The Summer Garden

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No more talking for us. Besides, I have to go to the mission.”

  “The mission?” he said, frowning. “You just worked twenty-four straight hours. You have to go home and sleep, no?”

  “No. The little children don’t know and don’t care about my sleep. The children are waiting.”

  “Yes, they certainly are,” Alexander said, his fists clenching, finally stepping away from her. She always knew how to say just the thing to make him step away. “Your son—who is your actual child—has been waiting and waiting.”

  “His father is taking care of him, no?”

  “He needs his mother.”

  She clenched her own fists, and stepped toward him. Alexander opened his arms. “Right here,” he said. “Here I stand.”

  “Indeed you do,” said Tatiana. She took a breath. “Alexander, when you asked me to marry you, did you realize our marriage might last longer than one moon cycle?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “No, I don’t think you were. Yes, you said, we were only going to do this once and we might as well do it right, but you were thinking do it right for a month. A year between furloughs, perhaps. While you were trying to get into Germany from Russia. I’m not saying the quest for me wasn’t real, but what else, after all, did you have to live for? You could try to find me, try to stay alive for me, or you could smoke away your life in a Soviet onion field. So you chose me. How ennobling! But this isn’t briefest Lazarevo, is it? This is days and days and months and years, and all the minutes in between, just you and me, one man and one woman in one marriage.”

  “I know very well what this is, Tatiana,” said Alexander, her fragile voice like concrete pressing on his heart.

  “Do you? A marriage isn’t as easy as taking a drink of water. This is not pretend life during war, or pretend Soviet marriage, the two of us against the NKVD, with pretend Soviet choices. This is real American life. Full of choices, full of freedoms, full of opportunities, money, conflicts, constant pressures. There is suffering—when we cannot have what we think we deserve and it torments us.” She paused. “And there is temptation.”

  “Tania, stop. Not in the parking lot. I want to go home.”

  “You want to have this conversation at home?” Her eyes had dulled again. “In the home I worked so hard to make as a sanctuary for you from the rest of your life? A haven I made for you where you could go and have peace?” She shook her head. “I don’t think you want to have this conversation there.”

  “I do.”

  “Alexander Barrington,” Tatiana said, “my friend, my husband, I don’t think you have been paying attention. I’m not talking about love. Richter thinks he loves Vikki, too. Vikki thinks she loves each of the boys she is with. Love is like taking a drink of water. You have the nerve to whisper to me about Naples. Strangers could love in Naples on a white sand beach!” she cried. “Dogs could love in Napa. Fruitflies mate in Lazarevo. Love is so easy!”

  He stood breathless and blinking, listening to her wash away the colors his life was painted with.

  “I’m not talking about love,” she repeated.

  “Clearly,” he said. “Can you not talk about it in a parking lot? Can we go home? The house is empty. Ant is in school.”

  “There is no peace in that house.”

  “Oh, I know. You’ve taken it with you. I want to go there anyway.”

  Tatiana stared him down, which was quite a feat considering she came up to his elbow. “You think you can do as you please, and then take me home?”

  “Tania, if you will let me talk to you, it will be fine,” said Alexander. “I will make it fine. Because I did nothing wrong.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he said, his brave and indifferent face on like a stone mask. “But please let’s go home so I can explain.”

  Tatiana stepped close, in her white uniform, and she lifted her earnest face to him, her yearning eyes to him, in the sunlit parking lot of Anthony’s school, in the middle of the cold December morning, and she put her hands on his chest. “Alexander,” she whispered, “kiss me.”

  An involuntary gasp left Alexander’s throat.

  Her fists were clenched on his shirt, near his heart, her questioning, hoping, hurting eyes filling with tears were gazing up at him. “You heard me,” she breathed out. “My husband, the father of my baby, my horse and cart, my life, my soul, with your truest lips, kiss me.”

  The coroner’s crew wasn’t coming anytime soon to clean Carmen off the walls of their house. Alexander’s choice was before him. Either he kissed her or he stepped away. But either way, whichever way, he was finished.

  Because it was checkmate.

  Alexander stepped away. “Tatiana, this is ridiculous. I’m asking and asking, let’s go home and finish this. I refuse to do this with you in public.” He could not look at her.

  Tatiana got into her Thunderbird and screeched out of the empty parking lot.

  Baby, it’s Cold Outside

  Tatiana didn’t come home any time that Friday. Next Wednesday was Christmas. On Monday, Vikki, Richter, Esther, Rosa were all flying in from snowy East to spend Christmas with them. What were they going to do?

  Alexander called her at the mission, called her at the hospital, but she didn’t come to the phone or return his call. “I’m sorry, Alexander,” said Erin, said Cassandra. “She’s busy, she’s in surgery, she’s in trauma one, trauma two, one accident after another, one heart attack after another, there’s even been a knifing! she can’t come to the phone.”

  He and Anthony couldn’t stay in their empty house. They went out to dinner and to the pictures. They saw The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. They barely spoke.

  The Christmas tree remained unlit, and Alexander had forgotten to put the outside lights on. Coming back at eleven at night, they couldn’t see their house at all at the top of the Jomax hill. The little beacon was pitch black from the inside and out.

  Alexander called her again. He thought of going to see her, but they’d already had three fruitless discussions in parking lots and waiting rooms. For the second night he couldn’t sleep in their bed. He smoked until he couldn’t see straight from the poison and remained on the couch until Saturday morning.

  After the ER receptionist told him that Tatiana had left the hospital at seven, Alexander waited for her, but when she wasn’t home by nine, he went to work, taking Ant with him, not wanting the boy to stay by himself in the house.

  Anthony was so dismally mute sitting in the corner of the reception area that Alexander could barely attend to his appointments. Go shopping, Ant, get an ice cream; here, take some cash, buy yourself anything. But Anthony wouldn’t move.

  Tonight the Barrington Custom Homes Christmas party was being held at the new spectacular model home they had just finished. Alexander and Tatiana were hosting, as they had every year for the last six. A hundred and fifty people were invited. There was a lot at stake, for instance, a coveted invitation to build a house for the prestigious Parade of Homes builders’ competition of 1959.

  At four in the afternoon, Alexander returned home with Anthony to get ready. Tatiana was not home.

  She had been home, however, because all the dishes that were once in the cupboards and cabinets were lying shattered on the linoleum floor. All the dishes. And the cups and bowls, too. Dudley, Carmen, their marriage on the floor of their house.

  Alexander and Anthony stood grim, gaping at the chaos, at the madness.

  “Tania, will you forgive me for going to prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you forgive me for dying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you forgive me . . .”

  “Shura, I will forgive you for everything.”

  “Somebody’s been home,” said Anthony, throwing his jacket on the coathook. “But I don’t think it was my mother.”

  It took them over an hour to clean up the broken shards.

  When Alexander
came inside the bedroom to change, he emitted a wretched groan. On their quilt, on their cream blanket with crimson buds, lay spread out in long sad bitter strands the remains of Tatiana’s blonde hair. All chopped up and chopped off, the hair lay in a tangled mess. Alexander’s sharpest army knife with the gun-blue steel blade was thrown on the floor nearby.

  For a long time Alexander sat on the bed, his hands on his knees, while on the bedroom radio Vivaldi’s Sposa Son Disprezzata played. He was simply astonished at the reaction of the serene woman he thought he knew so well to the man-made battle he had brought into their quiet house. He had thought that like everything else it would be at worst a skirmish. But this was war. Fida son oltraggiata . . .

  And inside his head, he kept hearing Tatiana’s soft voice, hard as nails, saying, “Alexander Barrington, my friend, my husband, I don’t think you have been paying attention.”

  It wasn’t possible that this was happening! Alexander’s heart cried. It wasn’t possible! Real life couldn’t grind them down, too. They were beyond this, weren’t they? They were Alexander and Tatiana. They had crawled on their bellies across frozen oceans, across continents on jagged rusted spikes, they were flayed for their sins, were beaten and bled dry, to get to each other again. This could not be happening.

  When Alexander came out of the bedroom, showered and ready, Tatiana’s fifteen years of hair cleaned up and on his dresser, he said to his son, “Ant, something tells me that Mommy isn’t going to be coming to our party this evening. What do you want to do? I have to go.”

  The affair was being catered while in the house there was nothing to eat except Spam—the American Lend-Lease gift to the starving war-torn Soviet Union—which Tatiana always kept on hand, Spam which Anthony was now eating with a fork, right out of the metal can. Sunk down in the couch, Anthony looked up at his father and said, “She’s left us, hasn’t she?” He started to cry.

  His throat closing up, Alexander sat down next to his son. “She hasn’t left us,” he said. “She hasn’t left you.” Somebody give me a fucking tracheotomy.

  “So where is she?”

  “You think if I knew, I wouldn’t be there right now, party or no party?” said Alexander. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “Ant, I’m sorry. Your dad behaved badly and Mommy is very upset. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. But don’t worry, she’ll return, you’ll see.”

  “Like she returned for you?”

  Alexander attempted to stay casual. “Something like that.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Now come on. There’s actual food at the party.”

  “Spam is actual food,” said Anthony, looking inside the can. “That was the last one. I’ve been eating them since last week. That and her dry stale bread in the breadbin.”

  “It’s good we can buy more Spam and bread,” Alexander said as he locked up. This time he left the tree on, the Christmas lights on, the porch light on, in case she came back before they did. What had happened yesterday to cause the mad emotion he just saw in their house? Anthony was right—the woman who smashed the dishes and hacked off her hair with his army knife was not Tatiana. Something must have happened.

  Or rather—something else must have happened. But what?

  In the truck, Anthony said, “Why can’t you just tell Mom you’re sorry? That’s what I do.”

  Alexander smiled bleakly. “What do you have to be sorry for, Antman? You know you can do no wrong in your mother’s eyes.”

  “I do things that upset her sometimes,” Anthony said with a shrug. “Like fighting with that Mesker kid. But you know how she is. She just wants to hear you say you’re sorry, and she’ll forgive you.”

  “I think this one time,” said Alexander, “she might need more than I’m sorry.”

  Of course she didn’t show up at the party. Alexander, broiling, defeated, outraged, exhausted, was losing his mind. Without her by his side, he walked around, drinking, pretending to be social, to be hospitable, yes, the house, and yes, the food, and yes, the son is quite handsome, and the son sat on the couch and didn’t touch the food, and every other question was, “Where is Tania?” and meanwhile, every five minutes, Alexander would go to a small private office and dial everybody he knew who wasn’t at the party. No, Carolyn and Cassandra told him, we don’t know where she is. No, Erin and Helena told him, we don’t know where she is. No, Francesca told him, but with a pause, I don’t know where she is. He kept her on the phone longer because of the pause, but she maintained she knew nothing. He even called Vikki in New York, where it was one in the morning. Vikki was obviously indisposed— but also uninformed. “Have you lost our Tania?” Vikki asked. “Don’t worry. She’s never far. Try to find her before I come on Monday.”

  Where was she? She could be collapsed somewhere, fainted on the road. How could she subject her son to this? The boy had done nothing; why make him suffer?

  The party wound down, by eleven everyone had gone. The caterers cleaned up. Linda helped close up. When she said good-night to Alexander, sympathy and pity were in her eyes.

  He and Anthony didn’t speak on the way home. Alexander was chewing over what he could possibly say or do if she was home—feeling the way he was feeling, which was coming off his hinges—while Anthony was within earshot. So when they got home and saw her car not there, Anthony became distraught, but Alexander was relieved. He didn’t want to see her in front of their son.

  A stiff and withdrawn Anthony turned on the TV, but there was nothing on. It was late. He stared at the color bars and numbers flashing on the screen. Alexander sat on the couch with him. Their shoulders were pressed into each other.

  “Ant, go to bed.”

  “I’m going to wait for her.”

  “I’ll wait. You go on to bed.”

  “I’ll wait, too.”

  “No.”

  Anthony opened his mouth to speak.

  Alexander got up. “Go to bed, Anthony. I’m not asking you.”

  Anthony too got up. “You’re going to be waiting a long time,” he said emptily, walking past his father. “I know something about that. And just like before, she won’t be coming back.” What he didn’t say, but what he clearly wanted to say, and what Alexander heard and felt was, she won’t be coming back—just like last time, and it’s all your fault— just like last time.

  When Anthony was in bed, Alexander came in and sat by him, patting his back, his shoulders, his legs. He leaned over, touched Anthony’s black hair. The boy was on his stomach facing away.

  “What time is it?” Anthony asked in a muffled voice.

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  They both groaned.

  “Anthony,” said Alexander, “you want your mom and dad to try and make it better? Then I’m warning you, if your mom comes back tonight, don’t come out of your room. The adults need to have it out their own way. You have to stay inside, put a pillow over your head, go to sleep, do whatever you need to, but under no circumstances do I want to see you open your door. You got it?”

  “Why?” Anthony said. “There are no dishes left to break.”

  Alexander pressed his mouth to Anthony’s head. “You’re a good kid, bud,” he whispered. “Just stay in your room.”

  He called the hospital. “Erin, please,” he said, choking over his rasping words. “Tell me where she is.”

  “Alexander, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I would tell you. I promise you, I would tell you. I honest to God don’t know.”

  One in the morning, and she was still not home.

  He went outside, and in near dark, by feel alone, with just the small yellow light on the deck, he chopped wood. They didn’t have a fireplace, but he chopped wood for the fireplaces in houses he built, to make them more pleasing at finish-out stage. Wood logs in the fireplace on move-in day. Just a little personal touch from Barrington Custom Homes at no extra charge.

  He kept hearing her voice inside his head. “Alexander, I know you’ve lost everyone you ever loved, but you??
?re not going to lose me. I swear to you on my wedding band, and on my maiden ring that you broke, I will forever be your faithful wife.”

  She had said this to him once, in Lazarevo.

  It was cold in the desert in the December night. Alexander wore nothing but fatigues and a black army T-shirt and it was just what he needed. The labor got rid of some of the fury, the grinding anxiety, the debilitating fear.

  What if this was one of the things they couldn’t fix?

  What if she didn’t come home again tonight?

  Alexander had no sanity left, none.

  Faster and faster the axe came down. He wanted to be weak from the physical exertion; he did not trust himself. Groaning in his agony, he brought the axe down on the withered stump until there was no oxygen left in his lungs.

  He heard a noise. Oh God—the pebbles! That was her car in the driveway. He threw down the axe and ran, coming around the house and under the covered carport just as she was getting out, and Tatiana didn’t even have a chance to gasp before he was on her. He grabbed her and shook her. He was so out of breath, he could not speak, and she did not speak.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he groaned, shaking her limp in his arms. “Do you have any idea what—Anthony has been going through? My God—couldn’t you have thought one fucking second—at least about him?” He was shaking her but weaker and weaker, and then his hands went around her, his arms clasped around her. He pressed her to his chest. “My God, where have you been?” he said. He was trembling.

  “Let go of me,” she said, in a voice he did not recognize. “Get your hands off me.”

  Alexander didn’t just let go. He staggered away.

  With Leningrad ice and a blockaded face, with her bitter condemning eyes on him, Tatiana stood, her back to the red Thunderbird. She was wearing pink capris and a short pink sweater. She looked shattered like she hadn’t slept in days; the raccoon-like rings, the ashen mouth, the sunken cheeks, and the hair! Her hair...it was gone, cut off, sheared to her neck. It curled up now, was tousled. Alexander had been afraid she had given herself a military cut, but she had merely changed her life and become a different woman. This new woman looked barely able to stand. Perhaps it was the pink stilettos. That was his other thought after the shock of her hair. Having been gone for three days, having vanished, disappeared, she was coming back home at one thirty on a Sunday morning, wearing pink capris and pink stilettos.