Marfa went to the hospital in Vladivostok.
I was thirteen and big. Man of the house until she let Him in. They should
have let me go.
Knowing my duty, my place, it was hell to pace some neighbor lady's
overstuffed front room. Making me useless when I'd done so much. Him all
over with his girly eyes and no chin.
Three days. Three days of nothing and overhot rooms. Cabbage cooked mushy
and not a word.
Mother-fucker. Could Marfa call after pushing nine pounds out her cunt?
Third day. Fucker calls. Come home. From our apartment he calls.
I ran.
Mama tired and sweaty-eyed. Little smile for her man of the house. Hands
me a bundle- heavy, hot.
Wide murky eyes blink up at me. Bundle squirms.
"Your brother, Kolyai."
Mine.
Part II: Sweet
Everyone is a worker in the mighty Soviet economy.
Even Marfa.
At least He's not coming around so much. Didn't take long for your little
bundle to drive him away. Not so cute when they're all the night crying,
are they, stud?
Your little bundle. Squirmy and fat, but placid in your arms. Looks you
right in the eye he does, puffball cheeks working as he sucks at your pinkie
finger. A little squawk as you pop it free to push his cap down tighter.
Wind today.
He likes your hip. The little jostle as you're walking keeps him quiet,
tiny fingers fisting the edge of your ear. Not far now.
Over a rise at the edge of town and you're into the forest. Old auntie
coming out coos at your armful- how he's grown. You're feeding him right.
You are. Every morsel from your hand. You shift the bundle before she can
pinch his cheek.
Cold snap then a fast thaw did the trick. You push into the bramble, into
the rasp of tangled arms. Your jacket draped keeps the thorns off skin not
yet so thick. Fat as babies they hang there, black jewels. The air is rich
with bees.
This bramble's hollow in the middle- you found it years ago. And your twill
jacket's bed enough on the long grass. He sits where you put him, hand
that was on your ear stuffed in his mouth. Tasting.
You fill the basket for a while, your little one blinking around. Bumblebees
drone by and he tracks them. Growing up, your little man. He gurgles when
you settle at his side.
"First blackberries, svetik moy." The round face goes solemn. It's a moment
after all. Stringing beads on the thread of his life. The idea pleases you.
He's made you a poet, this little grub.
The tiny seeds could be a problem. So mash the sweet pulp between tongue
and palate. Not so hard to strain it between your lips.
You kiss the first taste into his pursed up little mouth and watch those
baby eyes grow wide. Lip smack. Another. And then the squalling that
means more, more, more. You kiss the baby quiet with mouthfuls until you're
both streaked red and purple.
And then he blinks again. Burps. And you laugh and laugh, his messy messy
moonface mirroring yours.
Part III: A Man
He can't sleep.
It's so late. He can tell, even with the bright lights from the courtyard
stabbing in the front room window.
And the noises from the other room have stopped.
Kolyai traces a crack across the ceiling, down the wall in the corner.
Follows the other one from where wall meets ceiling down to where it widens
at the badly set-in window. Made a draft for the baby till Kolyai stuffed
it with shredded newspaper and covered it with sealing tape. Mama bitches
it's an ugly patch. She wants pretty, let pretty-eyes Him do it.
Still no sound from in there.
If the baby fusses, He'll do the noble thing and come check on them. Kolyai
squirms on his blanket-heaped sofa of a bed. Unrolls like that cartoon of a
mummy in 'Krokodil.' Out of the cocoon, the air stabs and Kolyai's skin
puckers. Should have brought the baby in with him- warmer for both.
Except Mama has company.
Kolyai pads, quiet, across the front room to the cradle. His baby's getting
big for it- they need a proper crib, or even a little daybed. A wooden one,
reddish and shiny, with white coverlets, like he saw when they went with
Baba to that museum.
Oh tut. One chubby arm's out of the blankets, and cold to the touch.
"Gotta stay tucked in, golubchick." If it's the barest whisper Kolyai won't
be heard. Or maybe it's better if Mama hears? She'll say Kolyai's got the
baby and maybe won't let Him get up.
It's a risk. And not worth it.
Those wide baby eyes are still closed. Kolyai takes a careful finger and
pushes one lid up, gently. It's always a surprise to find the big round
pupil and grey green iris staring back, unseeing. Always a surprise that his
baby stays sleeping. Always a surprise the eye's not blue like his.
'Shh, shhh, shhh," he soothes as his little one fusses at the cold coming
in. The diaper's damp, but not stinky. That's something. Kisses to the
baby hand that clutches at his nose, and Kolyai scoops his little bundle up.
Bounce, bounce, bounce as he carries his Sashulya to the table and spreads
out a newspaper. Don't keep up the rhythm and his baby cries. Kolyai
learned that the hard way.
Off with the little sweater and the knit shirt under it. It's cold, yeah,
but sometimes his little one plays fountain. A hunt for clean baby clothes
in the dark they can do without. Unpin the diaper, careful of fat little
legs that want to kick. Kolyai thanks God he learned to keep his pigeon from
fussing.
All quiet. Maybe He's gone to sleep. Maybe they're okay for tonight.
Kolyai slips the wet diaper from under the fat little zhopa. His Sasha wants
to fuss at the sudden cold, but Kolyai can quiet him. He wipes the baby
down with one hand, soothes with the other, opening the wrinkled wink of
pale skin, like a closed eyelid. The head of his baby's huyechek peeps out,
red as a bitten fingertip, and his little Sasha stays quiet, quiet, quiet,
like the good little golub he really is, through cleaning, and potato starch
to keep away diaper rash, till he's pinned up snug in a fresh diaper and
back in his warm little clothes.
It really is cold tonight. Kolyai should tuck his baby in against his
chest. But He's here. And Kolyai's luck tonight just might hold, but...
"Shh, shhh, miliy moy." Kolyai fits his treasure back in the undersized
cradle. Makes sure the blankets are tucked up snug. "Ya tebya lyublyu," he
whispers, and gives his baby a kiss.
Kolyai's rolled back up in his layers and just settling down when the figure
looms in the doorway from the other room. Fuck. There should be something
he can do, shouldn't there? It's not like he's a helpless baby, not like
little Sasha there. Thirteen's a man, isn't it?
The End
Treasure
by
Part I: Mine
