“So what do you have for me?” I said.
Roxy started the car. “I got the name of his accountant. Gave her a call and confirmed she’s got his books.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She?”
Given Marko’s description of my godfather’s sexual tendencies, the revelation that his bookkeeper was a woman conjured more unholy visions.
Roxy nodded. “It’s the Razor Blade.”
My pulse picked up. She’d been my girl scout mentor. The mere mention of her name still electrified me. “Mrs. Chimchak?”
Roxy nodded again.
“She’s like… ninety.”
“Yeah. Ninety going on sixty-five. I told her you’d be calling. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Years. Decades. Last century.”
“That ought to be quite the reunion then.”
“Yeah.” I had no idea what to expect, whether she would hold my disappearance to New York against me or not. “Yeah it should be.”
I confirmed Mrs. Chimchak’s address, thanked Roxy for the scoop, and returned to my car. Mrs. Chimchak lived in the south end of Hartford near the border of Wethersfield where I was parked. I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t moved to the suburbs even though there were more shootings in Hartford every year, and it seemed more dangerous than all the New York boroughs combined. But there was a consistency to the person who’d helped shape me into the woman I was today. I didn’t picture her moving because the environment around her changed. I envisioned her personal space remaining invulnerable regardless of the changes to her environment.
I took a final look at the Subaru that had gotten our attention. The leather-clad boys must have ordered take-out because they were nowhere in sight.
Then I drove my car to Mrs. Chimchak’s house along the dark streets of Hartford, my path illuminated the entire way by the Stalin moon.
CHAPTER 19
Until now, my search for clues about my godfather’s death had led me to two homes and a strip bar. All three belonged to current or former family: my ex-father-in-law, mother, and brother. Entering each place had filled me with increasing dread. Knocking on Mrs. Chimchak’s door should have been easier. After all, she wasn’t family. In theory, I couldn’t have offended her as much as my mother or brother or my deceased husband’s father, but I was certain I’d done so.
I had lost contact with her. I had ceased to be an active participant in the Ukrainian-American community. As soon as I’d become an adult, I had left town and never looked back. I’d hated most of my childhood, all the mandatory Ukrainian extracurriculars. In that way, I knew I had disappointed Mrs. Chimchak. Hadn’t she told me I was her only hope? Hadn’t I abandoned her and shunned the ancestral heritage she loved above all else in this world, with the sole exception of the United States of America?
She lived across the street from Goodwyn Park, among a row of houses from a bygone era. Small homes straight out of Monopoly with enough yard in front of the sidewalk for a couple of kids to play. One of the houses was immaculately painted, its grass pruned by a barber, the driveway recently sealed. I recognized it as soon as I saw it.
A light deep inside the house cast a faint glow against sheer curtains in the living room facing the yard. I rang the doorbell, heart in throat yet again, and the door opened immediately, as though she’d been watching me from the moment I’d parked. Of course she had.
Her body had shrunken an inch, her crew cut looked like used steel wool, and she didn’t hide the roadmap of lines in her face or forehead. But otherwise she looked the same. Despite the signs of aging, she didn’t appear to be a day over seventy. She demonstrated her memory by planting her palms on her cheeks as soon as she saw me. There was no hesitation, no sign of uncertainty. She recognized me right away, and based on the way her eyes lit up, she was overjoyed to see me. It was the welcome I’d longed to get from my mother, and it drained the anxiety from my body.
“You’ve come home,” Mrs. Chimchak said. “I knew you’d come home.”
She kissed me on both cheeks and gave me a shockingly firm hug. We went into the living room, which was more like a small study with old furniture. I couldn’t help but wonder if my godfather had furnished it with overpriced reproductions, or if there were a gem or two among her collection she’d bought half a century ago without knowing, and he’d tried to buy them from her on the cheap.
“Look at you,” she said. “You look wonderful. All grown up and successful. You’re a tribute to your family and the community you grew up in. I’m so proud of you.”
I like to think that I hold sentiment in the lowest regard, but I’m aware that I may be deceiving myself. The truth was that I wished I’d brought a digital photographer and recording specialist to preserve the moment forever. I imagined playing it at times when melancholy and depression gripped me, upon waking and going to sleep, or at any given moment on any given day.
She went to the kitchen to make tea. The aroma of borsch and babka further enhanced my mood. Whereas my mother had been preparing food for suitors, Mrs. Chimchak was preparing food for Easter. I studied a series of framed photographs on the mantel above her fireplace. One of the photos caught my eye. Mrs. Chimchak, as an early teen, standing beside a strapping young man with smashing good looks. They weren’t smiling but there was a pride etched in their faces and a strength to their carriage. The photo was black-and-white. They were both dressed in drab clothes and posing in front of a bombed-out building.
Mrs. Chimchak returned with a tray of tea and cookies in the shape and color of Ukrainian Easter eggs. We exchanged some small talk. Guilt gnawed at me as I perpetuated the lie that I still had a job. I quickly changed the subject, and asked her about the picture.
“That was Stefan,” she said. “The love of my life.”
I’d wondered why she hadn’t married. Just as I’d thought my godfather might have been gay, I’d assumed she might have been a lesbian, or more likely, someone who suppressed her sexual tendencies. Mrs. Chimchak certainly cast an asexual vibe, so to hear she’d had a love of any kind was a major revelation.
“Was that picture taken before or after the war?” I said.
She cast a stern look in my direction. “That may be the first time you’ve ever disappointed me.”
I felt myself stiffen. I studied the picture again. Apparently, I was so nervous I was forgetting the obvious. “The building is bombed out. It couldn’t have been taken before the war. What happened to Stefan?”
She stared at me with a blank expression. “That is the second time you’ve ever disappointed me.”
He was the love of her life. If he had survived, they would have been together, I thought. It had been inconsiderate and presumptuous of me to ask about him. I smiled sheepishly and tried to think of how to segue into the real purpose for my visit.
The dismay in her eyes yielded to a gentle smile. It was more than endearing, it was a provocation. You are the child I never had, she seemed to be saying. All the knowledge I have is yours for the taking, if only you’d treat me with respect. If only you’d be as honest and forthright with me as I shall be with you. All these things she expressed by merely looking at me. This was her gift. This was why she’d commanded my unswerving loyalty when I was a child even though I hated every minute of PLAST, and wished I’d been hanging out with friends like all the American girls, assuming I’d had friends in the first place.
“I think my godfather was murdered,” I said. “There was an entry in his diary on the day he was killed. The letters DP were written in bold ink. Do you know of anyone my godfather called by those initials? An American, a Ukrainian, a friend from a DP camp?”