What Changes Everything Part 4

Yvette leaned forward and tapped the two stacked books. "So?"

"What?" Stela reached into a lower drawer on the desk and pulled out a green metal box. From inside, she selected two one-dollar bills.

"Who"re you writing to now? The president? Another author? The head of the Veteran"s a.s.sociation? Who?"

Stela held out the money to Yvette, who shook her head. Stela sighed and put the dollars on the table. "Every time we have to argue over the change," she said. "You"d think it was two hundred dollars instead of two."

"Someone I"ve heard of?" Yvette persisted. "Or someone obscure this time?"

"Not that it"s your business."

"Oh no. Not your son again?"

"Yvette, please."

Yvette raised a hand skyward. "I"m taking that as a no, Stela. And I"m hoping not, because I don"t want to see you suffer more."

"Okay," Stela said. "Thanks."

"How much can one mother"s heart take? Besides, haven"t I known him since he reached here?" She put her hand on her waist. "I know what I"m saying. He"s our haros.h.i.+ malchik. He"ll come around in time, so you don"t need to take years off your life fretting over it."

"Okay," Stela said.

"Water flows, but the rock remains. You are his rock."

"Hmm."

Suddenly Yvette jumped; Bulgakov had rubbed himself against her legs. Stela couldn"t help herself; she chuckled. "My sharpest cat," she said.

"Not so sharp if she thinks I want to pet her."

"I think she specifically realizes you don"t."

"Wish you"d thin out some of these cats." Yvette settled back into the armchair. "So. If it"s not Danil, who is it?"

"Who says it"s a letter? I"m practicing my Mandarin."

Yvette laughed. "You could just say you don"t want to tell me."

"I don"t want to tell you."

Yvette sighed. "But then I"d be forced to remind you that I am not for nothing your closest friend. Here for the easy times and the hard. Always have been. I"m exactly the place to deposit secrets. If this is going to be a secret."

"Okay, okay. I"m writing my memoirs."

"Oh right, Mrs. Haha. As private as you are?"

The bell clanged again. Stela turned to see Jenni, her long blond hair swinging, her lipstick redder than maraschino cherries, already in mid-sentence. "Had to run right over and tell you, Stela dear. Feelin" good, yes ma"am," she said, drawing out the last word as if she were an auctioneer. "We have a buyer. At least," she chuckled, "I think we do. They don"t want to go quite as high as we"d like-the financial climate, you know, the uncertainty in your line of business-but I think it will come in as a not-too-bad offer. I shouldn"t be talking out of school since I don"t have the details yet," and here, she actually giggled, which Stela found unbecoming in any case, but particularly in a middle-aged woman. "But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I"d stop in and personally give you a whisper. I"ll call later, as soon as I get some numbers, and if you like them, well, we"ll shout the news from the rooftops. I want you out of this dusty old store, dear Stela. And then maybe you"ll let me talk you into selling that old threebedroom of yours and buying a cute little condo with a view. There are some good deals out there-I know, I know, you don"t want to change your addresses in case friends come looking for you, but we can deal with that, Stela dear. Oh well, one step at a time. No, can"t have coffee," she said, though Stela hadn"t offered any, hadn"t even spoken yet, "Sorry to be on the run. But you have to work twice as hard to make half as much money these days." She kissed the air. "Talk to you soon, darling," she said, waving a hand at her shoulder as she turned away.

The door closed behind her and the store seemed for a moment as if the air had been sucked out of it. Yvette stared at Stela, and then opened her hands to the sky. "The shop? Such a big decision as this, you were keeping from me?"

"There"s no decision, Yvette. You see how she is? Not a second to get a word in edgewise."

"You put it on the market and you didn"t breathe a word. I told you even before I told my ex-husband when I got pregnant."

"Your ex-husband, that kakashka? I"m not sure that qualifies-"

"What will you do if it sells?"

"You think all I can do is own a used bookstore?"

"I think this has been your life for the last twenty years. And there would be trouble if the cobbler started making pies."

"I"m neither cobbler nor cook," Stela said lightly. She rose and idly straightened some books near the door. She didn"t really want to go into this. But she turned back to find Yvette staring, demanding with aggressive silence that Stela explain. "Some days this shop is like my prison, Yvette. I imagine the books falling from the high shelves and suffocating me. It"s possible, you know. Have you looked around here? Books are living everywhere. I even have them on the back of the toilet in the bathroom now. More than I"ll ever be able to sell. So when I die, what"ll happen? Someone will come, take them to a recycle center? Labor spent to turn literature into trash: I don"t want that to be my legacy."

Yvette shook her head. "Who"s talking about dying?"

"It doesn"t hurt to think."

"Stela, this is not the moment to sell. Danil needs to know where to find you, and the beaten path is the shortest one."

"Thank you, Yvette. I"m done discussing this now."

"Besides, who will I talk to over morning coffee if you move away? What are we, if not family by now?"

Stela, silent, stacked up four books on the counter, arranging them so the smallest one was on top.

"We"re just a couple girls from the motherland-we always said that-and we have to stick together." Yvette put down her empty cup and picked up the Shemyakin book, tapping her fingers gently on its cover without speaking for a few minutes before reaching over to squeeze Stela"s hand. "You"re not healed yet. You"re not ready to make a big change. You hear me?" Stela shrugged.

"Okay. Okay. I"m getting the silent treatment. I have to get going anyway." Yvette stood up. "You"ll do what you want in the end. But don"t do anything before tomorrow, Stela, promise me that much. We need to talk more, after you"ve found your tongue again."

Stela ducked her head gruffly in reply.

When the door closed behind her, Stela let out the sigh she"d been holding. She wished she"d been quick enough to figure out a way to cut off the real estate agent before she began spouting information like a busted water pipe. How could she discuss this with Yvette before she was sure herself? The shop sometimes felt like a prison hut in Siberia, as she"d told Yvette. But she"d also loved these old books longer and more deeply than she"d loved most people-yes, the stories themselves, but even more, the history of the hands that had smoothed these covers, bent back a corner, underlined a series of words, dripped ligonberry jam on a page. She loved the estate sales that made Yvette recoil. Buying volumes others had tucked beneath their arms and then bringing them back here to her new home made being in her bookstore like a trip to the ocean; it gave her a sense of timelessness. It reminded her that she was nothing more than a comma in a sea of endless sentences. It made her feel less alone. It sucked the salt from her wounds.

She slid the books off the note she was writing. She should have been a writer-she knew how to tell a story, and she loved words. But it was too late for that; all she had now was the letters, so she kept at it, buying stamps in an age of emails, using the Internet solely to track down street addresses, sending out letters to everyone she thought of, and never really hoping for a reply. Except from Danil.

And no letters were more futile, probably, than the ones she wrote to her son. But she couldn"t stop, no matter what she told Yvette. He was still angry with her, she suspected. He might not open her letters, if they even reached him via the only address she had. And yet, he was her son; of course she wrote. She kept no copies of her letters, but she suspected if she could look at them as a whole, they would parallel the path of her grief.

It was crazy: the dead son she could visit. She could rant and cry over his body below the ground and try to come to terms with the loss. The other one, alive, had slipped entirely from her reach. Sometimes even, immediately upon awakening, she confused in her mind who was gone and who remained; she imagined calling the youngest to lament over the pa.s.sing of the oldest.

"Yvette just came in," she wrote now to Danil. "She asked about you as always. She is moving more slowly, but has the loyalty of a collie, though please don"t mention that comparison to her. If you-" She crossed out the last two words and rewrote: "When you come home, I"ll make you pirozhki and invite her to dinner."

She put down her pen and went to pour herself another cup of coffee, placing a sugar cube on her tongue; she still found it comforting to drink coffee in the old way. "We are having an Indian Summer, which Yvette calls a St. Martin"s Summer, and she"s explained why, but I"ve forgotten. I am grateful for this last breath of-" She crossed out the last line. Why should she discuss the weather and dance around the real topic? This was her son; he"d come from within her own body.

"Oh Dani," she wrote. "We are left behind, you and I. There is no one else with whom I can recall that decade and a half of years rich with your childhoods, that time for which I feel such nostalgia. No one left but you who I can love in such an unprotected way. I miss you."

She paused, chewing on the end of her pen, and began again. "I wish you could have seen the face of the staff sergeant who gave me the details. I cannot believe he lied to me. Besides, Dani, if I accept this as a lie, how much else would I have to question?" She stopped, reread the last three sentences and, hating them, wadded up the paper. She would start over. Which was fine. Famous authors spent years perfecting their books, after all, and now those books surrounded her, making a lasting impression. She could spend a few more weeks on a letter to her last remaining son.

Grief had changed her. The old Stela had vanished, erased by a war "over there," though in a different way than her sons. First she"d been angry, and that anger had driven Dani away. But she"d understood at last that if she was to get on with what was left, she had to stop clinging to the past. And that"s what she needed to tell her son, that alone, if she could find a way to slip the other differences between the pages of a forgotten book.

She remembered how frightening it was to be young and be forced to imagine the inner lives of one"s parents. There they were, crazy or disappointed or bitter, sagging in spirit as well as body. Who wouldn"t run from that? She empathized with Dani; she could understand why he fled.

But who else did she have to explain things to? Sitting there, surrounded by words, searching for the right ones, she took another clean sheet, and tried again.

Danil, September 5th Danil heard the doorbell ring, but he chose not to acknowledge it. He couldn"t have been sleeping more than a couple of hours; he needed more. He willed his eyes to stay closed even as he heard a key in the door, and then Joni"s voice.

"Morning, Dani. Or actually, afternoon."

He groaned and rolled over.

"Time to get up," Joni said.

"Give me a pa.s.s, Joni," he said. "I worked late."

"I"m not sure it"s work unless you get a paycheck," Joni said lightly.

"Remind me again why I gave you a key?"

Joni laughed and sat on the only comfortable chair in Danil"s apartment. "A cup of coffee," she said, extending her arm, then setting the cup on the rickety table when he didn"t acknowledge it. "You"re welcome. And here are the latest three letters from your mom." She shook her head. "These letters...but that"s another topic, Dani. Today I come bearing news, and I don"t have much time. I"m on lunch break."

Dani and Joni met in school seven years ago, before he"d dropped out. She became a web designer, with an eye for color, a wide streak of practicality and a brain for business. He was both pleased and amazed that they"d stayed friends, even as he"d grown more solitary, more isolated. "Send me an email," he said.

"Hand that line to someone who thinks you read email."

Dani kicked off the covers and moved his legs to the floor, planting his feet, propping up his head on one arm.

"Your friend Eli stopped over," Joni said.

Danil sighed. "He"s not exactly a friend."

"Remind me again why he has my address? And why he doesn"t know where you live now?"

Danil sat up. "You didn"t tell him, did you?"

"If I had, he"d be here already. Listen, he said to give you this. Apparently your work has shown up on some blog site, and some gallery owner is trying to find you. Eli says the guy wants to give you a show."

"How did Eli get this?"

"Trolling blogs? Maybe the guy wandered into his tattoo gallery. How do I know?

Anyway, here"s his email address and cellphone number. Contact him."

"Yeah. Whatever. I mean, thanks, Joni. I appreciate you bringing this by."

"But?"

Danil reached for the coffee cup and swallowed a gulp. How many people in your life understood you with only a gesture, an expression, maybe a half-dozen words? The reasons he couldn"t do a gallery show were too complex to explain to her, and to try would involve breaking a promise. "I"m just not sure I want to be in a gallery, with all its expectations and requirements, with people who don"t know anything about me or my brother-and don"t really want to know- judging me based on s.h.i.+t that doesn"t mean s.h.i.+t," he said.

"s.h.i.+t that doesn"t mean s.h.i.+t?" She leaned closer to him. "That"s bulls.h.i.+t, Dani. You get your stuff in a gallery, with more eyes on it. Ultimately, the rest doesn"t matter."

Almost always, Danil thought, Joni saw through him.

"That window?" She rose, pulled back the drape. "Every time I"ve ever been here, it"s curtained. And the refrigerator?" In two steps, she reached and opened it. "d.a.m.n close to empty. Dani. You"re not doing too good. Why would you pa.s.s this up?"

"I have a job, you know," Danil said. "I paint office and living s.p.a.ces."

"Are you kidding me? When"s the last time you did that? Besides, that"s not the work you want to get old with, is it?"

Danil sighed. He cracked his knuckles one hand at a time.

"I brought you a present." Joni reached into her bag and tossed him a cellphone. It landed on his lap but he didn"t pick it up. "Brand new and ready to use," she said. "You can even set up email. Call the gallery owner. Then open up one of your mom"s letters and f.u.c.king reconnect with your family."

Danil shook his head. "Not an option."

Joni shrugged. "Whatever. But while you"re on your alternate trajectory," don"t ignore a potential break that I gave up a lunch hour to help pa.s.s on. Opportunities only fall in a person"s lap so often." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and then waved over her shoulder without waiting for him to respond.

Danil rubbed his palm over his chin and stared at the cellphone. Then he put it and the piece of paper with the gallery owner"s contact information on the corner of the only table in his apartment, the table that still held the coffee. "I"ll figure it out later," he said, as if talking to the phone itself, and then he headed into his bathroom.

Amin, September 5th Bleach and yeasty bread: the scent of Maiwand Hospital as Amin entered through the main doors. A woman in a burqa squatted by the entrance, holding in her arms a child whose head drooped like a wilted poppy flower. Amin couldn"t be sure if she was begging or simply waiting, but he scrambled his fingers into his pocket and pressed a few Afs into her hand. "Tashakor," she said, barely glancing up.

He"d never been inside Maiwand. Though it was barely adequate, the hospital"s primary purpose was to serve as a training ground for Kabul Medical University interns. Amin himself would never come here for care. Of course, he wouldn"t go to any hospital in Afghanistan for anything serious-better to India, or the States if possible. Even Pakistan. Backward, violent, filled with war-battered souls: what was it about this country that drew him beyond all logic? He"d been educated abroad and could have stayed. Yet he found himself rooted to this soil. Whatever he hoped to accomplish lay here, along with whatever debt he owed.

To his right, in an office with huge windows, Zarlasht sat at a large desk. One other woman sat at a second desk across from hers. Amin strode into the office. For a moment she didn"t glance up, focused on her paperwork. Then she saw him, and her surprise registered. "a.s.salaam alaik.u.m," she said, her expression turning formal.

He stood without speaking. Zarlasht glanced toward her colleague, who nodded and left the room. She then looked toward Amin, silent. Though he distrusted her, her self-confidence struck him as impressive.

"An American woman was supposed to meet with Mr. Barbery the day he was taken," Amin said. He took a paper from his chest pocket. "A nurse. He was going to help her, but he cannot. Here is her name. She wants to visit hospitals. I"d like you to arrange a visit to Maiwand."

She laughed. "An American woman nurse? In this hospital? Do you think that"s appropriate?"

"She will dress appropriately. She wants to help improve our medical practices. But that part doesn"t matter to you. I"m acting on behalf of Mr. Barbery. I"d like you to arrange it for an afternoon sometime in the next week."

Zarlasht narrowed her eyes, studying his face for a moment. Then she looked down at the paper silently. Finally she nodded. "Thursday would probably be fine. In the women"s and children"s wards only, of course."

"Good," he said, but he didn"t move.

"There is something else?" she asked after a moment, a note of challenge in her voice.

"The motivation," he said. "It"s a little confusing to me. Was it accidental, or half intentional, a target of opportunity? Or was this your sole intent from the start?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Todd Barbery is a good man," he said.

"Yes, I know."

"No. No, you don"t. He loves this country, Allah save him. At least up until this week, he did. And he"s been foolish at times. He"s failed to discern. But he is a good man."