Laurie Boris's Blog, page 5

The Devil and Tucker Carlson

Note: This is satire. Please don’t cancel me.

He wakes with a start, sticky-eyed, head pounding, and checks the time. He croaks out for her—why didn’t you get me up, I have to be at the studio—but then he remembers. No wife. No job. He falls back against the pillow. Stares at the ceiling, wills the patterns in the tiles to make sense. Wills anything to make sense. Who is he, now that they’ve taken his name, ripped away the persona he’d so carefully cultivated? Is that why she needed to get away from him, without so much as a conversation, because without his success he’s just…nothing? Just the “dumb fuck in a bowtie,” as his father-in-law had called him?

Despair flows through him, turning his body into lead. He’d enthusiastically reinvented himself after past misadventures—he refused to call them failures—but doesn’t know how to even start now. Or if he even wants to.

“Come now,” a voice says. “You’d have it all back in a heartbeat if you could.”

His gaze darts around the room. “What the—Rush? Is that you?”

A deep laugh flows over the man’s prone body, along with an aroma of sulfur and brimstone. “As if. ‘Talent on loan from God’ my scarlet behind. Talent on loan from me, was more like it.”

No. It can’t be. Ailes? The man struggles to lift his upper body from the mattress. His head swirls. He presses his hands to his temples, trying to remember if he’d signed anything in some alcohol-induced haze, but nothing came to mind. “You think I’m so desperate that I’d call out for you?” He tries for one of his trademarked maniacal giggles, but it only makes him cough and wheeze.

“So pathetic,” the voice says. “Do you really believe you got this far by not calling out for me for a little…moral support? Sweetheart. I’ve got the receipts. We made a deal. One soul for one second chance, to be negotiated at a later date. Apparently at the time you weren’t that desperate, but I kept this little honey on the table for you. And I think you just might be ready to talk to me now.”

The man’s mouth rounds. Then softens. Would it really be so bad? To be back on set, to reclaim his power – and maybe a little something more. Maybe, if he played this right, he could—

“Run the place? Oh, I’m sure you could. With a little help from me, of course.”

A tiny bubble of glee rises up from the man’s chest. Thinking of whom he’d destroy first…it would be so much fun. He smiles. “Got a pen?”

The voice laughs. “Got a pen, he says. Pauses, then adds “Or should I say ‘she’?”

The smile falls.

“I know all about you, sweetheart,” the voice purrs. “You’ve never felt comfortable in that body, which explains so much. Well. We can make this part of the deal. Be the woman you’ve always felt yourself to be. And wield the boundless power you’ve been craving your entire life. One stroke of the pen and it can all be yours.”

His insides shudder. He gazes down at the soft flesh of his chest and belly, the thin T-shirt material draped over them. Thinking about the secret he’d had to hide from the world. Hide from his wife and family. Hide from himself. What if…he could be the person he was always meant to be? How affirming and powerful would that feel on its own? But how could he square that with— “Can I… If we do this, can I change my name?”

“Of course,” says the voice. “Change your name, change your body, change…whatever you like. Be the person you believe you were always meant to be.”

The man’s next words came out soft, halting. “Can… can I be a Democrat?” He drops to a whisper. “Can I be… Nancy Pelosi?”

“Easy peasy,” the voice says. “Sign right here.”

The Truth Will Set You Free

Note: This is satire. Please don’t cancel me.

He wakes with a start, sticky-eyed, head pounding, and checks the time. He croaks out for her—why didn’t you get me up, I have to be at the studio—but then he remembers. No wife. No job. He falls back against the pillow. Stares at the ceiling, wills the patterns in the tiles to make sense. Wills anything to make sense. Who is he, now that they’ve taken his name, ripped away the persona he’d so carefully cultivated? Is that why she needed to get away from him, without so much as a conversation, because without his success he’s just…nothing? Just the “dumb fuck in a bowtie,” as his father-in-law had called him?

Despair flows through him, turning his body into lead. He’d enthusiastically reinvented himself after past misadventures—he refused to call them failures—but doesn’t know how to even start now. Or if he even wants to.

“Come now,” a voice says. “You’d have it all back in a heartbeat if you could.”

His gaze darts around the room. “What the—Rush? Is that you?”

A deep laugh flows over the man’s prone body, along with an aroma of sulfur and brimstone. “As if. ‘Talent on loan from God’ my scarlet behind. Talent on loan from me, was more like it.”

No. It can’t be. Ailes? The man struggles to lift his upper body from the mattress. His head swirls. He presses his hands to his temples, trying to remember if he’d signed anything in some alcohol-induced haze, but nothing came to mind. “You think I’m so desperate that I’d call out for you?” He tries for one of his trademarked maniacal giggles, but it only makes him cough and wheeze.

“So pathetic,” the voice says. “Do you really believe you got this far by not calling out for me for a little…moral support? Sweetheart. I’ve got the receipts. We made a deal. One soul for one second chance, to be negotiated at a later date. Apparently at the time you weren’t that desperate, but I kept this little honey on the table for you. And I think you just might be ready to talk to me now.”

The man’s mouth rounds. Then softens. Would it really be so bad? To be back on set, to reclaim his power – and maybe a little something more. Maybe, if he played this right, he could—

“Run the place? Oh, I’m sure you could. With a little help from me, of course.”

A tiny bubble of glee rises up from the man’s chest. Thinking of whom he’d destroy first…it would be so much fun. He smiles. “Got a pen?”

The voice laughs. “Got a pen, he says. Pauses, then adds “Or should I say ‘she’?”

The smile falls.

“I know all about you, sweetheart,” the voice purrs. “You’ve never felt comfortable in that body, which explains so much. Well. We can make this part of the deal. Be the woman you’ve always felt yourself to be. And wield the boundless power you’ve been craving your entire life. One stroke of the pen and it can all be yours.”

His insides shudder. He gazes down at the soft flesh of his chest and belly, the thin T-shirt material draped over them. Thinking about the secret he’d had to hide from the world. Hide from his wife and family. Hide from himself. What if…he could be the person he was always meant to be? How affirming and powerful would that feel on its own? But how could he square that with— “Can I… If we do this, can I change my name?”

“Of course,” says the voice. “Change your name, change your body, change…whatever you like. Be the person you believe you were always meant to be.”

The man’s next words came out soft, halting. “Can… can I be a Democrat?” He drops to a whisper. “Can I be… Nancy Pelosi?”

“Easy peasy,” the voice says. “Sign right here.”

A Little Goat Story

You always envied your brother, who had the brighter eyes and shinier coat, the clearer voice and the quicker wit. He was the instigator of mischief—the first through the gap in the fence, the first to greet visiting humans, the first to discover the tasty clover in the neighbor’s lawn, even though the dog always told them no. They say he was the first to clamber atop the haybale, the cows and horses parting to let him through, while he casually nibbled the feed as if this was the most natural thing for a young goat to do—to stand taller than those around him, to look all around as if he was the master of not only the haybale but the endless blue skies and the fat, scudding clouds and the rolling green pastures that surrounded us. He actually posed there, atop the mound of feed that was supposed to be for all of us, lifting his head, while the humans squealed and cried “how cute!” and took his picture.

Climbing up there was actually your idea, your dream, yet he hopped aboard without a “sorry” or even an invitation to join him. He wouldn’t even meet your eye—then, or for a long while after he came down.

Even so, when the truck arrived, and the human and the dog herded him and some of the others inside, you felt bad for him, even worrying about his fate. It was quiet in the field that day, no one yet daring to speculate where the little goats might have been taken, or if they would return.

Except the old billy goat.

He shook his gray-whiskered snout and talked of the ridiculousness of it all. “Playthings for humans,” he grunted. “Little fools. Trading their dignity for…for what? A change of scenery? To stand on some human’s back and pretend they have the upper hand in this life? To have another reminder that we are owned, from horn to hoof, and we have no say in our destinies?”

It was a very long afternoon.

But then the truck returned, and, led by your brother, the little ones fairly bounced out of the back, bleating with joy. He trotted over to you, waggling his stumpy tail, eyes shining brighter, and bumped his forehead against yours. He smelled strongly of human, and you didn’t know if you liked that.

You had many questions, but all you asked was where they had gone. “We played a game with humans,” he said. As if this also was the most natural thing for a little goat to do. “They said I was the best at the game and they want me to come back again to play!”

You were happy for your brother because the joy in him was contagious, but you were sad that he didn’t say “You should come next time.” Maybe you weren’t good enough to play games with humans. You let your snout drop. But he was already off in search of sweet clover.

“Little fool,” the old billy goat muttered, as the two of you watched him nibbling on the neighbor’s lawn for quite a while before the dog barked and trotted out to bring him home. “There is no cause to feel jealousy about your brother’s adventures. Being wanted by humans is a two-sided coin.”

At first the old goat’s speech felt comforting, then not as much. “What does this mean?” you asked. “What is a two-sided coin?”

“It means a thing that is both good and bad. It means finding good-tasting clover that makes you ill. It means cavorting in the roadway until a vehicle hits you.” He took a deep breath. “It means…all is fun and games with humans until they no longer want you, and then… Well, you do not need to know that yet.”

You tried not to think about that. You sensed that the old billy goat didn’t want you to ask. But you couldn’t resist knowing a little more. “Did they ever take you to play with the humans?”

The old billy goat leveled his gaze at you as if deciding how or if to answer. “Once.”

“Was it…was it fun, like they say?”

“For me, not especially, no. I did not care for it. The humans contorted themselves into odd positions while we were made to stand on their backs. As if we were circus performers for their amusement.”

“Is that why you were only taken to play once?” you asked. “Because you didn’t care for it?”

The old billy goat walked away.

——-

On a day when you woke up not feeling especially good—you’d followed your brother into a new patch of clover the previous afternoon and it wasn’t sitting well in your stomach—the truck came, and the human and the dog herded some of the little ones in the back. You watched this happen, and you were of two minds about it: jealous that you weren’t chosen, but grateful because of what the old goat had told you. Then the humans said something about numbers, not enough, and the human who lived in the house rubbed his chin and you were chosen! Avoiding the watchful eyes of the old goat, you trotted up the platform and your brother bonked your forehead, a little harder than usual.

“You will like this, brother, it will be fun!”

“But…but…I don’t know what I am supposed to do!”

“It’s easy,” your brother said. “There’s a nice human with a soft voice who teaches us how to do it. If we do it right, we get a lot of treats and cuddles!”

During the trip, while the other little goats chattered—mostly about the treats and the cuddles, which did sound kind of nice—you tried not to think about what the old billy goat had said. Maybe he was still angry because he wasn’t ever chosen again. Maybe he was jealous because he was no longer a little goat. He didn’t trot over immediately when new feed was put out, and there was a cloudy film over his eyes, and sometimes he smelled—well, much worse than usual. Yes, that had to be it. But there was something else—

“Brother, did you ever notice that there is only one old billy goat at our home?”

Your brother looked at you like you’d said something silly. “Why should we care about that! We are young billy goats, we have fun and play.”

And that was all you said the rest of the trip.

—–

They were greeted by the human with the soft voice, like your brother had said, but the instructions were confusing and didn’t feel fun at all. The tricks the human wanted—your brother demonstrated them, so proud of himself—looked difficult and sometimes made you queasy. You wanted to go home, but it was too late and back of the truck was closed and you didn’t know where you were. Somehow you got through it. Each of the little goats was assigned to a human and they sat together on separate blankets. Your human smelled like spoiled hay and touched you far too hard. The human with the soft voice called out when to do a new trick, and you tried very hard to remember what to do, but your hoof slipped and the human cried out and grabbed you too close to your tender stomach and it hurt and you couldn’t help yourself and you bit down until the pain stopped.

All the fun and the changing positions stopped. The human with the soft voice no longer had a soft voice, and you were taken to the truck and the back door closed. Inside it was hot and dark and you were scared they’d all be mad at you and you cried. It was a very long afternoon.

—–

The next time the truck came, it didn’t take you. The old billy goat raised his eyes to you then shook his head and resumed chewing the bits of hay strewn on the ground—leftovers from those who’d gotten to the new bale first. You watched him for a while, wondering if he too had bitten a human, if that was why he was never taken again. Then you decided it no longer mattered. Let your brother get treats for doing humans’ tricks. Let the old goat shake his gray-bearded muzzle. You were a young goat, and you would enjoy it.

You stared at the haybale, and immediately knew what to do. You trotted over, nosed between two cows, and climbed your way to the top. And there you stood, the master of everything—of the sweet untouched hay, of the sunny afternoon, of being your own goat, even if just for these few minutes—and it was marvelous.

The Thing on the Shelf

Hello. Here’s one of my stories from the wayback machine. I hope you enjoy it.

————

Abomination. She glared at the unblinking, painted eyes, the frozen mouth, wondering what horrid thing she had done that prompted them to bring this into her world. That was the only logical reason for the installation of the creature. Ears flattening, she gave it an experimental tap with her left front paw. An arm wobbled, then settled back into its original position. Curious. It seemed to have no movement of its own accord. And the face, if it could be called a face, never changed. Even when she slunk her body close to the twinkling tree and the sparkly things that dangled from it. Not a peep. For sure, that was its purpose. A watchdog, of sorts, to attempt to keep her in line. As if. Spiking with fury, she snapped a claw across its eye.

“Ow!”

She jumped back with a hiss, hair along her spine standing on end.

But the thing merely continued to stare. When no more noise came from the too-red mouth, she inched closer and nosed it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

She cocked her head. “You’re…a living thing?”

“You bet I am. And I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

“And I”—she sniffed—“don’t like the way you’re in my home. State your purpose and I might not murder you.”

“I make the children behave.”

“Please. That is my job.” She extended a claw. “With the help of Lefty, here.”

She swore the thing laughed. “You’ve gone soft,” it said. “You sleep in front of the fire half the day. And when was the last time you caught a mouse? You’re hardly earning your keep around here.”

“And you are? An idiotically grinning bit of plastic and fluff?”

“I don’t require feeding. Or veterinary bills. Or litter box changes. I’m what the humans call ‘cost-effective.’”

“Hmpf.” She licked a paw and swiped it over her ear. “I am self-cleaning, unlike you. You could use a good dusting. Here. Let me help you.” She pulled back and whacked him so hard he flew off the shelf and into the tree. It made a louder noise than she’d anticipated, a kind of crash-tinkle-jingle-thump, and she shrieked and scuttled under the handiest piece of furniture. But not before the humans’ door swung open.

“Cat!” the male one yelled. “Crissakes. What are you up to out here? Oh. That. Good,” he grumbled, dropping his voice. “I hate that thing. It gives me the creeps.”

The female one shuffled out after him. That human was less angry, but the tone still spelled trouble. Last time she hurt the tree they put her outside, and the night noises were scary and she ate a bug that didn’t taste good. She wanted to stay inside, where she had crunchies and a clean litter box and a fireplace to sleep next to.

And the thing said, “Outside. Outside.”

“Probably a good idea,” the male one said, scooping her up and walking for the door. Her heart beat faster. “Tomorrow, we should get one of those things from the home improvement store. I saw in on Facebook. You attach the tree to the ceiling…”

As she landed four paws down on the front stoop, she swore she heard the dog snickering. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sliding a book titled “Ventrilo-something” underneath the sofa.

What She Remembered

Haze hung over the city that Saturday afternoon. Those venturing out looked as if the humidity weighed on their bodies like a yoke. Even the traffic moved slower. Still, Anya waited on the stoop for Bubbe’s arrival—it was a promise she’d made to herself when they’d found each other again. That day, Anya had brought down a tall glass of lemonade, with extra ice. Moments later she spied Bubbe, her step quick and head high despite the heat, as if daring it to stop her.

Soon they were upstairs and settled, with a frosty pitcher and jam-sandwich cookies and one beautiful, perfect sunflower. “The market had already cut it down,” Bubbe Yulia said in apology, for she hated the idea of anyone decapitating the blossom. “I consider myself to have liberated it.”

Anya now studied the yellow face of the sunflower, which she had honored by setting up in her prettiest vase. She thought about her adoptive country’s national flower, and the symbolism behind it. How Russia had tried to destroy them. But Ukraine had survived. The sunflower had survived.

Bubbe Yulia had survived.

“Why don’t I remember more about you?” Anya said.

Bubbe seemed unfazed by the non-sequitur. “You were so small, then. Maybe, what, four or five? And don’t forget, the circumstances.”

Anya nodded, tightening her hands around her glass. The circumstances were a muzzy combination of memory and what little Mama had told her. Papa had disappeared. Mama snatched up whatever she could carry and hustled Anya out the door and into the night. She’d woken up in a strange house, to the sound of arguments in language she didn’t know. There were charcoal drawings on the walls, some that made her blush because the people were naked. In that part of her childhood, nudity was a shameful thing.

“We didn’t stay that long,” Anya said. “Maybe that’s why.”

Bubbe touched ice-cold fingers to hers. “You stayed by me for a month, tateleh. Maybe it was the shock.”

Anya gazed toward the window, where the leaves of a nearby maple drooped from the heat. “Maybe.”

“She was stubborn, your mother.”

“She had her reasons.” Anya pressed a hand over her mouth. It had come out harsher than she’d intended.

But Bubbe responded with a sad smile. “Yes, I know. I am hardly a paragon of virtue. We make our choices, we live with the results.”

“You chose to abandon her.” Again, Anya shocked herself at her boldness. But she’d been so polite for so long, with all her questions simmering beneath her skin. She deserved answers, and her mother could no longer supply them.

Bubbe sighed, gazed at the crumbs on her plate, the smear of jam. “I left her in good hands.”

“While you risked your life—”

“To fight for my country!”

“Should I thank you for your service?” Anya thought of the photo. Her mother had presented it to her shortly before she died, as a kind of bitter trophy. A thirtyish version of Bubbe, pretty, brown-haired, stood between two burly men. All in uniform, all with their arms around each other’s shoulders. She’d woven a daisy through her braid. This is what your grandmother was doing while I was raised by strangers on a Polish dairy farm. Playing dress-up with the men. Doing god knows what with the men.

For the moment, Bubbe Yulia sat silent. Anya scraped back her chair, went to her bedroom, withdrew a scrapbook. Opened it to the page where she’d mounted the photo, set it before Bubbe Yulia, and reclaimed her seat.

Bubbe drew in a quick gasp. Touched a finger to the protective plastic over their faces, wistfulness and pain clear on her face. She tightened her jaw, fought to toughen herself over, and finally, she spoke, the words soft but measured. “I had my reasons.”

Anya, feeling guilty, schooled her tone. “You were safe on that farm. You were safe in Poland. You could have raised her there, and both been safe, instead of leaving her—”

“We were the reason Russia did not win this war, we are the reason Ukraine still exists, it is because her people fought like hell! I fought”—her voice broke—“I fought for her.” Bubbe snatched a napkin from the holder and pressed it to her eyes. “I did not want her to…to go through what I did. I would fight those Russian bastards with every last molecule of my strength.”

Silence fell over the table. Condensation dripped down the side of the glass pitcher. The sunflower was reflected in its surface, distorted by the beads of water. Some pieces began coming together in Anya’s mind. Questions she didn’t know if she want answers to. Not now. Not yet. She cleared her throat. “Did…did those soldiers there with you…did they survive?”

Still looking at the photo, Bubbe shook her head. She touched the one to her left. “Land mine.” Then the one to her right. “Shrapnel from a cluster bomb. They were good men. Those fucking bastards. Putin khulyo.”

Anya repeated the familiar curse under her breath, hesitated only seconds before speaking again. “Did you kill any Russians?”

Bubbe raised a determined gaze to her granddaughter. “As many as I could.” She looked back to the photo, pressed her hand to it, and closed the book with a kind of finality. “And I’d do it all over again.”

A Seed of Hope

It takes a while for Yulia to get her bearings in the Warsaw refugee center, but eventually she finds two of her neighbors from Kyiv—an elderly couple—and over surprisingly good coffee they play asylum geography: who is where, who has taken them in, who has returned. The wife, Magdalena, says Renata is there, too, as is Renata’s family, but the girl rarely left her bed. They all worry for her, but there were so many to worry over. Magdalena leans closer. “Something bad happened to her, I think.” Yulia nods, the words tightening her throat.

Renata lived in Yulia’s apartment building, on the third floor, with her grandparents and younger brothers and sisters. She was a beauty, a rosebud of a teenage girl. Amber-brown hair curled fashionably around her delicate jaw. Several times when the sirens went off, she and Yulia sat together in the shelter whispering in the dark after the children had fallen asleep. Telling stories, keeping each other strong. Becoming friends.

One night when the sirens sounded, Renata didn’t come to the shelter with her family. Her grandparents were despondent. She hadn’t come home for dinner.

The next day there was a knock on her door. It was Renata, but a version she could never have expected. Her shoulders curled in and her eyes were lowered and there was an ugly, florid bruise blooming on her left cheekbone. Yulia pulled her inside the door and held her in her arms. She didn’t have to ask what had happened. She knew. All women would know. Yulia held her until she softened. She asked one thing: if the girl needed a doctor. Renata shook her head as if she could shake the memory out of it. Yulia made tea. They pretended to drink it. The water cooled. The afternoon faded. She promised not to tell Renata’s grandparents. Yulia gave her a phone number of a clinic that had helped many in such trouble without asking too many questions.

It was the last she’d seen of Renata.

“Take me to her?” she asks Magdalena, and the older woman thinks it might be a fool’s errand, but she indulges Yulia. Her grandmother sits stiffly at her bedside, in a giant room filled with army cots. When the older woman sees Yulia, her eyes narrow. She rises like a cobra preparing to strike.

“Please,” Yulia says. “I’d just like a moment.”

Her wariness softens and she moves a discreet distance away.

But Renata doesn’t turn to greet her. Even when Yulia sits, even when she sets a hand on her thin shoulder. Yulia whispers soft words. Renata shifts on the cot, and her eyes are hollow, red-rimmed. Her T-shirt drapes over a flat belly, and at least for this Yulia is relieved. She wants to ask things. She wants to ask everything.

“She found out,” Renata says, her voice a tiny creak. “About the doctor. About what I did. She says I’m going to hell.”

Yulia sucks in a breath, leans over and pulls the girl into her arms. “Oh, honey,” Yulia murmurs, as Renata grips back fiercely and wets Yulia’s clothing with her tears. “We’re already there.”

For a long while after Yulia leaves Renata and her grandmother’s evil stare, she sits in that same courtyard with Magdalena and her husband. The couple continues the asylum geography, but Yulia’s mind drifts away. She thinks of Renata and her future. She thinks of the blue-eyed baby she left in Poland, in the care of the farmer’s wife. And when her gaze lands on a nearby table, where two thick-shouldered Ukrainian soldiers drink coffee—no doubt heading back into battle soon after they are no longer needed here to escort refugees—her heart aches for the army fighting for all of them. Dying for all of them. She hasn’t stopped checking her phone, in case Maksym has been trying to reach her, but hope is fading. Then a thought punches its way to the surface: You are not hopeless. You have skills. You have already fought for your country, and you can continue to fight.

Her jaw tightens. She knows what she needs to do. She rises from the table, walks over to the soldiers and asks where she can enlist.

Trapped

Yulia sits limp in a wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, every inch of her still aching and spent from her ordeal. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of her neck, soaks into the thin cotton nightgown one of the farmwomen had given her when she grew too big for her own clothing. The men say it’s too expensive to run the air conditioning now. On a farm, they say, choices must be made. Fans are useless; windows are opened, but they only let in hot, damp air. And bugs, through the broken screens. She watches the bugs crawl along the sill, get caught in spiders’ webs. It is your own fault, she thinks at the poor, wriggling beetle that will soon be dinner. You walked right into it. You are trapped.

“Yulia.”

She doesn’t turn from the window. The voice is one she faintly recognizes as Pauline, one of the farmer’s many daughters. But Yulia can’t find the energy to respond. And even if she could, there’s nobody she wants to talk to here. She’d rather converse with the bugs.

“Yulia. Please.” A different female voice. “You must eat something. If not for the baby, then for your own—”

“Leave her.”

“Anatole!” Oh, the relief in Pauline’s voice. “You must make her listen to reason, she’s not been thinking right since the birth, at least try to get her to eat—”

“If she does not want to eat, she does not want to eat.” He lowers his voice as if Yulia can’t hear him. “How is the baby?”

“Ravenous little thing,” Pauline says. “Good luck for her that Marta still has her milk.”

Yulia squeezes her eyes shut as if it could make this nightmare go away. She’s beyond tired of hearing about Marta. Marta the martyr. Nursing both babies. So sunny and bright. The morning after Marta’s own baby was born, all twelve pounds of him, she was in the kitchen making blueberry pie.

Hearing nothing now but the distress of the insects in the web—two files have joined the beetle—Yulia dares to lift her eyelids. Dares to move her head away from the window. Only Anatole stands in the doorway, with the melting blue eyes, the blond forelock askew. That hangdog look was once adorable, then tolerable. Now it disgusts her. The child was born with blue eyes.

“Go away.”

“Yulia…” Hands outstretched as if to plead with her, he steps into the room. “All I want is to help you.”

In her mind she knows that. But a different part of her wants to make that untrue. Apparently he takes her silence as an invitation to continue. He kneels before her, sets a tentative hand on her knee. He smells of the fields, of dirt and sunshine. She wants to yell at him, to get up off his knees, to get that so very gentle hand off her body. To yell that she is not so fragile, she is not so broken, that this is not his fault, or his responsibility. All she wants is time to…time to… She lets her eyes drift shut again.

His voice when it comes next is like the buzzing of the flies. “This way you are feeling…the midwife told me it happens quite often, after the baby…to feel a little sad. They call it postpartum depress—”

“I am not depressed! Take your midwife and your psychology and Marta and—” The effort to push those words out has taken too much from her and she drops her head back against the chair and closes her eyes. “Go away, Anatole. Please.”

She can only guess what his face might look like now. Wounded hangdog. Yet she still feels his presence, although he has taken his hand off her leg. “Yulia. I love you. All I want is…”

“I know,” she says. She wants to thank him. She wants to say she loves him, too. But she doesn’t trust those words. She’s said those words before and they have come back for revenge.

“You might not want to hear this now,” Anatole says, “but please just think about it. The midwife said that perhaps when you’re feeling physically able, you might want to get away from the farm for a while. Take a little vacation.”

Her eyes flew open in alarm.

“Without the baby,” he says.

She lets out a long breath; her lids close again.

“We will be here when you return. Did you not say once that you have friends who took asylum in Warsaw? Perhaps you’d like to visit.” He adds quickly, “But you don’t have to answer now. Just think. Just rest.”

Yulia allows the words to settle. His hand sets on her knee, gives it a brief squeeze. Then she watches his retreat.

“Anatole?”

He stops in the doorway.

“Perhaps there is some bread?”

He smiles, and the hope in his eyes terrifies her.

You Take a Nice Chicken…

Hi. In other news, I’m happy to share some recent developments with Boychik.

First, book reviewer and foodie lit aficionado Susan Weintrob has included Boychik in her series where she reviews a book and shares a recipe inspired by the story. You can read that article about Boychik on her Expand the Table website.

Susan’s father owned a deli in Brooklyn, and she shares the makings of her favorite pastrami sandwich. She also talks egg creams, an important touchstone in the story. Thank you, Susan!

Also, I’m thrilled to be included on the Sassy Scribblers blog, which is where the title of this post comes from. This is where I talk about my culinary past, including my grandfather, who delighted me in sharing his chicken soup recipe, which always began with “First, you take a nice chicken.”

And please, share the links if you feel so moved. Thank you for reading.

Broken Ukrainian

The harsh blue sky has softened with the descent of the sun into early evening. Yulia, done with the last Holstein, pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes and stretches her back. Despite everything, Yulia still milks the cows, twice a day. The farm women’s suggestions, at first, were made in polite attempts at her language, with soft, cooing voices and touches on her arm.

Yulia, maybe you’d like to help in the kitchen instead. Yulia, maybe you’d prefer to help with less strenuous chores. Let Anatole carry the milk buckets, let him, let him…

Then the messages grew more insistent and more often were delivered in Polish.

Yulia, think of your child.

How can she not think of her child?

But Yulia keeps smiling and waves them away, saying she can handle it, saying she’d done these things and more in Ukraine. Of course, that is not completely true. Before taking asylum at the Polish farm, she hadn’t as much as looked at a cow since her teen years at her grandfather’s dairy. But hauling boxes of supplies to people in the shelters, combing through debris for what could be salvaged, carrying victims of Russian shelling and children who were too tired to walk to yet another promise of evacuation—it has made her strong enough for these things.

Why stop simply because she is pregnant?

They think we are so fragile. They should watch a woman give birth to a baby that has been forced upon her and will traumatize her all over again, seeing her rapist’s features in an infant’s face. Even if that baby is given up to the uncertainty of adoption, she will never forget.

She sucks in a breath, sets a hand on her belly. She thinks about Maksym and presses the memory of his dark eyes and full lips into her growing fetus. She thinks of the proprietary touch of his callused but still tender hand. It’s foolish, she knows, that thinking hard enough will make this his child and no one else’s. She doesn’t want to remember the others, afraid that if she lets that possibility invade her mind, she’ll take the remedy so many of her Ukrainian sisters have—either to end the pregnancy or their own lives. Both of which are illegal in this country that has otherwise been so kind to her.

This baby has to be Maksym’s. She will not survive otherwise.

And she has to survive.

“Yulia.”

The voice brings her back. It’s Anatole.

“Ah,” she says, giving him a wry smile. “So again they have sent you to spare my delicate condition, have they?”

He blushes. It gives her a mean kind of pleasure. He is a good young man, but so earnest. So naïve.

“I just… I—”

She spares him further embarrassment and simply hands him a bucket to take—their evening dance together.

They walk back to the shed in silence. He pours both of their buckets into the big milk can that will go to market in the morning. Too soon, the buckets are empty and rinsed and the can is topped. This part, the two of them left alone with no purpose, makes her stomach crawl. Before she can say goodnight and disappear, he holds up a hand to stop her. She glares at it, at the aggressiveness of it, halting her progress. Perhaps noting this, he slowly lets it drop and his blush creeps back in.

“Yulia.” His voice breaks. “My offer to you…it was genuine. I meant what I said. You should not have to be alone with…”

Enough of this. “With my dead married lover’s bastard child?”

He appears smaller now. Her right palm goes to her belly. I didn’t mean that, Maksym. Little one, you are his and I loved him. Love. He’s still alive. He has to be still alive.

“I have angered you,” Anatole says softly in broken Ukrainian, trying to blank the hurt off his face. “I am sorry.”

Yulia shakes her head, raises both hands in surrender. His eyes, so earnest. So wounded. She did this to him. She feels bad for it now. As if viewing the scene from the first row of a movie theater, she watches her left hand cup his cheek. Watches her draw closer and kiss him. All the while she wants to yell at the woman. “No, don’t do this!” But it’s hopeless. All Yulia can do is watch as this woman leads him away into the night.

(You can also listen to this post as a podcast.)

No Flowers, No Fruit

Overnight an early spring storm had ambushed the city like a bad memory; torrents of rain washed soil and and cigarette butts and loose stone down the hilly streets into the gutters. Anya called Bubbe Yulia and suggested that her grandmother might like to skip this week’s visit and chat on the phone instead.

But bubbe would not be dissuaded. That afternoon Anya stood in the shelter of her doorway and watched her grandmother trundle up the walk, looking like an old-country babushka with her oversized gray coat and rain bonnet, and now they sat at Anya’s kitchen table, not talking. We could have not talked just as well over the telephone, Anya thought, and you would not have had to go out in the cold.

“I had no flowers to bring you,” Bubbe Yulia finally said.

Anya shrugged. “I had no fruit.” The remains of a blueberry crumble made from canned pie filling sat between them.

After a long moment, a smile lifted bubbe’s dough-soft cheeks. “It is just enough to see you, tateleh.”

And silence fell along with the rain. This worried Anya. They rarely had such gaps in their conversations. It had been as if they strove to make up for their years apart by taking up every moment with words, with memories (mostly Anya’s), and with recipes.

“You are all right, bubbe?”

Bubbe Yulia sniffed. Steadied the fingers of her left hand around her glass of tea—the only Russian influence she allowed, and only because she thought it made the tea taste better, and only after claiming the Ukrainians had done it first. “Fine. I am fine. I have been thinking. About something you asked me. About the man in the drawing.”

Anya perked up. The anticipation of finally knowing even a scintilla of truth thrummed through her, scrambled her thoughts, her questions. “The man. The drawing. The one with the bullet hole? It is a bullet hole, isn’t it? Was that—was he my—?”

“I want you to have it.”

“You want—you are sure?” It seemed too important a thing to give her. To give anyone. “Bubbe, is he my grandfather?”

“Already I told you this. I do not know. If this were a fairy story, then he should have been. He should have been a lot of things. But real life is not so neat and tidy, tateleh.”

Anya’s gaze fell to the crumbs on her plate. She knew this. There were also Russian soldiers. In fairy stories they don’t do the things they did, either. But real life…she shuddered for her grandmother, what she had endured. The only part that was remotely like a fairy story is that she and Anya had found each other again.

“Next time,” Bubbe said, “when it hopefully will not be raining, I will bring it.”

“Of course. The charcoal…” Then she had an idea. “In school I learned Photoshop, how to retouch images. I could remove the bullet hole.” At the alarmed rise of Bubbe’s eyebrows, Anya said, “On a scan. Not the original. I will not touch the original.”

Bubbe’s face relaxed. “Whatever you wish. If it can further your education, even better.”

Anya cleared her throat, picked up her tea, holding it with both hands, feeling its warmth. “You know, Bubbe, a scan is like a copy. You could keep the original, if you like.”

“No.” The sharpness of Bubbe’s tone startled her. “No,” she repeated, softer. “This I give to you.”

“You don’t want…anything? To remember him.”

Bubbe gave a cryptic smile. “From him, I have all I need.”