Look at that idiot, the old man had said.
A happy idiot, the widow had said.
Arms flung wide, head thrown back, Dobilas spun in the sunshine. Dropping onto his back, he looked at the flower stalks rising up either side of his face. Isn’t it lovely to be a flower? he whispered. Do you like being a flower in the sun? And chest rising and falling in gentle contentment, he hummed to himself in shut-eyed bliss.
He’s having a fit, the old man said.
Who knows what’s going on in his mind, the widow said.
Dobilas glanced towards the old couple as he rose, brushing the leaves and twigs from his trousers. Smacking himself on the back to dislodge any remaining debris, he began twirling again. With a shout he dropped onto his back. He lifted his arms and legs in the air and waggled them. Sticking out his tongue, he lolled his head from side to side.
What’s the idiot doing now? the old man said.
Heaven knows, the widow said. He’s not right in the mind, poor boy.
They tottered off, the old man tapping his way back to the village, the old widow leaning on his arm.
Mrs. Moynahan was tossing salt on the sidewalk from a heavy bag held in her arms. Grappling with the shifting bag, she struggled to keep it from spilling. Her face grew red. Her hair straggled out from beneath her parka hood. Going down to help, he heard Maryte’s words in his head.
Don’t go into Mrs. Moynahan’s kitchen. She lives down there. We live up here.
He could make her a sandwich. She might tell him to make one for himself. She might invite him to sit down. They might eat together just like Maryte and him.
The kitchen cupboards were plywood, flat and plain. Tucking his fingers under the cupped metal handle of a drawer, he almost pulled it open. An oblong mirror hung over the sink. Why did she have a mirror over the kitchen sink? Dobilas thought. And imagining her sneaking looks in the mirror while she washed the dishes, he turned away.
He made a bologna sandwich just as she liked it, with mustard and a pickle on the side. Placing the plate on the table, the pickle set well away from the bread so that the juices wouldn’t seep, he decided not to make one for himself. He did not like the bland smoothness of bologna. He liked the chunky zest of kielbassa. And leaving the sandwich on the table for Mrs. Moynahan, he stepped towards the back window and looked out.
The world was white, the wheelbarrow a soft mound covered in snow. Sparrows clung to the rippled black wire fence, their feathers fluffed against the cold, their heads tucked into themselves. They had nothing to eat. He and Maryte had been without food during the war. If no one had helped them, they would have died.
The bread package lay open on the counter. Mrs. Moynahan’s sandwich was ready on the table. She was taken care of. Now he could help the birds. And picking up the soft white bread he slipped outside.
“Dobiluk,” Maryte called coming up the stairs. “Dobiluk, where are you?”
“Maryte!” he cried leaning over the railing. Clattering down the stairs, he threw his arms around her.
She let him burrow into her, rubbing his face against her chest. Ponia Pauliene might have scolded him for wasting bread on birds but nothing more. Let them fend for themselves, she would have said. In this new world where he understood even less than her, he had no idea that he’d done anything wrong or that anyone might be mad at him.
“You must not touch Mrs. Moynahan’s bread,” she said, wagging her finger with mock severity. “Do not go into her kitchen. Stay here. Wait for me to come home.”
Dobilas nodded, his smile vanishing.
Maryte wondered if he really understood. At times he seemed to, at other times not. She would repeat over and over just to be sure. She did so now. Dobilas listened until she was finished.
“Vakarienė,” he said. Supper. And there was magic in the word.
Moving into deft action he set out dinner. He ladled out deep red borscht thick with shredded beets. He placed soft meat dumplings on their plates along with plain boiled potatoes. They had no dessert. Cakes were reserved for the weekend when Maryte had time to bake.
“Come,” she said after they had eaten. “Bring your picture book.”
Dobilas fetched the book of fairy tales brought from Lithuania. Settling against her, he listened to stories. Old couples conversed with roosters and hens. Princesses with long flaxen braids had ten brothers. Witches dragged young maidens into the lake. Swans and ravens spoke with human voices. Aglow with delight, he heard stories filled with magic and love and fright. And turning the page Maryte read about how the hare came to have a split lip:
One day, a goose encountered a hare.
Why are you so downcast? said the goose.
No one fears me, said the hare. I’m going to drown myself.
Don’t be silly, said the goose. If you wish to be feared, hide in the bushes. When the sheep come by, leap out. You will see. They’ll be frightened.
The hare did as the goose said. He hid in a bush. He waited for sheep. When they came, he leapt out. And it was just as the goose said. They were frightened and ran away.
Overjoyed, the hare started laughing. And laughing and laughing, he split his lip.
Dobilas murmured, head resting on her shoulder. Leading him along in half-sleep, leaning over him, she put him to bed. His eyes flew open. He smiled without seeing her then dropped back to sleep. And tucking the covers in more tightly, she returned to the book:
Elenyte and Jonukas, an orphaned brother and sister, left home to seek their fortune. On the road they came upon a horse’s footprint filled with water.
Jonukas leant down to drink.
Don’t drink, dear brother, Elenyte said, you will turn into a foal.
Further down the road they came upon an oxen’s footprint filled with water.
Jonukas leant once more to drink.
Don’t drink, Elenyte said. You will turn into an ox.
Further still they came upon a ram’s footprint filled with water.
This time Jonukas stooped and drank.
He turned into a lamb. And Elenyte continued, leading her brother on a rope.
A king found the beautiful young girl and her lamb asleep in a rick. Learning that she was an orphan, he resolved to raise her. So the orphaned sister and brother came to live in the castle of a king.
One day the king decided to have the lamb slaughtered.
It is my brother, the young girl cried, begging him not to do it.
And the king relented.
Elenyte grew into a beautiful young woman whom the king married. A witch, eaten by envy and wishing the king for herself, resolved to do the young woman in.
The witch pushed Elenyte into the lake. The girl became a golden carp. The witch stole her clothes and returned, disguised, to the king.
How that lamb disgusts me! the witch declared as she lay in the king’s bed. For love of god, please have him slaughtered.
What ravings are these? said the king. You wish to slaughter the brother whom you love?
Do you think a lamb could really be my brother? the witch said. I am ill. If I don’t have lamb meat, I will surely die.
The king was filled with pity for the lamb. Wondering how his loving wife could think of eating its flesh, he refused to have it slaughtered.
The lamb knew that the witch wished to kill him. He trotted to the edge of the lake. He sang out over the waters —