What Changes Everything Page 6

  The doorbell again. Joel Bass, her department"s dean, in a suit, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He hugged Clarissa.

  "Joel. Did I call you?"

  A smile swept briefly across his face like a bird uncertain of whether to land—was Clarissa joking? "Remember? You told me you couldn"t come in today, and then you told me— what had happened, Todd and all, oh, but Clarissa, this is natural. What a morning you"ve had. What stress you are under."

  "Yes, of course, sorry, come in," Clarissa mumbled, embarrassed, and led Joel in to the kitchen. Joel knew Clarissa as so capable, so solid with details. And in fact, she"d always had a shockingly good memory, the kind of memory that sorted and stored facts, faces and figures while she looked the other way. Now, though, she apparently couldn"t recall a phone call she"d made a few hours ago.

  They all greeted this newcomer, everyone speaking in hushed, serious voices, even as Ruby offered some coffee and said a frittata was coming. Joel sat next to Clarissa and leaned close. "As long as you want. You know that, of course," he said, and Clarissa had no idea what he was talking about, so couldn"t respond.

  "A leave of absence. We"ll fill out the paperwork later," Joel added after a moment.

  The job, Clarissa realized at last; they were talking about her job at Columbia, and the FBI agents had said to keep things as normal as possible, but Clarissa couldn"t imagine going into work right now, standing in front of the students, who would surely know—was it even possible to keep secrets these days? And then Clarissa either breaking down and discussing everything, which the FBI would frown upon, or pretending nothing had happened. Which was impossible. "Yes," she said, "that sounds good; that sounds right. Thank you."

  Then Ruby was bringing the food to the table, and there seemed to be a lot of it; Clarissa didn"t even think she had enough ingredients for all this so maybe someone had gone out to the bodega while she hadn"t been looking? She couldn"t stand the thought of eating. In fact, even with the scent of food, she felt an intense, dull pressure growing in the middle of her chest, reaching toward her belly, and she thought she might throw up. Then someone held her by the elbow—it was Bill Snyder; was he still here? "Are you okay?" And the kitchen grew quiet as they waited for her reply. Against her will, she"d become a delicate piece of porcelain they all feared breaking.

  And at that point, something did break. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "But now I really need, I need to think. So kind, but now I need to ask you…"

  "Are you all right, Clarissa?" Ruby asked. "Do you want to go upstairs and rest? No one would—"

  "No, no, I just need, I need some quiet so I can think. Maybe I can—" She took a deep breath. "Ruby," she said. "Would you help me get everyone out?" She realized, as soon as she finished the sentence, that her voice emerged a little more shrill than she might have wanted, and that the sentiment sounded rude. But she also knew she had no desire to retract it.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Bill Snyder said, and Mikey was also on his feet. Ruby looked

  dismayed, and a little angry, and frightened; Clarissa could pick out these emotions and wished to ease them, and she saw milder versions of the same emotions imprinted on other faces, especially pity and surprise. But as much as she wanted to help Ruby, help them all, a part of her knew that what she wished even more, desperately needed in fact, was for everyone to go.

  Joel and Bill Snyder left together. Mikey bent to kiss her. "I"ll stop by tomorrow." She held his arm for a minute; part of her wanted to cling to Mikey, but clinging to Mikey would be acknowledging how frightened she was by what was happening, and she couldn"t acknowledge that, not in a full-sized bite, not yet, so she let go.

  "I"ll clean up a little then," Ruby said, but Clarissa shook her head.

  "No. Leave everything. Please."

  The words were as restrained as Clarissa could make them, but she knew the tone was tough and Ruby caught it.

  "Would you like me to bring you some dinner?" Ruby asked, her face pale.

  "Ruby, that"s kind of you. I"ll be fine, though. I just need a couple hours to gather myself, to think."

  Angie seemed most comfortable, and perhaps even relieved, to be kicked out. She squeezed Ruby"s arm gently. "You"re doing the right thing," she said softly to Clarissa. "You all need time to absorb this."

  Clarissa nodded, though she couldn"t manage a smile, and she watched as the last of them walked out the door. Then she closed it behind her. Leaning against it, suddenly aware of deep exhaustion, she sunk to the floor.

  Stela, September 4th

  The bells dangling from the top of the front door made a tinny, strident sound. Stela knew she should welcome since it meant a potential customer, but these days she found it mainly intrusive. Chekhov stirred slightly and glanced toward the door. Stela, less hospitable, looked up more slowly from the paper on which she was writing to see Yvette waving cheerily. "It"s KLOVE"S afternoon of praise. Positive, encouraging K-Love. Send us your blessed stories by phone or—"

  "Please turn off that Jesus talk, Stela, for God"s sake. I can"t stay long—dentist appointment. Coffee on?"

  "Help yourself," Stela answered as she reached to turn down the radio. No need to bother arguing that the radio station wasn"t that bad, and that when hope went on short supply, one had to overturn the dusty furniture and look in every dank corner. She"d just listen later.

  Yvette picked up a yellow coffee cup and surreptitiously inspected the inside.

  "It"s clean, Yvette."

  Yvette flushed, then smiled.

  "I"m not a crazy, unkempt cat lady yet."

  "I know," Yvette said. "I know that."

  Chekhov rose languidly, arched her back, hopped off the counter, and disappeared behind

  the third row of shelves. Yvette poured herself a cup. She set it on a table across from Stela"s counter and gingerly pushed Pushkin out of the armchair. "Shoo," she said. Stela slid two books waiting to be shelved—a dictionary of symbols and a children"s tale—on top of what she"d been writing. She could tell by the way Yvette"s eyes narrowed that in hiding the paper, she"d only served to draw attention to it. Yvette stared as she took a loud sip of the coffee, but she let it sit for the moment. "Anything new for me?" she asked.

  "A Mikhail Shemyakin book. Came in yesterday, and in mint condition." Stela pushed to her feet—she"d put on more weight than she wanted lately, and she wasn"t even sure how. It seemed only yesterday she was the lithe girl who loved dancing, and then the young mother sprinting after her sons. She moved to the third aisle, finding immediately the volume she wanted, bypassing the new volume on Russian icons, which she knew Yvette wouldn"t like.

  Yvette took the book eagerly and flipped through the pages. "What a carnival

  Shemyakin"s work is."

  "I know you love him. Too ghoulish for me."

  "You have to look at the work without the laughter drained from your soul," Yvette scolded. She turned to the inside cover and read aloud. "„To Grandfather Georgi, Merry Christmas with love from Sasha, December 2003." Oh, Stela. Another estate sale? Georgi who? Do I know the family?"

  Stela shook her head. "He lived in St. Louis. His nephew brought it to me."

  Yvette looked at Stela skeptically. Then she returned to the book. "I hate the way you get your books; that"s what"s ghoulish. But this is a beauty. How much?"

  "Eight dollars for you."

  "Stela. How are you going to stay in business that way?"

  "Let me worry about that."

  Shaking her head, Yvette rummaged in her purse and pulled out a ten. She rose, placed the bill on the desk and then gestured toward Stela"s cellphone.

  "Any calls?"

  "I"ll let you know if there is." Stela found cellphones ridiculous. She kept a cell for one reason only.

  Yvette leaned forward and tapped the two stacked books. "So?"

  "What?" Stela reached into a lower drawer on the desk and pulled out a green metal box. From inside, she selected two one-dollar bills.

 
"Who"re you writing to now? The president? Another author? The head of the Veteran"s Association? Who?"

  Stela held out the money to Yvette, who shook her head. Stela sighed and put the dollars on the table. "Every time we have to argue over the change," she said. "You"d think it was two hundred dollars instead of two."

  "Someone I"ve heard of?" Yvette persisted. "Or someone obscure this time?"

  "Not that it"s your business."

  "Oh no. Not your son again?"

  "Yvette, please."

  Yvette raised a hand skyward. "I"m taking that as a no, Stela. And I"m hoping not, because I don"t want to see you suffer more."

  "Okay," Stela said. "Thanks."

  "How much can one mother"s heart take? Besides, haven"t I known him since he reached here?" She put her hand on her waist. "I know what I"m saying. He"s our haroshi malchik. He"ll come around in time, so you don"t need to take years off your life fretting over it."

  "Okay," Stela said.

  "Water flows, but the rock remains. You are his rock."

  "Hmm."

  Suddenly Yvette jumped; Bulgakov had rubbed himself against her legs. Stela couldn"t help herself; she chuckled. "My sharpest cat," she said.

  "Not so sharp if she thinks I want to pet her."

  "I think she specifically realizes you don"t."

  "Wish you"d thin out some of these cats." Yvette settled back into the armchair. "So. If it"s not Danil, who is it?"

  "Who says it"s a letter? I"m practicing my Mandarin."

  Yvette laughed. "You could just say you don"t want to tell me."

  "I don"t want to tell you."

  Yvette sighed. "But then I"d be forced to remind you that I am not for nothing your closest friend. Here for the easy times and the hard. Always have been. I"m exactly the place to deposit secrets. If this is going to be a secret."

  "Okay, okay. I"m writing my memoirs."

  "Oh right, Mrs. Haha. As private as you are?"

  The bell clanged again. Stela turned to see Jenni, her long blond hair swinging, her lipstick redder than maraschino cherries, already in mid-sentence. "Had to run right over and tell you, Stela dear. Feelin" good, yes ma"am," she said, drawing out the last word as if she were an auctioneer. "We have a buyer. At least," she chuckled, "I think we do. They don"t want to go quite as high as we"d like—the financial climate, you know, the uncertainty in your line of business—but I think it will come in as a not-too-bad offer. I shouldn"t be talking out of school since I don"t have the details yet," and here, she actually giggled, which Stela found unbecoming in any case, but particularly in a middle-aged woman. "But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I"d stop in and personally give you a whisper. I"ll call later, as soon as I get some numbers, and if you like them, well, we"ll shout the news from the rooftops. I want you out of this dusty old store, dear Stela. And then maybe you"ll let me talk you into selling that old threebedroom of yours and buying a cute little condo with a view. There are some good deals out there—I know, I know, you don"t want to change your addresses in case friends come looking for you, but we can deal with that, Stela dear. Oh well, one step at a time. No, can"t have coffee," she said, though Stela hadn"t offered any, hadn"t even spoken yet, "Sorry to be on the run. But you have to work twice as hard to make half as much money these days." She kissed the air. "Talk to you soon, darling," she said, waving a hand at her shoulder as she turned away.

  The door closed behind her and the store seemed for a moment as if the air had been sucked out of it. Yvette stared at Stela, and then opened her hands to the sky. "The shop? Such a big decision as this, you were keeping from me?"

  "There"s no decision, Yvette. You see how she is? Not a second to get a word in edgewise."

  "You put it on the market and you didn"t breathe a word. I told you even before I told my ex-husband when I got pregnant."

  "Your ex-husband, that kakáshka? I"m not sure that qualifies—"

  "What will you do if it sells?"

  "You think all I can do is own a used bookstore?"

  "I think this has been your life for the last twenty years. And there would be trouble if the

  cobbler started making pies."

  "I"m neither cobbler nor cook," Stela said lightly. She rose and idly straightened some books near the door. She didn"t really want to go into this. But she turned back to find Yvette staring, demanding with aggressive silence that Stela explain. "Some days this shop is like my prison, Yvette. I imagine the books falling from the high shelves and suffocating me. It"s possible, you know. Have you looked around here? Books are living everywhere. I even have them on the back of the toilet in the bathroom now. More than I"ll ever be able to sell. So when I die, what"ll happen? Someone will come, take them to a recycle center? Labor spent to turn literature into trash: I don"t want that to be my legacy."

  Yvette shook her head. "Who"s talking about dying?"

  "It doesn"t hurt to think."

  "Stela, this is not the moment to sell. Danil needs to know where to find you, and the beaten path is the shortest one."

  "Thank you, Yvette. I"m done discussing this now."

  "Besides, who will I talk to over morning coffee if you move away? What are we, if not family by now?"

  Stela, silent, stacked up four books on the counter, arranging them so the smallest one was on top.

  "We"re just a couple girls from the motherland—we always said that—and we have to stick together." Yvette put down her empty cup and picked up the Shemyakin book, tapping her fingers gently on its cover without speaking for a few minutes before reaching over to squeeze Stela"s hand. "You"re not healed yet. You"re not ready to make a big change. You hear me?" Stela shrugged.

  "Okay. Okay. I"m getting the silent treatment. I have to get going anyway." Yvette stood up. "You"ll do what you want in the end. But don"t do anything before tomorrow, Stela, promise me that much. We need to talk more, after you"ve found your tongue again."

  Stela ducked her head gruffly in reply.

  When the door closed behind her, Stela let out the sigh she"d been holding. She wished she"d been quick enough to figure out a way to cut off the real estate agent before she began spouting information like a busted water pipe. How could she discuss this with Yvette before she was sure herself? The shop sometimes felt like a prison hut in Siberia, as she"d told Yvette. But she"d also loved these old books longer and more deeply than she"d loved most people—yes, the stories themselves, but even more, the history of the hands that had smoothed these covers, bent back a corner, underlined a series of words, dripped ligonberry jam on a page. She loved the estate sales that made Yvette recoil. Buying volumes others had tucked beneath their arms and then bringing them back here to her new home made being in her bookstore like a trip to the ocean; it gave her a sense of timelessness. It reminded her that she was nothing more than a comma in a sea of endless sentences. It made her feel less alone. It sucked the salt from her wounds.

  She slid the books off the note she was writing. She should have been a writer—she knew how to tell a story, and she loved words. But it was too late for that; all she had now was the letters, so she kept at it, buying stamps in an age of emails, using the Internet solely to track down street addresses, sending out letters to everyone she thought of, and never really hoping for a reply. Except from Danil.

  And no letters were more futile, probably, than the ones she wrote to her son. But she couldn"t stop, no matter what she told Yvette. He was still angry with her, she suspected. He might not open her letters, if they even reached him via the only address she had. And yet, he was her son; of course she wrote. She kept no copies of her letters, but she suspected if she could look at them as a whole, they would parallel the path of her grief.

  It was crazy: the dead son she could visit. She could rant and cry over his body below the ground and try to come to terms with the loss. The other one, alive, had slipped entirely from her reach. Sometimes even, immediately upon awakening, she confused in her mind who was gone and who remained; she
imagined calling the youngest to lament over the passing of the oldest.

  "Yvette just came in," she wrote now to Danil. "She asked about you as always. She is moving more slowly, but has the loyalty of a collie, though please don"t mention that comparison to her. If you—" She crossed out the last two words and rewrote: "When you come home, I"ll make you pirozhki and invite her to dinner."

  She put down her pen and went to pour herself another cup of coffee, placing a sugar cube on her tongue; she still found it comforting to drink coffee in the old way. "We are having an Indian Summer, which Yvette calls a St. Martin"s Summer, and she"s explained why, but I"ve forgotten. I am grateful for this last breath of—" She crossed out the last line. Why should she discuss the weather and dance around the real topic? This was her son; he"d come from within her own body.