Baba Tonya was doing her usual routine, flitting about, picking out a wilted cabbage and winking at the vendor to say, “I expect more from you next time, darling.” By that point, no one found her strange, or at least not worth staring at. She and her dirty boa and worn coat were just part of the scenery, like the factory blowing gray smoke in the distance and the dirt on either side of the train tracks.
“A lovely day,” Baba Tonya said. She paused to gaze into the tracks for a moment, and I worried she had drifted off to her own sad and distant world, thinking about her chance to leave this godforsaken country a quarter of a century ago and all the choices that had got her to where she stood, but then I realized she was just buying Mama time. “Let’s take a stroll, shall we?” she said, and again Polya did not protest or declare that she’d rather be back in bed. With the sun on her face, she did seem slightly cheered, even if she was determined not to look that way.
We followed Baba along her preferred path, which ran by the tracks, behind the factory, and then toward the stream that would eventually connect with the back of Building 32. My grandmother was delusional, but she understood what had to be done with Licky without hesitation, just as Bogdan did. Yet my sister seemed oblivious as ever, having no inkling that her beloved pet was being slaughtered for stew.
“His name was Count Bikovsky,” Baba was telling Polya. “He had fiery red hair, which was surprisingly charming. He was also an incredibly talented dancer. You should have seen him waltz! He had perfect rhythm. He asked for my hand, but Papa rejected him because he said he was frivolous. Though he was a successful official, Papa didn’t trust a man who spent so much time dancing, and that was that….”
“I thought all men knew how to dance in those days,” Polya said, but she was amused by the silly story.
“Far from it, my child, far from it.”
“You found others to waltz with, I’m sure.”
“Did I ever!”
As we approached the apartment and their conversation grew increasingly idiotic, I was weighed down by dread. How could they be talking of balls, petticoats, and suitors at this moment? But when I looked up at my grandmother, as if she could answer this question, I saw that her chin was quivering as she spoke, that she was making a conscious effort to soothe my sister, and I felt the urge to take her by the hand, though I did not follow it.
When we returned to the apartment and presented Mama and Aunt Tamara with our lone cabbage, Polya went straight to the balcony, oblivious to the rich scent of stew filling the apartment. The small lake of sun had spread to twice its size, making the balcony feel twice as empty. Licky should have been rolling on his back by then, showing off the white of his big belly, but of course he was not there. Bogdan followed my sister out, looking troubled. Papa, Uncle Konstantin, and Misha, who was allowed to stand in the adult circle now, were under the trees smoking with a few other factory men, talking their man talk. This was how Papa routinely spent his days, though I had a feeling he made a point of leaving the house to avoid the return of his disappointed daughter.
“Where did Licky go?” Polya said, staring over the edge of the balcony. “Did he go out without me?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Bogdan said quietly.
“Who?” Mama said when Polya tried her, shrugging and turning back toward her cooking. “Oh, the cat? He must have wandered off, child. He’ll be back,” she said, vaguely waving her ladle toward the pines.
I saw the worry mounting on my sister’s face and wondered if she would care that much if I was the one who had gone missing. Though the cat went off without her occasionally, she seemed more worried than she usually would be under these circumstances, and I wondered if she could sense what was coming. Bogdan ran a hand through his hair and joined Polya on her fruitless search for Licky. I met the gaze of Mama and Papa and the Orlovs and saw that everyone knew what was coming, but no one else cared because we were all so hungry that the smell wafting up from the pot was not completely unappealing.
Though I knew Licky was going to meet his end, until that moment I did not consider the particulars. What did Mama do to snuff out his short, pathetic life? As she continued to stir the pot, it dawned on me with a startling clarity. Licky must have gone the way of the chicken Bogdan had brought back earlier, and the chickens of her childhood—Mama probably broke the cat’s neck right on the balcony with one swift gesture. Did the others bear witness to this sad act? Did Papa help Mama hold down the innocent beast, or would that have been too much for him?
Once everyone wandered back in and Mama began to serve the stew, all my dark thoughts were replaced by the scent flooding my nostrils. Though Polya and Bogdan returned looking dejected, my sister’s blotchy face did not keep me from sighing happily when Mama pushed my portion in front of me.
“He never just…wanders off like that,” my sister said.
“He will be back any moment now, kitten. You’ll see,” Papa said, but he could not meet her gaze. I had never heard my father lie before, and it would have startled me if I wasn’t so mesmerized by the stew. I took a breath and closed my eyes, issuing a silent apology to the cat and trying to swallow the memory of our goodbye walk by the river. And then I dug right in to my tin bowl. Bogdan did the same and nodded at me, and I tried to ignore him. Polya sighed, took a reluctant spoonful, and then, liking the stew in spite of herself, she kept eating and eating.
“You are getting your color back as we speak,” Misha said, squeezing my arm.
“Liar, liar,” I said, but I was pleased. It was nice to be back at his side. Our relationship had clear terms and was not like the confusing mess that swirled between me and Bogdan. He was a handsome, dependable almost man, a kind, agreeable person, but not so agreeable that he had a penchant for frolicking with desperate older women.
“Delightful,” said Baba Tonya, and Aunt Tamara made a noise of assent, which might have been the first time the two women agreed on anything.
Nobody spoke after that. We gobbled our fare until it was gone and we were sated. And not only sated but temporarily calmed by the fact that there would be enough stew to last us a week at least, if we distributed it carefully. Only after Mama carefully covered the stew pot did an image of the innocent cat float before me. I studied Mama’s face to see if she had broken under pressure, if it had hurt her to kill and cook the kitten, but neither her nor Papa’s face indicated that anything untoward had happened. It was business as usual, only we were all a bit less starving, and even a bit friendlier with one another as we cleaned up.
The rest of us sat around the stove while Polya and Bogdan left to search for Licky once more. I didn’t know if it would be more kind to stop her, or let her think her kitten had truly run off. They returned a little while later, and Polya’s face was blanched, showing no signs of the nutritious benefits of the stew.
“Where did—the stew come from?” she asked. She looked at me and I looked away, thinking of the time I asked about the origin of Bogdan’s eggs, though this question had a far more sinister answer.
Mama looked up from her stove seat. “Aunt Yulia brought some scraps of beef,” she mumbled. Then, when she saw that Polya was unconvinced that Aunt Yulia was capable of this act of kindness, Mama turned away from her and said, “What you are given, you will eat.” Papa walked toward her and put a hand on her shoulder and stared at the ground.
“No,” Polya said, truly horrified, looking at all of us. Bogdan, too, stared at the ground, Misha pretended to read, the Orlovs were preparing for bed, and I was left staring at my sister. This was my big chance. I had been waiting since the day she told me Bogdan had serviced the neighborhood ladies like a know-it-all. I was, after all, the older sister. It was my place to if not deliver, then to confirm the bad news.