Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

• • •

A CEREMONIOUS BIRTHDAY breakfast had been mentioned, not a ceremonious time. Quarter to seven probably wasn’t what had been meant. It could still be hours before the others awoke, but stomachs were antisocial and had no regard for ceremony. The fridge’s purr drew the early birds near. Pasha and the birthday girl eyed the steely beast with desperation, avoiding coming irrevocably close but not letting it out of sight. Did Marina’s enforced fantasy of a lazy Sunday start, a phrase she’d been repeating these past few days like a mantra, mean a breakfast time of nine, which was a reasonable duration to make their grumbling stomachs wait, or some preposterous hour like noon?

To hell with it, said Esther, and charged. Pasha disengaged her from the cold cuts. They set out on a nice morning stroll to break the fridge’s spell.

Directly behind their cabin was a road, more of a highway, and in front was a scorched field, twigs scattered in loose clusters and patterns, as if a giant bird’s nest had exploded. Just past the field, a few interspersed willows seemed promising; they had no choice but to. Amazing that a human could cover distances. Tread in place long enough and the earth turned underneath. A time curtain fell over the field. Hopscotching from willow to willow, they kept hoping they were not only getting farther but deeper, about to hit wild country at any moment, but the density of flora refused to increase. They thought they’d at least find a creek. Instead they found that the highway curved. They saw no option but to hike along the shoulder. Cars were few and far between. When they did fly by, it was rather thrilling. And hilarious — every blur of solid color that shot past, honking at their pedestrian recklessness, made them wheeze with delight. The tension in Pasha’s shoulders released as he realized that Esther didn’t intend to torture him with questions. He’d braced for another interrogation, but her mind was elsewhere. Too much so. Pasha almost wished she’d intrude. He was ready. Defenses, disclaimers, diversions, open-ended promises, even jokes — by now he’d worked out a repertoire. Instead they focused on breath, following the highway’s turns, its snaking white line, until coming to a broken stoplight. All three colors flashed in confusion. The earth grew sidewalk. A defaced street sign cast a cactus’s fat shadow. Sluggish humanity had entered the atmosphere. In the distance Pasha spotted a steeple. He gently guided them toward it.

Trying to kill your mother on her birthday, said Esther, catching wind.

Ten minutes, no more, said Pasha.

A Jew has no business in there. Not even a second’s worth.

Think of it as sightseeing.

Esther’s ears perked. She looked up, considering the architecture.

No, she said. It’s only sightseeing when there are stained-glass windows.

Often they hide in the back, over the altar. Sightseeing involves going inside.

Esther’s veiny hand was resting on the railing. A swollen foot had been raised onto a step for elevation. Sounds issued from the depths, and she was once again alarmed. It’s alive, she said. It’s not sightseeing when the sight’s alive. It’s attending.

The pope uses the Sistine Chapel — would you not visit that?

Don’t pull your tricks with me, she said, taking hold of the railing. She yanked herself up step by step until eventually reaching the top, where Pasha already held open the door.

• • •

SHE ACTUALLY GOT UP there and danced, said Pasha, arms shooting into the air, hands twirling in demonstration. Levik steadied the wine bottle caught by Pasha’s elbow. She fit right in. The black ladies took her for one of their own. And not only was she prancing around up there, her mouth was moving, which means she was either singing along to the gospels or speaking in tongues.

I wasn’t about to sulk in the pews like somebody here, said Esther.

And wasn’t there stained glass as promised?

The church equivalent of a bathroom window, said Esther as she tried to curl spaghetti onto her fork the proper way, which looked deceptively simple.

They were at what was supposed to be the ceremonious breakfast but, considering the birthday girl’s disappearance and return in such a state that several valerian pills and a nap were required, had been revised to a late lunch in a seafood restaurant that Kelly, the landlord of the string of cottages to which theirs belonged, vouched was the fanciest in the area. For the paper tablecloth, Frida was given a plastic cup of gnawed crayons but took little interest. They all intentionally pointed to different items on the menu but got identical creamy shellfish dishes on giant plates too heavy to take part in their habitual plate-swapping ritual, so they just threw white globs of mysterious seafood at each other, finding that their dishes didn’t only look the same but tasted the same, too. Feeling cautious and uncertain, they offered toasts that grossly overcompensated: May Esther make a quick and easy recovery and have perfect health for a hundred years to come and continue to take trips to places like Venice and Vermont. Pasha added how happy he was to be able to be there for her birthday, to which she replied that if he wanted to give her a real gift, it would be permanently relocating to Brooklyn by the time she turned sixty-six. After thinking about it for a moment, she said, Queens would also work, but that’s the limit. Pasha was oddly relieved to see the subject revived. That night Robert and Pasha convened at the chipped toilet bowl, which looked as if a bear had taken a bite out of it. No, a woolly mammoth. Their unsettled stomachs gave them plenty of time to study the tooth marks and argue. Frida got a plastic tub so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed.

They left satisfied, enriched. There had been a moment of calm, hadn’t there? They’d forgotten that such a moment was possible — everyone together and at peace. Such a moment was created in retrospect. Treading quietly side by side along a dusty trail of allergies, trudging up a comely hill, tugging at their insolent shadows, panting ecstatically, pointing out fungal colonies and rattlesnake-like twigs. Esther hadn’t even complained about the cardboard-stiff comforters, stained sheets, mildew splotches on the ceiling, the death rattle of the ventilation system, the bizarre centipede population in the bedrooms. A vacation was a vacation out of their awful personalities; it was permission to not be themselves, and everybody would get angry whenever those selves showed up in an unsuppressed comment, an impromptu two cents.

On the six-hour drive home, the improved personalities were shed. Traffic. Frida had slept sweetly over the numb laps of Robert, Esther, and Pasha while their car made a valiant attempt at speed limit, but the instant it came to a stagnant, sweaty stop, she swallowed awkwardly, bumped her head on the roll-down window handle, and awoke for good. She didn’t feel well.

Nobody feels well, honey, said Marina from the airy front seat.

She might have a fever, offered Esther.

I’m sure she doesn’t. Everybody’s hot and uncomfortable.

But she’s particularly hot.

I don’t feel well, whined Frida.

They took turns feeling her forehead with the backs of their fingers. The count was three to one, no fever (Levik refused to participate, as he was driving). Fury made Esther lose her voice. She stopped responding to her name. Frida found a dog in the window of the car to the right and switched complaints. Why couldn’t they get a dog? They’d been promising her a dog for years. The drain unclogged, movement reentered the universe. Soon they were lost, driving circles in a town with boarded-up windows and no one to ask for help. How about that man? said Marina, but Levik sped past all human beings until, almost two hours later, after he’d taken every possible wrong turn twice, somebody took pity and inserted the needed highway underneath their wheels.