the cigarette out his window, I palm the lighter and hide it in my pocket. “Can I keep the kerchief?” I say, and he says, “Keep it. And say hi to your Granny.” And out of nowhere there is this big smile on his face.
•
Today I quiz her over old lessons. We sit in the corner and she is restless as always, rocking back and forth in her chair, eyes out the window. “Magda, when was Bulgaria founded?” “Six eighty-one,” she says. She smacks her lips, the swollen tongue rolls. Spit trickles. I tell her, “Two thousand and seven is when Bulgaria ends; Grandmoms said that. Once we join the EU, Bulgaria ends. Do you know what the EU is?” “EU, EU,” she repeats, and I say, “Stop saying it. It makes you sound inarticulate.” “EU.” She laughs. “Come here.” I wipe the spit off her chin and then I’m, like, Oh, crap, Magda, this is Mister’s kerchief. You ruined Mister’s kerchief.
We do some dictation. She’s biting her tongue and writing, diligently, and around us children are running and playing so I tell them to turn that TV down. All these children are normal, though they are orphans. But Magda is here because there is no other place she could be. Not close to our village, anyway.
Mother left both of us here. Back then the building was a mess and they didn’t have TVs and curtains. It was wolves on the streets, so Mother was scared we would get snatched and she brought us here to safety. Grandmoms says that and tears up and I always think, Grandmoms you have got to be shitting me. And now I watch Magda chew on her tongue and write tiny letters and I think to myself, What if that teacher had beaten me? We were the same then, two years old. Would Magda come to see me, teach me things? Nice room, cinnamon, soft pillows. Just today they were eating sandwiches with ham and cheese when I walked in. And when Mister made that big donation, Magda sat in his lap and he petted her hair and brushed her cheeks. In a parallel world, it might not be so bad.
We are done writing and Magda looks up. She giggles and motions me closer and when she talks she spits on my face.
“I got something alive in my belly,” she says.
•
I am told our father’s name is Hristo. I don’t blame him for running away at all. I should probably blame him, but I don’t—it’s nature, really—spread the seed and run, move on for more seed spreading. But a mother betraying her own? Blood betraying blood? Now, that’s low. So all my hate goes toward Mother and there just isn’t any left for anyone else. At least Pops never calls. He never says, How is my beautiful girl? To which I always respond, Chewing her own tongue. And the saddest thing is Mother doesn’t even understand what I’m saying. She’s never seen Magda—not after she left her, anyway. So if she calls she keeps me on the phone for a minute, I’ve timed it. “How’s life treating you?” she says exactly in those words. Life treating you … A stupider question was never asked. Life doesn’t treat you. People do.
And then the phone is off to Grandmoms. Five minutes. Done. And after that, Grandmoms searches for an old article to wrap whatever my mother asked for.
But it can’t be just any old article. Grandmoms never throws a newspaper away. And she reads old newspapers. Mostly the stuff Grandpa wrote. She reads them in the yard over and over again. Calls me sometimes and says, “Listen to this: The General Secretary spent ten minutes tying up red balloons for the Day of the Child . See how nicely your grandpa put it?” I guess Grandpa could put it nicely. But why does she have to keep those papers everywhere, always?
When I first told Mister my father worked in England, Mister asked me what city and I said, “Why, of course London.” Like I was offended by him asking, like my Pops wouldn’t be working just anyplace. I told him my Pops was a construction supervisor and had supervised the building of that big Ferris wheel, the one on the
•
Today I quiz her over old lessons. We sit in the corner and she is restless as always, rocking back and forth in her chair, eyes out the window. “Magda, when was Bulgaria founded?” “Six eighty-one,” she says. She smacks her lips, the swollen tongue rolls. Spit trickles. I tell her, “Two thousand and seven is when Bulgaria ends; Grandmoms said that. Once we join the EU, Bulgaria ends. Do you know what the EU is?” “EU, EU,” she repeats, and I say, “Stop saying it. It makes you sound inarticulate.” “EU.” She laughs. “Come here.” I wipe the spit off her chin and then I’m, like, Oh, crap, Magda, this is Mister’s kerchief. You ruined Mister’s kerchief.
We do some dictation. She’s biting her tongue and writing, diligently, and around us children are running and playing so I tell them to turn that TV down. All these children are normal, though they are orphans. But Magda is here because there is no other place she could be. Not close to our village, anyway.
Mother left both of us here. Back then the building was a mess and they didn’t have TVs and curtains. It was wolves on the streets, so Mother was scared we would get snatched and she brought us here to safety. Grandmoms says that and tears up and I always think, Grandmoms you have got to be shitting me. And now I watch Magda chew on her tongue and write tiny letters and I think to myself, What if that teacher had beaten me? We were the same then, two years old. Would Magda come to see me, teach me things? Nice room, cinnamon, soft pillows. Just today they were eating sandwiches with ham and cheese when I walked in. And when Mister made that big donation, Magda sat in his lap and he petted her hair and brushed her cheeks. In a parallel world, it might not be so bad.
We are done writing and Magda looks up. She giggles and motions me closer and when she talks she spits on my face.
“I got something alive in my belly,” she says.
•
I am told our father’s name is Hristo. I don’t blame him for running away at all. I should probably blame him, but I don’t—it’s nature, really—spread the seed and run, move on for more seed spreading. But a mother betraying her own? Blood betraying blood? Now, that’s low. So all my hate goes toward Mother and there just isn’t any left for anyone else. At least Pops never calls. He never says, How is my beautiful girl? To which I always respond, Chewing her own tongue. And the saddest thing is Mother doesn’t even understand what I’m saying. She’s never seen Magda—not after she left her, anyway. So if she calls she keeps me on the phone for a minute, I’ve timed it. “How’s life treating you?” she says exactly in those words. Life treating you … A stupider question was never asked. Life doesn’t treat you. People do.
And then the phone is off to Grandmoms. Five minutes. Done. And after that, Grandmoms searches for an old article to wrap whatever my mother asked for.
But it can’t be just any old article. Grandmoms never throws a newspaper away. And she reads old newspapers. Mostly the stuff Grandpa wrote. She reads them in the yard over and over again. Calls me sometimes and says, “Listen to this: The General Secretary spent ten minutes tying up red balloons for the Day of the Child . See how nicely your grandpa put it?” I guess Grandpa could put it nicely. But why does she have to keep those papers everywhere, always?
When I first told Mister my father worked in England, Mister asked me what city and I said, “Why, of course London.” Like I was offended by him asking, like my Pops wouldn’t be working just anyplace. I told him my Pops was a construction supervisor and had supervised the building of that big Ferris wheel, the one on the
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