“Love you, too, Mama.”
“Now I make new recipe. I call it ‘My Childrens Makes Me Worry.’”
* * *
I headed home to my tugboat.
Six months ago, I sold my home in the hills above Portland and moved to my yellow tugboat with red trim. I was in a dark pit I couldn’t crawl out of because each time I looked around, a memory bashed me in the face.
I cried for days when I sold that home, but I knew it had to be done. The house was white with blue shutters with a willow tree in front. Now I live on a dock in a marina with other people who live on houseboats.
You have to walk by three houseboats to get to my three-story yellow tugboat with red rails and trim and a red door. Petey, a friend of my father’s, used it for twenty-five years to haul timber, grain, sand, and gravel on barges up and down the river, but he retired and didn’t want it.
I wanted to live on the water, away from the city, as natural as I could get without a long commute to work, so I bought it from Petey, who moved to a condo in Miami. I then had it gutted and remodeled before I moved in, with a full bedroom added to the second floor. I needed something to think about other than the memory bashing, and it helped to have a project.
I rented a slip on the dock and settled in.
The whole tugboat is about a thousand square feet. I painted the small entry white. Two square windows on either side let in the light. I’ve taken photos of my river “pets,” which include two mallard ducks that always wander up on my deck named Mr. and Mrs. Quackenbusch; a blue heron named Dixie; a bald eagle, which disappears for days, that I call Anonymous; a golden eagle I named Maxie; two beavers named Big Teeth and Big Tooth; and river otter. There are a number of river otter, so I call all of them Sergeant Ott.
I matted the photos in blue with white frames.
I have a tiny hallway, then a bathroom off to the right. I have a shower over a claw-foot tub. Across the hallway is the kitchen with a huge window over a white apron sink. I had the cabinets painted light blue; the counters are a beige, swirling granite; and the backsplash is made of blue, gray, and beige glass.
The kitchen opens to my family room. I have white wainscoting on the lower half, light beige paint on the top half, and a blue couch in the shape of a V. The blue couch has a multitude of pillows, made from thick, shiny, fuzzy, painted, mirrored, arty, lacy, silky fabrics from all over the world, sewn by my sisters and me. I have a glass dining table in the corner near the French doors, which leads to the tugboat’s lower deck. On either side of the French doors are more square windows.
Up a skinny spiral staircase, on the second floor, is a semicircle office with a desk; a closet with shelving on both sides to house my clothing collection/obsession that used to house the crew in bunks; and my bedroom, the comforter and walls white. The bedroom has windows on both walls, and another set of French doors leads to a second deck.
A ladder in the office leads to the wheelhouse up top where Captain Petey used to steer the tugboat up and down the river. The wood captain’s wheel and an old, gray clunky phone with a silver bell on top of it are still there, as is the dark wood paneling on the lower half. There is also an array, on a panel in front of the captain’s wheel, of radios, levers, switches, gauges, and controls to drive the tugboat.
The top half, into the ceiling, is all windows so Petey could see in all directions. The roof windows make it excellent for stargazing.
I had a three-foot-wide bench built up in the wheelhouse, raised over four feet. I added a long red mattress and a pile of red and white pillows with fabric from India, Thailand, Norway, Pakistan, Mexico, China, and Hawaii.
I can sit on the bench in the wheelhouse and have an incredible view of downtown Portland if I look one way and the ruffles of the river and towering trees if I look the other way. Sometimes I go up there to cry.
Outside I have another “house,” built on my side deck. It’s not a real house. More like a shelter with a door. I don’t go in there. It hurts me too much. When I moved in, I shoved in what needed to be there, then shut and locked the door.
Locked. It’s locked.
I can’t see unlocking it anytime soon.
* * *
An hour later I called my father from my deck, Mr. and Mrs. Quackenbusch in the water by my feet. “Mama’s upset about Ellie.”
“I know, I know,” he said, his voice sad, moaning. My father is tall, balding, with a chest like a bull, a broken nose shifted a bit to the side from his boxing years in Moscow, and brown eyes that have seen way, way too much. In Moscow he was a physics professor at the university before he was arrested and entered prison/hell, his scars our reminder.
I could hear the restaurant sounds in the background—plates clanging, waitresses chatting, a chef yelling, lively Russian music. “My poor Svetlana. She worry. I okay he a Italian, you know what I saying, Antonia? But I no think those two, not a up match. . . . ”
I knew he meant “Not a matchup.” My father’s English gets worse as he gets upset, too. I listened as he told me what he thought of Gino, Elvira’s fiancé. “He handsome. He funny. He love Elvira, I knows, I see it. But Elvira . . . she not, what you call it? She not over the sun for him.”
“Over the moon.”
“She not over sun or moon. I worry. I don’t like that Gino’s hair. Vain. Why a man care about his hair? Not me. I no care. He not enough for my Elvira. What his real job? Huh? You tell me, what his real job?”
“Entrepreneur.”
“Entrepreneur.” He slung that word out long and slow. “That mean he want to be leech off my Elvira’s pillow business.”
“I don’t think so. He does own parts of a number of businesses.” Gino did well. So did Ellie with her pillow-making business.
“What your mama making?”
“She had chicken, walnuts, coriander, flour, and white wine out. She said she’s drinking wine for inspiration. I don’t know what she’s cooking. She’s experimenting, throwing things in, chopping like a fiend. If she likes it, she says she’ll make it at the restaurant tonight. She says it’s called ‘My Childrens Makes Me Worry.’”
My mother liked it. She brought her recipe down. First diners sampled it.
Word travelled fast. It was a ninety-minute wait into our restaurant that night.
* * *
Two nights later, he called.
“I’m having the flashbacks, Toni. And the nightmares.”
“They’re back again?” I slung my feet over my lower deck, then rubbed my forehead, right by my widow’s peak. It was nine o’clock at night, stars blocked out by clouds. I felt a mixture of sorrow, horror, and overwhelming guilt, my usual feelings when he was upset.
“Yes.”
“Where are you and which ones are you seeing?”
“I’m in India. The southern part. And I’m seeing the woman. Her blond hair. The one I think is my mother.” His voice crackled, pain and memories blending together, an emotional tornado. “And that blue ceramic box is back with the carriage and the fancy lady with the parasol and the butterfly. The box keeps opening, and that red and purple butterfly is flying around. I’m trying to catch it, trying to talk to the butterfly, but it keeps flying toward the woods.” He took a shuddering breath. “The woods are so scary, I know there’s something in there, or someone. I think they’re from my past, not just random things.”
“Okay, breathe with me . . . one, two, three . . .”
He breathed with me, raspy and ragged. “I’m seeing the wooden ducks. I’m seeing them being thrown. Yelling. I’m scared of someone there. It’s a dark shadow, and I don’t know who it is. The blood is back, too, Toni. All over me. I can feel it. It’s all over her, too. She’s bleeding. I can see it in her blond hair. I’m trying to get to her, but I can’t. I wake up and I can’t breathe.”
I lay down on my deck, holding the phone. I had been told never to tell him what I knew, what I saw, what I guessed at.
“Where is all this coming from?” he aske
d. “What does it mean?”
Never tell, Antonia, never, ever tell.
I was a secret keeper, and I could not hold the secret much longer. It had been twenty-five years and he needed to know. He deserved to know. But not tonight. “Breathe with me again, okay, here we go . . .”
* * *
Over the next few days I received a number of calls and texts from family and friends who had had my mother’s special named “My Childrens Makes Me Worry.” They wanted to know what we Kozlovsky kids did to make my mother worry. The older people who called from the Russian community also gently chastised me, in Russian, of course. “Don’t make your mama worry, Antonia. You know better.”
The regular dishes at my parents’ restaurant all have family names. “Elvira’s Tasty Treats,” which is a selection of desserts; “Valeria’s Dumplings,” which are beef dumplings on a bed of lettuce; and “Antonia’s Delight,” which are cheese crepes.
But the specials . . . well, those are a crap shoot.
In the past, my mother has named specials “Alexei Not The Boss,” after she had a fight with my father.
And “Teenagers Big Trouble,” when we were younger.
And “I Wish Valeria Quit Her Job.”
I had “Antonia Not A Criminal,” simply because I write about crime.
Ellie endured “Elvira’s Bad Choice” when she got engaged to Gino. It hurt Gino’s feelings.
As my sister Valerie says, “I’m a state prosecutor. I try to maintain respect, a professional image, then Mama puts out a special called ‘Valeria No Call Mama Enough,’ and even the criminals are asking me why I don’t call my mama more.”
It goes on and on. Don’t make my mother mad, or you’ll hear about it on the Tonight’s Specials board of Svetlana’s Kitchen.
* * *
On Saturday night I heard a knock and opened the door of my tugboat. I knew who it was.
“Hi, Toni.”
I smiled. “You’re up late.”
“So are you. I saw the light on. Want to come over?”
“Yes.”
He put out a warm hand, and I took it. He smiled, kissed me on the cheek, hugged me close.
I locked my door, though I didn’t need to, and we walked down the dock. He opened the door to his houseboat.
“Want dinner? I bought crab legs for us.”
“No, thank you.”
“Wine? I bought that white wine you like from River Valley Vineyards.”
“No, thank you.” I wanted one thing.
Relief.
It was incredible sex, as always. I am turned on by touching his hand.
He asked me to stay, he always does. I said no, thank you. He said that he wanted to wake up with me. I said no, sorry. He said, “I need this to change.”
I said, “I already told you it’s not going to change.”
I rolled over on top of him and kissed his cheek. He linked his fingers with mine, then rolled over on top of me, our hands above my head. He wasn’t happy. I ignored it. I disentangled our fingers, pushed at his shoulders, climbed out of bed, and got dressed. I ignored his unhappy face and walked out of his houseboat.
He followed me and made sure I returned to my tugboat safely. I don’t know why he does this, I’m perfectly safe. I opened the door. I did not look back at him, but I knew he was hoping I would.
I didn’t turn on the lights. I went to bed and stared at the ceiling, the river a lonely thing wrapped around my tugboat.
Then I did what I always do after these nights with him.
I cried.
* * *
It was Kozlovsky Sisters Night at Svetlana’s Kitchen. Valerie, Ellie, and I were at the bar. It was crowded, as usual.
“Valerie,” I asked. “Do you sometimes feel like you’re the Lock ’Em Up Queen of Portland?”
“Yes, I do, Toni,” Valerie said, tapping the side of her martini glass.
Valerie likes her job as a prosecuting attorney. She is almost two years younger than me. She’s tall and thin, and has risen through the ranks at work like lightning. I told her it’s because of her fire-and-brimstone nature, the bonfire beginning in our childhood. She agreed.
Valerie has short black hair, blunt cut, her widow’s peak naturally pushing her hair away from her face, as mine does. Her eyes are blue, a little lighter than mine. She is married to Kai, who is a burly Hawaiian and a captain on the Portland police force, and they have two kids—Ailani, who is ten, and Koa, who is three. Ailani knows way more about crime than she should and finds it fascinating, and Koa likes to dress up like a monster. Both the kids have a widow’s peak. Or, perhaps I should say that Koa has a cowlick.
“They commit the crime, they’re arrested and locked up. If they’re guilty as sin, I grill ’em, chill ’em, and bake ’em.”
“That’s an interesting way to describe your job,” Ellie said.
“It’s very chef-like—grilling, chilling, baking,” I said.
“Only it’s people,” Valerie said. She took a long drink of that martini. “More complicated.”
“You love it,” Ellie said. Ellie is almost two years younger than Valerie. She has wavy black hair, to her shoulders, same thing with her widow’s peak. Her eyes are blue green, like the sea. She curves, like our mother. She believes she’s fat. I believe she has a perfect figure. Ellie owns the pillow-making business that my father thinks Gino wants to leach off of. It’s called Ellie K’s Pillows.
“I love it most of the time,” Valerie said. “Call it childhood revenge.” I knew, by the way she closed her eyes, that something from our childhood had come up and clawed at her.
As a crime and justice reporter for the Oregon Standard, I don’t write about the crime, or the court proceedings, if Valerie has the case. That goes to Shamira Connell, my colleague at the Oregon Standard, as clearly there’s a conflict of interest. Valerie did not change her name after she got married—“We’re Kozlovskys forever”—so it wouldn’t do to have the reporter’s name the same as the prosecuting attorney’s. However, I’m often familiar with her cases because I wrote about them at the time the crime occurred.
“Any info on the job you applied for?” Valerie asked me.
“None.” It was probably hopeless. I had applied to be a reporter for a new magazine inside the newspaper called Homes and Gardens of Oregon and had heard nothing. The attraction was that I would not be writing about crime. The other attraction was that I might be able to avoid a nervous breakdown.
“How are you doing, Toni?” Ellie asked.
“I want out before I have an embarrassing nervous breakdown.” I wasn’t kidding.
“Shoot, Toni, I’m sorry,” Valerie said. “Quit. I told you. Start over. New career. Take time off.”
“Quitting scares me. I’ve never quit anything in my life. I don’t want to talk about this. It makes me want to go home, get in my bathtub, and eat an entire box of chocolates. Ellie, let’s talk about your wedding.”
“Got it covered.” Ellie’s voice was falsely cheerful.
I winked at Valerie, and she winked back.
“All flowers ordered, cake chosen?” Valerie asked Ellie, trying not to laugh.
“Got it covered.” Ellie, our poor younger sister, paled.
“Menu set with Mom for the wedding reception?” I shut my mouth on my chuckle.
“Got it covered.” Her hands shook as she dug in her voluminous purple purse and pulled out a paper bag. She blew into it.
Being engaged to Gino was giving Ellie panic attacks. She didn’t want to take any sort of “tranquilizer fit for a horse,” so she kept a paper bag in her purse at all times.
“One breath in,” I said, slowly, almost singsongy.
“One breath out,” Valerie said, also slowly, singsongy.
Bag went in, out, in, out, Ellie making wheezing sounds.
“It’s a euphoric time of life for her, filled with excitement, wedding bouquets, champagne, and choosing hors d’oeuvres,” Valerie said.
??
?She can’t wait to walk down that aisle,” I announced. “Virginal white dress . . .”
“I can see the white veil now, flowing in the breeze.”
Wheeeeeze.
Ellie choked out, “I don’t want to talk about the wedding.”
Valerie and I laughed and took another sip of our martinis while Ellie put the bag back over her face. I glanced at Tonight’s Specials board over the bar and choked. One of them was “Antonia You Fix That Problem.” The special was cabbage and sausage soup and salad combination. I shook my head. Why does Mama have to do this type of thing?
Svetlana’s Kitchen, which my parents started a little more than a year after we arrived, dead broke, in the United States, is fairly formal. The 1920s building is all brick, and the outside has a patio and trellis with a blooming wisteria vine. The front door is red, the windows clean and wide, with an elegant sign, painted in gold, that says SVETLANA’S KITCHEN. It’s three stories tall, the restaurant on the first two stories.
When they could afford it, my mother insisted on circular tables, leather booths, white tablecloths, candlelight, crystal, a few chandeliers, and heavy silverware. There is exposed brick, a slick mahogany bar, subdued lighting, and a fountain in the corner. It has an old-fashioned, classy Russian bar feel, and all the food is authentically Russian with, as my mother says, “A twist of American tastiness.”
Translated, that means that my parents are in business, and if she has to soften the recipes, or add different spices here and there, or invent a whole new recipe and pretend that it’s Russian, she’ll do it.
My parents’ office and an employee breakroom are on the third floor. There are also two remodeled rooms—one for Ralph, an African American Iraqi war vet who has a dent in his head and a traumatic brain injury from an IED, and the other for Charlie, who is musically brilliant and mentally ill. They live there for free and are two of the gentlest men I have ever met.
Ralph is in charge of helping to clean the kitchen when he is able. He is easily confused, and now and then he’ll stare off in the distance, but he makes sure that the kitchen shines. He salutes all the Kozlovskys. “There not a germy in that kitchen when Ralph done with it,” my mother says. “Anya could come over and eat on floor, I tell you that.”