The summer came and so did my kindergarten graduation ceremony. To celebrate my achievement, Grandma Oxana agreed to come over. I didn’t care for her visit, and neither did Mama. Sergei took the upcoming nuisance in stride. He had turned into somewhat of a philosopher and was reading Heidegger in German. This was all related to his exploration of the futility of human existence and the connection to Jim Morrison. Sergei would sit in his room, peering into the English-German dictionary, then into a tome of Heidegger’s works, underlining several words, then writing them out. The process was incredibly time-consuming, but, Sergei noted, ‘he wasn’t in a rush.’

I was.

I was in a rush because I was just like Stewart the fox. Our goal was to run. To move, to sprint. We were runners, not walkers. Our feet were our wings. And really, Stewart and I could practically fly, if you thought about it. I sure did. If I could be a creature of the forest, I’d be invincible. I could defeat just about anyone. Those were my thoughts when I was standing in a green gown, graduating from kindergarten.

Mama ran up to me and handed me flowers. I checked the number. There were six roses.

“Mama, why are you giving me half-a-dozen roses?” I asked. “Isn’t it supposed to be for the dead?”

“Rodion, sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous. Don’t listen to Grandma!” Mama laughed. “When did you become so superstitious?” I took the flowers in one hand and extended my other hand to her. We walked up to Grandma Oxana and Papa. Sergei was standing to the side, observing us. He liked to be on his own.

“Congratulations.” Grandma said. She was scrutinizing me with her small, beady eyes.

To Mama’s dismay, for the ride back, we all piled into one car, which meant she had to move to the back seat so Grandma could sit in the front. Grandma moved her seat back and hit Mama’s knees. I was in the middle and was grateful it was Mama sitting to my right and not Grandma. The car jerked and moved forward. The drive back home was short, and that made me happy. I was eager to play, having not had any time to do so in the morning.

Stewart had come to me in a dream that night, and we spent a bit of time chatting. I remembered little our conversation and hoped that playing the game would jerk my memory.

Grandma looked into the rearview mirror and said, directing her question at Mama:

“You know, Rodion looks a lot like you, Lydia.” Grandma also didn’t like to call me Ryder.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Both of your boys do.” Grandma Oxana added graciously. Sergei gave me a side-eye and elbowed me in the ribs. This was an expression of affection.

“I guess so,” Mama agreed, her cheeks turning pink. “Rodion, please, can you move a little to the side?” Mama shifted in her seat and moved her purse that had been squeezed by my booster seat.

“So, does Sergei look like his father?” Grandma continued her query. Mama tensed. I could feel her arm freeze in place.

“I couldn’t say.” Mama responded.

“You don’t have any photos of your first husband?” The question was like a bomb exploding. Papa gripped the wheel tightly, and Mama gulped. Sergei rolled his eyes. I stared bravely straight ahead and my eyes caught Grandma’s cold stare. Her eyes were like those of the Ice Queen. Light blue. Unforgiving.

“Mother, perhaps we can discuss this later.” Papa offered, swallowing hard.

“I am just curious. I’d like to know as much as possible about my grandsons. Both of them.” Grandma rounded her eyes.

Mama’s anxiety was palpable. I could feel it, sitting next to her. She breathed hard, her hands were shaking, and she fidgeted in her seat, as if she wanted to catapult right out of the car. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came. At that moment, we pulled up to our house. Mama opened the passenger door and got out. Making her way to the steps, she leaned on the railing, her mouth wide open as she struggled to breathe.

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“Mama! Are you alright?” I unbuckled myself and moved to help her.

“Yes, yes. It’s okay.” Mama wiped beads of sweat on her forehead. “Let’s go inside.” Grandma followed us, not the least bit perturbed by what had happened. I may have been imagining it, but I saw a sly smile cross her face.

***

I’d been looking forward to my first summer vacation in America. We’d go to Lake Erie with Papa in a ‘house on wheels’ and I’d get to practice swimming. I was a little nervous about that part, not entirely sure I still remembered how to swim, but Sergei assured me he’d remind me what to do. And of course, the summer meant unlimited time with Stewart the fox.

Sergei got a summer job, so most of the time it was Mama and me. She’d been taking English lessons at a community center in Squirrel Hill, but they had ended for the summer. And so Mama and I stayed home together.

I played Stewart the fox. And Mama gossiped. As soon as Papa left for work, she would pick up the phone and call Vlada. And immediately after, Zhanna. Zhanna was another woman from the neighborhood, another recent immigrant whom Vlada brought over and introduced to Mama some time in the spring.

Those three were now inseparable and called themselves the Three Musketeers. I am not joking. They actually did.

Vlada always showed up first, at around ten in the morning. Without fail, she would bring with her a bottle of Armenian Cognac and set it on the kitchen table.

Mama brewed coffee for the two of them in the copper pot, then served it in her favorite porcelain cups, and, after adding ‘just a dash’ of Cognac, they chatted. I paid them little mind, busy with Stewart. He and I were progressing, and my dreams about him were getting more and more vivid. At one point, I think it was right around July 4th, I finally made it. I’d become Stewart. I got to run around the purple brick wall and spun myself into a tight little ball. I could even feel the red pointy hair sticking out of my head. It was the best dream ever, and I punched and sneered at the audience. Yes, I even had an audience. I was inside the game!

Zhanna, the third musketeer, came a bit later, usually closer to noon, on the account of her husband being a ‘late riser.’ He painted houses, and Zhanna complained he drank too much, was a cheater, and was ‘way too lazy.’ Zhanna cut hair for a living and operated an illegal hair salon from her home, where she offered five-dollar haircuts to both men and women, and also colored women’s hair for a reasonable fee. Zhanna didn’t appear to be too creative with the choice of hair color for her clients and preferred consistency. She mostly dyed her clients’ hair black. At least that’s what I decided after meeting several Russian ladies. All had jet-black hair, just like Grandma, and I wondered if Grandma also went to Zhanna to get her hair done, or whether there was some unwritten code where all immigrant women of a certain age had agreed to have the same hair style.

Once Zhanna joined them, Mama and Vlada would have another round of cognac-laced coffee.

“This one is for the blood pressure.” Vlada announced. “Just a teeny-bit, to get it down. Down-down.” She sang in her deep voice, not the least bit ashamed of how tone-deaf she sounded.

“Here, in America, I also am starting to get high blood pressure.” Mama said. “I’m glad Vlada came up with this natural cure. I’m getting headaches. All the time.”

“You are?” Zhanna shook her head, a look of concern on her face.

“Yes, it’s unbelievable. You know what this hag said the other day?” Mama’s voice was now a hoarse whisper, but I could hear her just fine. I’d lowered the volume of my game so I could pay attention.

“What?” Zhanna and Vlada asked in unison.

“She was hinting that Rodion isn’t Philip’s son!”

“No!” I heard the two friends yell out.

“How dare she?” Zhanna gasped.

“What a piece of work!” Vlada added in her near-baritone.

“I know!” Mama cried out.

A clinking of glasses followed, and I guessed that the three women were still tending to their respective high blood pressures.

“Is he?” Vlada asked after a pause. “You’d tell us, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course he is Philip’s son!” Mama was indignant. “I don’t get where she gets these ideas. It’s like she sits there scheming, trying to find ways to make my life impossible. It’s difficult as it is!”

“That’s America for ya,” Zhanna said. “Everyone suffers here. It’s a dog-eat-dog place.”

“But I’m her daughter-in-law! Doesn’t she want Philip to be happy?”

“No. She’s one of those mothers. You know.” Zhanna’s voice trailed off. “Monster-in-law type. This kind hates anyone their son marries. They want their boy to themselves.”

“But Philip isn’t a mama’s boy!” Mama said. Bouts of laughter followed. Zhanna, Vlada and Mama were all laughing, hearty, belly laughs.

“That’s a good one, Lydia! By the way, where’s your boy? He’s been awfully quiet for a five-year-old.” Vlada said, and I immediately turned the volume up. Stewart did another flip, and I hummed the tune of the game loud enough for the women to hear.