perhaps Alexander didn’t know his wife either.
The boy was remarkable. The boy was so dark haired, so dark eyed, growing so lean. He went on boats; now he was fearless. On Bethel Island, they taught him how to read, in English and Russian, how to play chess, cards, how to make bread. They bought bats and gloves and balls, and spent the cold days outside. The three of them went to the nearby field and in their winter jackets—because the temperature was in the forties—kicked a soccerball, threw a football, hit a baseball.
Anthony learned how to sing—in English and Russian. They bought him a guitar, and music books, and in the long winter afternoons, they taught him notes and chords and songs, and how to read the bass clef and the treble clef, the tones and the semitones. Soon he was teaching them.
And one afternoon, Tatiana, to her horror, watched Anthony change the magazine cartridge in his father’s Colt M1911 in six seconds.
“Alexander! Are you out of your mind?”
“Tania, soon he will be five.”
“Five, not twenty-five!”
“Did you see him?” Alexander was beaming. “Do you see what he is?”
“Do I ever. But you don’t want to be teaching him that.”
“I teach him what I know.”
“You’re not going to teach him everything you know, are you?”
“Oh, sauce in the winter! Come here.”
They hibernated, ate berries, slept, waiting for the ice to melt. Underneath Tatiana was mute. Even to herself she seemed disabled in her dread. For her son, for her husband, she put on her bravest face, but she feared it wasn’t brave enough.
Sitting next to each other, Alexander and Anthony had finished fishing; it was the end of a quiet day, before dinner, and their rods were down. Anthony climbed into Alexander’s lap and was touching the hair on his face.
“What, son?” He was smoking.
“Nothing,” Anthony said quietly. “Did you shave today?”
“Not today, not yesterday.” He couldn’t remember the last time he shaved.
Anthony rubbed Alexander’s face, then kissed his cheek. “When I grow up, am I going to have black stubble like you?”
“Unfortunately yes.”
“It’s so bristly. Why does Mommy always say how much she likes it?”
“Mommy sometimes likes strange things.” Alexander smiled.
“Am I going to be tall like you?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Big like you?”
“Well, you are my son.”
“Am I going to … be like you?” Anthony whispered.
Alexander took a careful look at the boy’s upturned blinkless gaze. Leaning down he kissed him. “Maybe, bud. You and only you will decide what kind of man you want to be.”
“Ticklish, like you?” Anthony pulled up his father’s flannel shirtsleeve and tickled his forearm and the inside of his elbow. He tickled him under the arms.
Alexander put the cigarette out. “Watch out,” he said, holding the boy to him, “because in a minute there’ll be no mercy for you.”
Anthony squealed, his arms around Alexander, whose arms were around Anthony. The chair was nearly falling over. Suddenly Anthony pressed his head to Alexander’s ear. “Daddy, don’t turn around, because this will frighten you, but Mommy is standing behind us.”
“Is Mommy looking particularly frightening this evening?”
“Yes. She’s crying. Don’t turn around, I said.”
“Hmm,” Alexander said. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s jealous we’re playing?”
“No,” said Alexander. “She is not a jealous mom.”
He whispered to Anthony, who nodded and slowly climbed down from his father. They both turned around to face her. She stood there blankly, her face still wet.
“One two three—go!” said Alexander. They ran, and she ran from them; they chased her into the house, and brought her down onto the carpet, and she was laughing and she was crying.
Alexander was sitting outside down the long dock, in his quilted patchwork winter jacket, smoking, fishing. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and his hair had grown shaggy. Tatiana knew if she drew attention to it, ran her hands through it, looked at it too long, he might cut it. So she watched him from behind as he sat on his little chair, with a rod in the water and a cigarette in his mouth, humming. He was always humming when he was trying to catch that prehistoric sturgeon.
Tatiana couldn’t help herself. Wiping her face, she walked down the dock to his chair, pressed her face to his head, kissed his temple, his bearded cheek. “What’s this for?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I like your pirate beard.”
“Well, your Captain Morgan will be done soon. I’m trying to catch us a fish.”
“Don’t make me cry, Shura.”
“All right, Tania. You too. You with your kissing. What is it with you and the boy lately?”
She held his head to her, in the space at her neck. “Come inside, darling,” she whispered. “Let’s go in. Your bath is hot and ready.” Her lips were on his hair.
“It’s really grown out, hasn’t it?” he said absent-mindedly. But when he came back inside he didn’t cut it.
Later that night, in complete darkness, after a hot conjugal bath, after love, Alexander asked her, breathed out to her, “Babe, what are you so afraid of?”
Tatiana couldn’t tell him. “We’re hanging in there,” he said. “Ant’s doing great.”
“You shouldn’t have told me your dream,” Tatiana said dully. “That’s what I think about now—I’m awake and in Germany watching you being dragged away by Karolich.” She was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see her face. “What if this little life, us, is all just an illusion. And will soon be gone.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
Restlessly they slept, and then settled down again, to blessed silence.
Lost in Suisun Bay
“How long do you plan to keep me here?” It was spring, they had been in Bethel six months. She couldn’t stop herself from twitching. “Day in, day out, weeks, months, years? Tell me. Is this where we’re staying? Is this what
