
and taken him. No instructions for visitors. Without permission the nurse couldn’t give
an address or phone. Tatyana bristled for a scene; I barely held her back. They
suggested sending flowers through a service. She shouted: if your loved one were in
trouble, would flowers through some crooks be enough?
I dragged her away.
Tatyana quit. The manager spent an hour begging her to stay; she’d decided. Barbara
left after her. I saw them a couple of times since. They worked at a factory, dipped
exhaust pipes into acid, and, with overtime, made nearly twice what we’d paid.
Barbara’s girls stayed a while. Among us drivers were two musicians, a writer, an
amateur theater director hungry for fame, a fine-art painter, even a philosopher—
Schopenhauer fan. The girls liked the company.
Soon Tatyana moved to a better neighborhood, bought her boy a computer, and from
her father bought that same Geo Metro. Local radio bragged about the company’s
employee of the month—a Russian who outworked everyone and never came off the
honor board. She’d found her bright path. Barbara, I heard, planned to quit—couldn’t
compete with her sister. With husband and daughters she was thinking about California
—more fun, more Russians, and the pesky Pentecostals wouldn’t keep up.
Time passed; I forgot the story. I drove another twenty thousand miles through the
same neighborhoods and listened to fifty more books on cassettes. Christmas—the
most profitable stretch for pizza delivery—came and went. Winter set in. Money was
good; I worked more.
After New Year’s I took an order to a car dealership. I glanced at the ticket—stared at
the name. I looked up: Mitch stood there, smiling. The buzz cut was gone; a neat
hairstyle covered the scar. White shirt, tie—respectable. Still looked a bit like a Moscow
bratok (gangster). I was glad to see that grinning mug.
His stepfather in Atlanta had made it selling Fords, trained Mitch, and sent him back to
do the same. Mitch showed me his sleek red Mustang. From the mirror hung a student
parking pass for the local university.
“You’re in school?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah. Studying marketing. Company pays part. I cover the rest. Turns out Mom bought
me a good policy once; the insurance paid after the crash. Covered the hospital and left
some.”
“So—you’re rich,” I said.
“Not with money.”
“With what then?”
“I got married.”
“To the lady on Jasper Street?”
“No. You won’t believe it. A Russian.”
“Of course. Also of—Balzac age?”
“No, twenty-two. Divorced. She has a daughter.”
“Where’d you find her?”
“In Moscow. Met online. Then I went there for New Year’s. It is a year we’re together.”
“You’re something. What’s with you and Russians—aren’t American women enough?”
“I like Russians more.”
“And she’s named Tatyana, right?”
“No. Svetlana. You still selling houses?”
I was getting into my car when he said something I didn’t catch. He repeated it in
Russian: “Ne v diengakh schastye.” (Happiness isn’t in money.)
“That what your Svetlana says?”
“Yes—and I like it.”
I had three more orders, so I drove off. Day was dying. Multicolored Christmas lights
glowed on streets and houses. Turning over the Russian saying—Happiness isn’t in
money—I didn’t notice at first: snow had started. Big flakes, melting on the asphalt, but
you could tell it would stick by morning and tomorrow would be hard. It was January
second. Pushkin’s line came to mind: The snow fell only in January.
“Well then,” I muttered, and stopped at a house blazing with lights. “Pizza man! Pizza
man!” the children cried. Their dad took the boxes and tipped ten bucks. “Thanks for
coming on a night like this,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you, Lord,” I thought.
Waving goodbye to the kids at the door, I walked back to my car. The snowy evening
promised a decent take.
The end.
The Redneck Teacher and other American Stories
© Copyright: Ditrikh Lipats, 2025
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