“No. I don’t want to.”
“Please, baby.” He tilted my chin up. “Come on, look at me.”
“No.” I finally did, then my eyes shifted to the bandage on his shoulder and to that bruise on his arm, that cut on his neck, that someone did to him, some dirtbag criminal hurt Nick ... my Nick. Who shouldn’t be my Nick. There was no Nick and Toni, but he was still my Nick, even if I wouldn’t go on a date. He pulled me close and held me tight.
I put my head under his chin while I trembled like some sappy lady who couldn’t get it together. “I don’t want to sleep with someone who gets hurt.”
“I’ll try not to get hurt again.”
“Try harder, you big oaf.”
“Okay.” He kissed me and I was a sloppy kisser because I kept crying. He lifted me up, I wrapped my legs around his hips, and he carried me into his bedroom. It took my mind off things for a while, but when I stopped panting, and I was lying underneath him, I laid eyes on that bandage and bruise and started crying all over again. I pushed him to get him off of me.
He rolled and pulled me down on top of him again when I, the sloppy crier, tried to get away. He stroked my back and I settled down, about how a cat would. I was so tired from all that emotion that I fell asleep on him, and when I woke up it was two in the morning.
I got out of bed.
“One night, Toni. Please. Call it a pity night because of my shoulder. Call it a night when you give in one time. Come on, honey. We’re so comfortable.”
“No. You’re making me cry. I didn’t come here to cry and get scared about you and worry about you and I am not here to feel like that again and I don’t like your job.”
“I like you.”
“I don’t like you. You are bad for my, for my ...” I struggled to think of something. “For my face.”
“I’m bad for your face?”
“Yes. It’s all puffy now and swollen and my tear ducts are tired.”
“Then close your eyes and go to sleep with me, and I will rub your back.”
Tempting. I loved when he rubbed my back, but no.
I left. I do not spend the night. He’s my lover, my Nick. That’s what he is: lover.
He trailed after me and walked me to my door and kissed me on the cheek. I hugged him, then pulled myself out of his arms when the kiss became all sizzly again and shut the door behind me after I said, “I’m mad at you, Nick,” because I was mad at him for getting hurt. “Really mad.”
I did not miss his sigh and one short swear word.
Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes
BY TONI KOZLOVSKY
I visited a woman this week who was born in the home she lives in now. Mabel Stiva is eighty-four years old. Her light blue front porch, the one that is almost invisible because of the overflowing flower boxes, is one of three front porches we featured this week because it’s so welcoming.
“My home is me,” Stiva told me. “It’s my family. My parents and grandparents. It’s us. It’s the Stivas. I made strudel with my grandma in this kitchen. My father taught me how to clean a gun in the family room. My grandfather taught me how to ride a horse out back, where there is now a line of homes. They’re all gone, but the home retains our memories between the walls. That’s why I’ll stay here until I die. My family is here.”
I talked with a man named Marv DeSota, who said that his modern home, about four blocks away, was the pinnacle of a hard-working life, a goal he had long held. “I grew up poor. We had nothing. I had two jobs by the time I was fourteen, delivering newspapers and working in a restaurant washing dishes. I used to look at people who had nice homes and think, I want that. I want that life. I want to have a roof that doesn’t leak, a place that doesn’t have rats, a floor that is not so broken in places we can see the ground. This home, for me, is the culmination of decades of work. No one helped me, I did it myself.”
I also talked with an artist, Lucianne Micah, who has painted every wall of her home several times, depending on her mood and where she is in her life. “My home, to me, is my canvas. And my canvas, my art, is my life. That’s why it’s special. When I get tired of what I’ve painted, I paint it white, live with the white until I know what I’m going to do, then I paint a mural. It’s mental therapy for a few hard knocks I’ve had to deal with in my life.”
My own special home? I will always remember a small, tight, shabby apartment I lived in with my family in Moscow, Russia, then called the Soviet Union.
Do I want to live there again? I don’t. Too many things happened I want to forget. Too many dangers, too many whispers in the night, too much of the KGB. It was cold, it was poor, it was desperate. Life as an American is much better in every way.
But I can see my mother making syrniki there, with jam and sour cream, and my grandmother Ekaterina making my sisters and me dolls out of cloth, and my grandfather carving me toys out of wood. I can see my father grading his students’ papers, his brow furrowed. I can see my sisters and myself playing games in the small bedroom/closet we shared, one bed, all piled in together at night. I can see my uncles and aunts playing cards, laughing, shouting, an argument here and there.
I can remember Christmas, how we had to hide our small, homemade Christmas tree in our bedroom because being Christian was illegal. I remember the dollhouse my parents built us out of wood one year, wearing mittens as the apartment was freezing, the hot water off for weeks at a time.
I will never forget that apartment, our lives there, the laughter, the happy times.
Wishing you much laughter and happy times in your own home.
I saw my ex-editor, William Lopez. “Bored yet, Kozlovsky?”
“Not yet, William.”
“I’m bored thinking about what you’re doing. It makes me lose brain cells. I can hardly stand it.”
I laughed. I bought him a box of cookies to “sweeten his sour disposition,” which is what I wrote on the card.
He wrote back, “It’ll never work, Kozlovsky.”
* * *
“I no understand,” my uncle Sasho moaned, head in his hands. “I no understand. How this happen? How this happen to me?”
“Sasho, all will be well,” my mother said, patting his shoulder.
“Woe on my life, these things happen,” Uncle Vladan said. “I don’t know how.”
“This not so bad,” my uncle Yuri muttered, casting a glance at his pregnant granddaughter, Hope, who was outside in the backyard.
All of the Kozlovskys were at Uncle Sasho’s house to celebrate his son Pavel’s birthday.
Ellie was there with Gino, who hugged me, friendly as ever, and said, “I wish Ellie wasn’t so worried about the wedding. I’m trying to help her, but she keeps telling me she has everything organized already, that you and your mom and Valerie are doing it.”
I told him we were doing everything that Ellie asked us to do, and we chatted from there. There was a serious communication problem between those two, but I didn’t say that, as that would have been a poor choice and Gino would have lost his marbles.
Valerie gave me a hug and said, “The Barton psychos haven’t gotten me yet,” Kai hugged me and said he missed seeing me on crime scenes, and Ailani told me she was studying DNA for a class project. “Can I put a cotton swab in your mouth and rub the inside of your cheek, Aunt Toni? I’m practicing taking DNA. Also, can I pull out one of your hairs?” Koa was wearing a King Kong outfit. He wielded a wooden spatula and tapped me on the rear with it.
JJ had circles under her eyes, and Jax had a stunned expression on his face. JJ told me that Jax was almost to the point where he could understand that his little girl had had sex, but her growing stomach still stopped him in his tracks. “He’ll see it, then he feels faint and has to sit down.”
Hope looked seasick from her pregnancy, and she told me she was “scared out of my mind, and sick in the toilet.” I gave her a hug.
Chelsea arrived wearing all black and a second nose ring. “Mom and Dad are so upset about Hope ge
tting pregnant, they didn’t even say anything about the new nose ring. It was disappointing,” she mused. “Not what I thought their reaction would be at all.”
Boris insisted he was not stealing cars, and Tati and Zoya proudly showed us their new stripper clothes line for Tati and Zoya’s Light and Lacy Delights.
Anya told me that she was worried about contracting Ebola the next time it “came around town.”
The kids and teenagers were all outside in the backyard as Uncle Sasho continued to moan.
“Pavel, my Pavel, he want to be dancer. Ballet! Ballerina. For the boy.”
“So he want to be dancer,” my aunt Polina said, patting Uncle Sasho’s left shoulder. “It okay. We no have any dancers in these families.”
“A dancer? A dancer?” Uncle Sasho shook his big head, then put a hand to his face, over that nose that had been broken one too many times boxing in the Soviet Union. “No. I want him to be doctor. Engineer. Attorney. But he say dancer!” His bushy eyebrows shot up.
My father patted his other shoulder.
My aunt Holly said, “I like ballet.”
Tati, ever the business owner, said, “Maybe he can introduce us to his dance teachers and we can make the outfits for their next recital.”
“Tati!” Zoya gushed. “That gave me the shivers. See my arm? Shiver bumps. We should make up some samples and bring them to his school.”
“I don’t think that the high school will appreciate stripper outfits for their dancers,” JJ said.
“I’ll take a stripper outfit for my wife,” Kai said.
Valerie slugged him, lightly. “Sweetie, I bet you’d like that.” She paused, then turned toward Tati and Zoya, “Actually, could I get one from you? I need to get my sexiness back. I don’t feel sexy. And I need one that covers my stomach. Two pregnancies have reduced it to cottage cheese with stretch marks.”
“I like cottage cheese,” Kai said. Valerie smiled at him. They are so in love, it’s nauseating.
“I don’t feel sexy, either,” Anya said. “With all these diseases you can catch anywhere. I was studying African diseases during rehearsal and how they can travel on planes, spread themselves in the bathroom—”
“Let’s get back to Sasho and Pavel,” Aunt Holly said.
“I only want to know this: Why the little pink shoes?” Uncle Sasho said, distraught, his eyebrows rising up, down, up. “My boy. He boy. He want to wear the ribbon on his ankles? Pink ribbon on a boy? No. Not normal. I send him to this school, it say the school for peoples who want the art and science. Pavel say he like chemistry. So chemistry. This news I like. Chemistry for a doctor. But no. He like chemistry but he like ballerina-ing more. I not even know. It a secret. Ack. I raise boy ballet dancer! How this happen? This America? They say you be what you want be, but now my son want be ballerina.”
“We should design a stripper outfit line called ‘The Ballerina, ’ ” Zoya whispered to Tati.
“That’s genius!” Tati whispered back. “Zoya, you always think of the best ideas.”
“Oh no, stop. You do. You were the one who thought of the police officer stripper outfit. So popular... .”
“Go and get your brother,” Uncle Sasho said to Tati. “I need to talk to Pavel.”
We argued that it wasn’t the time, or the place. It was Pavel’s birthday! He insisted. Pavel was brought in. I hugged him, so did Ellie, Boris, and Zoya. Kozlovskys often solve family conflicts as a group, even when it’s only between two people.
“Pavel, my son,” Uncle Sasho said, sitting across from Pavel in the family room. “You are ballet dancer.”
“Yes, Dad, I am.” Pavel’s voice was soft, but resolute. “I love ballet.”
“Why, son?”
“I love to dance. I love the music, the rhythm.” Pavel’s hands were shaking. He was trying to be brave. “I love to tell a story through dance, to make people feel the emotion that the choreographer or the writer wanted the audience to feel. I love making something, a production, a show, and being a part of it. I like the people who dance, Dad. I feel like I’m a part of something, that I’m accepted, that people know I’m alive.”
His words hung heavy in that room. We heard the loneliness. We heard the love for ballet.
“But you lie to me, son. You say you’re after school for the classes in the chemistry.”
“I know.” Pavel’s voice caught. “I’m sorry I lied. I knew you wouldn’t approve. You want me to be a doctor or an engineer or an attorney. I can’t do it, Dad, I’m sorry.”
“What else? What else do you have to tell me? Are there more lies? Tell me now,” Uncle Sasho said.
Pavel glanced at me, and I nodded. We had had many emotional calls.
Pavel studied his feet, then studied the ceiling, his eyes filling with tears. “Dad, I’m gay.”
“What?” My uncle Sasho wrung his hands, his eyebrows shooting up again. “Gay?”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want me to be gay, but I am. I can’t help it. I remember liking boys in kindergarten. I know you’re disappointed, I know you hate me, I know you probably want me to move out... .”
“No!” Uncle Sasho stood up. My father rushed to his side, as did my uncle Vladan and Uncle Yuri.
“Sasho!” my father reprimanded. “Sit down. Listen to your son.”
“Be kind, Sasho,” my uncle Vladan said. “It is love between a father and son.”
“Brother,” Uncle Yuri said. “Wait. Still your mouth. No hurtful words.”
“No!” Uncle Sasho said.
“Uncle Sasho,” my sisters and I said together, standing in front of him. Uncle Sasho had been a doting father—he was mother and father to his children since my aunt Yelena ran off with the plumber—but the shock was making him angry.
“Dad, I’m sorry.” Pavel jumped up, too, in tears, his face red, crushed. “I’m sorry. I love you, Dad.”
“No!” Uncle Sasho said again, his huge fists clenched.
“Uncle Sasho,” I said. “This is who your son is—”
“Uncle Sasho,” Boris said. “Pavel’s a fine son to you—”
“Stop,” Aunt Polina said. “You must not react like this, Sasho—”
“Please,” Aunt Holly said. “Please sit down. He loves you, Sasho!”
“Uncle Sasho,” Ellie said. “It’s about love. It doesn’t matter if he’s gay—”
“Stop!” Uncle Sasho said, hands up.
“Dad, I can’t change. I tried. I prayed. I told myself to stop it. I tried to make myself like girls when I was younger. Nothing changed—”
“I say no!” Uncle Sasho said.
Pavel’s whole body slumped, and I blinked rapidly, furious with Uncle Sasho. Maybe I would hit him.
“That not what I meant, Pavel, when I say no.” Sasho placed his heavy hands on Pavel’s shoulders. “Son. I don’t know about you being ... being the gay. Being the homosexual. I don’t know. You ballet dancer, too. I am confused. So much confuse. But this I know.” He pointed a finger in the air as he raised his voice, booming again. “I love you. I love you with all my whole heart and my Russian and my American soul. You are a caring and loving son to me. If you want to be ballet dancer, then you be ballet dancer.”
“Really, Dad?” Pavel’s voice cracked. “It’s okay?”
“No!” Uncle Sasho shouted. “It not okay.”
Pavel’s body seemed to pull in on itself again. I would hit Uncle Sasho soon.
“It better than okay.” Uncle Sasho’s voice softened. “I know what it like to live sad. To live with no hope. To live when people, what the word? Discriminate. When they don’t like you for who you are. You honest. You ballet dancer. I come see you. I cheer for my son. I say, ‘That my son up there.’ I proud of you. You talented ballerina?”
“I hope. I’m trying.” Pavel stood straighter, but the tears flowed. “Dad, thanks—”
“Then, my son, you be the ballet dancer. And you say you gay? So, you like the men?”
Pavel nodded. “Bu
t only one ... man. My friend Danny.”
“Danny? That Danny.” Uncle Sasho sighed, shook his head again. “So much today for old man like me to hear. To understand. I try understand. This new life, all these years here in America.” His shoulders stooped, and he paused. He thought. His eyebrows went up, down. We all held our breath. For once, all Kozlovskys were quiet.
“Well. Danny polite. I like that Danny. He come from good family. Not Russian American, though. That too bad.” Sasho pushed his ham like fists together. “So you my gay son and you ballerina on your toes with pink ribbons. Okay. I take it. I take you. What I want, son, is happy son. That what I want. We have much sad in these families. In Kozlovsky family. In Sabonis family.” He nodded at my mother, “Terrible things happen to us! But you happy, Pavel?”
“Yes, Dad, I am,” Pavel said, his face a flood of emotions.
“Then this is well. I love you, my son. I always love you.”
“Life is short,” my father said, in Russian. “Love who you love. We accept and love Pavel as he is. He is a Kozlovsky. We are a family no matter what. Everyone needs to be happy. He is happy, and we will leave this as it is. This is my final word.”
And so it was.
“Will you come to my show then, Dad?” Pavel asked. “The one I’m in? I have the star role. It’s called Bennie and the Music.”
“What? My son?” Uncle Sasho’s mouth dropped. “You have star role? I can’t believe. This big news. Yes. I come. We want everyone to be together. All the Kozlovskys. Who else come to the show with my gay ballerina love son?”
“I’m coming!” we all said.
Uncle Sasho hugged Pavel.
“See? We have love, right?” my mother said, hands out. “Kozlovsky love. Now, please. I make my coulibiac with salmon and eggs, and the loaf I made in shape of smile for all the bodies. Who want that?”
We all did. It had been a very emotional event. Many of us wiped tears off our cheeks. We’re tough, we Kozlovskys, but we cry easily.
Boris the car stealer, definitely not gay, women in and out of his bed all the time, wiped his tears and followed my mother to the kitchen to help serve, followed by Zoya and Tati, who whispered to each other, “I don’t care what they say. We can still make modest outfits and take them to Pavel’s school ... another business opportunity ... costumes for school plays ... we need to go to Vegas this year ... they need us ...”