Everything’s Coming Up Josey (18 page)

“Sure, no problem,” I say, shrugging, because you know, one of us has to be dedicated to the task. We have an important job here. The future of the spiritual life of Russia is in our hands. Not a time to go gallivanting around Europe, hmm?

“Unfortunately, well, we have a problem.”

Like, maybe, you're married and a weasel and you forgot to mention both?

“All the students failed their exams.”

“What?” I am leaning forward now against the desk, my hands braced on it as the earth crumbles beneath my boots. (They're really neat, too. I found them at this Italian store in GYM. They're black leather, slim line heels and go halfway up my calves. Turquoise Girl has nothing on me. Sadly, I'm pretty sure I'd be called a number of interesting names if I wore them down the street in Gull Lake, but here I fit right in. Which says what?)
“Failed?”

He puts the papers into a neat pile, then purses his lips and nods. I could do without the pursing. Because he sort of looks like Tom Selleck now, and it makes me want to smack him. “Yes,
failed.
I'm sure your lesson plans were fine, but did you follow the textbook? They had to know their pronouns, and contractions and be able to carry on a simple dialogue. What happened?”

Textbook? Just great. I…well, who knew there'd be tests? “They can sing ‘Happy Birthday'? Would that be considered dialogue?”

He shakes his head and I see disappointment on his face. I guess now he knows how it feels, doesn't he? “Josey. I know you are trying to help them assimilate into our culture.” (What am I, the Borg? I just wanted them to have fun!) “But they need to pass some very strict entrance exams. We're going to have to work overtime to help them catch up.”

Gulp. Oh, do I feel like a wart. Here I thought…well, I mean, most of them can name the table settings, and they can perform a rousing rendition of “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood (I labeled it under geography…maybe that isn't something I should mention right now). But shouldn't learning be fun? And culture is a part of learning, right?

“I guess this means I can't go home for a Christmas visit?”

He stares at me, part disbelief, part sadness. “Josey, you signed a contract to teach for a full school year. I am assuming you will honor that contract, or the mission will ask you to repay all they've invested in you.”

Invested?
Invested?
Like…what, teaching me how to cook, or use my nonexistent washing machine? Maybe helping me negotiate the Metro system without being mugged? Oh, I know, paying for my daily humility class with Larissa. Right. the mission hasn't invested in me—they've digested me!

“In my defense, I thought you were only going to be gone two weeks. I had to really punt the last two weeks.”

He doesn't like this answer. He looks away, out the window. “I'll ask Larissa to step in for my next trip.”

Oh, ouch. A line drive, right to the kisser.

“No, Matthew, listen. I promise, I'll stick to the lesson plans next time. Really. I didn't know.”

He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. I remember when my father used to do this. It was a sign that meant “brace yourself” and didn't bode well for the rest of the conversation. I straighten, cross my arms over my chest, (which, by the way, doesn't seem to be decreasing at all with my latest find—“Viola.” Softened American cheese with chives and onions that tastes really good on the Russian version of French bread.).

“Josey, I want to give you as much leash as I can here. I'm planning another trip in February. If you can prove to me between now and then that you can plan these lessons and execute them, as well as devote your extra time to bringing our students up to speed, I'll hand the class over.”

Done. I can't believe the relief that fills my chest. Another chance! And this time, Matthew old-boy won't be disappointed. “Thanks, Matthew,” I say, wondering how, suddenly, I could feel so grateful. What happened to my brain? A minute ago I had the chance to quit, to jump a plane back to Gull Lake, land of bagels and Chase. And I let it slide through my fingers.

Or did I? Maybe it was the thought of Evgeny, his sweet eyes turning sad as I tell him I've failed him. Or I-ron Sergei, saying, “Zats O.K., Zhozey.” Nope, I owe them. They're my students and I'm a Norwegian. We don't fail.

“Good,” Matthew says, and gives me a fatherly smile and I feel about six years old after being dressed down by the principal. “Oh, by the way, Rebecca wanted me to invite you over for Thanksgiving. We're having an informal event, and we'd love to have you join us.”

Rebecca, as in your wife Rebecca? Oh, fun. Somehow I hear my mouth saying “Yes,” despite the fact that my brain is waving a yellow flag. “I'd love it.”

No one listens to me anymore.

 

It feels very strange to be carrying a Jell-O salad to a Thanksgiving Day party when all around me, Russians are hurrying off to work or school. Hello? Don't they know it is a national holiday? Pilgrims? Squanto?

I am protecting my mandarin orange salad in an embrace, so I don't surf through the Metro. Thankfully, Matthew and Rebecca only live three stops away on the green line, and by that time, my Jell-O salad has had a chance to warm, just slightly, so I can slide it onto a plate. Yes, I did say Jell-O. Just call me resourceful.

Okay! I went to the French grocery store and bought a pack of what I thought
might
be gelatin (due to the orange box and the picture of a parfait on the outside) and a little can of mandarin oranges (also revealed by their picture). And I paid about $15 for both, which makes this not only a feat but a real gift.

I hike up to the third floor (still don't have my elevator rhythm down) and push the buzzer for Matthew's flat.

I hear voices, then the inner door opens. All Russian flats are protected by two doors—the inner wooden door and the external, vaultlike metal door with a window cut out at the top. Think: prison cell and you'll land on the right image. “Hello?” I ask.

“She's here!” a squeaky voice yells and it makes me smile.

Matthew appears. He's wearing a nice Lands' End sweater and he's shaved his moustache. Obviously Rebecca has some taste.

“Hi, Josey,” he says as he unlocks the door.

“I brought you some salad.” I hand him the Jell-O.

“Oh, dessert!” I hear from another room, and I assume it is the non-Minnesota description of my offering. Then, Rebecca appears.

June Cleaver is alive and well and living in Russia. Rebecca is my mother, subtract thirty years. She's wearing another jumper, and blue flats (I think I have a pair of those from senior year somewhere). Her hair is long and braided into a long strip in back. But her smile is bright and she sweeps me into a tight hug like we're old friends and not at all like I stared at her the last time we met with a look just short of animosity.

I feel sick. Not only that, I'm feeling like a loser in my jeans and U of MN sweatshirt. Hello, Matthew did say
informal,
did he not? I'd hate to think what formal might be.

“Josey, so glad you could join us.” Despite her words I see wariness in Rebecca's eyes. Oh no, can she see through me to the fantasies that once swirled in my mind? I have purged them, I promise! But she holds the smile and pulls me past the kitchen into their family room.

I notice two things, first off.

1. They have wall-to-wall carpeting. Don't gasp, I'm serious. I have yet to be in a Russian home with wall-to-wall carpeting, or even a Russian building with wall-to-wall carpeting and I would probably lie down and do a carpet angel on it if I didn't fear upsetting the eight-piece table setting and crystal on their oval oak table.

2. I have stepped into Country Home, USA. Frilly curtains with tie-backs in the kitchen (and is that stenciling along the ceiling? It is! My mother would be thrilled!), and a swag over the living room window. Overstuffed floral chairs with knickknacks on a shelf behind them, and a wicker table between the chairs holding magazines and a lamp. Where am I? It even smells like middle America.

On the table in the middle of the room I see a turkey, stuffing, a tossed salad (where did she find lettuce? Oh, wait, silly me, she probably grew it on her balcony with heat lamps), homemade rolls and broccoli. And my orange salad. At least it adds color.

Matthew calls the children, and they almost materialize from the walls. Pressed white shirts on the two boys, a homemade Laura Ingalls style dress on the girl, and she even has a cute floppy hat with a fabric flower. Of course.

I'm today's only entertainment and the children want to sit beside me. That feels good as I try not to think about who is sitting next to Chase. We hold hands, pray. And then I have my first decent meal in three months.

I can probably like Rebecca if I try.

Sometime after dessert (banana cream pie. Sorry, Jas does better, but this was a close second) and the basic quizzing, Rebecca slides down to my end of the table. The turkey carcass is being removed by Matthew, who has rolled up his sleeves and is wearing an apron.

“So, Josey, tell me, really, how is Russia?”

See, people are always asking me to lie. Because, really, she doesn't want to know. I think suddenly about Caleb, the only one with whom I can reveal the truth. He's been oddly vacant in my life since the episode when I took him to check out the restaurant for the Matthew Event. I saw him at church once, but lost him in the crowd.

Hmm.

“It's good.
Really.
” Forgive me, Lord.

“Matthew says you're a bit homesick. Someone back there you miss?”

Ouch, wow, she goes for the jugular. Oddly, I find myself nodding. I told you that my brain decides to defect at inappropriate times. Please, not now!

But Rebecca's drawn me in with her smile, the way she's turned toward me in gentle anticipation, as if we're at the cusp of a budding friendship.

“What's his name?”

“Chase,” my mouth says. Inside, I'm screaming,
Over sharing!

“Chase,” she repeats and gives me an eyebrows-up, conspiratorial smile. “He sounds intriguing.”

“We're not dating or anything. We're just friends.”

“I see.” But I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn't see. Or maybe she sees more than she should. “Matthew and I started out as just friends, at Bible School. Maybe Chase just needs a nudge.”

Or a kick. Or maybe he's not the one who needs the push. I'm so confused! I shrug.

“Maybe he just needs to know that you're not looking around. That you'll come back to him.”

Will I? Am I not looking? I feel like I'm looking. But why am I looking? Answers to these questions might help me respond to her in some way. But I open my mouth and nothing,
nichevo,
emerges. She laughs.

“I know. We'll make him see what he missed when you were gone.”

We will? “How?”

“Well, you obviously know how to cook….”

Oh, yeah, the Jell-O salad was a dead giveaway.

“But can you sew? How about tend a garden? A good Proverbs 31 wife is a manager of her household and when you go home to…Champ?…he'll be amazed.”

“Chase. And I kill plants. And well, I sort of considered the Proverbs 31 woman as a test model, not for distribution.”

She laughs again, but I'm not kidding. Have you read that chapter? Seriously. “Rises early and is clothed in fine linen and purple?” I look washed out and pale in purple—it's right up there next to poppy on my no-no list. The one thing I can agree with is, “When it snows, she has no fear for they're all clothed in scarlet.” Up in Gull Lake, the Ben Franklin has a fall sale on snowsuit gear. Moms stock up every year, and every kid in Gull Lake has a Michelin suit, adequate for the-30F once-in-a-century cold snaps. While the snowsuits are usually orange (due to the hunting season), I figure that's close enough to scarlet.

“I'm not sure. Chase isn't really the domestic loving type.”

She pats my knee. “Take it from a woman who knows. All men love their woman keeping the home fires burning. Who knows but that God sent you here to prepare you for marriage?”

Well, it's a good thing I ran into Rebecca then, because I'd hate to go into holy matrimony without knowing how to use a distaff and spindle.

Most of all, I wish the Almighty would clue me in. Because up to now, I was getting the distinct impression that there wasn't a
Bride's
magazine subscription even in my distant future.

To: Josey

From:

Sent Dec. 12, 8:52 p.m.

Subject: Thanksgiving

Dear Josey,

I'm glad you had a real Gull Lake Thanksgiving with the Winnemans. We all missed you, especially Jasmine, who said that you would have loved the French Silk pie she made. (Or shouldn't I tell you that?) She's feeling better, by the way, although I can't tell that she's pregnant. But what do I know?

Before it gets around, I should tell you that I brought Heidi Blackburn to dinner. (Your mother saw us in church and said I should.) I know you and she had that fight in sixth grade, but she says she's over that and you should be, too.

 

Fight? Excuse me? She took my underpants at Girl Scout camp and shoved them into the stove! Of course she's over it. She didn't have to walk around with sooty undies for a week. So very funny,
hardy har har.
What's she doing going to
church?

 

We're not really dating or anything, but we did go into Brainerd to see the new Bond movie (which proves it wasn't a date) and out to Jerry's Pizza.

 

And he's telling me this—why? So I don't find out from Pete (whose e-mail I tracked down by the way, and he's proving a nice source) or worse, is he covering up something…more incriminating? Sorta, throwing me a bone so I won't find the real loot? Arrgh!

 

She thought what you're doing in Russia is really cool, and I told her all about how God called you to be a missionary (just like you told me) and we both decided that we might like it if God talked to us, too. As long as He didn't ask us to be leprosy workers in India or go serve gruel in Somalia. I have to admit, Jose, that I never saw you, in my wildest dreams, as a missionary, but now that you are, I am really proud of you.

 

Proud? Wow. Okay, that sentence right there makes it all worth it. All.

 

I wish you were going to be here for Christmas. The town is starting to decorate. Langs put up the Christmas tree in their store window and they've hung garland on the hanging streetlight in town and candy canes along the strip. The annual lights contest has begun, and I think the Rylanders are going to take the prize again—they've added two blow-up snowmen to their already postage-stamp yard. I think they have it covered—the nativity scene, a menorah, Santa and his eight merry reindeer, Rudolph, Frosty, candy canes and a huge twinkle star. They've drained the power for the city twice already. I think they should retire them in the hall of fame or we won't make it through the season.

 

This is making me painfully nostalgic because, now that it is the second week in December I'm not seeing one twinkle light, one candy cane, not even a reindeer appearing anywhere in Moscow. We did get a light snow, however, that froze over immediately and turned the terrain into a sheet of sheer terror ice. I wonder—if I mention the fist size bruise on my hip will Chase feel really bad about going out to pizza with Heidi-the-underwear-thief Blackburn.

 

I hope you are seeing a lot accomplished “for the Kingdom” as Pastor says when he prays for you. I miss you. Chase.

 

I'm not sure if this is a sad joke, or just pathetically sweet. I'm standing in the auditorium of the Moscow Bible Church while Bing Crosby croons “White Christmas” over the staticky ancient speakers from the stage. The Russian students have thrown us Americans a Christmas party, complete with tree trimming and karaoke. Rebecca just did a version of “O Holy Night,” and Sandi Patti she is not. (But wants to be, bless her heart.)

I'm pasted to the fringes of the room. No need to call attention to myself and get sucked into, say, a Dolly Parton rendition of “Winter Wonderland.” On the bright side, I've discovered what
peroshkes
are
supposed
to taste like—the non-Auntie Milla version have jam, or fried cabbage and onions and I could easily become addicted. I'm thinking “new recipe,” for Jas. That, and salmon cutlets and
chebureki
sandwiches and even fried potatoes, served with
smytena.

I'll start my diet in January.

Still, all this frivolity two days before Christmas has started a low, deep pang in my stomach. I'm on the lee edge of tears as I listen to Evgeny mangle “O Leettle Tune ov Vethleeheeeem.”

My apartment seems dismal, at best. I bought a string of lights and draped them over my window. They play a tinny version of “Jingle Bells,” and flicker in succession. But there isn't a tree to be found in the entire city, and when I finally screwed up the courage to ask Matthew, he said Russia doesn't celebrate Christmas.

How immensely sad. Even if they don't buy into the religious significance, the world needs the spirit of generosity and giving once a year, sort of like a booster shot to keep away the bacteria of despair.

I see Matthew and Rebecca and their three children clapping at Evgeny's song, and Rebecca's gaze sweeps the room, lands on me. I raise my glass of
sok
—prune juice—and smile.

I'm not approaching, however, because I haven't finished the counted cross-stitch ornament she gave me to work on. Mostly because my fingers hurt from the pricks, but also because a person can only rip out stitches so many times before the fabric frays. I never liked candy canes anyway.

Rebecca's flat, on the other hand, is decorated like a
Better Homes and Gardens
issue, complete with home-made garlands, strung popcorn chains, the smell of mulled cider and home-made knit stockings under the tree (in the absence of a hearth. Frankly, if I was a Winneman kid, I might start asking panicked questions….). I know all this because last week we had the staff party at the Winnemans, and again, I ate a decent meal. I might just survive this year if I celebrate every major holiday at Rebecca's house.

“Holding up the wall?”

I turn toward the voice, and I feel a smile building all the way from my toes.

“Caleb!” There is enthusiasm in my tone, and frankly, it's all I can do not to jump into his arms. Where has he been? “How are you?”

He smiles. He's wearing a bright red shirt, like Santa, and a pair of camouflage pants with black suspenders. His idea of festive, I guess. “Good. You're looking nice tonight.”

Oh, isn't that sweet? Because, despite my sleek Italian boots, I am feeling frumpy in my black skirt and fuzzy white sweater that I picked up at the market. It looked so good on the sales lady, but admittedly she was a size 3, and, well, I'm not. It hits me right at the hips and makes my upper body look like a snowball. But I smile at the compliment/lie anyway. “What have you been up to?”(That's code for
Why did you abandon me?!
)

“I was out of town. Had to go to Khabarovsk, where we have a sister church, and help them set up their new office.”

Out of town. Oh. Well, then. “Glad you're back.”
I missed you,
I nearly say, but can't bring myself to fling my emotions that far out of my body.

“Yeah, me, too.” He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, and suddenly I'm wondering if there is more to his words, also. A warm feeling passes between us. He breaks the magic by glancing around the room. “Wanna get out of here? I have something to show you.”

Oh, honey, do ducks swim? I nod, and a familiar feeling squeezes my heart. How many times has Chase said that to me?

Can't I escape
the boy I can't forget
for just one night?

I set my cup down on the windowsill and steal behind Caleb as he stalks toward the door without looking. I can feel Rebecca's gaze on me. I know she wants me to sing.

I grab my coat from the hook and button up tight. Moscow has turned ferociously cold over the past month, and I've graduated to my ankle-long blue parka. Yes, I feel like the Pilsbury Dough Girl in it, but I'm warm, and frankly, I can't afford the mink coats that the entire population of Moscow seems to wear. No issues with protection of animals here.

Caleb holds the door open for me, and the frigid air nearly takes my face off. We bend into the wind and I think I ask, “Where are we going?” but the words are sucked away to Siberia the second they leave my lips.

I follow him to the Metro entrance, and as we descend, the bowels of Moscow warm us. I see the homeless lining the corridors and stop to hand out rubles to a young mother with two children. Caleb has his own change, and is doing the same.

We then pass through the turnstiles, and I impress him by turning sideways on the escalator. “You're catching on,” he says, and I hear pride in his voice. “How's your Russian?”

“Horosho.”

He laughs. I update him on English class, Tracey (who I haven't seen for nearly a month), Auntie Milla (who left a hard-bristled toothbrush and mint paste in a floral bag hanging over my doorknob—I'm starting to take this personally) and Matthew. Matthew's recent matrimony comes as a shock to Caleb. “You mean he was married all this time and didn't tell you?”

“You know, I sorta knew this in a women's-intuition type of way. He was just too perfect. Still, I saw the way he looked at Larissa. There's something going on there. He gives me the creeps.”

Caleb smiles at me, one eyebrow up. I notice suddenly he's gotten said eyebrow pierced since the last time I saw him.

I give him a suspicious look. “You didn't know, did you?”

He shakes his head. “I don't hang around the MBC staff. Besides, as a friend I would have warned you off. You should have figured that out by now, babe.”

Somehow his words make my entire night.

We exit onto Ploshad Lenin, and Caleb strides past the imposing stance of a Father Lenin statue. “Where are we going?” I ask, keeping up.

“It's a surprise,” he says and gives me a sly grin.

We pass a video kiosk, advertising the hijacked movies from the States. I see a collection of
Lost
episodes and remember Matthew Fox from the airplane. Has that already been four months ago? A shiver runs up my spine.

Caleb stops, waiting for me just a few paces ahead, and as I catch up, a familiar scent finds my nose, tugs at my memories. We are at a café, and as I decipher the lettering on the door, my heart does a double flip.

Caleb is grinning, like he's delivered me the moon.

No, better. He's delivered me…bagels.

“Canadian bagel,” I say, reading the words again, confirming my joy. “Canadian bagel? Here in Moscow?”

Caleb reaches for the door. “They just opened.” He puts his hand on my back, pushing me in. “Merry Christmas.”

 

I'm surrounded by happiness. Little round, holey tubes of joy. Caleb has helped me haul home goodies—poppy seed, garlic, veggie, plain, whole wheat and egg bagels, enough to withstand even a Tracey attack.

But she isn't here, is she? Ha! Only, despite the relief I feel in that, melancholy settles over me as the night ticks toward Christmas Eve Day. Jasmine will be up early, baking cinnamon rolls. My mother will be cooking clam chowder soup, laying out the relish tray. Tonight they'll go to the Christmas Eve service, sing carols, watch the children tramp around in towels and bedsheets, proclaiming joy to the world. And Chase will be there, probably dressed up in khakis and a dress shirt, smelling musky and sweet. The thought of him taking up space in a pew, of seeking God like I had to find Him, well, it stirs up feelings of joy that dwell in the deepest places of my heart. Chase finding God just might be the best Christmas present ever.

And, while my family spills out into the magical star-strewn night in Gull Lake, I'll be here with my bagels. If Tracey decided to show up, I'd share. Especially since I can get more.

To the praise of His glory.
The words I've been pondering ripple through my mind as I rise, go to the window and stare into the darkness. A few people are still up, their squares of light from apartment windows pushing back the darkness. Overhead a sliver moon hangs like a lopsided grin. I lean my forehead against the glass, feeling the cold bite my skin. It sends a shiver down to my toes, back up my spine. I've never felt more alone. And I haven't particularly made a dent on the world here. I'm hoping the New Year looks a lot more fruitful than the past four or so months.

What, exactly, God, are You doing here, with me?

I wonder, did Mary share this view of the world as she held Jesus in her arms? Marveling at his tiny hands, the open tender mouth, the blinking eyes adjusting to light. What are You doing
here,
Lord? With
me?

To the praise of His glory.

I sink to my knees, and suddenly tears burn my eyes. This trip has been about me, as much as I've wanted to deny it. It's been about jealousy, and wanting to be something more. It's been about running from inadequacy, about wanting acceptance. From Chase. From God. Most of all, it's been about Josey's hunt for significance, the gold ring prize.