A Replacement Life by Boris Fishman

Author:Boris Fishman [Fishman, Boris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-06-03T00:00:00+00:00

–11–

THURSDAY, AUGUST 24, 2006

The Rudinskys’ two-story brick slab squatted next to a disheveled pillbox belonging to Orthodox Jews. Half a dozen side-locked children in matching gabardine outfits spun around the singed grass on their side of the lawn. The Rudinskys’ half was treacherous with lawn product. To the shrieking children, the young man wending his way through their game was as invisible as a spirit.

Slava’s knock was answered with thundering feet, and then Vera swung open the door. He wore a miserable expression in deference to the awkwardness of their last encounter, but she issued a broad, bland smile. She wore a pair of velour shorts stamped with Hello Kitty characters. In the distance, past an ornate Persian-style runner and a lacquered flamingo sprouting a spume of pink tendrils, a large television jumped with Russian pop stars.

“Ver-ka!” boomed from upstairs. “Who is it?”

“Sla-va!” she shouted back.

Slava squeezed out a smile and stepped inside, Vera’s bare soles slapping the tile, tiny prints from the television remote on her thigh. Her legs had yet to slough off their adolescent plumpness. He felt a momentary sting—she hadn’t bothered to dress up. They stood in clumsy silence at the foot of the stairs. In the living room, chartreuse and puce vases of Bohemian crystal trembled in tune to the permed crooners thrusting on television. Finally, the upstairs voice made its heavy way down: Aunt Lyuba. Slava felt a second sting at being handed off to the adult. After all, it was Vera who had called and asked him to come, not that he hadn’t thought about picking up the phone himself many times.

“Slava!” Aunt Lyuba reached the first-floor landing and embraced Slava with soft, bunching arms. He answered, his arms reaching around the puckered bun of her. They stood grasping each other as if he’d just come home from the war. From Aunt Lyuba’s grip, Slava watched Vera steal off to the living room.

“Did you see my God-fearers next door?” Lyuba said, releasing him. “One year and three months since we bought this house, do you think that woman—Malka, Schmalka—has come by to say ‘Hello, welcome to the neighborhood’? I made the mistake of going over there once—I needed flour! Her face turned the color of snow. She just ferries that army of believers day and night, till Moshe comes home. Then you don’t see her. I’ve been asking Garik to please go over there; those children trample my lawn every day. But I have to do everything myself.”

Aunt Lyuba took Slava by the hand and strode into the kitchen. “You saw our Vera?” she said. “Darling?” she called out brutally into the living room. Vera peeked out. “There she is.” Lyuba’s voice became tender again. “Not the girl you remember, eh?” Vera blushed.

Lyuba instructed Slava to sit down at the rose-colored banquette around the kitchen table and went shoulder-deep into the refrigerator, her rump struck outward. Vacuum-sealed ham emerged, smoked chicken thighs, a bowl of beet-colored vegetable vinaigrette. “Slava, you are half a meter taller than I saw you last,” she said from inside.

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