Loves of Yulian by Julian Padowicz

difficulty with it.
    At the same time, I was also aware of the appropriateness of this particular text—that the first normal words out of my mouth were a prayer. Contrary to my zeal of a few months earlier, I was no longer totally sure, anymore, that there even was a God who listened to prayers, but, if there was, then I had scored some points with Him.
    How surprised Mother would be when she heard me speak!
    Ordinarily, I would have grown quickly bored with an activity like digging a hole in sand that kept pouring back in to fill the hole. But my mind was playing a film in which I come back to our room, Mother asks how the beach was, and I, casually, begin telling her about the people playing with the feathered beanbag, and I don’t stutter anymore. And then I run into Mrs. Kosiewicz on the street, and I say, “Good morning, Please Missus,” and she says, “Oh Yulian, you don’t stutter anymore. How wonderful!”
    Then there was a scene in which I’m walking along the street with Mother, and I see Mrs. Kosiewicz about to cross the street, but she doesn’t see a bus that’s about to hit her, and I shout, “Irena, watch out for the bus!” I address her as Irena, because it’s a faster way to get her attention, and then she says, “Oh Yulian, you saved my life.” At one point, I even found myself mouthing the dialogue.
     
     
    After quite a while, the senhora looked down at her wristwatch and said that I had had enough sun for my first day, and should go back to the pension. Since I didn’t see her make any move to get up, I realized that she meant for me to walk back by myself. I had never been allowed out on the street by myself—to say nothing of crossing the thoroughfare, but I did not say this to the senhora. And, suddenly, I was quite nervous about surprising Mother with my new speech.
    I thanked the senhora, ostensibly for bringing me to the beach, but implying her curing of my speech impediment. Careful, lest I stutter again and shatter the new reality, I spoke very slowly and deliberately, dragging out the first sound of each word.
    The senhora patted my cheek, and sent me on my way.
     
     
    When I got back to the pension, M. Gordet was finally gone, and Mother was sitting cross-legged on our bed, playing solitaire. By the expression on her face and the way she laid the cards down—almost throwing them down—I could tell that something more than the solitaire had gone badly.
    “Did you have a good time at the beach?” she asked. Her tone made it almost an accusation.
    I took a breath in preparation for my stutter-less performance. But, with a stack of un-played cards still in her hand, Mother suddenly swept all the cards together, spilling some onto the floor. “Well, it turns out,” she said, “that M. Gordet is no gentleman.”
    Each time Mother brought the word, gentleman , into play, I would find myself cringing inwardly a little. Over the past months, Mother had found a number of men—as well as myself, with my dirty fingernails—to fall short of that designation. And, except in the case of my nails, the reason for this demotion was always rather unclear, but charged with angry emotion.
    “The only man that I can trust is you,” Mother said. “You are my knight in shining armor, aren’t you?”
    She had called me her knight before, and, while I had, at first, felt complimented, I had soon come to identify it as an appeal for either my support or my collaboration in some impending crisis. And, in the end, it had never turned out well.
    “This is something you want to remember, Yulian,” she said, but sounding as though it was I who was being accused. “Remember it for when you grow up. A woman will give anything to a true gentleman.”
    “D. . . d. . . did h. . . he t. . . take y. . . y. . . your r. . . ring?” I stammered.
    Mother didn’t seem to have heard me. But I could see the ring still on her finger, and breathed a sigh of relief. On the other hand, I had had no idea how