“Licky did a good thing for all of us,” I told her. “He saved us from starvation. You should be proud of him.”
I thought I would have some joy in telling her this, but I only felt defeated. For a long time, I had been waiting for this grand revelation to dawn on Polya, to show her that she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was. But now her bottom lip trembled, and she looked so weak that I was surprised by the volume of her cries.
“No!” she shrieked. “You couldn’t! You didn’t! How could you let me—”
“Foolish girl,” Mama said. “You needed to eat something. Take a look at yourself.”
“Your sister is right,” Papa tried, putting his other hand on her shoulder, but she flung him away. “Licky was a true patriot. He served his country.”
“All of you are disgusting!” Polya said, putting a hand to her throat and making a retching noise. “Disgusting pigs. I don’t know how you can live like this.”
“We live however we can,” Aunt Tamara said. “You think it makes us happy to slurp up the meat of a bobcat? You don’t have to be so vulgar. This is undignified enough as it is.”
Baba Tonya observed the scene with her hands on her lap as if she were listening to the radio or hearing a story, genuinely curious to see what would happen next.
“I, for one, feel quite dignified,” Mama said. “There is dignity in honesty, is there not?”
“I will never forgive any of you,” Polya said, and then she clutched her stomach and ran out to the balcony, shrieking like a harlot. I watched her heaving right over the rail and almost felt bad for her, but I was too content with my dinner portion, in spite of its source. Bogdan gave me a mean little nod. He considered going out there and so did I, halfheartedly, but in the end it was my father who went after Polya, my dear father who rubbed her back and kissed her hair, and when they returned to the apartment, my father who promised her that he would do everything in his power to make her happy again, even if he’d have to risk his life to do it.
We were all silent as he promised her that he would send a letter to Uncle Pasha saying he was ready to venture out to a neighboring village to bring back food for everybody; Uncle Konstantin was too weak to go, and it was high time he saw his dear brother.
“We’ll leave as soon as possible, kitten,” Papa said.
“Whatever you think is best,” she said, though she didn’t care where he went or how much food he brought back. He held her gaze, willing her to care, and she managed a smile for him after all. And I’m convinced that this smile was it, the thing that tipped him over the edge and made him decide to venture out into the vast nothingness.
I was alarmed by his proposition. Papa had been particularly weak lately, though I was of course intrigued by what he could find out there. What did my father think he could bring back that would resuscitate the girl? Dainty cakes or watermelon or roasted pigs? Polya seemed unlikely to be brought back by anything other than the sight of her deceased cat, yet Papa was convinced the trip would save her. I thought of him breaking down at his factory again, weeping over his inability to take care of his family. This was more about settling something within himself than making up for what he did to Polya.
It was merely symbolic. Polya was beyond caring about food. Papa felt guilty for his daughter’s suffering and was determined to redeem himself. I watched Mama’s face as Papa and Polya finished this exchange and she did not seem too pleased about Papa’s offer, but she did not stop him, either, though I trusted that tomorrow, she would tell him it was not a good idea. But she did no such thing. The next morning, Papa got up to mail a letter to Uncle Pasha, and nobody did a thing to stop him.
I sigh and stare into the computer, where Natasha is rocking her baby and Stas still looks as if I have not given him the story he is after. Well, why should I care for him? I didn’t even notice when he returned to the scene. But Natasha is my guiding light, my savior. I want to reach through the computer and hug her, to erase my foul memories. She is my everything, though in this moment she looks forlorn, caught up in the dismal scene of my ailing sister, acting as dramatic as Polina herself, all because of a dumb dead cat, not even caring that my father had to put his life on the line for the girl.
She wipes her face one more time to emphasize how much my story has touched her. Always such a sensitive girl! When she was a child, she cried at everything, everything. Homeless people on Kiev park benches. Cartoon rabbits dying on television. Rain spoiling a good walk. I should have known my story would undo her, but she was the one who asked for it, and how could I deny her?
She and Stas are touching shoulders, leaning closer to the screen. Their long hair mingles and they resemble a two-headed beast. Yes, this Stas is a typical homosexual, looking nearly as feminine as my Natasha, with his slick long hair and thick lashes.
“Eating her poor cat,” Natasha says. “That’s so awful.” She looks around for nasty old Sharik, but he is nowhere to be found. Honestly, I would not mind if someone put that boy in a stew.
“Of course it was awful. But we had to survive somehow. If only my sister could have understood that, everything would be different. Stupid, spoiled Polina!” I say, a bit surprised to feel such anger unfurling from me. Though my outburst was alarming enough that it sent Stas running off to the balcony, and good riddance.
“She wasn’t all bad,” says Natasha.
“Excuse me?”
“Your sister.”
“Easy for you to say. You never met her.”
“She just wasn’t as tough as you, Baba. Most people aren’t.”
“I suppose that is true,” I say. Of course she would defend Polina when she has so much of the girl in her. Any room she steps in is filled with light. Anywhere she goes, men turn their heads. All that time wasted, crying for pitiful beasts. And though Natasha is not a full redhead like Polina, she does have that auburn tint to her hair. If things had gone differently, perhaps Polina would have tried to pursue acting herself, who knows? But I do not intend to spend so much time thinking about Polina.
“Plus,” Natasha goes on, “she defended you when Grandpa Misha didn’t.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my stomach tighten. “That was nothing.”
This was not the first time I revisited the day my sister and I stole that chocolate, when my dear Misha had said, “The best course of action was not to act, so I followed it.” Over the years, as he never brought up the topic of my loyalty, I wondered if this had become his mantra.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” says Natasha, but she is comforting her baby gremlin, not yours truly. For a moment, I think it might be nice to give in to Natasha’s requests, to come out to visit my new great-granddaughter, perhaps even to help her mother find her former spirit. But no one can help a new mother, not truly—and she does look a bit less disheveled than she did a week ago, when I began my story, and that is the most I can hope for. After all, even the thought of resettling in Sevastopol wears at my bones, especially since I refused to let Misha’s driver take me, insisting on taking the train like a good soldier. How could I possibly cross the ocean—all for the sake of a little nothing who won’t even remember me? Yet the girl smiles right then, and I can’t help but smile back.
“I have changed my mind about the girl,” I say. “She is not so ugly.”
Natasha laughs. “That’s very generous of you, Baba.”