The Summer Garden (72 page)

In America, Alexander worked for himself building houses so that American men could live in them with their American women and have the children he couldn’t with his Soviet factory-girl wisp of a wife who still got up every morning when it was dark in the winter to go get her family their daily bread, their cardboard bread so that they might live. Dasha, Papa, Mama, Marina, Babushka slept while the bombs fell on the emaciated girl in a white dress as she made her way down the empty snowdrift streets where the dead lay wrapped in sheets. Alexander warned Tatiana to walk only on the left side of the avenues and to wait out the bombing, and Tatiana listened to him, waiting impatiently in doorways in her overcoat and hat, and then, her face to the howling wind, making her way in the blizzard to the store—that was all out.

She was still waiting out the bombing, tubercular, starving, twisting her exhausted body like a vine on which nothing could grow. Alexander could build a lifetime of adobe houses, but no matter how many hours Tatiana put in at Phoenix Memorial, she would never be able to save her grandfather, her mother, her father, her sister, her brother. Who could make babies in this barren landscape of her Soviet womb when sired by the sterile landscape of his Soviet seed?

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blue Christmas

Merry Merry Merry

In early November 1957
, Alexander was checking out a new marble and granite quarry down on West Yuma and thought he’d stop by to see Tatiana at the hospital. The receptionist told him she was in the cafeteria. Through the glass door he saw her sitting with—who was that? He looked slightly familiar—a doctor. Usually he found her having lunch with one of the other nurses, but here she was sitting with a doctor—ah yes, it was Dr. Bradley. Alexander vaguely remembered him from the Christmas parties. Fair-haired Bradley looked fit for a doctor.

What struck Alexander about Tania having lunch with Bradley was the casual ease of her body while she sat with him. She was relaxed, elbows on the table, legs carelessly crossed. Sucking her drink through a straw like a little girl, she was listening animatedly while he talked animatedly. Alexander was just about to come in when she threw back her head and laughed at something the doctor said.

Perplexed, Alexander watched her, his eyes and solar plexus opening to something he had not expected to see. He was used to seeing the eyes of men on her—though Bradley’s were perhaps a little more keen than most—but this was new. Tatiana laughed long and with joy at this regular Bob Hope of a doctor while she blithely rearranged and tightened her hair bun.

Alexander didn’t go in. He stood a moment by the door and then turned around.

“You didn’t find her?” Cassandra called after him.

“No.” He was walking out.

“Want me to page her?”

“No. Got to get back to work. Thanks, though.”

That night after she came home, Alexander was quiet, observing her. She made him meatball soup and fajitas. Anthony was at basketball practice.

“Shura, Cassandra told me you came by today, is that true?”

“I did, but I didn’t realize what time it was. I had to run.”

“You didn’t even page me to say hello?”

“I was ten minutes late to my one thirty.” Alexander took a spoonful of the soup, weighed his words. “What did you do for lunch?”

“Oh, it was so quick today—we had four code blues,” she said. “I had it with Dr. Bradley. You remember him?”

“I do.” Alexander didn’t say anymore. What was interesting to him was that she didn’t say anymore.

“You like the fajitas, Shura?”

“Yes. Francesca has taught you well.”

After dinner, Alexander was lying on the couch, not going outside for his smoke, still watching her. He had to go pick up Ant in a little while.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine.” But Alexander wasn’t fine.

Was it his imagination? Could he be wrong?

No, he saw her happiness. He wasn’t imagining that.

“Come here,” he said, sitting up.

She was drying the dishes.

“Put the rag down and come here.”

“Shura…you have to go pick up Ant in fifteen minutes.”

“Why so much discussion? Come.”

She came and stood in front of him, her eyes soft, fond.

Taking the rag out of her hands, Alexander drew her close between his legs, his hands going underneath her wool jersey skirt to the bare space above her stockings. The girdle was open and satin, the underwear sheer nylon mesh. Pulling up her sweater, he pressed his mouth into the top of her warm stomach and silently rubbed the backs of her thighs, his fingers circling, circling, becoming more insistent when he felt her skin flush and get warmer.

After her hands went around his head and her breath became shallow, Alexander laid her down on the couch and opening her legs slightly so he could see her, caressed her thighs in steady circles. She was
very
flushed, very warm. He watched her face, her elongated neck, her white thighs, her barely there underwear. He unhooked the front clasp of her bra and her breasts fell out, the nipples up and coral.

“Shura, please…”

“Okay, babe.” He bent to her breasts, continuing to rub her. A quivering unquiet minute went by. And another. Straightening up, Alexander whispered, “Look at you. Your nipples are
so
wet, so hard, and you are so warm, and my fingers are
so
close, rubbing you gently, round and round and round…right on the seam of your underwear…Tania, can you feel me?”

She barely moved, barely breathed.

“I can pull back your underwear, like this, just a little, move it over an inch with my fingers…”

She moaned. His fingers circled.

“Come on, Shura,
please…
” She clutched his forearms.

“Please what? Tell me. Please what?”

“…Put your fingers on me,
please…
”

“Tatia,” he whispered, “my fingers…or my lips?”

Tatiana moaned so loud, and when she did, Alexander took his hands off her. She opened her eyes, opened her mouth. “Oh my God, Shura, what—”

“I gotta run,” he said, helping her sit up, giving her a slight push off the couch. “Have to pick up Ant.”

She fell back into his arms.

“Mommy…your son needs to be picked up from practice.”

“Oh God. I can’t wait, Shura,” she said, kissing him hungrily. “I can’t wait another
second
.”

She had to wait another few hours, but that night Alexander made love to her as if it weren’t a Wednesday and they had to be up again at five. Completely in command, he made love to her so thoroughly, so relentlessly and by the end so desperately that after he was done, there was not a pod or a wedge or a hollow on Tatiana’s body that had not been kissed, licked, stroked, sucked, confined, filled, restrained and released. He devoured her. He made love to her until she was limp, until she was hobbled by love. Until there was not a single weeping inaudible
Oh Shura
left in her throat, not a single breath even to beg for mercy. She couldn’t move after he was done with her. He came inside her while kneeling upright on their bed, holding her upright too, under her buttocks. She was pressed up to him and over him and around him, while their mouths were agape against each other. His climax was so intense he nearly dropped her.

The next morning at five thirty, Tatiana made him potato pancakes with bacon on the side.

“So
this
is what I have to do to get potato pancakes around here?” Alexander said, his mouth full.

She was too embarrassed to lift her gaze to him. Her fingers trembled when she touched him, her raw, tender lips trembled when she raised her face to say goodbye to him. “Shura, darling, what got into you?” she murmured, blushing, averting her eyes. “It’s a school night.”

“You got into me,” replied Alexander. “Like a hand grenade.”

But it didn’t last. That night was just a moment in time. Tatiana didn’t run home that evening, didn’t especially fuss around him; she simply went on as she always was and so nothing erased for Alexander the image of her sitting comfortably across from the comedian doctor.

Tatiana’s laughing was another girl’s disrobing.

Alexander did what he always did when he carried too many things that were too heavy for him: from the effort of dragging them around, he withdrew. He became sullen, moody. He snapped at her for the little things, unable to snap at her for the big things. He constantly showed his irritation with her for being late, for being tired, absent-minded, for falling asleep during TV shows, for forgetting to buy things. In his silence he went on and took care of what he had to take care of. He put on his suit and had meetings with husbands and wives, he paid his crews. He put on fatigues and got his hands dirty when he had to. He played poker with Johnny, he went out with Shannon, he played basketball with Anthony, he swam. He came home and warmed up what she had made for him when she wasn’t home, he sat at her table and ate her food hot when she was, and when he needed her, he took what he needed.

Alexander wanted to ask her about the doctor but couldn’t. The man who fought the world wasn’t strong enough to ask if his maiden wife had a flicker of feeling in her heart for someone else.

Holy Mother, Hear My Prayer

Thanksgiving 1957 quietly came and went.
Vikki and Richter had separated. Now
he
was miserable and she was in Italy with her new “friend,” also an Italian. Vikki said she would come for Christmas, and in her unfathomable world, Tom Richter would be coming with her. “He is still my husband,” Vikki said indignantly to Tatiana. “Why the shock?”

Aunt Esther was not feeling well and remained in Barrington. She too was going to come for Christmas with Rosa. Now that there was no war, Alexander’s Yuma duty was reduced to a small sporadic amount of classified intel. Last year, around the time of the Hungarian revolt, it got busy, but this year he satisfied his annual duty back in July when there was a ton of stuff for him to translate. Alexander always made sure his twenty-four days of service were finished by November because there were never enough days between Thanksgiving and Christmas for all the things Tatiana had to do.

Friday night after Thanksgiving, Tatiana was working, and Anthony and Alexander were together. They had pizza and Cokes, went to see
Around the World in Eighty Days
, and were on their way home in Alexander’s truck. It was after ten.

Though Anthony may have wanted to be like his mother—and it was certainly a fine thing to aspire to—he was often silent and inward with his father. Tonight they were by each other without speaking, one lost here, the other there.

Tatiana always tried to engage the boy, to draw him out, so Alexander tried—like her. “What’ya thinkin’ about, bud?”

Anthony shrugged. “I was just wondering…if you had a mother.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about? My mother? Not girls your own age?”

“I’m not talking about that with you, Dad.”

A smiling Alexander said, “Of course I had a mother. You know I did. You saw pictures of her at Aunt Esther’s house.”

“Do you remember her?”

“I do.”

“Mommy says you don’t like to talk about her.”

“She’s right.” Alexander didn’t like to talk about his mother most of all, Dennis Burck from the State Department still a stain, a stab in his heart, reminding him of the things he could not fix. “But Mommy doesn’t talk about her family either, does she?”

“Are you joking? She never stops. All she talks about is Luga. I’ve heard the stories so many times, it’s almost become
my
childhood.”

Alexander nodded in agreement. “Mommy does like to talk about Luga, doesn’t she?”

Anthony stared ahead at the road. “She told me about Leningrad, too.”

“She did?” Inside the truck got quiet.

“I didn’t say she told it to me easy. I said she told me.” Anthony’s fingers twitched. “She even told me about you and her brother.”

“She
did
?” Alexander nearly stopped driving.

“I didn’t say she told it to me easy,” Anthony repeated. They stopped speaking. Alexander’s chest started to hurt.

“I’ll talk to you,” Alexander said. “What do you want to know?”

Anthony was looking at his father. “Was
your
mother pretty?”

“
I
thought so. She was very Italian. Dark curly hair, tall.”

“What about your father?”

“He wasn’t pretty,” Alexander said dryly. “He was a Mayflower Pilgrim. Very New England.”

“Did you love him?”

“Anthony, he was my father.” Alexander tightened his hands around the wheel, frowning, glancing at his son. “Of course I did.”

“No, no, Dad, I—I meant—” Anthony stammered, got flustered. “I meant, did you love him even though he was a Communist?”

“Yes, even though he was a Communist.”

“But how?”

“He was infectiously idealistic,” said Alexander. “He thought it would work; I think to the end he didn’t understand why it didn’t. On the surface it seemed so right! Everyone working only for the common good, everyone sharing the fruits of their labors. Suddenly there was no fruit. No one could understand why, least of all him.”

“What about your mother?”

“She wasn’t an idealist,” Alexander said. “She was a romantic. She did it for him, believed in it for him.”

“What about you—were you on his side or hers?”

“Initially his…he had a way about him. He could convince you of anything. He was a bit like your mother in that respect,” said Alexander. “I wanted to be like him. But when I got to be about your age, I couldn’t ignore the realities as well as he could. My mother and I both couldn’t ignore them. So my father and I, you know, we butted heads.”

Alexander and Anthony fell silent again, staring at the night road. They were coming down Shea to Pima, just desert around them. Alexander knew what Anthony was thinking—that in their house there was only one rule of law, and it wasn’t Anthony’s. Head butting was not allowed in their house. Thinking back, Alexander couldn’t believe some of the things Harold Barrington allowed an adolescent Alexander to get away with. “My father was a civilian, not a soldier, Ant,” Alexander said finally. “There’s a world of difference.”