cherry Danishes. She bit into one and declared it to be sweet. Vassily gave her a chocolate babka. “It’s Saturday,” Vassily said, and charged the girl for only the Danishes. Yasha’s head chimed. $35.50. It’s Friday . The fifty-dollar bills. Were they in on this together? Was it possible that his parents had, once upon a time, developed inside jokes? It’s Saturday , his father had just said. Yasha imagined his mother’s panties. He imagined his mother wearing different panties for every day of the week. It’s Friday. It’s Saturday . It seemed possible that his parents were, a decade later, in love. The girl left the bakery finishing the first Danish, leaving some flakes on the floor. Yasha ran to keep the cat from following her out.
“She was cute,” Vassily said, “no?”
“Not for me.”
“Women—” Vassily said, then stopped.
Yasha wanted to hear the rest of the sentence. Both men, at that moment, were thinking of Olyana. It was four o’clock, about the same time she had appeared the day before. Yasha looked out to the mailbox: no mother. He picked up the cat and held him. He wondered if the cat had some animal means of locating her. The cat bit into Yasha’s chin.
“I loved your mother,” Vassily said, sitting down again.
The cat bit a little harder, and Yasha dropped him. What could he say? Not I know, not Me too, not She’s here, or could he?
“I loved your mother,” Vassily said, more adamantly. “So. I was thinking—” He lifted the large knife that had been resting on the counter, but the envelope no longer lay beneath it. He looked up to the ceiling for moment, then at the large knife, then at Yasha, and then reached into the bialy bin. He stabbed a fresh bialy with the knife and cut it down the middle. He opened the refrigerator and took out the cream cheese. Yasha watched his father schmear his bialy professionally, the surface beginning to look like a circus tent: white and smooth, a few peaks. Just as Yasha was going to ask his father to finish his sentence, Mr. Dobson came in. Yasha had never been more unhappy to see the door open. His father was right about Lapland, Yasha thought. No people. Ice. Real peace.
• • •
Vassily and Yasha lived directly above the bakery. The apartment had the same shape as the store below it. Yasha slept near the window, and Vassily slept toward the back, over the ovens.
Yasha had just brushed his teeth and was doing push-ups at the side of his bed. His mother hadn’t come all day. She had broken her promise, but so had he—he hadn’t given his father a word of warning. It wasn’t fair that he should have to do it. The news might make his father pass out or, worse, sound like a mean joke. Yasha’s arms were burning, and he hoped it would show in the morning. If she came in the morning, he would look bigger. If she didn’t come, he could punch something.
His father knocked on his door and whispered, “Yakov Vassiliovich?”
“Come in.”
Vassily opened the door just wide enough to slip in and left it open. Yasha got up from the floor. His father had changed into his extraordinary pajamas. This was the first warning. His father’s ordinary pajamas consisted of boxer shorts and a pink button-down shirt, once white, a casualty of an attempt three years earlier to sell pink cookies on Valentine’s Day. He seldom wore his best: a gift from Mr. Dobson’s wife, a matching set, consisting of a button-down top with a fish-mouth lapel and elastic-waisted bottoms, the whole set printed with small gray bagels. Vassily had rolled up the bottoms of his bagel pajama pants, as he had learned from Dostoyevsky. The envelope in his father’s hand was the second warning. Septimos crept in the open door and sat beside Vassily’s exposed ankles.
“What’s in the envelope?” said Yasha.
“Tickets,” said Vassily. “Happy birthday,” he added hastily.
Yasha’s birthday presents had generally come out of the oven, and
“She was cute,” Vassily said, “no?”
“Not for me.”
“Women—” Vassily said, then stopped.
Yasha wanted to hear the rest of the sentence. Both men, at that moment, were thinking of Olyana. It was four o’clock, about the same time she had appeared the day before. Yasha looked out to the mailbox: no mother. He picked up the cat and held him. He wondered if the cat had some animal means of locating her. The cat bit into Yasha’s chin.
“I loved your mother,” Vassily said, sitting down again.
The cat bit a little harder, and Yasha dropped him. What could he say? Not I know, not Me too, not She’s here, or could he?
“I loved your mother,” Vassily said, more adamantly. “So. I was thinking—” He lifted the large knife that had been resting on the counter, but the envelope no longer lay beneath it. He looked up to the ceiling for moment, then at the large knife, then at Yasha, and then reached into the bialy bin. He stabbed a fresh bialy with the knife and cut it down the middle. He opened the refrigerator and took out the cream cheese. Yasha watched his father schmear his bialy professionally, the surface beginning to look like a circus tent: white and smooth, a few peaks. Just as Yasha was going to ask his father to finish his sentence, Mr. Dobson came in. Yasha had never been more unhappy to see the door open. His father was right about Lapland, Yasha thought. No people. Ice. Real peace.
• • •
Vassily and Yasha lived directly above the bakery. The apartment had the same shape as the store below it. Yasha slept near the window, and Vassily slept toward the back, over the ovens.
Yasha had just brushed his teeth and was doing push-ups at the side of his bed. His mother hadn’t come all day. She had broken her promise, but so had he—he hadn’t given his father a word of warning. It wasn’t fair that he should have to do it. The news might make his father pass out or, worse, sound like a mean joke. Yasha’s arms were burning, and he hoped it would show in the morning. If she came in the morning, he would look bigger. If she didn’t come, he could punch something.
His father knocked on his door and whispered, “Yakov Vassiliovich?”
“Come in.”
Vassily opened the door just wide enough to slip in and left it open. Yasha got up from the floor. His father had changed into his extraordinary pajamas. This was the first warning. His father’s ordinary pajamas consisted of boxer shorts and a pink button-down shirt, once white, a casualty of an attempt three years earlier to sell pink cookies on Valentine’s Day. He seldom wore his best: a gift from Mr. Dobson’s wife, a matching set, consisting of a button-down top with a fish-mouth lapel and elastic-waisted bottoms, the whole set printed with small gray bagels. Vassily had rolled up the bottoms of his bagel pajama pants, as he had learned from Dostoyevsky. The envelope in his father’s hand was the second warning. Septimos crept in the open door and sat beside Vassily’s exposed ankles.
“What’s in the envelope?” said Yasha.
“Tickets,” said Vassily. “Happy birthday,” he added hastily.
Yasha’s birthday presents had generally come out of the oven, and
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