Everything’s Coming Up Josey (12 page)

I eye him for a long moment, and then I realize I have no idea where I live. He must be able to read my mind because he leans over and taps Tracey. She disengages herself from Rick and sighs. “What?”

“I'm taking your roomie home. Where do you live?”

Obviously Tracey has no problem handing me over to a complete stranger for she rattles off our address and returns to her lip lock. Caleb leads the way out of the Gray Pony and onto the litter-strewn street. Wind scrapes up dust and old soda cans and scurries them down the street. Not a bistro in sight.

Darkness has oozed across Moscow in the hour or so I tarnished my reputation in the Gray Pony. I walk beside Caleb in silence, listening to the rustle of drying leaves, seeing a few stars poke out of the night. I wonder if the sky looks the same as it does from the beach on Berglund Acres.

“Do you go there a lot?” I ask Caleb.

“Sometimes. It's the ex-pat watering hole, even if you don't like the atmosphere. They play American tunes and serve soda with ice—a winning combination.” He waits at a light, even holding out his arm in case I might leap forward. How sweet. “You caught the Pony on a bad night. Jazz night is fun. And Mondays they have karaoke night—even carry the entire Elvis collection.”

I smile. Oh sure, I'll make sure and keep that night free. But I'm wondering if they have Karen Carpenter. Caleb just grins at me and he feels sorta like my brother, Buddy. Easy not to fall in love with. Safe. Protective. We descend down stairs—the Metro entrance is off the street-level sidewalk—and I feel the air turn cold. He stops in front of what looks like a vending machine and extracts a couple tokens. “Metro fare,” he says, then pushes me toward a turnstile.

I drop my token in, walk through under the scrutiny of another uniformed guard—or wait, was that Gestapo woman from the airport?

I hustle faster and find myself on an escalator.

“Don't look down,” he says. Of course, I do. And nearly lose my lunch/breakfast/whatever—oh, bagel! It's a couple billion miles to the bottom. I sway. Caleb grabs my shoulder and laughs. “Trust me, you'll get used to it.”

We hit bottom and he knows exactly which way to turn. It isn't lost on me that I am at his mercy. Garbled conversation hums around me, and for the first time I realize that I heard mostly English in the Gray Pony. I see other late-night travelers, holding bags, leaning against the ornately carved posts. They look as tired as I feel.

“The Metro system used to be a bomb shelter, and it runs throughout the entire city. Around the center is a ring, and from this ring runs every other line. It's easy to understand once you get the hang of it.” He hands me a Metro map and I study it for a second. It's written in Cyrillic, but it's color-coded, and Caleb runs his finger around the gold ring in the middle. “You live on the green line.” He runs his finger out. “And we're here, on the purple line.”

Okay, I can get this. Confidence rushes through my limp veins.

I've never been in a subway station before, but I can feel the train coming as if it is in my soul. A dull rumble that starts in my bones and moves out through my pores until it consumes my ears, my nose, my thoughts. I glance once at the rails below and calculate the distance if one were to fall….

I take a step back.

The train rushes in, bringing with it wind and the odor of dust and oil. It screeches to a stop, and I feel Caleb push me into a car. Inside, it is deathly quiet. As if this sacred ride under the crust of Moscow it is a private and religious affair, worthy of only whispers. I grab a handle, and a moment later, we are off.

The subway shakes, swaying from side to side, nearly frenetic as it whooshes to the next station. Caleb, I notice, isn't hanging on. He's got his arms out, and he's grinning. “I like to call it subway surfing. Try it!”

Uh, no, I'm having enough trouble standing, as it is.

But by the time we've transferred to the gold line, and then to the green, I've tried it, once. Laughed. Felt just a little like I've taken a piece of Moscow into my heart.

Caleb hikes with me to my building, and we take the stairs up without discussion. I fumble for the key and find it in my passport bundle.

“Don't take your passport with you again,” Caleb warns as he opens the door. “The last thing you want is to lose your identity in Moscow.”

I walk inside my gold-and-brown flat, flop down on the black leather sofa and listen to Caleb leave, closing the door behind him. I have a feeling it's much too late for his warnings.

I'
m up at the crack of dawn. (Maybe that isn't exactly accurate. It's 3:00 a.m. and there isn't the faintest hint of dawn outside my window. And, if I've done my calculations correctly, it's noon Gull Lake time. But I've never been up “at the crack of dawn” before and I'm just going to bask in it,
okay?
) I'm buzzing. Ready to fly. The new and improved Josey, the missionary, rising early like the Proverbs 31 woman to meet with God and throw verve into her day.

Either that or there is more to this jet-lag thing than I want to admit. The flat is quiet, and I don't remember hearing Tracey return, which tells me that either she is very quiet and considerate, or…she's not here. Which leads to other thoughts, fertilized mostly from my last clear memory—that of her playing dentist with Rick.

Gross. Not the first thought with which I'd like to start my day.

As a missionary, I know a few basics. Like, we read our Bibles. And we pray. And we don't hang out in bars. So, I guess that means I'm going to have to do extra time in the first two categories if I hope to even out last night's activities in God's scorebook.

I find my Bible buried under my Gull Lake sweatshirt. Admittedly, I haven't spent too much time inside the pages since I returned from Missionary Camp. Not because I didn't want to. In fact, this summer, I've been closer to God than I've ever been, which probably accounts for the fact that I find myself in a foreign country this morning. But, over the past month, life has been about preparation, about gathering my resources, about embarking on a new journey.

It strikes me that perhaps a wise girl would have spent time preparing, um,
spiritually,
too. Whoops.

I crack open my Bible and it falls open to Ephesians, where I've stuck the bulletin from the fateful, “Call to Russia” day. I read it over, and listen to the missionary's words replay in my head—“For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good work, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Verse 2:10.

Perhaps it would be wise to start at the beginning of the book of Ephesians?

Admittedly, my only experience with formal Bible study has been:

1. Sunday School lessons, mostly about Bible characters (but I'm really good, even with the obscure ones. For example, do you know the lesson about…Acsah? Didn't think so. That's why
I'm
a missionary.).

2. The memorization and theological comprehension of the “Romans road,” a gospel presentation of sin and salvation. (I know, I'm so Dallas Theological Seminary, but again, we missionaries know these things.)

3. A “Special Times with Jesus” devotional book my mother gave me in eighth grade.

But, really, how hard can it be? I'm a reader, and this is a book, right?

I cruise through the first chapter of Ephesians, but maybe my brain is fogged from the time jump because the words blur. As if I've just licked the first layer of frosting off the cake, not getting the full taste.

I grab my journal, feeling like a real scholar. I'll go verse by verse, and focus on the really deep ones. Maybe I'll even teach Tracey something. She seems like she needs a little Bible training in her life.

Now, I have to tell you that, since I'm a missionary, I got a really thick, heavy Bible. It's a deluxe study Bible, with a Greek and Hebrew concordance, red lettering, topography maps, timelines, Bible helps (not that I'll need it), an index to subjects, a weights and measures table and a reference concordance. And it's got a zippered light blue leather case with a carrying handle, a place for a pen, a notebook and even a couple of fancy ribbons/bookmarks. It weighs, roughly, 14.3 lbs, and I had to take out an entire bag of chocolate chips to accommodate it. (I know, I know, sacrifices, but that is what missionaries do). Yes, it's high-end, but like I said, it's like a doctor and his stethoscope. We missionaries rely on our Bibles.

I skim over the first two lines. Greetings. No problem. Even verse three seems manageable—praises to God for his blessings.

Then I get to verse four. “According as he hath chosen us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before him in love; Having predestined us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of his will—” take a breath, will ya, Paul? “—to the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved.”

Phew. And, excuse me, but
huh?

When you spend $50 at my local Christian book store, you get a free gift. I got Hi-Liters. And I try out the pink one on the words that hit me—
chosen, pleasure, will
and
glory.
Those are nice words, don't you think? (A whole lot easier to get a grasp on, also, than “holy and without blame.” I mean, who am I kidding?)

I flip to the back of my Bible, find the Greek equivalents and surface with these definitions:

Chosen
—to select, as in calling out to go forth.

Pleasure
—desires, delights.

Will
—purpose.

Glory
—revelation, honor.

I'm feeling like Martin Luther as I string together this new understanding: He's called me out, selected me before time to be (gulp) holy and without blame (who, me?), and to become His child through Christ (okay, I like that part), because He desires me, (even delights in me?—whoa! Hold that thought tight!) and has a purpose for it (like, uh, Russia?), and through this purpose, He'll be praised and His grace will be revealed.

Okay, I know it's a rough analysis, but I'm feeling smart, bolder, richer…and I like that whole delighting thing. Imagine, the smile of God upon me.

That thought makes my heart fill, and strangely, the feeling I had as I watched Russian children on the television screen at Camp Will-you-be-a-Missionary? floods through me. As if, yes, God has a plan. And it's one He's smiling over. I want to ponder that whole, “to the praise of the glory of his grace,” but I think I'm going to shelve that for the moment. My brain feels pretty sated.

I push off the bed and onto my knees, and feel oddly happy to be here, again. “Lord, You got me to Russia,” I say, and a shiver of excitement races through me, buzzing my nerve endings (and no, it's not a jet-lag hum). “And I gotta believe it's for good. So, today, help me be Your girl. To do it right, whatever that might be.”

I say a prayer, too, for Milton and Jas (I figure she needs it), and Mom and Dad and of course, Chase, and especially H. I have this gut feeling God's just getting started with her.

Finally, I pray for Tracey. I really want to like her. I
do.
I pray she wears something normal today, clothing that doesn't include paws.

The flat is still deadly quiet as I tiptoe out into the main room. Sunlight runs across the carpet, heating the leather sofas (or are they vinyl?). I'm really, really hungry, and my brain is fixed on having a bagel for breakfast. I counted the ones I had left behind last night—a garlic, a cinnamon and raisin, a poppy seed, a whole-wheat, a dried tomato and herb, an egg and finally, my favorite, a veggie bagel with carrots and broccoli and onions.

A veggie bagel toasted with a scrambled egg and I might be able to face the world.

My world slowly dissolves under my cold bare feet as I stare at the crumbs on the countertop. My bagel bag is crumpled, an
empty carcass.
I slam my hand down on it, and it flattens into the counter. No! I pick it up, stare inside, as if bagels might materialize. Hello? There were
seven
bagels in here.
Seven.

I am sick. Nauseous. I grab the counter. Could I have dropped them? Eaten them in my sleep? Okay, wait, I do vaguely remember chewing late last night, but even if I did really eat that garlic one I am suddenly tasting, that leaves
six.

Six stolen bagels.

I need to sit down, put my head between my knees. I barely make it to the chair and am breathing hard when…

“Josey?”

I can't look up, and I'm sure that my lungs have ceased to work because the voice…is…male.

Rick.

I look up, painfully aware that not only am I in my Taz jammies, but he's wearing a leopard skin bathrobe that I'm pretty sure isn't in his current all-black
Matrix
collection.

There is a scream coming. I can feel it. But it's trapped in my clogged throat.

Rick,
I mouth.

He doesn't smile. “I'll make some coffee.”

He'll make coffee? What, to go along with
my bagels
he's consumed? I hope the poppy one gives him gas. I am still trying to form words when Tracey appears. Wearing a pair of red silky undies and a matching camisole.

Oh, please, God, just strike me dead. Right. Now.
I manage a quivering smile.

“How do you feel this morning?” Tracey asks, oblivious to the fact that I'm already mentally packing. How could this happen? Not only is Tracey trampling over, without a blink, every single moral and ethical line I've etched for myself (and not an easy thing to do at the University of Minnesota, School of Immorality, I might add!), but she has
consumed
like a
hyena
all my
bagels
.

I want to go for her throat.

She leans her perfect ten hip against the wall, and smiles, awaiting my answer.

“I'm…ah…fine.” I lie. So much for that Holy and Blameless stuff. See? There were reasons I skipped over that.

“Good. I hope that you'll be getting picked up this morning, because Rick and I have to be to work early.”

Hence the head start last night when he came “home” to our flat? I have no words so I sit there, watching Rick pour himself a cup of coffee. The smell reaches out and makes me ache.

“Oh, and by the way, I cleared you a shelf in the refrigerator and in the cupboard.” Tracey pours herself a cup and glides back to her bedroom, Rick behind her.

Oh, good, my own shelf. So that, you know, our food doesn't get mixed up and you accidentally eat, say…my
comfort food
that I oh so badly needed this morning?

What, did she think the little bagel elves left them for Rick and her Late Night Afterglow Munching?

I pour myself a cup of coffee and retreat to my room to hide my smashed chocolate-chip butter cookies.

 

I don't speak Russian. I know that comes as a great shock. But aside from reading the Mission to the World “conversational Russian” book, I figured I would get it as I go. How hard can it be? Besides, I had other things to concentrate on as I prepared for my trip. Like, how many songs, exactly, would my MP3 player hold?

The language omission, however, is haunting me at the moment as I stare at the little old woman who has knocked at my front door. With fear and trembling (because I could barely see her as I stared out the peephole), I cracked open the door and found her holding a plate of what looks like a greasy version of my sister's Bismarcks.

She doesn't wait for an invitation as she pushes past me and stands in my entry way, talking.

Hmm. I close the door. At this moment, although I'd like to string Tracey up by her pedicure, I could use her Russian language skills. If, in fact, she has any.

The elderly woman beams at me, in-between the rush of words, and I see lots of gold teeth. Her face is gaunt, her figure the padded nondescript evidence of the it's-too-late-now mode of thinking, and she's wearing a gold-and-brown wrap dress in some sort of soft polyester. It sort of matches my apartment. I wonder if she belongs here. Her gray hair is piled on her head in a high bun, and the wrinkles around her eyes place her at a good sixty-five plus.

She holds out the plate. Gestures to me to take it.

I dive for my Russian-English dictionary and look up the word for “What.” As in “What is it?”

“Shto?”
I ask, grimacing.

Wrong thing to say. Because she launches off in a barrage of Russian that even includes some spittle.

I take the plate. Put it on the counter. Smile. Now, I did read in the Russian culture books that it is culturally appropriate to give a gift in return.

If I had a bagel, I might give her one. Might. But I have nothing, except…hmm. I keep smiling, then turn fast and open up one of the cupboards. Ah, jackpot. It's a Tracey cupboard and what do we have here? A year's supply of Splenda, a stack of Bubble Yum (sugar free), and an equally stunning supply of M&M's—the
three pound bag
. I recognize American contraband when I see it.

I grab the M&M's, shove them into the neighbor's grip.
“Spaceeba,”
I say. (That means
thank you,
by the way. Okay, okay! So I
do
know a little Russian. But don't ask me to say
please,
because that entire thing has me confused. Evidently, they use the same word for
please
as
you're welcome,
which would end up being, “Please, and please,” wouldn't it? Or “You're welcome, can I have a pickle?” Weird. I'll stick to
Spaceeba
.)