“We’ll be right out, Stalina,” Radya said from the kitchen.
“That’s fine. I’m admiring your wonderful view,” I said and quickly placed the urn back on the mantel. As I was positioning it, I grazed one of the glass figurines, a ballet dancer in pirouette. The dancer tumbled through the air headfirst and landed unharmed in the plush pile of the white shag carpet. I placed her back on the mantel just as Arkady and Radya were returning from the kitchen. On the side table next to the couch there was a small frame with a photograph of Stalin standing on a bridge with two men at his side. The picture was very familiar. I had a similar one in my collection.
“I was just admiring your glass figures,” I said.
My heart was pounding so hard I could see it pumping through my blouse.
“I’ve been collecting them for years. I like the way the light hits them at different times of the day,” Radya said.
“Amalia also collects them,” I said.
“Amalia, don’t you live with her?” Radya asked.
“I used to,” I replied.
She leaned over and whispered to me, “Nadia got me the bra I’m wearing from Amalia. It’s one of those sexy ones from home.”
“I miss the lingerie from home,” I said, still furious.
At that moment the sun was hitting the glass figures from the side and below. The mantel looked like a stage ready for a performance. The bright points of light on the curves and angles of the statues made it appear as if there were footlights. At any moment the orchestra would start to play and the glass dancer, hound dog, snail, grasshopper, and bear would dance around the Cathedral of the Spilled Blood. Amalia had this very same figurine. The urn was the backdrop around which the players could make their entrances and exits. My mother would be backstage calling all the cues.
Lights fade up.
Arkady put down the tray holding a tea set, some small cakes, and a bowl of sunflower seeds. My father used to eat sunflower seeds when he had tea. The technique for shelling the seeds with his teeth and spitting out just the shell was a highly developed skill.
Tea was poured. I sat on the folding chair with my cup of tea and a slice of lemon cake. Radya sat on the couch by herself. Arkady went to the mantle and pulled the urn from the shelf and took it with him to his chair. Radya got up and gave him a cup of tea and the bowl of sunflower seeds. There was nothing I could do or say. Arkady held the urn under his arm as he popped the first handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. It took a minute or two before he had shelled the seeds and stored them in his cheek. As he spit the cracked shells into the urn, a cloud of dust instantly formed around his head. I choked on the lemon cake that was halfway down my throat.
“Ack! Ack! Radya, what is this? You said you cleaned out the urn!” Arkady screamed and his arms flailed. The cloud of my mother’s ashes hung around his head.
“The urn was empty,” she said.
I forcibly swallowed the lemon cake and gulped loudly.
“Stalina, take a sip of tea,” Radya said. “Was the cake all that hard?”
“I burned my throat earlier on some hot coffee at a bakery. It’s still very sensitive,” I told her.
“Radya, never mind that. Help me here, take this,” Arkady said.
He tried flicking the ashes off his shoulders, but they only became more ground into his shirt and stuck to the tips of his fingers.
“Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said and grabbed the urn.
“Let me see that, Stalina.” Radya grabbed it away from me.
“Just throw whatever it is in the garbage,” Arkady said, standing and brushing himself off.
Radya put her hand in the urn. Her fingertips emerged looking as if they had been turned to dust. The ashes sparkled in the light. For a moment I thought I saw my mother’s form taking shape in the floating ash, but Arkady’s flailing arms disrupted the vision as he grabbed the urn back from Radya.
“Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said again, trying to take the urn from him.
“Don’t touch it, Stalina,” Radya screamed. “Arkady, what is it? What is this? Get it off of me.”
“Help my wife while I get rid of this,” he said, holding the urn over his head.
“Not the urn, Arkady, I just bought it!” Radya screamed again.
“Oh shut up, woman!” he shouted back at her.
Arkady headed for the balcony off the living room. Radya was chasing after him. My mother’s ashes were swirling in the chaos. Out on the balcony Arkady overturned the urn and flung the contents to the wind. I watched as my mother’s ashes sailed away from the balcony and out toward the ocean. Radya joined Arkady on the balcony and grabbed the urn from him. As they scrambled, I took a longer look at the photograph on the side table. It was of Arkady with Stalin and Ezhov.
“Don’t throw it down there—you’ll kill someone.”
“Didn’t you look inside this thing when you bought it, woman?”
“It was dark in the shop. I thought it was empty.”
“Where did you get it? Take it back and get another,” he said, handing her the urn. “This one was used—by someone’s dead grandmother, apparently.”
“The man at the flea market told me it was one of a kind,” she said.
“The short guy with the crucifix tattooed on his neck. What’s his name, Jesus?” he asked.
“Arkady, his name is Rafael, but everyone calls him Shorty. The flea market reminds me of the ones at home,” she added.
“They’re all con artists, Radya; of course they want you to think there is no other like it,” he said as he turned to come back inside.
My mother had clearly exacted her revenge. Any disruption to their perfect little life would have pleased her.
“Thank you both for your hospitality. I really must be going. Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
I had taken the photograph from the table and was hiding it behind my back. I wanted it to add to my collection and to remember this day. The Chernovskys might miss it, but I did not care.
“Nadia wanted us to take you to the boardwalk,” Radya said.
“That’s perfectly fine. I can go myself,” I said. “I should be getting back to Connecticut soon.”
“Stalina, why did you come to Brooklyn?” Arkady asked.
“My mother sent me to take vengeance for my father’s disappearance and ugly demise.”
Arkady laughed. “He wore the wrong hat; he could not stay among us.”
“Arkady, how could you?” Radya said as she fidgeted with a doily from one of the tables.
Now I knew the truth.
“I’m just kidding, Stalina. No one will ever know why your father was sent away.”
“Actually, I came because I heard there were good bookstores on Brighton Avenue with Russian newspapers and books. I was homesick for them.”