69 Keeney Avenue

By Coolidge Templeton

Copyright 2011 Coolidge Templeton

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

I could feel the coldness of the house as I slowly advanced across the front lawn. It was smaller than I had imagined it would be, a chocolate-brown cape with forbidding shutters protecting its claustrophobic windows. There was a small flower garden to my left, its tiny rose buds bravely fighting for life in the chilly spring air. A shadow, cast from the pointy-shaped building enveloped the bloom in darkness. A shiver ran up and down my spine, but I only hesitated a moment before approaching the creepy house.

“Do you like the flower garden?” a young girl’s voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed her before. She stood next to the hunter-green bushes, picking petals from a daisy. Her skin was pale, almost as milky-white as her sweater. I had never seen a dress like the one she was wearing, save for old grainy black and white films. Her hair was blonde, almost ivory in its lightness.

“The soil reminds me of Chernozum,” I replied.

“Cher… what is that?” she inquired. She wore a puzzled expression on her pale features.

“It is black soil, like tar of earth,” I replied. “It is very common in Ukraine, near my native Russia.”

“Oh, you must be that new Russian girl who is supposed to cook for the brothers Pavlovich,” she said excitedly, her eyes brightening as she smiled. What is your name, Miss…?”

“Godunov. Sonia Godunov is being name,” I introduced myself by sticking out my hand with a straight arm to shake her own. She shook it limply, using the tips of her tiny fingers. “And you are being…?”

“Oh, I’m Becky,” she replied quietly. “I’m not supposed to be over here. My mommy thinks there is something odd about this place,” she laughed suddenly. “But I don’t care! I come to protect the roses. They used to be something in the days of old lady Pavlovich, but it seems like these brothers can’t be bothered.”

Becky appeared to be about eight years old. She confounded me, seemingly shy one minute, outgoing the next. She wordlessly plucked the remaining petals from the stem, and then carelessly threw it into the dark bush.

“I am staying here at 69 Keeney Avenue. You are always welcome to come and have cookies with me,” I smiled warmly.

She returned my smile, but her eyes weren’t smiling. They were sad; something about them reminded me of my older brother Sasha, who had died in the Chechnya War.

I looked up at the front porch. It was no bigger than an old-fashioned telephone booth. It was enclosed, with small glass panes on the rectangular wooden doors. I wondered if its doors were locked. The wind howled as it shook the feeble walls of the porch. I turned back to say goodbye to Becky; she was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the morning mist. Doubtless, she was a next-door neighbor who had found 69 Keeney Avenue to be something more interesting than her own home. I felt certain that I would meet this mysterious girl again.

I was about to reach for the porch door when it abruptly swung open; an angry, red-faced woman greeted me with a sneer. Her hair was blondish-gray, her eyeglasses old fashioned with oval lenses. Her large frame filled the doorway, giving her the appearance of some ogre from a Grimm’s fairy tale.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice having a trace of a European accent. “Are you another one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, looking to save our souls? Well, forget it! We’re past saving,” she said sarcastically as she sized me up with a challenging stare. “Or maybe you’re selling face cream. Are you insinuating that I have wrinkles?”

As she smiled, her face seemed to wear a thousand wrinkles. I couldn’t say for sure, but the woman seemed to be about sixty years old. I was too intimidated to speak, yet too embarrassed not to at least try to communicate. I stammered, “I…I’m Sonia. I’m new cook from Russia, please,” I managed to say.

Now the large woman looked positively enraged. “So, now I see. You are peasant girl that Nicholas found in the back of a cheap magazine. Yes…now I see who is replacing me,” she said, more in sadness than in anger, though I still didn’t care for her stare. “My cooking was fine for last twenty years, but now comes the upgrade. Out with old, in with new,” she remarked.

I felt embarrassed as I stood there, bearing the brunt of her fury and frustration. I began to pull on my earlobe. I don’t know why I do this, but my brother Sasha used to kid me about it, back home in Russia. He joked that one day one of my ears would drag on the ground, and that I would then learn all the gossip in the village.

“Well, don’t just stand there girl, come in, come in,” the tall woman abruptly said, as she opened the door wider. I slid past her with some hesitation. The porch had a dank, musty odor, like an old shed. There were old, unused tennis rackets leaning up against decaying baseball gloves. A small, black mailbox rested on the wall to the immediate right of the front entrance. Thin flakes of brown paint fell to the floor as I brushed my arm against the wall. The heat was incredible; I was soaked with sweat in a matter of seconds. And there was no welcome mat on the cold, stone floor.

The large woman pushed the front door open. It creaked at its hinges, as if it hadn’t been oiled in years. Immediately, the sound of a loud barking dog rang in my ears. I looked around the room. There was no sign of a living animal here. There was a small fireplace located in the center of the room, with black stones forming a frame around the hearth. A pair of black iron dogs held the short-cut logs that fed a smoldering fire. A long white wooden shelf crowned the top of the fireplace. Various old books rested upon it; they were held in place by two black wooden book marks shaped like dogs.

But what caught my attention were the bells. These were no ordinary knick-knacks; they lay upon the mantle like an army marching into battle. They were all sorts of shapes and styles: some traditional, others more unique. I had never had any kind of fascination for bells, but somehow these were different. Something strange and hypnotic called out to me, imploring me to ring every one.

My host turned to me and smiled. “So, you are liking living room? It is furnished rudely, and I am ruder still for not introducing self,” she said with a half-grin. “I am Harriet Blom,” she stated as she stiffly shook my hand. Her smile seemed false; I couldn’t help thinking that I had offended her in some way. I didn’t understand American manners; perhaps something I had said or done had displeased the lady.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of men arguing in the next room. There seemed to be two voices: One loud, angry and commanding, like a lion’s roar; one silky and cunning, like a leopard’s purr. The first voice boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the white plastered walls, vibrating in my ears. I wondered what kind of beast could possess such language?

“You are killing time, Nicholas!” The louder man shouted. “Mine, yours… There should be prisons for people like you, who waste valuable time!”

“But you’re mistaken, Ivan,” the second man replied, his voice softer, almost a whisper. “I can’t kill time, but the hands on the clock will certainly strangle me some day,” the silky voice replied.

“You’re a fool…two good eyes and you can’t see the world as it really is!” bellowed the first man.

There was a pause, as if the second man was carefully choosing his words. Finally, he responded. “Perhaps this is true. But as our beloved Rasputin well knew, the third eye is in the mind,” he purred.

“I have no more patience for your daydreaming, Nicholas,” the first man declared. “Consider my offer for this old shack, and remember, I’m doing you a favor. Again,” he added with meaning.

The loud man almost ran me over as he abruptly burst into the living room. For a split-second his viper-like eyes gleamed with malice, but he quickly recovered his composure and smiled at both of us.

“Well, who do we have here?” he inquired, smiling warmly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. And it is a pleasure to meet such a pretty young lady,” He took my hand, kissing the back of it in some old-world manner. I blushed in spite of myself.

“This is Sonia, our new cook from Russia,” Harriet introduced me. “I’m remembering now what Nicholas told me. She is from small village called Gogol. It’s being one piece of real estate you don’t own yet,” she added, a hard edge in her voice.

“Oh, give me time, Harriet, he replied jovially. “Everything has a price. Property, people, souls…it’s just a matter of negotiation,” he paused. He and Harriet exchanged a quick look. “Since my aunt has neglected basic civility,” he admonished her. “I will introduce myself. I’m Ivan Pavlovich, Realtor and local businessman,” he said with a charming smile.

Ivan was a hulking, large man, broad-shouldered and tall. He had a red goatee, an enormous bald head and a huge, prominent nose. He seemed confident, almost arrogant; I was captivated by his manners, yet I found him to be a bit intimidating.

Ivan glanced at his watch. He gave me a quick nod of the head, and then began to walk away. However, he suddenly stopped at a picture hanging on the living room wall, just to the left of the mirror. He stared at it for some time, examining it closely, as if he were viewing it for the very first time.

“My father hung this painting here when I was just a child,” he remarked. “It had some relevance…I’m not certain. All I see is a river going nowhere and an old, decrepit bridge,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ivan advanced to the front door, but then paused for a moment. “It was quite nice meeting you, Sonia. I hope to sample some of your Russian cuisine in the near-future,” he said in an agreeable fashion.

“Da, Mr. Pavlovich,” I replied. “I will be happy making you special Charlotte Russe cake.”

Ivan smiled in response, but his eyes weren’t smiling. “That would be excellent, Sonia,” he said in a softer tone of voice. “I am a bachelor, and don’t do much cooking on my own. Though I do dabble in mixed-drinks and such potions,” he added. He abruptly turned to the door, slamming it hard as he exited the house.

Harriet’s face grimaced with displeasure. I tried to smile sympathetically; I then turned to look at the picture on the wall that had riveted Ivan’s attention. It was a river; there was an old wooden bridge spanning it. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Hidden in the rushing waters was something…a face. That was it, it was some kind of face. But it didn’t look human. It was more like…

“A ghost?” a soft masculine voice from behind me startled me. I whirled around, coming face-to-face with the second man from the next room. He was of medium build, somewhat flabby, with lazy hunched shoulders and poor posture. He wore eyeglasses that were both dirty and ill-fitting on his round, moon-like face. He had a long skinny nose that tilted to one side, as if it had once been broken and never properly set. Though he was smiling, his eyes were empty of emotion. They were gray and watery, like some dead fish. His hair was thinning; he was slightly bald on top, what remained was badly-cut. His hair was walnut-brown, graying a bit at the temples. Altogether, he cut a rather slovenly, unimposing figure.

“I’m sorry,” I said, flustered. “I don’t…”

“Know who I am?” The pudgy man finished my sentence. “But you should, you see, for I am the one who sent for you. I’m Nicholas Pavlovich,” he introduced himself, gently shaking my hand. His handshake was rather limp; it actually felt cold to the touch.

I managed a smile. “Being pleased to meet you, Mr. Pavlovich. I hope you will find my cooking satisfactory,” I said hesitantly.

Nicholas Pavlovich smiled back. His dead eyes focused on me wearily. “Oh, I know it will be,” he replied, crossing his flabby arms. “You certainly wouldn’t want to wind up like our last cook. She burned our supper, and then disappeared into that painting,” he said mischievously.

I crossed myself. As cold fear gripped my body, I managed to take another look at the picture. The ghost I had imagined before seemed to be floating right out of the painting, reaching out to steal my soul. I fought the urge to run screaming out the front door.

“That is quite enough, Nicholas,” Harriet declared impatiently. “The poor girl doesn’t get your strange behavior. Few of us do,” she added, her forehead wrinkling with disapproval.

Nicholas shook his head sympathetically, clucking his tongue in his mouth as he did so. He smiled again, this time with surprising warmth and feeling. His eyes, too, seemed to come to sudden life.

“I am sorry,” Nicholas said, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Harriet is quite right. Well, I do have to have my little jokes, don’t I?” He paused looking into my eye. “You do understand I was only joking, Sonia? It is Sonia, isn’t it?”

I breathed a little easier. Once more, I managed to smile. “Yes, being Sonia Godunov,” I replied. “I received your kind letter in Russia, I here hoping to learn the better English, become chef someday. I do best here, promise,” I declared. I looked down at the floor in embarrassment at my poor English.

Nicholas slowly nodded his head approvingly. “Our best…well, we all promise that, don’t we?” he said dully. He regarded the clock that hung on the white stucco wall in the hallway. “It’s getting rather late,” he declared. “I have some papers that I need to correct. Harriet can show you to your room,” he said, dismissing me. He turned to leave, then hesitated a moment. He suddenly walked around me in a circle, nodding his head enigmatically.

“Yes…you will do, Sonia Godunov,” he declared. “You have the dark eyes of the Black Goddess. Yes, I am very glad that you’ve come here,” he stated. Nicholas turned without warning, vanishing into the shadow of the unlit kitchen.

“I am being sorry, Sonia,” Harriet apologized. “My nephew Nicholas is really a sweet dear. After his mother died, I’m being mother to him,” she confided. Harriet paused for a moment, as if she were choosing her words with care. “You’ll like him too, thinking I to myself,” she declared.

I wasn’t so sure myself, but I kept silent. I suddenly realized that I was nervously pulling on my earlobe again. I stopped self-consciously, and began to examine the white stucco walls of the side hallway. They were like white frosting that had been thickly spread upon a half-baked cake. The sound of Harriet’s sharp voice tore me from my observations.

“Are you being hungry?” she inquired gruffly. “I have cooked family dinner already. Can I make you sandwich or something?” It wouldn’t be fancy Russian dish, mind you, but still tasting fine,” she said tartly, a strange look of jealousy in her expression as she regarded me.

I smiled, attempting to ease the sudden tension. “No, I had late lunch on plane,” I said. “But thanking you all same.”

We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a figure descending the long, narrow stairwell. It was that of a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. He had jet-black hair, like the color of midnight, and a pale face. His eyes were large, somber, yet brimming with intelligence. He was tall, with a slight build, and wore a loose plaid shirt which he hadn’t bothered to tuck in at the waist. The young man wore blue jeans, black sneakers and a large silver cross around his neck. He also wore gloominess about him; he certainly was not a person who smiled easily.

Harriet addressed the tall, lanky figure. “So, Mr. Alexander is making special appearance from room. What is special reason? Did Internet run out of things for you to surf?” she asked caustically.

Alexander shook his head, a look of profound irritation visible upon his features. He ignored Harriet, focusing his attention on me. “Who the hell are you?” he abruptly demanded.

I was taken aback by his apparent hostility. These Americans were not as friendly as I had imagined them to be. “Please Mr. Alexander,” I said hesitantly. “I am being Sonia Godunov, the new cook. Your brother placed advertisement in newspaper, and so I come,” I explained.

“The newspaper?” he asked, laughing in a somewhat cruel fashion. “That is funny. Hey Sonia, the year 1899 just sent a message by smoke signals; it wants its technology back,” he smirked tauntingly. “Ever hear of something people call a computer?”

I frowned. It was so frustrating, talking to this young man. I couldn’t understand why he was acting so unfriendly to me. “Please,” I began. “I am not having either computer or Internet at home in Russia. There no need for you to be Cossack,” I informed him.

At this point, Harriet interrupted our conversation. “Alexander, your mother would be ashamed, your being so rude to guest,” she admonished him. “Sonia is staying here, and you need to treat her respectfully,” she informed him, poking him in the chest with her finger for special emphasis. “Sonia, this being Alexander Pavlovich, youngest of my three nephews. And he is something of Cossack,” she remarked.

Alexander ignored his aunt’s cutting remark. “Funny you should mention Cossacks,” he said. My grandfather Vladimir and his sister were chased out of their town in Russia by those murderous bastards. My great-aunt was blinded in one eye by a saber cut to the face,” he informed me with a look of accusation. “They were Jews, you see,” he added.

I felt terrible. I had heard of horrible atrocities committed against Jews by Russians in the past. My family had no connection to the Cossacks; however, my father had been extremely prejudiced against Jews and other foreigners. I suddenly felt a deep sense of shame.

“I am being sorry,” I declared. “I did not know you were being Jews. There has been much evil in my country in past. Now though, we are free and trying to do better,” I said hopefully.

Alexander stared at me in silence for a moment. I felt that he was peering into my soul. And it made me feel vulnerable and self-conscious. Then he spoke. “I wouldn’t blame you for what your ancestors did,” he said gently, his eyes softening for just a moment. “After all, you’re just a country girl from a small village, aren’t you?”

For a brief second, I saw someone that I liked under his gruff exterior. Lightly touching his arm, I said, “Perhaps there is something you are liking to eat, I cook tomorrow?”

Alexander pulled his arm away abruptly, a look of embarrassment visible on his face. He rubbed the cross that hung from his neck vigorously, then turned without another word and ascended the stairs, disappearing into the blackness of the second floor of the house.

“Did I offend?” I inquired of Harriet. “Am sorry, not intention,” I apologized.

Harriet stood with her arms crossed, shaking her head with disapproval. “Alexander’s not offended,” she declared. “You have to learn, Americans not standing close together like we Europeans,” she informed me.

There was so much for me to learn. I wondered if I shouldn’t just get back into a taxi and return home. But then, I thought of something. “I am not understanding,” I said, perplexed. “If you are Jews, then why Mr. Alexander wearing cross around neck?”

Harriet rolled her eyes. “It is fashion statement,” she answered. “And now interrogation being over. I will show you to your room, Sonia Godunov,” she said with authority.

Harried walked very quickly. I could barely keep up with her, despite my youth. I retrieved the small suitcase that I had left in the hallway and raced to follow the tall lady. We turned a corner, arriving at a secluded part of the house. Harriet forced open a badly-painted door, and we entered into a dark room. She switched on a light, and I had an opportunity to examine my new home.

I briefly regarded the little room. There was a brass bed, covered with heavy purple blankets with gold embroidery, on the side of the room that faced the front of the house. An enormous wooden box stood to the left of the bed. A white shelf, similar to the one in the living room, was attached to the wall. Various Russian dolls, ones we call Matryoshks in my country, stood fiercely at attention on the pale shelf. There were dozens of them, their dark eyes following my every movement.

“So,” Harriet said. “You are liking,no?” It was more of a command than a question.

“I’m not taking your room, huh?” I asked nervously.

Harriet laughed heartily. “First job, then room, eh? You Russians are being good, occupying territory not own. But no,” she said with a friendly smile. “This was Elizabeth’s room. She was wife to Grandfather Vladimir,” she explained. “Elizabeth lived here some months before she died. She was from Ukraine, very quiet and soulful they say,” Harriet remarked, almost softly.

The room was cold; a chill was quickly creeping up my spine. It smelled musty, like it hadn’t been cleaned or dusted for some time. I pulled on my earlobe, so hard that it felt as if it would come right off in my hand. I looked imploringly at Harriet for some sympathy, silently begging her not to leave me in this dark cage. But there was no sympathy in her large brown eyes; only impatience.

“You being fine, my young pretty friend,” she said impassively. “In morning I will show you kitchen and new responsibilities. You have suitcase?” she demanded. I nodded, lifting my little red valise so that she could see it. Harriet nodded approvingly.

“Well, good night Sonia,” she said solemnly. “There is a bathroom with toilet and shower, being next door to your room,” Harriet paused at the door. “You have lock on door. Use it,” she said unsmilingly. She quickly departed, perhaps to the comfort and safety of her own room.

I took Harriet’s advice, locking the door then placing my few belongings in the cherry-finished dresser. I put on my nightdress and quickly hopped into the bed, pulling the thick purple covers over me and tucking them in tightly. I noticed a small lamp resting on the nightstand next to my bed, and I reached over to switch it off. It took two or three tries; the lamp was old and spooky-looking, just like everything else in the house. As I lay in the quiet, frigid dark, I began to tremble with fear and uncertainty. This was not how I had expected America to be. I felt apprehensive about my future as I considered the events of the evening. Suddenly, a piercing cry shattered the still, night air. It was the howling of the mysterious dog that I had heard earlier. I pulled the heavy covers uncomfortably over my head, singing Russian folk songs to myself until I finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

I awoke to the gentle sound of birds chirping outside my window. It was early morning; the golden rays of the sun tenderly stroked my face. I pulled back the covers and went to the window to take a peek outside. A yellow butterfly caught my eye; I followed its fluttering path with my eyes, watching it softly land on a flower. It was a red rose; there were several actually, growing alongside a wooden trellis that adhered to the side of the house. They were beautiful; I didn’t know why I hadn’t noticed them the previous day.

Feeling refreshed and more confident, I quickly dressed, then unlocked my door. I stepped cautiously into the hallway; it was quiet, but in a peaceful way. I found the bathroom that Harriet had told me about, and went inside. I had always believed that American bathrooms were huge, fancy things; however, this one was no larger or fancier than a Russian one. The top section of the walls consisted of the same white stucco in the hallway; however, the lower section of the walls had black and white linoleum tiles attached to it. The sink was small and white, the faucet a contrasting black color. The toilet was shiny and ivory, the tub was milky-white. The windows were small, yet cheerful. They offered a view of the neighboring house, which was bordered by trees and a fence that separated it from the driveway of the Pavlovich family. I quickly bathed, then left the bathroom in search of the kitchen.

I soon found it by passing through a door from the hallway. The kitchen was medium-sized, with a laminated wooden floor and lemon-yellow walls. An immense, modern-looking refrigerator stood near a corner of the kitchen, next to a shiny black oven. A small butcher-block table was located on the opposite side of the room, next to the entrance. There was an extensive counter, white with black specks, and a cobalt-blue cabinet hanging over it. The narrow sink was located to the right of the counter, with two small windows behind and overhead the silver-colored faucets. A Byzantine painting of Jesus holding a Cyrillic cross hung on one wall, near the telephone. A vivid photograph of the Kremlin building in Moscow hung prominently over the stove. An old cuckoo clock was fixed to the left of this picture. The kitchen seemed warmer than the other parts of the house; I felt safer and more at home here than anywhere else in the house.

I listened for signs of life in the house, but heard none. Apparently, the Pavlovichs were not early risers. I peeked into cupboards, and found various cooking instruments; pots, pans, measurers, whisks, and countless other utensils. There seemed to be anything here that an aspiring cook could want. I then took a quick glance into the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, butter, were all available in abundance. It seemed that Harriet Blom was not lax in her shopping habits.

I decided to try and get off to the right start. I cracked some eggs and melted some butter. I then proceeded to make some Bliny pancakes. I found some teabags and brewed some hot tea. Crying with delight when I happened upon some yeast, baking powder and flour, I baked some Russian black bread, the strong odor filling every corner of the kitchen. I made a Russian Peasant Omelet, using eggs, potatoes, an onion, milk, and some salt and pepper. I cut the potatoes into cubes, frying them in vegetable oil under the lid for about ten minutes. I then chopped the onion and tomato, adding them to the potatoes and cooking for another five minutes. I beat the egg with milk, pouring it over the potatoes, and then cooking it all for a few more minutes. It smelled so good; it made me homesick for my Mama’s kitchen back in Russia.

I found the dining room and started to set the table. It was a dark walnut color, rectangular in shape and very attractive to the eye. I found a red tablecloth, and threw it over the top of the table, placing plates and silverware upon it that I retrieved from the kitchen cabinets. I noticed an old walnut liquor cabinet, with bottles of vodka and gin laid upon its shelf. There were several pictures adorning the walls; there was one of an Indian riding a horse on the plains while he hunted buffaloes, another of a gondola in a canal in Venice. An enormous chandelier hung down from the ceiling, directly above the dining table. It was not a large room.

“So,” a voice from behind startled me. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the dining room. I quickly turned around, only to discover the imposing figure of Harriet Blom, with her hands on her hips and a strange smile upon her face.

“So,” she repeated. “You have been busy little Russian bee, haven’t you?” she said. Harriet looked at the table, regarding the meal with a critical eye.

“I am being sorry,” I quickly said, my face hot with embarrassment. “I should have asked permission before taking liberties with kitchen.”

Harriet walked around the walnut dining table, carefully examining the breakfast that I had just prepared. She was scowling, and for a bad moment I thought she was going to yell at me, or send me packing back home. However, to my surprise she suddenly began to nod her head, her fingers and thumb resting on her chin.

“Not bad, not so bad,” she said, slowly and reluctantly. “Looking good, smelling good…but proof will be in taste,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

A voice from the living room suddenly greeted us. “What is that delicious smell?” Nicholas Pavlovich inquired as he slowly entered the dining room. He was dressed even more slovenly than the previous day. This morning he was wearing wrinkled cotton pajamas, white socks upon his feet, and a maroon sweat shirt. His graying brown hair was greasy and uncombed, his eyeglasses badly in need of a cleaning. The negative impression of him that I had from the previous day was reinforced by his current appearance. He was not the sophisticated, successful American that I had expected. Harriet addressed him first, her head motioning toward me. “Sonia has surprised us with delicious breakfast. If breakfast is delicious, I will be surprised,” she added sarcastically.

Nicholas smiled at me with a look of amazement. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said, winking at me as if we shared some secret. He sat down at the head of the table. “Well, what are we waiting for? My mouth is watering for this delightful Russian cuisine,” he said, as he slowly and carefully tied a handkerchief around his neck.

Harriet quickly pulled Nicholas’s plate away from him, before he could begin eating. “You are being rude, nephew,” she admonished him. “Little brother Alexander is still to join us,” she reminded him gruffly.

Nicholas sighed. “You are quite right, Aunt Harriet. I have the manners of Ivan,” he declared with a slight smile upon his lips. “I mean Ivan the Terrible, of course. Not my dear brother Ivan.”

Nicholas ambled leisurely into the kitchen. From the other room I could hear the sound of him dialing a phone. “Alexander?” Yes…this is your big brother Nicholas. Sorry to interrupt your scheduled dreaming, but I wondered if you could honor us with your presence at the breakfast table. What was that?” Nicholas asked. “Oh, no, Aunt Harriet didn’t cook this morning. No worries,” he said. “It was our new little friend, Sonia. I think that you should come down now, so as not to insult her,” he said, the sound of the phone hanging up echoing throughout the house. Nicholas walked back into the dining room, and resumed his seat at the table.

“I hope Mr. Alexander not having to drive far to come here,” I said gingerly.

Nicholas laughed. “Oh, I called him on his cell phone. Mr. Alexander can drive himself downstairs and have breakfast with his family like a civilized person,” he declared.

Embarrassed, I turned my face away and started to examine the wall. I suddenly noticed the picture with the Indian and the buffaloes. Except…there were no buffaloes now. The Indian was standing next to his horse, looking straight into my eyes.

And there was blood on his spear.

I blinked. Could I have imagined that there were buffaloes before? I pointed a finger at the picture on the wall.

“The buffaloes…they are gone,” I stammered.

Nicholas gazed lazily at the picture. “Yes, they are extinct now,” he said quietly. He then looked back at his food. “This looks exquisite, Sonia. What do you call it?” he inquired with a friendly smile.

Distracted, I replied, “It is called…Russian Peasant omelet,” I said, still mystified by the picture of the Indian.

“Russian Peasant, huh?” a familiar voice greeted us from the entrance of the dining room. It was Alexander Pavlovich. In contrast to Nicholas, his raven hair was combed neatly. He was fashionably dressed in a silk shirt, beige cotton trousers and brown leather shoes. The large cross from the previous evening still hung prominently around his neck. His gloomy eyes seemed even more unfriendly in the light of day.

“Good morning, Mr. Alexander,” I greeted him cheerfully. “I am hoping you are enjoying breakfast I make,” I said gingerly.

Alexander smirked. “What’s with that accent?” he asked antagonistically. “You sound like Boris from ‘Bullwinkle’ the cartoon,” he informed me.

Tears of embarrassment came to my eyes. I was very sensitive about my broken English. Finally, I was able to respond to his rudeness. “I am being sorry if accent is not acceptable. Hopefully English is improving with practice,” I said.

Harriet glared at Alexander. “So, Mr. Bigot. Perhaps you are not liking Aunt Harriet’s accent. Perhaps you are hating all foreigners,” she accused her nephew.

Alexander looked red in the face with shame. “I didn’t mean anything by it. My mother was a foreigner,” he said, looking directly at me.

I nodded my head with approval. I went back into the kitchen and soon returned with the rest of the breakfast food. Everyone had seated themselves, and I served the Bliny pancakes last.

“These are the famous Bliny pancakes, huh?” Nicholas asked with a twinkle in his eye. He took a bite of one. “Well, very delicious. Most authentic, I’m sure,” he remarked.

“Here, try them with sour cream,” I said. I plopped a dollop of the thick white cream onto his pancake. Nicholas took another bite, closing his eyes and smiling. “Yummy,” he said emphatically. “Sonia, you are a great find. And I didn’t even have to search for you on the precious Internet,” he added with a sly grin at Alexander.

Alexander grunted; a bemused look appeared on his features. “Huh, like you could actually do a Google search,” he challenged his older brother.

Nicholas benevolently chided his younger brother. “Now, Alexander. Show some respect. I’ve successfully searched the Web in the past. “In fact,” he said as he looked straight at me with interest. “I discovered some rather interesting things as I was browsing on the Internet. Some truly fascinating information concerning Russian history,” he declared.

Harriet interrupted him. “I’m sure Sonia is not being interested in your hobbies, Nicholas. Is not young people kind of stuff,” she said with authority.

I shook my head. “Oh, I would be very interested in any stuff concerns my Mother Russia. We are having rich culture and history,” I stated proudly.

Nicholas smiled at his aunt with a look of triumph. “You see, Harriet? The girl has a natural interest. And it is interesting, Sonia,” he said with special emphasis.

Nicholas cleared his throat, rubbing his hand through the thin, graying hair on his strangely-shaped head. He looked at me, his dead eyes coming to life. “You see, Sonia, I have always had a curious obsession with the Russian healer, Rasputin. Oh, I am certain that you have heard something of him in your village. How he was a tall, mystical holy man who became a faith healer and sometimes doctor to the Romanov family of Czarist Russia. How he saved the life of the son of Czar Nicholas II. How a jealous Russian aristocracy, led by Prince Yusupov , murdered him in 1917,” he related.

“I have heard something of this story in school, da,” I affirmed.

Nicholas’ eyes, so dead the night before, were positively sparkling with life. “Da, yes, undoubtedly you have heard of that,” he said. “But perhaps you didn’t know what I have discovered in my research. How Rasputin walked among the Startsi, the Makari; wandering holy men and ascetic hermits. How he traveled to the monastery of Verkhotouri, and learned that only those who understand suffering can know the nature of God. How he performed the Radenie Ceremony, dancing and chanting hymns in ecstasy around a ring of fire. How he used carnal knowledge to get closer to God while in the Khlysty Cult. Rasputin came to understand that Jesus lives in various men throughout the ages. We are all Christ,” he added.

I was shocked by his blasphemy. I nearly dropped the tray of Bliny pancakes that I was holding. Harriet shook her head disapprovingly, but smiled indulgently at her nephew. Only Alexander seemed to find his voice.

“I thought we were supposed to be Jews,” he said, a smirk of irony upon his lips. “You seem to have mistaken us for goys, bro. And, I wouldn’t believe everything you find on the Web. Particularly if you find it on Wikipedia. Any jackass can write what he wants to on that,” he informed us.

Nicholas shook his head. “I grant you your techno-nerd instincts are correct in some cases. However, I’ve found corresponding information from periodicals and archives at the University where I teach. And…I’ve discovered much more. Far more than I could have dreamed,” he added with special meaning.

Alexander’s interest appeared to be tweaked. “What did you discover?” he inquired of his older brother.

Nicholas paused for a moment. He gazed at the other people around the table, as if he were reading our thoughts and storing them for future use. Then he spoke, in a soft, monotone voice: “Early in his travels, Rasputin wandered to Mount Athos in Greece. He received special instructions there. Concerning what? That remains unknown. However, he then wandered all the way down to Jerusalem, in what was then Palestine. What he discovered there we do not know. But, when he returned, Rasputin met with certain Jews who were knowledgeable concerning Kabbalah. And they didn’t meet just anywhere, but outside the Monastery of the Caves, in Kiev. What did ancient Jewish numerology have to do with Christian Russian Orthodoxy? What secrets did they unlock? This I would give my arm to learn,” he declared.

“That could easily be arranged,” a booming, familiar voice echoed from the entrance of the dining room. We all turned our heads at once. It was Ivan Pavlovich, an unannounced breakfast guest.

“Nice of you to come, Ivan,” Harriet said unconvincingly. “I guess we missed phone call telling us you arrive.”

Ivan didn’t take her bait. “Oh, I grew up in this house, Aunt Harriet,” he reminded her jovially, sitting down at the end of the table, opposite to Nicholas. “The door is always open to family, isn’t it Nicholas?” he said, more as a command than a question. As Ivan’s gaze met that of his own, Nicholas averted his eyes from his brother’s intimidating look.

“Of course…yes of course, Ivan,” Nicholas weakly replied. Some of the fire had gone from his voice. “Just because my name is on the deed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t just show up here any time you like,” he said with a sarcastic tone. He lifted his eyes from the floor and the two brothers glared at one another.

Then Ivan smiled. But again, there was malice in that look of his. “Yes, the deed. You’re quite right, it is your name on the deed to this house. Mother was quite kind in willing it to you alone. Still, it would be a shame if someone were to challenge the validity of that title…” Ivan’s voice trailed off as he nodded his head, then regarded the food on the table.

“But that can wait for another time,” he said, changing gears. “This food looks absolutely delicious. You didn’t waste any time, did you Sonia?” Ivan questioned me. He peered at me with large, wolf-like eyes. I tried to smile back, but quickly averted my eyes from his stare, looking down at the floor instead. There was something bold, almost threatening in his smile. It made my heart beat fast with excitement.

Ivan took a bite of the thick Russian bread. “Hmm…” he said slowly. “This is very good. It reminds me of the bread mother used to make. She found the recipe in an old book of our grandmother Elizabeth. You remember the story of her, don’t you Nicholas? As I recall, you were always playing with those Russian dolls of hers,” he related, a cruel smirk upon his lips.

Nicholas shook his head. “Yes…the Matryoshkas in Sonia’s room. They always fascinated me. You open one woman, then find another one hidden inside, and then another. A mystery inside a mystery,” he declared.

Ivan nodded his head. “Women are like that…but I am being quite rude. You were discussing the mystery surrounding Rasputin,” he said.

“What does this crap have to do with anything?” Alexander interrupted. “It’s just a bunch of old fables and rumors. What does it have to do with us?” he inquired.

Ivan stood up, a cup of tea in one hand. He circled around the table, placing one hand paternally on Alexander’s shoulder. Alexander, who was seated, looked up carefully at his older brother. Ivan had a hulking presence; his mammoth body seemed to fill up the tiny dining room. He looked at the furnishings, seemingly taking stock.

“Yes…very eccentric. This room reflects Mother’s tastes,” Ivan paused. “And your own, Nicholas,” he gave his brother a hard look. “You resemble her in many ways. Alexander, on the other hand, resembles Father,” Ivan commented absently as he examined the paintings on the wall. “Yes, these will have to be removed,” he said nonchalantly. Ivan gave a brief look at his watch. “Well…I have to be going. I have a buyer waiting for me across town. She believes that I’m her agent; however, I represent the seller’s interest,” he paused. “And my own. Always my own,” he said with meaning.

Ivan placed his cup upon the table. “Thank you for the excellent breakfast, Sonia. I think you are going to prove to be very useful indeed,” he said. His eyes met those of Harriet’s for a moment and then turned back to mine. He smiled at me, though his face had an expression that put me ill at ease.

“Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich,” I said, but he didn’t respond. With a curt wave of his hand he dismissed me and quickly exited the room. In a moment the sound of the front door slamming told us of his departure. We all sat quietly for a moment. Then Harriet broke the silence:

“Well, Mr. Sunshine certainly made us merry, huh?” she asked. No one replied. She looked at me with seemingly new interest. “Sonia, are you being good with making cakes?” she inquired. I got the impression that she was trying to lighten the dark mood that Ivan’s visit had left.

“Da,yes, I am baking many cakes at home. Why you ask, Harriet?” I inquired.

Harriet smiled mysteriously. “I have recently seen article in local paper concerning baking contest. Contestants must be making special cakes. Judging is in two weeks,” she informed me. She regarded me with a serious look. Harriet took a bit of a Bliny pancake, all the time gazing into my eyes. “This is cooking I have not tasted in long time. Maybe never .Are you up to challenge?” she inquired, her hands on her hips as those large eyes intimidated me behind square, old-fashioned glasses.

I averted my eyes from her gaze, looking instead at Alexander. He didn’t smile, but he nodded with encouragement. His dark eyes seemed friendlier than before. I turned to Nicholas. He was busy examining the dining table; he certainly didn’t seem interested in the conversation. Then without warning, he pulled his head up and looked straight into my eyes.

“If they have no bread, let them eat cake,” he said enigmatically. Nicholas directed a warm look toward me. “It might be tricky, Sonia. You’ve only just arrived here; the language barrier might make this contest difficult for you,” he warned. “Still…if Harriet has no objections, I certainly don’t,” he said with a warm smile.

I placed my hand on his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich. This is being great opportunity for me. And I am working twice as hard at job here,” I promised. “Meals will not suffer.”

“Only our stomachs, huh?” Alexander said with a mischievous grin. I ignored his barbed comment and proceeded to start to pick up the dirty dishes from the table. Alexander departed from the room without warning, presumably to the privacy of his upstairs room. Harriet marched into the kitchen, a number of dirty dishes in her large hands. I guessed that she intended to wash them; she obviously didn’t intend to cede all of her former jobs to me if she could help it. Nicholas lingered at the table for a moment. He hesitated; I got the impression that he had something important to say to me, but was trying to gather the courage to tell me.

“Sonia,” he began slowly. His voice had a gentle, almost fatherly quality to it. “I know a little something of your past. Your father died in Afghanistan, I believe? And your two brothers in Chechnya?” he inquired with a sympathetic wrinkling of his brow.

I nodded my head. In Russia, we didn’t speak of such things; certainly not with people who were essentially strangers. I indicated my embarrassment at the subject matter by gazing down at the floor, pulling at my ear as I did so. But Nicholas Pavlovich continued to speak:

“I just wanted you to know, Sonia,” he said softly. “We are not just your employers. I want you to think of us as your host family here in America. If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to approach me, ok?” he said with a smile.

I took a close look at him. It was strange; despite his appearance, Nicholas Pavlovich seemed like a young boy. He had a trusting, naïve quality about him; despite his obvious intelligence, he didn’t impress me as being particularly responsible. But even so, despite the fact that he confounded me, I felt that I could trust him. Despite his eccentricity, I believed that he had a good soul.

“Thank you, Mr. Nicholas,” I said with genuine feeling. “I am being grateful for all.”

Nicholas got up from the table, and like his brothers exited without a word. I cleared the dishes off of the table and brought them to the kitchen sink. Harriet was busy drying some plates. She looked up from what she was doing; the hot steam had fogged up her glasses, and sweat was pouring off of her red face. Harriet wiped her brow, giving me a strange half-smile.

“They are strange lot, aren’t they?” she asked.

I nodded my head in assent. “Like a Russian troika,” I replied.

“Oh, I have heard of troika,” she responded. “One main horse in center leading other two, who are following every command,” Harriet arched her eyebrows, giving me a questioning look.

“Da,” I replied. “The brothers Pavlovich are like troika,” I paused, scratching my head and pulling on my earlobe in confusion. “But…who is being lead horse?”

CHAPTER THREE

The onion-shaped blue dome of the Russian Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford reflected the golden sunlight from its shiny surface. Its outside walls were yellow, like the walls of the Orthodox Church in my village in Russia. Anchored to the front of the building, hanging prominently over the entrance, was a colossal eight-pointed cross. It did not resemble the Roman Catholic ones that I had seen on other churches in West Hartford. It was unique: a testament to a thousand year old Eastern Church that had shone a light in a dark world since Prince Vladimir had embraced Christianity in Russia. Looking at this building, I felt a connection to my own home. I was glad that I had taken the bus to Hartford this beautiful Sunday morning.

The bells were ringing, announcing the beginning of the morning service. I quickly made my way through the entrance and into the building. I immediately noticed dozens of icons placed strategically at different points in the chapel. Each painting was that of an Orthodox saint, surrounded by lit votive candles. These lights emitted an eerie glow to the inside walls of the church. I gazed up at the ceiling, which curved into the concave shape of a dome. There was an enormous iconographic image of Jesus Christ painted on its surface. I knew this to be Christ as Pontokrater----ruler of all.

I glanced at the front of the chapel. The nave was separated from the holy altar by an iconostasis. The altar itself was covered with candles and holy relics. I took a seat in a wooden pew and crossed myself in the Orthodox fashion. The service began, and a tall man clad in full black robes led the prayers. I noticed that there were more similarities than differences between this church and the one back in my village. It really didn’t matter to me---we all prayed to the same God.

As I prayed, I suddenly noticed a young man who was sitting in the next pew, staring at me. He was blonde and blue-eyed, about eighteen years old. He smiled at me in a friendly manner. I ignored him at first, intent upon saying my prayers. When the service ended, he surprised me my walking over to my pew.

“Hello,” he greeted me in English. “I’ve never seen you here before. My name is Nikita. What’s yours?” he inquired.

I hesitated for a moment. I was a young lady; a stranger to this country, a foreigner. I didn’t believe it wise to trust an unknown young man so soon. But still, we were in church, not some nightclub or bar. And I didn’t want to be rude. “I am being Sonia Godunov,” I introduced myself, sticking out my straight arm to shake his hand. He shook my hand firmly, and to my astonishment, boldly sat down next to me in my pew.

“I am not remembering asking you to sit here,” I tartly remarked.

“I am not remembering needing your permission,” he replied, in a playful, mocking tone of voice. He glanced around the chapel. “So, how do you like our church? Does it meet with your approval?” he inquired.

I raised my eyebrows. “Is not needing my approval,” I responded. There was something about this young man that rubbed me the wrong way. He had a cocky grin; when he smiled it was insincere, and though his eyes were lively and interesting, they suggested arrogance. Nikita placed his hands behind his head, leaning backward as he rudely rested his feet upon the back of the pew in front of us.

“Oh, but it does need your approval,” he contradicted me. “You are from Russia, aren’t you? I can tell from your accent,” he said boastfully.

My face turned red with embarrassment. “You are not big detective solving big mystery,” I retorted. “This is Russian church, is natural Russian girl comes to pray,” I commented.

“Yes,” he said. “You are very authentic. Are you a student? Where are you staying?” he asked.

I thought that he was being too forward. Nikita’s accent was American, despite his Slavic features. He wore a blue cotton shirt, a matching tie, and white trousers. He seemed to never stop smiling---his teeth were very white and straight. Despite his pushiness, I was somewhat disarmed by his friendly manner. Perhaps he was someone who could be trusted. “I am being cook,” I informed him. “I work for family in West Hartford. I want to speak better English, and learn to be chef,” I confided.

Nikita nodded his head. “Yeah…well, anything is possible here in America. Does your host family attend our church?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, the brothers Pavlovich are being Jews, I believe,” I stated.

Nikita’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his large, blonde head. “Do you mean that you work for that crazy Pavlovich family in West Hartford?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded my head. Without another word, Nikita rushed to the altar, interrupting the priest. He whispered something in his ear, frantically pointing in my direction. The black-robed priest crossed himself and then walked over to where I was still standing in the wooden pew.

“Good morning, child,” he said warmly. “I am Father Nicolai. I welcome you to our Orthodox Church. Nikita tells me that you are from Russia?” he inquired.

“Da,” I replied. “I am from village of Gogol, being near Ukraine. I am hoping to pray here; I am of Orthodox faith,” I informed him.

Father Nikolai nodded his head. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his sixties. He had a long, snowy-white beard and full mustache. I could have mistaken him for a Russian priest, save for his distinctly American accent. “Of course, child,” he responded with a smile. Then his face became serious. “However,” he said with a frown. “Nikita has informed me that you are staying with the Pavlovich family in West Hartford. If that is the same Pavlovich family that lives on Keeney Avenue, then that concerns me greatly,” he stated gravely.

I searched for Nikita. He was on the other side of the chapel, speaking to an older couple whom I presumed to be his parents. All three of them were staring at me strangely, like I was some sort of freak. I began to nervously pull on my earlobe.

“The Pavlovich family is living on Keeney Avenue,” I admitted. “Are you knowing them personally? They are being very nice to me,” I defended them. “I respond to letter in Russian newspaper, and come here to America to cook for them,” I explained.

Father Nicolai shook his head sadly. “And you such a nice, young girl. Well, I knew their father, Peter Pavlovich quite well. We went to school together. He eventually married a German girl; Catherine was her name. She was the younger sister of Harriet, who is said to live with her nephews,” he said.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “And very nice lady, too,” I defended Harriet.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Father Nicolai agreed. “At any rate, I know something of their family history. Peter’s father came to America sometime after the Russian Revolution. He brought his bride with him, a young Ukrainian lady named Elizabeth. They lived in New York City for some years; they then settled here in Connecticut in the 1930’s. They built that house in West Hartford in 1936, I believe. It was a small, simple Cape, but a very nice home for the Pavlovich family,” he related.

“I lived around the corner from them, on Sylvan Avenue. I used to play with Peter when we were children. I remember his mother; she was delightful, very pleasant and kind. She would bake special Ukrainian eggs, and make us the fruity dish called Kisel,” Father Nicolai said, smiling at the memory. “Yes…she was someone I liked.”

“Was Grandfather Vladimir being around much?” I inquired.

Father Nicolai’s brow wrinkled. A dark look crept into his eyes. “Peter’s father, Vladimir---he was not someone I liked,” he informed me. “As I remember, he was a tall, hulking man, with jet-black hair and a fierce-looking beard. His voice was like a lion’s roar,” he recalled. It was odd. Father Nicolai could have been describing Vladimir’s grandson, Ivan. Except that Ivan was a red lion, not a black one.

“Everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of him,” Father Nicolai continued. “He crushed the spirit of that poor wife of his. Peter was terrified of him, for good reason. Vladimir Pavlovich was cruel; Peter had always wanted a pet. His mother secretly bought a cute little puppy for her son. When Vladimir found out about it, he made Peter kill the puppy with his own hands, right in front of the mother. And me,” he added, his eyes betraying the pain of the haunting memory.

“Then, the mother Elizabeth died. Officially, she died of a fever. But a story circulated around West Hartford at the time that she had displeased Vladimir, and that he had subsequently locked her in her room to starve to death. Of course, rumors will always travel like the wind; still, I’ll never forget the look of triumphant malice in that man’s devil eyes as his son killed the puppy,” he said.

“I stopped visiting 69 Keeney Avenue after that,” he remarked. “I remember leaving the house for the last time after Peter’s mom died. The young girl next door warned me not to step on the roses. What a pale thing she was,” he recalled.

“Anyway, Peter seemed to change after his mother’s death. He began to resemble his father more and more. He would bully younger children in school, stealing their money and hurting them physically. By high school, everyone was afraid of him, including his teachers. I stopped being friends with him; he ridiculed both my compassion for others and my faith in God. The Pavlovich family was supposed to be Jewish, yet I don’t remember them ever observing the Jewish holidays. Peter informed me that religion was for fools and weaklings. I don’t think that he even believed in the concept of God,” Father Nicolai crossed himself as he said this. He paused a moment, breathing heavily as he struggled to maintain his composure. Finally, he seemed to recover himself, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and breathing more evenly.

“Then came the death of Vladimir Pavlovich,” Father Nicolai continued. “Now, I thought that I had been in every corner of that house, playing with Peter. But there was a room upstairs that no one was allowed to enter. It was the private office of the father, Vladimir. I personally thought of it as his secret lair,” he said confidentially. “Fastened over the door of that room was a green-colored clay figure, a three-pointed face of some hideous creature. Casually glancing at it, you would take no notice of the thing. But, I once made the mistake of closely examining it, as I was playing hide-and-seek with Peter. The clay figure looked like a demon from hell---and it seemed to come to life as I stared at it. I screamed in horror, running to rejoin Peter. He laughed at my foolishness, and I soon forgot the incident.”

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