Miles (4 page)

We
finished our bread, cheese, and pot of tea without further discussion,
alternating our eyes between the food and each other.

*

           
Nicolasha retreated to his bedroom to make a phone call while I checked out his
small living room.  A few history and music books lined the top of an
unused fireplace, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of records, neatly
filed on wide shelves cut directly into the wall.  An easy chair, reading
lamp, and end table pointed outward from the corner of the apartment's picture
window to my right.  There was no TV, which explained a lot about
Nicolasha.  What looked like an expensive stereo system, including a
reel-to-reel tape machine, lay to my left.  I sat underneath a broad,
discolored mirror on a worn-out and uncomfortable beige couch, with another
end table and lamp pressed to its left armrest. 

I
tried to listen into Nicolasha's conversation without success, but noticed a
drawer at the base of the couch's end table.  Below a swamp of bills,
cancelled checks, and letters, I discovered a photo album.  I opened the
cover and stared downwards at an 8x10 black and white portrait of my
Nicolasha.  His hair was in its usual chaotic state.  His eyes and face
looked directly into the camera, and at me.  Half of his Slav nose was cut
off in a shadow, and his smile was wide and happy, his dimpled cheeks pulled
upwards, showing a neat line of upper teeth.  His body was turned, facing
sideways from the camera.  His left arm was wrapped over his lower abdomen,
his hand rested flat on his stomach, pulling the white, sleeveless t-shirt away
from his exposed breast.  A tangle of hair was visible in the upper corner
of his arm.  His left leg was raised, like he was about to take a large
step, disappearing beyond the frame right before the knee, while the bottom of
the picture ends just below Nicolas Mikhailovitch Rozhdestvensky's bare
buttocks. 

I
slammed the album shut and shoved it inside the bundle of my pea coat as I
heard my teacher hang up the phone.  I closed the drawer and hurried back
over to the record shelves before Nicolasha came into the room.

"I
am sorry to keep you waiting, little friend.  I was supposed to visit a
friend this evening, and I wanted to let them know I would be late.  Are
you ready to go?"  No, I growled to myself, I want to sleep over
tonight.  He walked up to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.  I
nodded, trying very hard not to show any reaction to my own thoughts. 
"Do you like my record collection?"  Yes, Papa Nicolash, I
do.  My smile said that.  It's almost as impressive as you in that
t-shirt.  The sinking feeling in my throat and chest and the warmth below
my belt said that.

"It's
really fantastic!  Now I know where all your money goes!"  He
beamed, in an exact replica of his smile in the picture.  And I was
trapped there, somewhere in the shadows behind Nicolasha's naked body.  I
didn't want to go home.

"We
better go.  It is getting late."

I
didn't want to, damn it.

* * *

Hamlet

It
wasn't surprising that the Volvo's radio was tuned to the mom and pop classical
channel.  We reached the southbound expressway as the station began
playing a pair of gentle, almost pastoral horn concerti by Richard Strauss,
which I thought sounded like they were written by Mozart or Schubert.  The
music kept Nicolasha company.  My mind was on my lap, where the photo
album was wrapped inside of my coat, and the biggest, longest, most painful
erection I ever had smashed against the fabric of my underwear and jeans.

It
faded the moment I saw Dad's white Stingray in our driveway.

Dad
walked out into the endless cold to greet us.  Huh.  Nicolasha introduced
himself, explaining how we ran into each other outside of the movie theater, my
record store shopping bonanza, and our walk back to his flat.  The entire
sequence inside of his apartment was neatly omitted.  Dad smiled at me and
turned on his considerable charm, thanking Nicolasha for his kindness and
inviting him in for a drink.  I couldn't tell if it was one of his perfect
lawyer performance smiles or a real one.  Of course my young teacher
swallowed the bait, and they went off together as I was left to unpack the
records and carry them up to my room.

Mom
had already left for the hospital.

I
nearly panicked when the photo album slid out of my coat and landed on the
carpet in front of my bedroom door.  I spun around to see if either Dad or
Nicolasha were near the stairs, which, thank God, they weren't, and hid the
album in my school bag before swinging it under my bed.

I
took the recording of
Thais
from one of the boxes and headed downstairs,
where Nicolasha was being suitably impressed by my Dad's house tour and his
free blended malt scotch.  I held the record set behind my back as they
approached from the kitchen hallway. 

(You
know, they actually seemed to complement each other?  There wasn't much
comparison between their respective Eastern European features, Dad with his
thin, good family lines, and Nicolasha with his pudgy, indistinct, peasant
face, or in their build or appearance, Dad still in combat fitness, Nicolasha
soft and slight, or their ages.  What was it, then?  I looked closely
at them both.  Despite the grins and chatter and all, my Dad looked hard
and ruthless, like an ex-sailor, someone who had been fighting in life's swamps
too long for their own good, forgetting there's sunlight above all the
murk.  Nicolasha looked tender and kind and was impressed by it all,
formal and polite, sensing Dad's mettle, naive where Dad was seasoned, too
young and warm to understand there was quicksand out there in the first
place.  I couldn't put a finger on what I was feeling, seeing them together
for the first time.  It was weird.)

"I
was just showing Nicolas around."  Dad smiled at me again. 
Huh!  He seemed to approve of my teacher.  Who knows?  Maybe it
was the scotch.

"Your
home is very, very nice, sir."  Nicolasha raised his glass with respect
to my paternal unit, and finished the ghastly drink. 

"Can
I get you another, for the road?"  He reached for the glass, an
expensive crystal with Northwestern's crest frosted on the side, the only glass
Dad took his poison in.  Not everybody got a drink in one of those. 

"I
would actually love to, but I am already late meeting someone
downtown."  In this cold, it would have to be another Russian, I
thought.  

"Can
I give you some money for gas, for your trouble?"  Dad's tone was too
damn nice.  Suddenly, I realized I was being girded up for something.

"Oh,
no, sir, that's very kind, but it was my pleasure."

"Please. 
I insist."

Nicolasha
bowed his head reluctantly.  Dad grinned and headed back into the kitchen,
where his wallet was usually tossed.  I hesitated, wanting to give
Nicolasha the record and get a hug back when Dad returned with a scowl on his
face, his natural look, if you asked me.

"I
must have left my billfold upstairs."

"Please
don't bother, sir."

Waving
him off, Dad bounced up the stairs and down the long hallway to his bedroom,
away from us.  Nicolasha turned and winked at me, touching my cheek and
smiling lips with a mock fist.  I took the opera out from behind me and
handed it to him.  Surprise, little father.  His mouth and eyes opened
a bit as he stared at the flamboyant, over-decorated belly dancer on the box
cover, swallowing audibly in his astonishment.

"What's
the matter, Nicolasha?  Doesn't anybody ever buy you a gift?" 
He looked like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. 
"That's for being a great teacher, and a friend, too."  I
giggled quietly as I held my arms open.  Nicolasha practically jumped into
them.  I rested my face sideways across his chest, while his cheek touched
my hair, his arms and the opera pressing against my back.  He kissed the
top of my head and gave me a last squeeze.

"Here
it is," Dad called out from his room.  We took an immediately step
back from each other.  Nicolasha glanced nervously between me and the
staircase, shifting on his feet.  He looked so afraid and so alone, all of
a sudden, like he was about to be locked outside in the cold for a year. 

I
wanted to leave with him.  I wanted to go back and see the Hammer film
again.  I wanted to sit next to Nicolasha.  I wanted to listen to all
of his records, and sit in his lap.

Hell,
I wanted to take a Comrade Bubblevitch bubble bath with him.

I
reached forward and took my teacher's arms in my hands, holding him still as I
leaned forward and put my lips on his for a soundless, full clock second,
followed by a silence so deadening it would make the falling snow sound like a
Shostakovitch symphony.

"My
kind of woman."  Dad smiled at the belly dancer, nudging the
wide-eyed Nicolasha in the side as he handed him a twenty-dollar bill. 
"I don't think I've ever heard that one before.  Have you, son?"

"Nope. 
Mister Rozhdestvensky will have to lend it to me after he's had a
listen."  I smiled at him, my voice and gaze strangely confident in
Dad's presence, as if I had just proved something to somebody. 

Nicolasha
stumbled through his good-byes and thank-yous and see-you-on-Mondays and
careened out of our little big home into the safety of his Volvo.  He sped
away from us like we were a pair of devil worshipers. 

The
front door closed.  The house was left as quiet as a crypt.  Dad's
hand touched my shoulder.  I turned around and stared at him impassively,
the only real defense I had left.

"I'm
sorry about last night."  He didn't look me in the eyes, the coward.

"So
am I." 

"Your
mother and I...we've run out of answers.  It's all gone wrong, son."

"No,
it
hasn't. 
You
both have."  My voice was soft and
level, quite an achievement, I thought, considering how I felt at that
particular moment. 

He
finally looked back at me, his eyes bloodshot and wet.  "I've decided
to take a job with some outfit in
New
York
.  I'll be moving there
just after Christmas.  Your mother wants to stay here, in the house. 
It's up to you where you'd like to go."

I
knew where I wanted to go.  I wanted to go out, far out.

*

There
were no lights on in the room except for the fireplace, which blazed
away.  I huddled myself into the corner of our over-stuffed couch with my
arms around my knees, staring out at the cold, blue picture of our moonlit
yard.  I hadn't heard my drunken father stumble about upstairs for a
while. 

I
kept picking up the phone to call Nicolasha, but kept hanging up halfway
through his number.  I wasn't sure what I wanted to say.  It felt
like he was my only friend in the world.  Anyhow, I didn't know if that
was what I really wanted to say.  I wasn't sure how that felt, either.

My
mind began to blur, flashing back throughout my life, remembering all of the
things me, Dad, and Mom used to do together, when we were still a sort of
family, careful to omit about two years worth of meals at home.

Like
my first helicopter ride over
Cape
Hatteras
.  It was a flimsy
Bell
25; Plexiglas bubble, bench seat, and engine.  This was the way to see the
spectacular Outer Banks scenery.  Mom was petrified, but I loved it, especially
when the ex-Marine pilot veered the bird to the right, leaning me over the
rough sea below. 

Or
being "absent" from school whenever the new James Bond film opened at
the Woods Theater downtown.  1971 came to mind.  We loved
"Diamonds Are Forever" so much, Mom took me with to buy her first
brand new car, a fire-engine red Mustang Mach 1, just like the one in the
movie.  It was the coolest car anyone's mom drove.  But 007 only came
every other year, while my beloved White Sox were an annual "he has a slight
fever" event.

My
favorite "fever" was 1973.  We were getting killed by the
Oakland
A's (again), but we all were having a good time, because our entire row was
taken by the old Congressman's friends and cronies.  Mom set fire to a
senile Cub fan's pennant (which hopefully taught him to stay on the North Side
where he belonged), and Dad got thrown out of the park after tossing his beer
at some guy's head when the silly ass stood up for the Oakland seventh.

And
then there was our Road Trip from Hell (no family should be without one) to
Rock
City
and
Lookout
Mountain
in
Chattanooga
,
Tennessee
.  Despite rainstorms, Ford Motor Company
water pump engineering, and cartographic illiteracy by Daddy dearest, I enjoyed
all the Civil War stuff, but not as much as charging across a steel suspension
bridge to shake up my terrified Mom and Dad. 

Of
course, there were all the times the young couple from next door to our
Roseland bungalow, Scott and Roberta, would take me off of Mom's hands to go to
the drive-in to watch classic Hammer, Amicus, and AIP horror movie double
features from the roof of their old Impala two-door.  Scott lived off of
the sort of food they served at the concession stand, and would overstock the
car with dry hot dogs, soft Raisinettes, tasteless popcorn, rock-hard frozen
Heath bars, badly carbonated cola, and out-of-date Dolly Madison fruit pies
throughout the movies, which weren't nearly as chilling as the Halsted
Drive-In's bathrooms, next to the projection booth.

There
was going tubing down
Wisconsin
's
Apple
River
with a bunch of Dad's weekend-warrior buddies
from law school.  We had separate tubes for the sandwich basket, and for
the Point beer and Tahitian Treat coolers, the gooey Canada Dry fruit punch I
was addicted to for a few years.  Most everyone got sunburned to death,
but me and this young stoner (that Dad hated) who took up law to figure out how
to break it (Dad's description) were the only ones with enough balls, or
stupidity, to sail through the rapids at the end.  I was actually pretty
scared, but I was determined to show up all the future shysters, even if I did
almost drown myself in the process. 

Of
course, I'll always remember my collection phase, when it seemed like I
collected collections.  We went hunting for sea shells in
Miami
,
man-o-wars be damned, and took pictures next to every spacecraft at
Cape Kennedy
. 
We scoured the undusted corners of the country in search of small breweries and
beer cans.  I had to have every Hot Wheels, Johnny Lightning, Matchbox,
Dinky, Corgi, and Solido car ever produced.  Then I moved on to
matchbooks, just so Dad had to spring for dinner at every high-class restaurant
downtown.

I
drove Mom and Dad nuts one summer, demanding to see the White Sox play at every
American League team's home park.  They saw me so little, they agreed to
split the difference and take me to see the whole American League visit the Sox
at home.  Most of the games were at night, all the better to see our
scoreboard explode when the White Sox rustled up a home run.  We sat at
third base side upper deck railing seats provided to us by old Congressman
Kasza, who became the grandfather I never had in those days, lavish and
affectionate, sizing up every player and every pitch and every swing as we sat
next to each other with our eyes locked toward home and our arms crossed over
the railing. 

Papu
would let me run from aisle to aisle at
Bargain
Town
on my birthday, picking out whatever I wanted,
until the cart was full.  He got off easy the year I went for Tonka
trucks.  He got hit pretty hard the year I discovered board games.

He
would take me and Mom and Dad for weekend trips up to the Playboy Club in
Lake Geneva
. 
Mom liked to go horseback riding, while Dad studied in the lounge.  I
still wonder if it had anything to do with all the illuminated pictures of
Playmates behind the bar.  Papu always went fishing, winter or summer,
rain or shine, while I hung out in the indoor pool.  One time, Dad and
Papu bought me a leopard-print silk bathing suit and had two young bunnies
cuddle up to me on top of the game room's pool table for a picture that never
fails to gall my buddies or Uncle Alex.