Rob Thurman: Chimera

“There’s a book in the bathroom.” He moved his fork in a different direction, snapping the cheese like an old rubber band. “And lots of fuzzy green grout.”

It was another black mark against the not-too-accomplished cleaning service. A haphazard dusting seemed to be the best they could do. “Eat your food or the next thing I fix will be fuzzy-grout casserole.”

With a long-suffering sigh he stuffed the forkful into his mouth and chewed with such grim resignation that I may as well have served him fried roadkill. “You know, I could learn to cook. Just to help you out. A way to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian, pizza boy,” I scoffed. “Now eat.”

Before he finished with the meal, I knew more about the clogging effects of cheese on the heart than I cared to. But the next time we came across a cheeseburger or loaded pizza, I was sure I would hear about nothing but the glowing health benefits. After dumping the dishes in the sink like true bachelors, we set up camp on the couch and turned on the TV. Without cable there were only three channels and two of them were full of snow. We were living in the dark ages here. I skimmed through them, then switched off the television in disgust. “Hang on. I think there might be a checkerboard in the closet.”

A checkerboard and books on bathroom repair were the sum total of our entertainment here. I didn’t mind the change from the bright lights and greased poles of Miami. I didn’t mind it at all. The closet was stocked with boxes and broken vacuum cleaner attachments, but I sifted through it to find the red and black box. Beneath it I found a photo album, one that had belonged to Babushka Lena. I hesitated for a second, then piled it on top of the checkers box. Placing them on the table next to the sofa, I sat down and lifted the album into my lap. “I know you’re not much for photos.” I moved over until I was shoulder to shoulder with Michael. “But I thought you might want to see some of me when I was less frightening to the naked human eye.”

He cocked his head doubtfully at me. “Less frightening? I’m not sure I can picture that. Are you sure they’re really you? They can do amazing things with computer effects.”

“Funny. You’re a funny guy. Bet you scored an F in that class,” I said sourly. I riffled through the book and stopped at one I recognized of myself. About two years old, I was trying to ride the family dog. Lying across his back with my arms around his furry neck, I was bare-ass naked and grinning like a loon. “The traditional naked-butt baby picture. A favorite of grandmothers everywhere.”

“I do pity the dog. He probably never recovered from the trauma.” Michael’s finger stroked the glossy surface. “What breed was he?”

“A mutt, Lab with a dash of Saint Bernard, I think. I cried like a baby when he died.” I elbowed him and added, “Tell anyone that and I’ll have to kick your bony butt.”

So underwhelmed by the threat that he didn’t even feel the need to roll his eyes, he reached over to turn the page himself. “Who’s that?”

“Our . . . my mom.” She’d been caught in the act of nothing in particular. The only occasion was a trigger-happy kid with a new camera, namely me. I didn’t recognize the background—a slice of muted wallpaper and the leaves of a potted plant. It wasn’t the kind of thing a young boy paid attention to. Mom was looking over her shoulder at me, startled but with the merry and indulgent smile that rarely left her face. She had always been so happy. I’d wondered more than once over the years if she knew what her husband did for a living. How could she not? She was a grown, intelligent woman; after years of marriage she simply couldn’t be that blind. Yet . . . somehow I thought she was. It could be I didn’t want to believe she wasn’t as picture-perfect in her purity as I saw her to be as a child. And it could be the sun rose in the east and set in the west. With the incredibly obvious bit of psychoanalysis out of the way, I just looked at the picture—looked at it and treasured the feeling it sparked in me. I might be a thug and worse, but damn if I hadn’t loved my mother.

Pale blond hair caught in a loose French braid and high Slavic cheekbones joined with blue eyes and porcelain skin. She wasn’t a beautiful woman; she was more than beautiful. The cheekbones were a shade too sharp, the eyes a little too round, and the mouth overly generous. But it all came together in a shining whole—much like it did in Michael. His features weren’t as much like our mother’s as I remembered; time had changed him from a male copy of Anya to his own distinct person. His eyes were more almond shaped and his mouth not as wide, but he had the same inner . . . hell . . . light, I guess you’d say.

“She’s pretty.” He looked as if he wanted to touch the photo but pulled back his hand before he made contact.

Maneuvering it free of the protective plastic film, I handed it to him. He started to shake his head, but I wouldn’t let him refuse, pushing it into his hand. “Keep it.”

“But . . .”

“I know, kiddo. You don’t have to say it,” I said patiently. “She’s not your mom. But she was a great mom, the best, and I don’t mind sharing.” I knew Michael wouldn’t accept anything less than rock-solid evidence, something that couldn’t be denied—like Anatoly, he’d want to see the DNA results. One day when our situation cooled down I hoped to get that for him. But that could be years and until then it was going to have to boil down to a leap of faith. Unfortunately, that was the one thing the Institute had been ill-equipped to teach.

Still, he did take the picture. Resting it carefully on his knee, he asked, “What about the one of you and the dog? Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I could use that to laugh myself into unconsciousness.”

“All right, you snide little punk,” I growled. “Just for that you get to see Babushka Lena in a bathing suit, all five yards of it.”

Over the next half hour, we made our way through the rest of the album and Babushka fulfilled my threat, showing up several times in beachwear that had been outdated even in the fifties. It was one of Lena’s early albums, put together before Lukas had been born. The majority of the pictures were of a preschool me wreaking havoc. Only in the last pages did I start to age upward . . . five, six, and finally seven. And in the very last picture I was shown sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. With an awkward armful of blanket and baby, I looked wary, amazed, and not a little horrified.

Michael studied the slightly yellowed window to the past with a blank face. Then, almost reluctantly, his lips curled. “Nice button.”

I shook my head and gave a combination groan and laugh. “Mom made me. You should’ve seen the matching shirt she wanted me to wear. Luckily her water broke in the gift shop and I escaped with my dignity.” The button pinned to my thin seven-year-old chest was blue and white with the traditional I’M A BIG BROTHER written cheerfully across it. “Mostly.”

Before he could point out how far from the truth that was, I changed the subject with a suggestion. “Want to take a run on the beach?” I hadn’t been able to keep up my usual exercise regimen the past few weeks, and that wasn’t good. When you’re on the run for your life, you need to actually be able to run.

“In the dark?” Michael glanced over at the slice of plum-skin dusk peeking in under the blinds.

“The moon will be out soon. There’ll be enough light to whip your skinny ass into shape.” Dumping the album onto the table, I stood. “I’ll grab my shoes.” When I came back down the stairs, I pretended not to notice him slipping two pictures into his jeans pocket. The first would be the one of Mom I’d given him, and I felt safe in betting the second was of a petrified boy holding a wet baby.