CHAPTER SIX
True to her word, Harriet had attached my blue ribbon to the front door of the refrigerator. I knew that it was prideful of me, but I couldn’t help frequently peeking at it as I prepared breakfast the next morning. I was making Kasha, a special Russian dish that I had not yet tried to cook in America. These were buckwheat cakes with mushrooms and onions. As they cooked I heated up some strong black tea to counter the morning chill. The excitement from the previous day had carried over to the present moment; I felt as cheerful as a Siberian puppy, and would have barked with happiness if I hadn’t feared waking the neighbors.
I set the silverware. I then placed the breakfast that I had just prepared on the dining table. I happened to glance at the picture of Venice in Italy that hung on the sun-lit wall. The gondola was missing; the brown water appeared to be a blood-red color. I knew that it was just my vivid imagination, so I decided to ignore it. But then, the sound of a barking dog filled my ears. It was only for a brief moment, but it reminded me of my first night at 69 Keeney Avenue. I covered my ears with my hands---it soon stopped, and I was glad that I hadn’t resorted to pulling on my earlobe.
Harriet and Alexander soon made their way to the dining room, and took their usual paces at the table. Alexander sat in front of the Venetian picture; when I took a second glance, it had returned to normal. Harriet sat opposite of her nephew, in front of the Indian painting. The presumably extinct buffaloes had returned, seemingly unharmed.
I carefully poured them both a cup of hot tea. Alexander took a bite of black bread, regarding my Kasha with some distaste. Harriet held her steaming cup with both hands, staring hard at the empty seat at the head of the table. It was the one usually occupied by Nicholas Pavlovich.
“Strange,” she remarked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “I thought he is being here…” her voice trailed off.
Alexander was looking directly at me. This morning he wore a black t-shirt, black jeans, and fashionable black sneakers. I noticed that he wasn’t wearing his cross.
“What happen to cross?” I asked.
“Didn’t feel like wearing it,” he replied testily.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Maybe I’ve decided to become a born-again Jew,” he said.
“What is being wrong with first birth?” I asked him with a half-smile.
“Being born wasn’t bad,” Alexander stated, his dark eyes contrasting with the mirthful grin on his face. “The hard part was I had to be there when it happened,” he joked. I rolled my eyes. That was an old one, even in my country.
I suddenly noticed that Harriet was shaking her head with wonder. She abruptly stood up and walked from the dining room into the living room. She forced back the blinds, and gazed out into the front driveway.
“I knew this was being strange! Nicholas’ car is still being in driveway,” she informed us. She started to walk very quickly to the stairs. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in bewilderment. “I thought he leave early for University, but car still here,” she remarked. “I am going to his room to check,” she announced. Her large frame filled the small space of the stairwell as she ascended the steps with purpose.
Alexander and I looked at each other in puzzlement. Finally, Alexander broke the awkward silence. “It’s strange, I grant you, very strange. But then, my brother is a strange man,” he commented.
“I am liking your brother,” I told him confidentially. “But I admit, he sometime scare me,” I almost whispered.
“Mama’s death was hard on him,” Alexander replied. “I was very young when she passed away. In fact, I never really knew her. She was said to be as delicate as a flower. In fact, that rose garden in the front yard was her pride and joy. She cultivated those flowers, and the garden was known and admired by many people in town for its beauty and simplicity. Not unlike your cooking,” he added, smiling at me.
I looked down in embarrassment. I quickly changed the subject. “They were close, no? Mr. Nicholas and his mother?” I inquired.
Alexander slowly nodded his head. Speaking of his mother seemed to bring him pain. “I think that she protected him from our father,” he remarked. “Peter Pavlovich was a very successful real estate agent here in West Hartford. Why he chose to remain in this old house, nobody knows; he could have easily afforded a better one. But perhaps the Pavlovich family is linked to it by destiny,” he reflected.
Alexander looked around the room, regarding its furnishings with distaste. I had never realized how much he disliked the house he had lived in all his life. He glanced at the river picture that had terrified me so much, but didn’t really seem to notice it. He then turned his attention back to me.
“In any case,” he continued. “I’ve been told that Mama shielded Nicholas from the worst of our father’s temper. My brother was artistic and sensitive, not cut in the Pavlovich mold. He preferred books and music to the worldly role that our father expected him to take. When he wasn’t hiding in his room, his head in a book, Nicholas was busy helping our mother with her garden. They were inseparable,” he said.
“She was being Harriet’s sister, da? Catherine she called?” I asked.
Alexander gravely nodded his head, the look of a much-older man upon his features.
“Yes, that is correct,” he confirmed. “My mother was born in Germany. She came here to America years ago, as an au pair, a kind of domestic nanny. They say she saw the hidden, tender part of my father’s soul. They were a real contrast; my father the wolf, and my mother, a sort of Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve always wondered if it was some sense of guilt that attracted her to him; perhaps she felt as a German, she couldn’t hurt my Jewish father by rejecting him. In any case, they were married after a very short courtship. The wedding took place at Elizabeth Park, on the West Hartford-Hartford border. It was a secular ceremony, held at the wooden gazebo near the rose garden. After the wine glass was crushed under my father’s foot, the two of them danced together. Many people commented on my mother’s wedding dress; it was white, but adorned with blood-red flowers. Perhaps she grew the roses here as a reminder of her day of happiness,” Alexander reflected.
“And Harriet?” I inquired. “Was she also coming here from guilt?”
Alexander laughed; a look of contempt was visible upon his features. “My Aunt Harriet?” he said. “She despised my father at first sight. She warned my mother not to go anywhere near him. While Peter Pavlovich was alive, Harriet Blom was not allowed to even visit her sister at 69 Keeney Avenue. And my mother was not allowed to leave the vicinity of this house. It was only after the death of my parents that my aunt came here…” his voice trailed off.
I noticed that Alexander was staring with surprise at the sight of his aunt, who was standing silently in the entryway to the dining room. Harriet’s large red face was now pale; all the color was seemingly drained from it. Her full lips were moving, yet no sound emerged from her mouth. There was fear in her eyes, a look of indescribable terror. Her entire body seemed to tremble with the very effort of breathing.
I jumped up from the table at once. “Harriet! What is being wrong?” I asked in concern. I was really scared; I had never seen anyone look so afraid in my entire life.
Some of the color returned to Harriet’s ashen face. “He…he’s not there,” she managed to stammer. She leaned forward, supporting herself with a hand upon the edge of the dining table. I was really in fear of her suffering a mental breakdown.
Alexander and I exchanged a confused look at her words. “Not there?” Alexander asked. “In what sense? I’ve spoken to my brother many a time, and sensed that he wasn’t really there listening to me. Not there emotionally? Nicholas Pavlovich is as detached from life as a camera. The light passes through him like a lens, but it doesn’t touch him. In what way is he not there, Aunt Harriet?” he inquired.
Harriet was apparently too distraught to respond to Alexander’s irony. “In most literal and physical way,” she responded. “He is not being in bed, yet bloo
d is there, nonetheless. I am thinking he is dead!” she declared with horror.
Dead! How could that be? A shiver ran up and down my spine as I thought this. I pulled on both of my earlobes, tears coming to my eyes from the pain. Before I could say anything, Alexander leaped up from the table and ran out of the room. I followed him as Harriet shadowed me, the three of us quickly making our way to Nicholas’ bedroom. His door, usually closed shut and locked, was now wide-open. I hesitated a moment before entering; there was some cold feeling that warned me not to intrude upon the privacy of Nicholas Pavlovich. But Harriet pushed me aside, and I finally forced myself to follow her into the room. But I followed her with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
To my surprise, it wasn’t a well-furnished room. There was a single bed with a cherry finished headboard propped up against the far wall. A small nightstand of the same color wood sat right next to it. The knobs caught my eye; they were white, each one adorned with a single maple leaf in its center. Across from the bed was a cherry-finished maple dresser, each drawer possessing the same maple leaf knobs. A large picture behind the dresser caught my eye. It was a reproduction of a famous painting that I had seen somewhere before in a book. In the picture, a man was lying asleep in a desert; a golden lion was poking its nose in the man’s face. I didn’t know why, but the picture really frightened me. I felt that the lion would roar at any moment.
Alexander was busy pulling the sheets off of Nicholas’ bed. The ivory-white sheets were as pale as Harriet’s face. She hadn’t just imagined it; the dark, red blood was everywhere. It reminded me of the water in the Venetian painting in the dining room. The sight of this blood made me tremble---I started to shake all over my body with fear. The urge to run from the room overtook me, and yet, I was stunned by the sight of the red sheets. The sound of Alexander’s voice shook me back to reality.
“We have to call the police,” he grimly declared. There was pain and concern etched upon his face; however, I thought for a moment I detected a look of triumph in his eyes. What was it about this family that I couldn’t put my finger on? They were unlike any people I had ever known back home in Russia. But then, Alexander’s strange look quickly vanished, and I wondered to myself if I hadn’t just imagined it. Alexander couldn’t really be happy about this, could he?
Alexander pulled a small object from his pocket. It was his Blackberry cell phone, and he now used it to call the local police. He had shown it to me on earlier occasions; he could access the Internet with it, and send text messages to anyone he wanted. The bright lights from his new phone cast an eerie glow in the relative darkness of Nicholas’ room. I looked furtively at Harriet, who was silently ringing her hands. She caught my glance and quickly averted her eyes, turning her back to me. I almost thought that she was talking to herself; she held her ear and spoke quietly to the wall. I was embarrassed for her, and returned my attention to the room. I noticed a small mirror on the opposite side from me, one that I hadn’t noticed before. Something drew me to it, and I slowly and timidly approached it. The mirror was painted gold on its edges, with dabs of blue that resembled jewels. It was eight-sided, with eagles stretching their claws out on the top and bottom.
As I regarded my reflection, an image of a red-eyed, frightened young girl looked back at me. I prevented myself from once again tugging on my ear. Suddenly, I felt a hand reach out of the mirror and gently stroke my face. I pulled back with a cry, greatly startled. I blinked, but could observe nothing in the mirror except my own frightened face. Was I going crazy? Had all of the strange occurrences from the past few months been only my vivid imagination? I turned to Alexander, who was in the process of finishing his phone call. He hung up, and turned his attention to me.
“The police will be here soon,” he informed me, the dark hair on his forehead hanging slightly over his eyes. “They said that we shouldn’t touch anything, and that we need to get out of this room,” he said. He paused for a moment, and almost smiled. “I guess that I tampered with evidence when I pulled up those sheets,” he said sheepishly. I wanted to touch his arm in sympathy, yet something about his demeanor told me that he wouldn’t welcome it. I think that it was the peculiarity of the situation that caused me to be so horrified. Where was Nicholas? Could he really be dead? And if so, where was his body? If he wasn’t dead, where could he have disappeared?
We slowly made our way out of the room. No one spoke; I think that we were each too shaken by what we had just discovered to be able put our thoughts to words. Harriet sat down on a plush, red armchair in the living room. She slowly sank into it, the softness of the velour-like material enveloping her large, awkward body. She continued to rub her oversized hands together, as if she believed that she could erase the invisible blood from her palms.
Alexander remained on his feet, pacing back and forth on the carpet in the center of the living room. His restless energy recalled to my mind the first time that I had seen his brother Ivan. Indeed, though there was little physical resemblance between them, Alexander now seemed to possess much of his older brother’s intensity. He glanced at his watch with impatience, then lifted his dark face and stared in my direction. His eyes seemed to have that cold, viper-like quality that so characterized those of Ivan Pavlovich. For the second time that evening, I felt a chill run up and down my spine.
“Do you know anything concerning Nicholas’s vanishing act, Sonia?” Alexander suddenly accused me. I felt the air escape my lungs; I leaned against the sofa, supporting myself on its curved wooden arm as I struggled to regain both my balance and my breath. As I slowly calmed down, I noticed that Alexander’s expression had suddenly changed. A look of genuine concern appeared on his face, the dark look in his eyes being replaced by a lighter, warmer one. He rubbed his black hair with the palm of his hand in frustration.
I finally found the words to reply to him. “I am not knowing about Mr. Nicholas being gone,” I informed him indignantly. “I am being sorry you are upset. Me and Harriet also are…but please to not take your anger out on us, not being fair,” I told him.
Alexander regarded me with an odd, half-smile. “How do you measure fairness?” he suddenly asked me. “When it’s all done and gone, how will you be judged?” he questioned me.
His words made me angry, despite my resolve to control my feelings. “By how I am treating others,” I replied. “You are not being judged so well this account,” I informed him.
A look of annoyance crossed Alexander’s features. “Maybe,” he responded. “But some strange things have been happening in this house since you arrived, Sonia Godunov,” he declared.
Hannah interrupted our conversation. “Strange things been happening in this house before you two been born,” she said, with a melancholy look in her eyes.
I couldn’t stand the tension anymore. “I’m needing to clean up breakfast,” I informed them. I hurried to the dining room, and began to clean up the remnants of the morning meal. Sunlight poured in through the cracks of the window drapes. The rays were warm and golden; everything that the horrible morning had not been. I happened to glance at the Venetian painting on the wall. The gondola had returned; its sole passenger was a middle-aged man with graying hair and a crooked nose, a pair of dirty eyeglasses upon his face. He smiled at me from the seat of the strange boat. Was it Nicholas? I couldn’t bear to look at it, quickly averting my eyes.
I placed the dishes into the sink and began to run the tap. The carton of milk that rested on the counter was still half-full, and I didn’t want it to spoil. I opened the refrigerator door to return it to its place on the shelf. Suddenly, hundreds of insects flew out of the refrigerator, blinding me with their flapping wings. They were locusts! I batted them away, but there were too many of them. I swatted in every direction, both blinded and terrified by the spectacle of such hideous creatures. But then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the locusts vanished. I peered down and noticed that I had dropped the milk upon the kitchen floor. I bent down to clean it up, but a man’s hairy h
and beat me to it. This hand picked up the carton, shaking it until the last few milky drops had dripped upon the wet floor. The voice of the man startled me, for I had initially believed it to be Alexander.
“What’s the matter, honey? You a kitty-cat crying over spilled milk?” the man said sarcastically. I looked up into the amused face of Paulie Dante, the man whom I had beaten in the baking contest. He was now smirking, and as my eye searched further, I noticed he wore a policemen’s badge on his jacket. He regarded me with a look of ugly triumph.
“Lucy,” he said with a kind of Spanish accent. “You got a lot of ‘splaining to do.”