“Never drink with your kidnappers.”
He lifted his eyebrows, tilted his head, thought about it for a few seconds, and nodded. “Can’t say that I blame you.” He drained one of the flutes. “You want something else? I got birch beer. It’s white on account of the particular birch sap they used. You know what they call chocolate ice cream with birch beer in Pennsylvania?”
“Birch beer float?”
“No. A black cow. Love me a black cow now and then. What do you know about your godfather’s business?”
Donnie asked the question as though it were a natural extension of the black cow discussion.
“He sold antiques,” I said. “He loved old things. Loved their smell, the stories behind them. Almost as much as he loved Ukraine. He liked you, too, Donnie.”
Donnie blinked three times quickly, as though I’d interrupted his train of thought. His lips parted in surprise. “He did?”
“Absolutely. You had a Tryzub sticker in the rear windshield of your Camaro.” The Tryzub was the national symbol of Ukraine, a yellow trident atop a blue shield. “I remember my godfather saying, ‘He’s a good boy.’”
“He said that?”
“He did.”
“About me?”
“He said you have a Ukrainian soul.”
A faint smile spread across Donnie’s lips.
“And that meant you’d be strong and compassionate. You’d be a survivor. We Ukes, we’re survivors above all else. The Turks, the Austrians and Hungarians, the Poles, the Russians, the Nazis and the communists. They all ruled Ukraine at one time or another. Stalin tried to starve the country. Millions upon millions dead in 1933. But still, our ancestors survived, didn’t they?”
A mist covered Donnie’s eyes. He was looking in my direction but appeared lost in reflection.
“Your godfather always nodded at me when he saw me,” he said. “From a distance, I thought it was a nasty look. A ‘you’re a piece of shit and we both know it’ kind of look. Like all the old-timers gave me.”
Donnie was right, of course. My godfather hadn’t liked him. He’d told my father to make sure he kept me away from him. And once Donnie proved himself to be an unrepentant criminal, my godfather had hated him like everyone else. By choosing to ignore the law of the land, he’d abused the second greatest gift after life itself. His American citizenship. And for people who’d suffered through World War II, that was a hard sin to forgive.
“You were so wrong,” I said. “It’s funny how we can think one thing for years, and then discover that the truth was the complete opposite.”
“Ain’t that so.”
The police thought my godfather had fallen down the cellar stairs and died from a blow to the head. But I knew better without knowing much more. He never went down those stairs at night. Never. In fact, he was mentally incapable of making the descent once the sun came down.
I considered the possibility that Donnie had killed my godfather. But regret and self-loathing shone in his eyes, not guilt. I felt confident in my conclusion because I knew the look well. I’d seen it in the mirror many times. I reminded myself that didn’t mean Donnie hadn’t killed him anyways.
“I never got a chance to say good-bye to him,” I said. “Not only that, I hadn’t spoken to him in three years. Did I talk to people about him at the panakhyda and the reception? Of course I did. Did I make chitchat about his business? Sure. That’s what people do. That’s why we have these ceremonies, to help us move on.”
Donnie’s eyes scrunched together. He nodded solemnly. “That’s all it was?”
“That’s all it was.”
“Swear to God on the Holy Bible? Now you were an altar girl — you can’t lie to me.”
“No, Donnie. I can’t lie to you. And even if I wanted to, I’m no good at it.”
He stared at me for a moment. I was certain he could see straight into my Ukrainian-American soul. He could tell I was a liar, manipulator, and a fraud. But instead of protesting, he shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, then. Let’s call the whole thing a mistake. The boys have been circling the Upper East Side. I’ll tell them to go back to your apartment. No harm, no foul. That’s what they say, isn’t it? We’ll pretend we were two friends getting caught up. How does that sound?”
I tempered a sense of euphoria. I wasn’t quite home yet, though I could smell the pizza again and picture the cork coming out of the bottle.
“Sounds like what it really was,” I said.
He smiled the Donnie Angel smile. “Okay, babe. Give us a hug.”
He opened his arms and beckoned me to come. I would have rather embraced some poison oak, but I had to continue my performance to the bitter end. I walked into his open arms. He smelled of nicotine and musk. When he stepped forward to pull me closer, the spike beneath his shoe slid atop mine. He pulled it away quickly before he could hurt me.
“Oops. Sorry about my shoes. I was playing soccer when I got the call to follow you and pick you up. I had some clothes in the van but I have no idea what I did with my shoes, and I can’t walk around in socks. Only a heathen walks around in socks.”
A few million Japanese might have disagreed. “Soccer. Of course. I figured it was something like that.”
He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “You miss your father, Nadia?”
It was a strange question to ask and it caught me off guard, but given the previous conversation it sounded heartfelt and genuine, so I responded in kind.
“In some ways I do, but in other ways — much as I hate to say it — I don’t.”
“You’re lucky then. I don’t miss my old man in any way at all. I’m glad the bastard’s dead.” Donnie pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “He only taught me one thing that ever made any sense. Know what that was?”
I shook my head.
He leaned in to my ear again.
“My old man used to say, ‘If the devil’s powerless, send him a woman.’”
He grabbed me by the neck and dragged me across the floor. Ripped the white sheet away to reveal the piece of furniture beneath it. I’d thought it was a side table. I was wrong. It didn’t look like any table I’d ever seen. A wooden arm connected two half-circle metal supports at each end of the contraption, the kind that would allow for the display of a cylindrical item, like an antique rifle or sword. But the unibody design included a stool at one end, too.
Donnie pushed me down onto that stool.
The entire exercise took three seconds. Three seconds ago I could taste the wine. Now I was gasping for breath, my neck fairly wrenched, staring at those metal supports.
Then it hit me. I realized their function and why I was sitting on the stool in front of them. An overwhelming sense of terror gripped me, the kind I hadn’t felt since I was twelve years old, alone on the Appalachian Trail.
“Tell me again,” Donnie said, without a trace of emotion, as he measured the length of my leg with his eyes. “What do you know about your godfather’s business?”
CHAPTER 4
As soon as her father and brother disappeared, Nadia did what she’d been dying to do for the last hour. She ate.
She needed to ration her food because there was no way she was going to hunt small game. No rabbits or snakes were going to find their way into her mess kit. She was fully prepared to boil water but that was it. A human being could survive for a long time without food as long as she had water. Three days wasn’t going to be a problem, especially if she worked her way through her rations slowly.
Her knapsack contained a slice of buckwheat bread, a breakfast-sized jar of honey, and a bag with about twenty almonds and raisins. Nadia ate five almonds and raisins each and washed them down with some water. The water tasted like warm metal, but she savored the salt and sugar. They tasted so good together, like Doritos and M&M’s. Sometimes she ate a handful of each when she got home after school. There was nothing like it. The thought of chips and candy made her even hungrier, so she ate five more of each. Then she decided she needed her strength now because she would only be building her shelter once, so she ate the rest of the almonds and raisins. A pang of guilt gnawed at her when she was done, but she still had the bread and honey, and half the canteen of water. She vowed not to eat until tomorrow.