Beautiful Evil Winter Page 13

  They are charging him and holding him on crimes THEY committed at the bar! Are you kidding me?

  “Did you see him? Is he okay?” I ask, as bitter dread pools in my throat.

  “I saw him. He is okay. He is not dead. He has two black eyes, broken lip and crooked nose. His arm is … in a tie around his neck and he walk slow and strange. He wants me to tell you that he loves you, and he find a way to see you and baby.”

  What the fuck! Wasn’t it enough to win by capturing him? Those bastards!

  “Is this normal procedure for police here? “

  “Da, of course, if a person do not follow rules. They poison people for not follow the rules,” Natasha comments casually as if we’re talking about a jay walking offense.

  “He didn’t break any rules or laws!”

  “There are… how you say? Not written rules that our citizens follow—like being nice to authorities. Just like in your country.”

  Well, she’s right—this could happen in a small town, but several people would have to lie for the charges to stick. And I doubt poisoning is possible. What does that matter though now! I don’t care! We just have to free him!

  “All the witnesses at the bar. Will they lie for the police? Because they fear the police?” I ask already knowing the answer, but struggle to uncover a diamond of hope.

  “Of course, they will. They don’t want to be hurt. They know the rules.”

  What now? Obviously, we have to get him out, but how? The group from the bar “own” that jail. Will she and her associates bail on us as promised if something goes wrong?

  “You know Mafia always find the best way to hurt a citizen,” Natasha murmurs as if she’s reciting an elementary school pledge.

  And they hit the bull’s eye!

  I thought there may be trouble at court when we were so close.

  They knew about Zack, and they waited. They waited until we were together as a family and close to the plane, the plane to Moscow. Moscow is the place where we could easily be “lost” to them.

  I unclench my jaw and relax my gritting teeth to form a new question.

  I have to step out of “hissing cobra”mode to relax my body and think.

  Quickly, I look around to look at sleeping Zack bordered by a fence of pillows. His binky bobs in his busy mouth, his lashes flutter and his little hands are balled-up fists.

  A smile takes hold—immediately transforming for me.

  I swallow the walnut in my throat and ask, “So, are you going to help us?”

  28. CELLBLOCK UPDATE

  “Help! I help you now, and I don’t like you! I only do because my boss wants me to. My work complete! I already do more than I must. I asked friends to find your husband. Look where we stand, you stay here in luxury apartment in Moscow! You given too much already! And you want more?”

  “Thank you,” I say, “but is there anything else you can do for Zack, for us?”

  “What now! Do I break jail doors? You both stupid to go to that bar! I told you that you must stay inside since you arrived!” Natasha fumes.

  “Look, I just need information, information to form a plan to free him. You’re right—you’ve completed your assignment. You’re right—we were stupid and reckless! If I could change this now, I would, but I can’t. I have to move forward. And Natasha, thank you… Thank you again for what you’ve done.”

  My shoulders slump as I stand in front of her, my eyes searching the floor.

  “That’s hard for you to say,” she cackles, her eyes becoming brown slivers. She takes a step closer to me, putting her hands on either side of her waist.

  “You should say it months ago! You think it was easy? I never do this before! You and your husband are not enough good for Dmitry! Dmitry should stay in Russia with Russian parents!”

  “What do you want from me? What do you want me to say? We’ve thanked you multiple times. What more can we do? Should we give up Zack because you don’t think we’re worthy of him?” I meet her stare with frosty acknowledgment, my eyebrows arching. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait.

  “I’ll ask Sergei what he wants me to do! I have enough of you this day!” With an abrupt spin, Natasha storms toward the door, slamming it as she exits.

  I don’t know if she’ll help. I don’t know how long I can stomach her without trying to strangle her. It takes every drop of dignity and strength to ask for her help, but I’ll do it for Ethan and for Zack.

  ***

  Three days pass since we talked. Zack entertains himself at times by watching tv and playing with his toys. When he and I play, I can’t think about Ethan—how’s he being treated, how bad his injuries are and how he must be feeling. It haunts me except when I’m playing games with Zack or feeding Zack. Nights are the worst when Zack is asleep. I want to see Ethan, comfort him and help him, but of course, I can’t because it’s too risky. Zack could lose me too. Every night, it’s just me against my demons—the what ifs, the how tos, the worst case.

  While sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea, the phone rings.

  “The good news—Sergei is your hero. He tell me that I must help you to have Ethan and be…How do you say? Invisible. He tell me two days ago when I asked him. I call friends in Novosibirsk and ask them to visit Ethan again.”

  Ok, what did I expect? She knew days ago that she had to help me and didn’t tell me. I won’t be angry. It’s the least of my worries now. The important things are help and eyes on Ethan.

  “How’s he doing now?” I ask, worry carving into my moment of joy.

  “Bad news—his arm is more bad, dirty with green and yellow. He ask for doctor, but no one cares. No doctor sees him. He is nervous now. He hears them talk about him many times in the day. He say to tell you not to worry that he has hope still.”

  His arm is infected! Fuck! Can you imagine the roaches and rats in that place? They won’t call a doctor for him because they don’t care if he loses his arm!

  “What can be done? Can we send a doctor to see him in jail?”

  “Nothing can be done now. Prison have doctors. No reason for another one. What can I say?”

  “They enjoy see bad prisoners suffer, and they see him suffer, “she explains coolly.

  Sounds like more government speak, middle school mantra.

  “But he can lose his arm to gangrene! You know that! “I say.

  “That is most small of worries now.” Natasha says, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Losing his arm is a small worry? What does that mean?” I gulp a shallow breath, casting my eyes at the floor, afraid to hear what she’ll say.

  She lowers her voice. “They send him to Vladmir Central soon. It is the prison for the most bad prisoners.”

  29. CAT FIGHT

  The morning sun warms the apartment and marks the beginning of a new day and another night of fitful slumber. I watch Zack wiggle and grab fistfuls of air as he sleeps. Rising, I wash my face and dress for the day. With a cup of tea in hand, I sit and stare at the clock, it’s 7 am, and I count the minutes until I can talk to Natasha.

  “Will you come over and help me understand this?” I beg.

  Natasha sits with me at the kitchen table. We’re not speaking while stirring our cups of tea, our thoughts turning over in unison. The clanging of the spoons against the cups reminds me now of a bell chiming the passing of time, critical time—time that medically deprived Ethan suffers in jail and soon-to-be prison.

  “Thank you for coming, I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I’m not angry with you, but I have to ask you. How is any of this possible? There’s been no trial.” My worst fears hammer at my now throbbing head as Natasha’s words slash my heart to a bloody pulp.

  Natasha’s eyes look away from my glazed stare. Clasping her hands together in front of her stomach, her nose twitches in disgust as if she’d bit into a rotten apple.

  “What? Please tell me.” I ask, forcing myself to remain calm. My brain begins to blast answers.

  There was no t
rial, but how would we have known about it if there was? They don’t want him to be represented. It’s easier that way.

  I listen and watch as if Natasha is wielding a weapon, pointed at me.

  “Wait! Did you know that this would happen? Did you think this would happen? Why isn’t it enough for him to do some jail time?” I glare—standing now, hands on my hips.

  “I knew a chance of it. Nothing to do to stop it. No jail time. He too angry about what happened when his friends watch,” she answers looking out the window, talking to the window.

  “Not sure about trial. No difference. Judges and the Mafia make it happen,” she remarks blinking her eyes.

  “When does he go? Where is he going?” I ask, my voice quivering.

  “They don’t say when. Vladmir Central is far away, 700 miles from Moscow. I ask about it. Stalin’s son went there and Cold War prisoners. It is old and most feared prisons. It take people who make worst crimes. Not all prisons do. The guards carry Siaga AK-47s on backs. And prison dogs, big mean dogs that stand up at 6 feet and weigh as much as 200 pounds. Dogs can stop like 45 gun. Viktoria tell me all about it. Dogs are call Caucasian Mountain Shepherds. She tell me people angry about Vladmir Central. People say unfair treatment and inmate abuse. All I know now.”

  My mind stumbles, tripped by negative nagging emotions. I step backwards to distance myself from the tsunami of worry. Shaking my head in denial, I clear my head to think

  Things just went from horrible to worse. Tuberculosis is rampant in those prisons, and he’ll have a roommate, a roommate who may be a fighter or a murderer. And his arm is infected. And he is non-confrontational, and he says inappropriate things unintentionally. And he could die in there or be killed. Maybe, he’ll find a way to be thrown into solitary, but that would require a fight with a bad arm or having contraband. He needs money to buy shanks or knifes. He probably doesn’t have any money. He’d risk being beaten-up by the guards or attacked by the dogs if he chooses solitary. And I have to stop this train of thought now. It can make me crazy.

  “Can we stop this before he goes there? What can we do?”

  “Can I see him?”

  “The most bad thought! You stupid girl!” Natasha barks at me. Leaning forward, she tilts her nose up and glares at me. Her eyes are like those of an angry cobra, unwavering and hard.

  Ignoring her stare, I continue.

  “I can dye my hair again and cut it shorter. Binding my breasts would be easy with sticky tape. All I need is loose clothing.”

  “It can be done, but it stupid,” she says, pausing to glance at Zack.

  Don’t say it. I’m a mother now, of course. I can’t put myself at risk because of him. I’ve got to think differently now. Zack can’t lose both of us.

  “Like I say you don’t deserve him! You are not rich! He will not have brother and sister to play with like my son! I hate to be in this!” Natasha yells.

  She’s right, but she’s wrong. We do deserve him. Maybe, the visitor can get a picture of him. Dealing with Natasha is—once again a nightmare in itself, but I have no choice.

  Drumming my fingers on the table, I avoid her stare—waiting for the tempest to fade. Daring a glance when I hear her breathing become more rhythmic and deeper, I see her staring down at her cup of tea as if some answer would float to the top like a life jacket in a pool.

  “You’re right I’m just thinking out loud,” I comment in my library voice, half-talking to myself and half-talking to her.

  “What is thinking out loud?” She asks with a raised eyebrow, her eyes suddenly sparkling with curiosity.

  “Just talking ideas before analyzing them,” I answer matter-of-factly before sipping my tea. Watching her sip her tea, I see it. It registers like a flare. My mind zeros-in to study every nuance.

  The sour scowl, the black marble eyes, the fisted hand—the volcano is about to erupt again. She has something to scream about again and she can’t resist. Maybe, if she gets it all out of system, maybe she’ll drain her fury like a doctor drains a boil. Then, it’s over. And we can talk about my picture.

  “You are good at that! That why we are here! But your talking ideas are stupid! You have no smart!

  Okay, to an extent, she’s right. How do I placate her? Need a different approach.

  “You know I agree with you. You can teach us a lot.” My eyes follow the once again stirring spoon in my teacup.

  Slowly gazing at her, I see her mouth twist in a half smile. She avoids my eyes as she stirs her tea.

  “I go now. Enough of you for today.” She mutters calmly as she rises, raising her teacup for another sip. Pausing at the sink, she places her teacup in the sink and turns toward the plastic grey trashcan sandwiched between the sink and the fridge.

  What is she doing exactly?

  Leaning over and grabbing it with both hands, she pulls it easily from its berth and hurls it like a discus thrower.

  Is she throwing that at me? The gloves are off, girl. This is a whole new level of fighting. I may not be able to control my need for retaliation.

  I feel the fire building in my heart. The taste of iron blankets my tongue.

  “This trash is you! No brain, no good! All bad!” She laughs as tea bags, dirty diapers and soup cans spill onto the floor like a cascade of garbage released by the trash collection truck. A ball of a dirty diaper rolls across the floor and collides with the table leg, exposing a messy stinky goo. A soup can clinks across the floor drizzling a stream of its red contents along a path to the other table leg.

  “You know that really isn’t a good idea,” I say as I walk menacingly toward her. My hand hooks a chair sending it crashing to the floor.

  “I’m much better at fighting than I am at restraint, that’s what the bar taught me.”

  “Do you want to do this?” I stare straight through her, flames of anger licking my skin and melting away all reason.

  30. SHAKY GROUND

  A torch flares, it’s me, me hating, me plotting. “Two can play this game? Are you ready for that?” I hiss.

  With my eyes trained on Natasha, I cautiously grab and re-roll the exposed diaper. I toss it up in the air like a baseball and catch it. With a knowing smile, I look at her with dancing eyes, glittering as if showcased by ballroom lighting.

  “Used properly, this can be a tool—a weapon even. I’ve prevailed in the worst of circumstances, and I’m feeling really good about this particular fight.” Ice coats my words with a chilling certainty that my unfeeling alligator glare reinforces.

  I now know what it feels like to be a successful alpha predator, an uncaring dangerous creature invited to fight. I like it. Now, it’s not because I can weather it, but because I can win it!

  Unfolding the diaper carefully and cupping the clean backside, I look up at her with an unflinching stare. A small arrogant smile roosts on my lips.

  “Not now, maybe later,” Natasha says as she waves her hand at me in a go away motion. Turning to stare at the TV, she speaks to me.

  “I was once young and stupid like you. You have to think about things above yourself now like how to stop Ethan move to Vlad Central. What do you choose to do with your energy anyway?”

  Of course, she’s right. I’m robbing Ethan of time that should be spent concentrating on him.

  Avoiding her gaze, I roll-up the diaper. My shoulders drop, my eyes revert to normal mode and a surge of cool calm fills me like the refreshing breeze of comfort on a scorching hot day.

  “Of course, can we find out when he will be transferred? “

  “Anything more?” Her eyes search mine for more words.

  She didn’t apologize so neither am I. We just need to let it lie.

  “I’ll contact the US Embassy in Moscow and let them know what’s happened. Maybe, they have some ideas.”

  “Maybe, we can hire a doctor to see him and treat him,” I suggest looking at her strangely soft eyes.

  “I’ll try to do that and get a picture,” she smiles.

  Wei
rd! Why is she acting so weird! So agreeable? So accommodating?

  “Why don’t we hug and make peace before I leave?” She suggests matter-of-factly.

  Well, that might be a good idea. Her way of apologizing and mine too, without a lot of drama. Okay.

  I look at her fidget as I walk toward her, her hand fisting in an open and close motion. Her lips twitch slightly, and her eyebrows rise as I draw near.

  What’s this? Should I be nervous about her or is she nervous about me?

  My skin is crawling.

  Maybe, I shouldn’t do this.

  Pausing, I study her look and body language.

  My shoulders and neck suddenly feel polar cold. Chill bumps arise like a rash on my skin.

  My low cut shirt is probably not warm enough for this apartment, but that’s not it.

  “What do you wait for? I must go,” she exclaims as she covers the distance between us.

  Grabbing me in a bear hug, she squeezes me hard, leaning back, lifting my feet off the floor. Releasing me, she shoves me against the wall and presses her forearm into my throat. Her smile grows as she leans onto her arm, her eyes glittering with joy.

  I can’t believe this is happening! Is she trying to dominate me or make me faint? Detach and think! Can I stomp her instep?

  I squirm to put myself in position.

  “Ivan show me yesterday for defense. Is good. Yes?”

  “You be a good girl or I take away your air. Momma can’t be a good momma with no air.”

  She whispers her nose almost touching mine, the scent of black licorice and roses burns its way up my nostrils, a stunning punch to my olfactory system. Dark circles frame her eyes and strands of hair surrounding her face are matted. There is a streak of crusty dried blood near her hairline at the cheekbone.

  Zack screams loudly from the next room.

  He’s awake! Scream, baby. Never been glad to hear that until now. It’s a distraction. Surely, she’ll let me go! Don’t move! Just wait.

  With a smile of satisfaction, she gazes down at me like a conqueror on the battlefield.