“Merry
Christmas Pasha,” Nick said.
Pasha
turned to Nick squaring his shoulders, “Yeah, you too.”
“You
know we’re going to have a big get together at my place tomorrow and you’re
welcome…”
“Yeah,
is your mom’s gonna be there? Bet she’s still talking about me. Oh Pasha, yes,
yes! Nick never gives it to me like this!”
“Fuck
you! You don’t have to be an asshole every day of the week.”
“I
got friends and family. I don’t need your charity.”
“Against
my better judgement, the offer still stands. Just remember to shower you stinky
ole bastard.”
“Tell
your moms to douche every once in a while.”
Nick
extending both middle fingers high in the air walked out of the garage without
another word.
Pasha
stepped through his front door, his wife, Vitaliya, greeted him. Her soft body
pressed hard against his. He let himself linger in the fragile moment.
“How
was your day?” Vitaliya asked.
“I
don’t want to talk about it,” Pasha said locking the door behind him.
Frowning
she changed the subject, “Look who’s here?”
“Igasho!”
Pasha took a step back and shook his head from side to side. His mouth wide
open.
“The
one and only,” Smiling his wife’s image undulated and faded into the
background. In front of him stood a middle-aged man smiling broadly.
“Hi
Dad.”
“Igasho,
I’m… I’m…”
“It’s
ok Dad, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Pasha’s
face turned upwards, eyes gleaming, he reached into his pocket, “I have this
for you!”
A
seven-year-old boy with curly blonde hair snatched the object from his hand,
“Holy crap! a B52 Daisy slingshot! Thanks Dad!”
“Igasho
be careful with that!” Pasha said beaming, “It’s not a toy!”
His
son slipped through the door even before Pasha could get the words out. His
wife’s voice reached out to Pasha even though he couldn’t see her clearly.
“We
have to talk. The doctor says we should plan for the worse. Time may not be on our
side...”
“Not
talking about it!” Pasha turned his body at an angle, away from his wife’s
voice.
“Pasha,
I wish one time, just once you’d talk to me.”
“Doctors
don’t know shit,” locking his arms across his chest.
Igasho
burst through the door his voice full of excitement.
“The
kids across the street broke our car window!”
“They
broke...? How?”
“We
were throwing rocks and…”
“Goddamn
it Igasho I told you it’s not a toy,” voice frothing with anger Pasha loosened
his belt. An opened bottle of Jim Beam appeared in his free hand.
His
son darted down the hallway.
Pasha gave chase but the faster he ran the longer the hallway became, and the bottle of bourbon larger and heavier in his hand. The image of his son a shadow on the horizon, slipped through a doorway.
“Igasho! You have to pay! You need to learn your lessons!”
Pasha
stopped. His heartbeat furiously in his chest and he struggled to catch his
breath. He looked at the leather belt in his hand and the oversized bottle of
whiskey in the other. His body deflated and his head rolled forward as if
suspended on a broken hinge.
Eyes
watering with emotion he said, “Igasho, I want to tell you it’s ok. The window
can be fixed. You’re my son and, I love you.”
When
he looked up the hallway resumed its normal size, and he was just steps from
the door. From behind its wooden frame, he could hear the sharp crack of
leather on flesh and his son screaming, pleading to make it stop.
Frantically,
he reached for the doorknob, but the leather strap, that was in his hand, was replaced
by a low-ball glass and in the other a now very ordinary sized bottle of
whiskey. He opened his fingers, but the glassware stuck to his hands. He
flailed and rolled his arms, but he couldn’t dislodge the glass or the bottle. He
poured the liquor into the glass, determined to drink them away.
“What
are you doing to my son!”
Violence
and pain on the other side of the door was his only reply. He took several
steps back and ran at the door. As he propelled himself forward his feet stuck
to the floor. Straining, every step he took played out in a slow-motion roll,
and when he finally hit it was a feather in the wind.
“Igasho,
you have to open the door, I can’t!”
He
punched at the unrelenting door the glass and bottle disappearing from his
hands as he shouted his sons name repeatedly.
“Pasha,
what are you doing? We’re going to be late for dinner!”
He
stared at his wife in disbelief letting her words wash over him. Her blonde
hair cascaded past her shoulders and glimmered like champagne on New Year’s Day.
Her appearance seemed a mirage, yet he reveled in her presence just the same.
A
soft smile dawned and spread across her cheeks as she spoke, “Well open the
door silly.”
“I
don’t like these fucking family dinners. Besides, I can’t open the door,” his
mood soured.
“That’s
crazy talk. All doors open if you want them to. You just have to use the right key.”
Thousands
of keys lay piled up at the front of the door. Exasperated Pasha exclaimed,
“Which one?”
Vitaliya’s
eyes widened, and she leaned in, “Don’t you remember?” She picked up three keys,
stacked them together and slid them into the lock. “Three but always one, always
one.” She turned the handle and stepped through.
A
soft amber light blanketed the rectangular dining room bathing it in a warm nostalgia.
A large banquet table adorned with a red cloth spread out before him. The smell
of turkey, ham, stuffing, and freshly baked pastries assembled on the table assailed
his nostrils filling him with peace despite a vague smell of rot underneath the
opulence.
Looking
around the table he saw his entire family seated there, both immediate and
extended. Their smiling faces felt like a summer’s day, and for the moment, he
forgot about the solitary chill of their long winter slumbers.
They
passed the food around the table. First the turkey, then the stuffing, followed
by the mashed potatoes and gravy. The heavenly aromas made his mouth salivate
in desire and his stomach growl with need. At each turn however the food was
passed around him and his plate remained empty. The smell of decay grew
stronger. His eyes began to frantically search for the source of offense.
At
the center of the table was a large pot of spaghetti. It simmered inside, and the
lid danced sporadically as the fetid contents oozed from the top and dribbled
down the sides.
“Go
on Pasha,” his wife said softly. “Have some spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti
for Christmas! I’m not having spaghetti for Christmas dinner!”
Everyone
around the table sat motionless, eyes wide with nervous smiles, watching him
expectantly.
Vitaliya
twisted her wedding ring as she spoke, “Pasha dear, if you don’t eat it now,
you’ll be eating it for the rest of your life.”
“I’m
not eating the fuck…” he stopped mid-sentence. His wife’s subtle form shimmered,
and her delicate features wrinkled.
“Look,
I don’t want spaghetti for Christmas is all,” Pasha’s tone softened.
“You
always were such a stubborn man.”
He
stared at his wife. Her face was thin, and her fair complexion faded to a
ghostly white. Dark circles framed her eyes.
“Pasha
eat! You don’t look well.”
Her
words pierced him like a sharp knife, cutting through layers of distressed
leather. Her demeaner shimmered once more, fading into the background and for a
moment he couldn’t see her at all. His wide eyes desperately searched the room
for her. His heart settled a little when her visage once again appeared before
him.
“Alright
I’ll eat the damn spaghetti,” Pasha’s eyes rolled up and away from her.
The
lid on the stained and patinaed pot clanged violently as the putrid contents boiled
inside. He leaned over the table and the smell nearly knocked him over. Years
of rot sprung forth and settled like a fog over the banquet. He gingerly placed
his hand over the lid, but immediately pulled it back when he decided it would
be too uncomfortable for him to open.
Pasha
sat back in his chair arms locked tightly against his chest. A slight smirk
formed on his lips, “It’s too fucking hot…”
As
he looked across the table his wife was no longer there. Just beyond her chair
he could see an open doorway, a white light spilled out from within. Inside a frail
figure lay on a sterile bed covered only by a thin white sheet. People
surrounded her on all sides, their shoulders stooped over staring at their
hands, all but one.
Igasho
stood at the head of her bed and gently caressed her forehead.
“Where
is your father? Is he here?” Vitaliya asked, too weak to open her eyes.
“He
is,” Igasho lied.
“Take
my hand Pasha, I’m so very cold,” Vitaliya extended a skeletal hand into the
air.
Igasho
took her outstretched hand and in a moment her closed eyes beamed wide, and her
mouth fell open. With a strength that surprised Igasho she forcefully pulled
her hand back and flung it to her chest.
“It
hurts so bad.”
“Do
you want me to get the Doctor? Maybe they can give you some more medicine.”
“No. Igasho listen to me. Give your father my
phone.”
“Mom
me and Dad haven’t spoken…”
“This
is all I have left to give him. You will do this for me?”
“Mom
you’ve been there for me…” the emotion thundered inside him. “Your strength…love…
I’ll have with me always.” As he spoke the thin veneer of courage, he was
wearing peeled away like cheap furniture. “I just don’t want you to go. Please
don’t go Mama. Please!” Igasho collapsed on her chest and sobbed.
The
doorway slammed shut. The rancid smell assaulted Pasha’s nostrils and the
offensive odor was absorbed deep into his skin. No matter how he turned his
head or covered his face the smell was there. The fucking rot clung to him like
Velcro.
He
looked down at his bowl and watched as the simmering sauce overflowed the sides
and pooled in a green and black jelly along the table. The spoon danced in the steeping
sauce, its clamoring rang like a dinner bell, and Pasha heeded the call.
As
he shoveled each rancid spoonful into his mouth, the contents would disappear,
but it churned and burned in his stomach just the same. His bowels screamed for
relief, but the poison settled at the bottom of his gut and percolated.
He
looked around the table. The chairs were empty now except for one. He strained to
make out a familiar face, ask for help, but he couldn’t see through the cloud
of vapor rising from the pot of spaghetti.
“Pasha,
you’ve been given a great gift,” a voice boomed through the fog.
“Gift?
Forget your gift! I want my life back!”
Pasha
sat up with a start. Black and white shadows undulated inside his drab
apartment while “It’s a Wonderful Life” droned in the background. A can of half-eaten
Spaghetti O’s, a pint of vodka, and pills lay sprawled out on his coffee table.
He grabbed the bottle of painkillers and was about to swallow a tablet when his
wife’s phone buzzed. He picked it up pressing the button on the side that took
him the unlock screen.
Without
a thought he uttered, “the one and only,” and pressed one on the number pad.
“One
time just once,” pressing the number one two more times.
“Just
have to find the right one,” he hit the one key for the final time and entered
it. The phone sprang to life, he pressed the camera icon and searched for the
images encapsulated within. His eyes lingered on each photo as the reflections flowed
from his eyes and down his cheeks in torrents.
Holiday
smiles, carefree vacations, and awkwardly staged poses all helped to paint a
larger tapestry of his existence. A mosaic that had lain hidden under dull
lifeless colors, splattered across a rough-hewn canvas. Revealed in layers as
each photo added to the composition, and a panorama emerged through the images.
The pain, joy, and missteps combined to form a whole. Shown through a kaleidoscope
of memories a reconciliation formed, and a quiet acceptance surfaced. The
bitterness of his shortcomings made tolerable by the salt of her spirit, and despite
it all she loved him still.
He
pressed the phone icon on the screen and dialed Nicks number.
“Hi
ya, Nick its Pasha. I’d like to take you up on your offer…”
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