69 Keeney Avenue

CHAPTER TEN

  Rays of sunlight fell upon my face as I awoke to the chirping birds. I pulled back the warm covers, eager to embrace the miracle of a new day. I knelt at the front of my bed and said my prayers. I prayed for the souls of Alexander, Nicholas and Harriet. I prayed for my family in Russia, including my dead father and brother. I prayed for Father Nicolai, who had been so kind to me these past weeks. I even managed to say a prayer for Ivan---though it was difficult.

  I went over to the window and pulled back the blinds. The roses that I loved so much were in full bloom. Their rich red color seemed to call out to my heart. I noticed that there appeared to be twice as many growing in the wooden trellis attached to the side of the house. I gazed down at the street and noticed a young mother walking with her two small children. A cute brown dog was bounding behind them, causing the children to giggle happily. I smiled at the scene as I opened the window. The sweet smell of spring hit my nose; it was like the aroma of flowers and honey, the fragrant scent of green grass and morning dew. It was so peaceful that I felt tears of joy flow down my cheeks. I wiped them with my hand and turned from the outside scene of paradise.

  I dressed quickly and cleaned up my room. Paulie Dante must have searching diligently for clues; I found articles of my clothing and other various possessions strewn all over the floor. After I had cleaned my bedroom, I closed the door and made my way to the kitchen. I was determined to have a great day, no matter what mischief Ivan Pavlovich planned for me.

  On the way to the kitchen, I passed the picture of the bridge and the ghostly river. I certainly didn’t want to look at it now, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to avoid it. However, on this occasion it didn’t look that spooky. The white water of the river flowed gently, the waves moving ceaselessly, like eternity. I held my breath as I scrutinized the crystal blue sky in the painting. I searched for the ghostly face that had captivated me in the past. But, all I could make out was an eerie mist that rose just above the river’s surface.

  I walked with purpose into the kitchen. It appeared the same as it had on my first morning at 69 Keeney Avenue. The lemon-colored walls gave off tartness, the white-and-black counter sadness. The tiny butcher-block table still stood near the entryway, its smooth wooden surface giving a rustic charm to the room. I made my way over to the Byzantine painting of Jesus clutching a cross. I rubbed my fingers against my forehead, trying to decipher the meaning to all the mystery of this house. Why did the Pavlovich family continue to refer to the Book of Revelation in the New Testament? If they weren’t actually Jewish, why did they pretend to be? I had witnessed many strange and bizarre things since I had come to this particular house. What part was I to play in all of this?

  To put my troubled mind at ease, I decided to cook some breakfast. I put a kettle on the burner and began to heat some water for tea. I toasted some black pumpernickel bread. I then spread heavy yellow butter and red caviar upon it. I prepared some Kasha, buckwheat cakes with mushrooms and onions, placing them upon Harriet’s white dishes. I also warmed up some potato soup that I had cooked the day before, storing in the refrigerator. If Alexander were to wake soon, I wanted to have a hearty breakfast to feed him .

  I lay the familiar red tablecloth upon the walnut dining table. Harriet’s white crockery looked beautiful against the blood-red cloth. I wished that she were there to help me set the table. She would have admonished me to be more confident, and I now resolved to be so. I thought of my mama and Babushka in Russia. The women in my life were prickly on the outside, but at heart they were kind. Those rich West Hartford ladies at the baking contest had looked successful, perhaps even arrogant. I felt that I would rather be like Harriet; she didn’t place such emphasis on external appearances. Like her, I would measure my success by how I treated others.

  A male voice surprised me from behind. “Don’t you know how to make an American breakfast by now?” It was the sleepy-looking Alexander Pavlovich. There were dark circles around his deep-set eyes. His black hair hung loosely over his face, a sneer displaying itself upon his full lips. He rubbed his knuckles into his eye, attempting to waken himself more fully. But his arrogant manner seemed to be fully awake.

  “So, Mr. Alexander is making special appearance,” I coldly remarked. “Is his majesty needing breakfast in bed? Perhaps royal feeder to place in Czar’s mouth?” I taunted him.

  Alexander’s tight mouth betrayed a small smile. His dark cotton shirt hung loosely over his grimy blue jeans. He still wore the large silver cross around his neck; he was now rubbing it, more out of habit than out of any gesture of faith.

  “I really wouldn’t want to be a Russian Czar,” he commented. “The last one got fed a breakfast of lead bullets,” he said, a more friendly smile displaying itself upon his features. “I hope your cooking will be a little easier than that on my stomach,” he said with a grin.

  I forgot my anger toward him, giving him a little playful punch on the shoulder as I moved closer to him. He pulled away self-consciously, seeming embarrassed by my proximity to him. I would never get used to the American concept of personal space. We were both people---why shouldn’t we share space?

  I began to prepare a plate for him, placing the various items of Russian food upon it. To my chagrin, Alexander actually leaned over and sniffed what I had prepared for him.

  “Well…it smells ok,” he commented. “But like I said before, I’m a little tired of Russian. I think I’d like to have something French this morning,” he said mischievously.

  I slammed the milk jug down hard upon the table. White drops of liquid spilled upon the red tablecloth. My face became equally red with anger. “You are being ungrateful, Mr. Alexander!” I exclaimed with anger in my voice. I pointed my index finger at his face. “I am making good breakfast for you every morning. You are thanking Sonia by burping in her face. Why don’t you try making food for once?” I demanded of him.

  For a moment, Alexander was silent. I tried to read his thoughts from the expression on his face, but his blank look was of no help. Then, without saying a word, he walked out of the room. I instantly regretted my harsh words. I was the cook, why should he have to thank me for doing my job? I pulled nervously at my earlobe. I quickly realized that I hadn’t done this for a long time, and ceased. Not knowing what else to do, I cleaned up the spilt milk with a cloth. I half-expected Paulie Dante to appear, spouting wise-cracks about cats and milk. As I picked up the white ceramic plates, I suddenly noticed a nice odor coming from the kitchen. Baffled, I balanced several plates on my arms and headed for the source of the aroma.

  As I entered the small, cozy kitchen a great surprise awaited me there. Alexander was hunched over the pint-sized black oven, slowly using a fork to scrape something in a frying pan. It was steamy in the room and sweat was pouring off of his forehead. He wiped his face with one of his sleeves, and then happened to look up and recognize me. He had a guilty smile upon his features as he quietly regarded me.

  I was so astonished at the sight of Alexander cooking that I almost dropped the plates in my hands. Alexander dropped his fork and let the skillet rest upon the metal surface of the stove, running over to me and preventing the plates from dropping on the floor. He took two of the plates and placed them gently upon the black-and-white counter. I started to giggle at the unlikely sight of Alexander Pavlovich cooking breakfast.

  He didn’t appreciate my laughing at him. “Is this what passes for manners in your little village back home?” he sneered at me. “Why don’t you go play Russian roulette with Paulie Dante, he’s always shooting his mouth off,” Alexander said sarcastically.

  I was offended by his unkind words. I threw the rest of the plates in the sink and turned to leave. Instantly, Alexander seemed to realize that he had gone too far. He grabbed me by the arm, pulling me gently back into the kitchen.

  “Your tongue being bitter like Shichi Cabbage Soup,” I informed him. “Why you act superior to me? You’re being smarter, but not being better,” I said emphatically.

/>   To my surprise, Alexander nodded in agreement. He pulled me gently toward the stove. The sugary, vanilla smell was intoxicating. I couldn’t help betraying a little smile. “I’m sorry, Sonia,” Alexander said with an apologetic look upon his features. “You are correct,” he added. “I have been contemptuous of both your culture and your beliefs. And you’re right, I’m definitely no better than you are. I’m inferior, actually, in many different ways,” he said sorrowfully.

  Alexander looked so downcast that my cold heart melted. I forgave him for his tart words. I suddenly realized that he used harsh words to mask his true feelings. Although he looked and sounded like his brother Ivan at times, he had his mother’s gentle soul. It was a strange combination.

  I regarded the food he was cooking in the pan. It was golden-brown, a few pieces of bread with an egg coating. It looked like nothing that I had ever eaten, but it smelled delicious nevertheless. “What mess you make here, Mr. Alexander?” I inquired. “Smell good for food not Russian,” I kidded him.

  Alexander responded with a prideful smile. He shrugged his shoulders, observing me with a sideways tilt of his dark head. “If you won’t let me teach you the French tongue, at least you can let me introduce you to French toast,” he said cheekily. I gave him a playful slap on the side of his face. I tried to help him prepare this dish, but Alexander would have none of this. He marched me to the dining-room table, holding out a chair for me like a gentleman. When he had finished cooking the breakfast he served me himself; I had to admit that some non-Russian food really was delicious. I ate four pieces of this appetizing toast. I had never had a better breakfast, not even back home in Russia.

  Afterwards, I began to clear the dishes from the table. To my shock, Alexander actually assisted me! We both laughed as he tried in vain to wash the crock ware in the tiny sink. In the end, I let him dry the silverware. I thought that we made a pretty good team.

  That afternoon we sat outside, in the back garden. The essence of the flowers was overwhelming. There was a cool breeze, and the sunshine stroked our faces with light and warmth. It was odd; after all of the terrible happenings that had occurred in this house, I now felt happier and more at peace than I had ever felt in my life. I glanced over at Alexander; he was sitting on the grass, quietly watching the robins fly from tree to tree.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “I spend so much time in my room surfing the Internet that I don’t even realize what I’m missing right outside my door,” he said softly. He surveyed the garden. “I make fun of Nicholas, but I have to admit that he keeps this pretty nice,” he admitted.

  I picked a dandelion from the grass and held it under his chin. “He need mow lawn,” I commented. “Wildflowers growing here,” I observed. I suddenly realized what I had just said. I turned my face away, red with embarrassment. Nicholas Pavlovich was no longer there, either to mow the lawn or to keep up his mother’s garden. Hot tears came to my eyes; I tried to hide them by placing my hands over my face.

  Suddenly, I felt Alexander’s comforting arms around me. I could smell his cologne, a pleasant masculine odor that didn’t overwhelm me as Ivan’s had. Alexander wiped away my tears with a warm, gentle hand. Before either one of us knew what we were doing we began kissing. I melted in his arms; he was the first man who had ever held me like this. I leaned my head back and stroked his face. He held me for a long time as we watched the birds together.

  We spent the rest of the day together. We held hands as we walked up the hill to Fern Park. We both smiled as we witnessed children having a catch on the grassy slope near the tennis courts. We passed the swimming pool, where the first hardy swimmers were braving the cold to refresh themselves. We returned home and had a quiet dinner together. This time I cooked the meal. I prepared the Beef Stroganoff that I knew Alexander secretly loved.

  We were seated in the living room that early evening, enjoying the peaceful calm that signals the end of a Spring day. We were both perched upon the old sofa, its beautifully-carved wooden back supported our heads, the rich texture of the cushions keeping us comfortable. Alexander had his arm around me; I felt completely relaxed with him now, having none of my previous misgivings about him. I wasn’t certain what life was going to throw at me next; whatever it did, I wanted Alexander to be with me to meet it. I felt that his hidden soul had revealed itself to me, and was now locked with mine. I didn’t pretend to know what love was---but I felt that it must be something like what I now shared with Alexander.

  Unexpectedly, I began to hear the mysterious barking of a dog. It was similar to the sounds I had heard on previous occasions, only much louder. What was odd was that Alexander now seemed to hear these sounds too. He stood up, his dark face scowling as he walked in the direction of the noise.

  I jumped up and attempted to prevent his leaving me. “Don’t go, Alexander. It is just being imagination,” I said, not too convincingly. He turned his head back toward me in puzzlement. “You’ve heard this sound before?” he said in astonishment. I nodded my head. He shook his own head in wonder. I saw him rub the cross that still hung around his neck. A beam of light reflected off of its surface, temporarily blinding my eyes. Before I could stop him, Alexander had marched with purpose to the source of the noise. He ascended the dark steps that led up to the second floor of the house. Alexander’s own room was up there, just a few feet from the office of Vladimir Pavlovich. I wasn’t certain why I thought so, but I was very sure that the hellish barking of the dog had originated in Vladimir’s lair.

  I stumbled awkwardly in the direction of the stairwell. My legs were unexpectedly weakened, and a cold stab of fear spread like wildfire throughout my body. Chills ran up and down my spine; I rubbed my arms and legs with my hands to try and warm myself. Despite my terror, I pushed myself toward the steps. As I began to climb them, the blackness of the dusky stairs suddenly seemed to envelop me. My fear of the dark gripped me, I clenched tightly on the wooden railing as I forced myself upward. My left hand brushed against the white stucco wall, scraping chalk-like dust off of it as I ground my fingers into its surface.

  The sound of the dog grew louder. I glanced up, and observed a pair of red eyes glaring at me from the shadows. I tried to see through the haziness of the hallway; a strange husky shape seemed to materialize around the pair of devil-eyes. It was the figure of a large, hulking dog. The animal was black; not cute or cuddly like most dogs that color, but sinister and menacing. I imagined that I could see its white fangs dripping foam as it growled threateningly at me.

  I somehow resisted the urge to flee. Somehow I sensed that I would never be fast enough to escape that hound from Hell. My breath escaped me as I tensed my body, expecting it to lunge at me any second. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the dog vanished. I forced my jelly-like legs to climb the final few steps of the stairwell; I could barely move, it was like something heavy was pushing me backwards toward a pit. Finally, I managed to make it to the top. The hallway was dimly lit by small lamps perched on the sides of the walls; I had never noticed these lamps before now, though I had cleaned this hallway during the daytime a hundred times.

  I paused for a moment to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, rubbing my hands together in a vain attempt to calm myself. When I felt a little more in control of myself, I began to gingerly step down the hallway. Without warning, a large hand with an iron grip suddenly grabbed me, holding my thin arm with a tightness that seemed to drain the blood from its white skin. I cried out in alarm, but another large hand quickly covered my mouth, preventing me from screaming any longer. I looked up into the face of my towering assailant.

  It was Ivan Pavlovich.