Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“I think James has a future as a baseball pitcher,” said Bobby, sitting on the edge of a picnic table, Dorene sitting between his legs on the bench below. “And Ginger isn’t a bad aim, either.”

“I see you’ve failed to mention the skills of your two little angels,” said Loretta, kissing them both on the cheek.

“Ours haven’t found their coordination yet it seems,” said Dorene, smiling and watching Grant and Greta fling snowballs ten feet over the heads of each other.

“Doesn’t seem to matter,” I said, kissing Dorene on the cheek and tapping Bobby’s shoulder. “Judging by the grins on their faces, they seem to think their aim is just fine. Ah, to be a child again!”

There were hundreds of kids in the park running around like bundled-up monkeys. And the four of us winced and dipped every time one of our babies barely avoided a snowball to the face.

Dorene took out a large canteen and poured hot cocoa into a couple of glass coffee cups for us. Then she opened up a basketful of croissants. She had come prepared.

“Cheers!” said Bobby, flicking some snow from the brim of his brown fedora with one hand and raising his cup with the other, all the while ignoring the powder that was now covering the shoulders of his thick blue overcoat.

We all clinked cups and I sat on the table next to Bobby while Loretta parked herself between my legs.

“To no bloody noses or black eyes!” Bobby continued, his half-worried eyes still on the children. “Apparently, all of the kids have been told repeatedly, at school and in the park, to never aim at another’s head. I fear they didn’t listen.”

“How are your paintings coming along, my dear?” said Dorene, her matching white ushanka , gloves, and coat making the snow on her person invisible.

“Perfectly!” said Loretta. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more busy. The ideas just keep coming. It’s like there’s not enough time in the day. Moscow is pulling the truth out of me. I’ve actually got a showing next month, and I’m hearing through the grapevine that some high-ranking State officials are coming.”

“She’s being modest,” I said. “It’s set in stone and was set up by Claudia Pike, the popular gallery owner from London who’s lived here for fifteen years. The showing is going to make her the star of Moscow.”

“Fantastic!” said Bobby.

“My goodness,” said Dorene. “We’ll of course be there! How exciting!”

“I’m nervously thrilled, but enough about me,” said Loretta. “We’ll see what happens. Fingers crossed! Dorene, Sweetheart, the question is, how are you keeping yourself busy?”

“I’m sewing. And I’m loving it! I’m actually having my father ship a new machine here for me. Whom I’m sewing for , I’m not exactly sure. The Soviet fashion doesn’t exactly scream colorful, linen dresses. So, I guess I’m sewing for the two of us.”

“Yay!” said Loretta, the two pressing their cold cheeks together.

“Whomever you’re sewing for,” said Bobby, “just try to imagine people from other countries wearing it, because we’re not going to be here in Moscow forever. Could be a year. Could be two. But it will come. That goes for you two as well, Press. Maybe we’ll all end up in Berlin. That’s my dream. That’s where the action is going to be.”

“I can’t imagine living in the middle of that Nazi hell,” said Loretta. “I mean, I’m sure we’ll be fine because of the embassy, but this Adolf Hitler worries me.”

“Ditto!” said Dorene. “But that’s what this service, this diplomatic mission, is all about. We have to be courageous enough to venture into the hot spots. It’s not a calling, but I choose to look at it as a duty. The last thing the world needs is a madman like Mr. Hitler growing in global stature. Not that Bobby working at the embassy there will stop him, but it would certainly be beneficial to have eyes and ears on the ground there. According to Eleanor, the president is becoming more and more consumed with the rise of the Nazi leader.”

“I’m hoping Maxim Litvinov is at the party tonight,” said Bobby. “With the ambassador stateside, John Wiley and I would like him to lend us his ear on the Nazi matter. I’m sure he’d like to discuss something other than war debt.”

I wanted to tell my friend that Litvinov was hosting his own party that night and would not be in attendance for Wiley and him to visit with. Wiley was the counselor directly under Bullitt. But the matter could wait. I figured I’d let Bobby have a glass of wine first at the party before breaking it to him. Or two glasses!

Later that night at about eleven o’clock, the four of us were already two hours into the festive event at Spaso, assembled in the massive chandelier room with roughly three hundred guests in attendance. We’d had a few glasses of the finest champagne, had danced, eaten enough Beluga caviar to feed a large family, and were now being entertained by, of all things imaginable, three dancing seals, compliments of Charles Thayer, Bullitt’s young assistant who’d been put in charge of organizing the entire event. He’d been told to spare no expense, but this wasn’t what we’d had in mind.

“Am I dreaming?” said a half-drunk Dorene over the laughing spectators. Her black dress, high heels, and gold earrings were stunning. “Are those actual seals, Bobby?” she continued. “Or are they midgets in costume?”

“They’ve been dancing for minutes now, Dear. You’ve only just noticed?”

“I’ve noticed. I just can’t believe it still.”

“Charles met the trainer at the circus after seeing them perform there,” said Bobby. “He tried to get more animals from the zoo but couldn’t.”

“Thank God!” giggled Dorene, spilling a little champagne on Bobby’s black tuxedo.

The room was dark, save for some light emanating from the hallway and a spotlight on the seals, their trainer hidden in the dark, all of us guests positioned on one side of the room. One seal balanced a small, lit Christmas tree on her nose, another, a tray of wineglasses, the last, a bottle of champagne.

“They’re so adorable!” said Loretta.

I looked at my wife taking in the entertainment with such delight. She and Dorene were wearing dresses by the same French designer, a woman named Augusta Bernard. Dorene’s was a black V-back gown made of crêpe silk, accentuated by peach-colored lamé ribbon along the sleeves and sides of the V-back. The sleeves stopped about three inches above her elbows.

Loretta’s was also a V-back gown, except it was sleeveless. It was a shell pink silk, which captured her long, thin frame, the light silk laying smoothly on her brown skin. And what truly made this a stunning dress was how the V-back was outlined with magenta velvet, which captured the beauty of my wife’s sexy back and narrow waist. At the point of the V, the velvet tied into a bow and covered the top half of her buttocks. My simple black tux was hardly a match for her, and rightfully so. The women were front and center.

“Take a look, Press,” said Bobby, nudging me. “I see that France, the U.K., and Germany are in attendance. Those are their three ambassadors drinking and laughing on the far left near the hallway—Charles Alphand, Lord Chilton, and Schulenberg, respectively. I wonder if they’re enjoying their Soviet postings more than Bullitt! I’ll bet they are. At least at the moment! If only Stalin were here. Perhaps he’d love the seals, too.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

As the show continued—the seals now balancing balls, the audience oohing and aahing—I thought about Sergei, the caretaker, whom we’d run into earlier with his wife. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. I figured when the lights came back on and the conversing commenced again, I’d find him and have a little chat. I needed to take advantage of his good mood.