“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian, pizza boy,” I scoffed. “Now eat.”
Before he finished with the meal, I knew more about the clogging effects of cheese on the heart than I cared to. But the next time we came across a cheeseburger or loaded pizza, I was sure I would hear about nothing but the glowing health benefits. After dumping the dishes in the sink like true bachelors, we set up camp on the couch and turned on the TV. Without cable there were only three channels and two of them were full of snow. We were living in the dark ages here. I skimmed through them, then switched off the television in disgust. “Hang on. I think there might be a checkerboard in the closet.”
A checkerboard and books on bathroom repair were the sum total of our entertainment here. I didn’t mind the change from the bright lights and greased poles of Miami. I didn’t mind it at all. The closet was stocked with boxes and broken vacuum cleaner attachments, but I sifted through it to find the red and black box. Beneath it I found a photo album, one that had belonged to Babushka Lena. I hesitated for a second, then piled it on top of the checkers box. Placing them on the table next to the sofa, I sat down and lifted the album into my lap. “I know you’re not much for photos.” I moved over until I was shoulder to shoulder with Michael. “But I thought you might want to see some of me when I was less frightening to the naked human eye.”
He cocked his head doubtfully at me. “Less frightening? I’m not sure I can picture that. Are you sure they’re really you? They can do amazing things with computer effects.”
“Funny. You’re a funny guy. Bet you scored an F in that class,” I said sourly. I riffled through the book and stopped at one I recognized of myself. About two years old, I was trying to ride the family dog. Lying across his back with my arms around his furry neck, I was bare-ass naked and grinning like a loon. “The traditional naked-butt baby picture. A favorite of grandmothers everywhere.”
“I do pity the dog. He probably never recovered from the trauma.” Michael’s finger stroked the glossy surface. “What breed was he?”
“A mutt, Lab with a dash of Saint Bernard, I think. I cried like a baby when he died.” I elbowed him and added, “Tell anyone that and I’ll have to kick your bony butt.”
So underwhelmed by the threat that he didn’t even feel the need to roll his eyes, he reached over to turn the page himself. “Who’s that?”
“Our . . . my mom.” She’d been caught in the act of nothing in particular. The only occasion was a trigger-happy kid with a new camera, namely me. I didn’t recognize the background—a slice of muted wallpaper and the leaves of a potted plant. It wasn’t the kind of thing a young boy paid attention to. Mom was looking over her shoulder at me, startled but with the merry and indulgent smile that rarely left her face. She had always been so happy. I’d wondered more than once over the years if she knew what her husband did for a living. How could she not? She was a grown, intelligent woman; after years of marriage she simply couldn’t be that blind. Yet . . . somehow I thought she was. It could be I didn’t want to believe she wasn’t as picture-perfect in her purity as I saw her to be as a child. And it could be the sun rose in the east and set in the west. With the incredibly obvious bit of psychoanalysis out of the way, I just looked at the picture—looked at it and treasured the feeling it sparked in me. I might be a thug and worse, but damn if I hadn’t loved my mother.
Pale blond hair caught in a loose French braid and high Slavic cheekbones joined with blue eyes and porcelain skin. She wasn’t a beautiful woman; she was more than beautiful. The cheekbones were a shade too sharp, the eyes a little too round, and the mouth overly generous. But it all came together in a shining whole—much like it did in Michael. His features weren’t as much like our mother’s as I remembered; time had changed him from a male copy of Anya to his own distinct person. His eyes were more almond shaped and his mouth not as wide, but he had the same inner . . . hell . . . light, I guess you’d say.
“She’s pretty.” He looked as if he wanted to touch the photo but pulled back his hand before he made contact.
Maneuvering it free of the protective plastic film, I handed it to him. He started to shake his head, but I wouldn’t let him refuse, pushing it into his hand. “Keep it.”
“But . . .”