A Cold Walk Home

During another dismal early autumn afternoon, one of those random days that my father made me walk home from school, I turn my head upward and gaze at the red trees in my path. It is about twenty minutes from the school to my house in New North End, Burlington. I watch as the red leaves fall into the wind currents that push and pull them in every direction. My friend Keely and her giant brother Finn keep me company. We talk about the school day until I reach my house. I wave goodbye and step inside. I slide my boots off before stepping into the kitchen, and Mama eagerly embraces me in a hug and feels my chilly, bright red nose with her hand. She tells me it matches my hair, and she asks me about Keely. I tell her we have a lot more classes together this year. I sit down at the counter, and Mama places a bowl of stew and my favorite fruit punch in front of me.

I hear the front door shut and my dad drag his boots along the ground. He gives Mama a hug, then walks past me and pats my back. He never does that.

When Mama asks him about work, he talks in his husky voice that is only high enough for us to hear. He goes on a tangent about the twenty-two patients he saw today. He has my hair and face, if I was older and crabby, and didn’t have Mama’s eyes. He speaks like everything he says is a fact, and he does it with intense enthusiasm but expressionless eyes.

Dad thanks Mama for the stew and leaves to make a phone call. I help Mama wash the dishes before I sit at the kitchen table to do my homework. She joins me at the table to read for her book club meeting this Thursday. Every so often she complains about a character to me, which makes me laugh. Mama calls Dad over for a moment, and I no longer focus on my homework. She asks him why he’s been making me walk home. Dad turns to me and asks if I walk with my friends. I tell him that I do.

Dad looks at Mama.

“I don’t see the problem.”

Mama sighs as she gazes at the page in front of her.

“Nikolai, he's only ten, and it’s cold.”

“Cold? It’s barely twenty degrees,” he scoffs. “He’s grown; he can walk by himself.”

Mama ends the exchange by insisting on picking me up tomorrow. Dad mumbles something in Russian as he slams the door shut. At times I wish Mama would have taught me Russian instead of German so I knew what he was saying. Dad refused to learn German, and Mama refused to learn Russian. As a young kid, I remember wondering why they ever got married in the first place, and as a teen, I gave up on trying to understand them at all.

Even as a kid, I noticed my father was different from Mom. Different from other parents. His eyes were shifty; he never spoke compassionately about his patients. And sometimes looking into his eyes was just like looking into an abysmal mirror. You know that corny cliché saying, “the eyes are a window to the soul”? Well, if that's true, my father must not have had one, because there was never anything there. His eyes were hollow and murky. He’s the reason our family is broken now.

I still remember my Dad yelling, “It was an accident!” But accidents aren’t premeditated. And that’s what he was charged with: premeditated murder.

The bright lights in the prison leave me with an impending headache. When my father sees me, he fixes his posture. His eyes, a bit less hollow and lifeless, lock on mine. Finally, he asks me how I am, in a quiet voice. This catches me off guard; we hardly exchanged words during my last three visits.

“I’m good,” I mutter without looking at him. “And Mama’s good too. Despite what you’ve done to our family.” I can’t stop myself from adding that last part.

His eyes fall and his face softens. It doesn't look like shame, but he isn’t prideful either.

“I know you and Delia hate me for how I’ve acted, and for what I did… and I don’t blame you.”

I watch him speak, and I’m torn between responding or staying silent. The harsh words I had for him hang in my throat. Perhaps there’s nothing to say. After all, his words feel more like a confession than an apology. I hand him the letter he wrote for Mama. With a crack in his voice, he asks me why I never gave it to her. I don’t answer right away. The tightness in my chest loosens as I think about what he has said. I want to tell him that she doesn’t need his empty apologies. That it’s just paper, and he can’t manipulate her by suddenly showing an interest in her native language. But I don’t say any of that.

“She won’t forgive you, Dad,” I say quietly. My voice holds no anger, just exhaustion.

“I know.” He breathes out sharply through his nose. “But I’m hoping that maybe one day, you could.”

I lean backward and my eyebrows raise.

“What?”

My father sits silently, like the words mean nothing.

“I didn’t come here to listen to your pathetic confessions,” I snap. “And I meant what I said—Mama isn’t gonna read your letter.”

A cold chill comes back into my father’s eyes.

“Ungrateful child. You always were.”

“Yeah, and you’re still a sorry excuse for a dad. Guess we both haven’t changed.”

Nikolai’s lips curl into an amused half-smile.

“If I’m so bad, why do you keep coming back?”

I open my mouth to speak but quickly close it. Then I look up to the ceiling, and then back at his face.

“You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

His expression is unreadable now.

“Did what?”

“Don’t play dumb. Why did you kill Uncle Alek?”

My father plasters on a cold grin and stares me down. He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. I look down at my hands in my lap. They’re shaking the way they did that morning when I was packing up for college.

I had piled my bins of clothes into the long hallway and slid them across the beige carpet near the stairs. I picked up a call from Keely, who talked about us carpooling to Dartmouth. Keely’s voice faded away as I heard shouting downstairs. I listened closely to the commotion, then hung up. No, it’s too muffled to be downstairs, I thought.

I immediately rushed closer to the stairs and concentrated on the voice. It sounded like my Uncle Alek. Alek’s shout was cut off mid-sentence, and just seconds later I heard the door slam shut and heavy boots drag across the floor. My shoulders tensed as I called out for my dad. My tall, stocky father’s eyes were wider than the hole in my heart. I’d never seen him that way. The way his shoulders hunched forward, and his eyes darted around the room made my stomach churn. He paced back and forth with shaky red hands. The red on his hands was dripping just like my eyes were. He looked at me with tense eyebrows.

Dad said my name over and over again and begged me not to go outside. I rushed out of the house anyway, and Uncle Alek lay as still as the air around us. I looked up to see my father in the doorway. The crack of his voice was a gunshot that burned into the back of my skull. He kept telling me it was an accident. I slowly backed away as I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

Now I stare back at my father waiting for his explanation.

“I’ve already told you why. It was an accident,” he said.

I massage my temples and groan in frustration.

“Be more specific.”

My father glances at the other tables and the rigid security guards. Then his eyes land on mine again.

“People who know too much, people like my brother Alek, are a threat. It was either me or him.”

My voice is flat.

“You’re not making any sense.”

His voice is lower than a whisper.

“There’s this crime group I’m in. I have some debts to pay off. We steal, scam, kill—whatever.” He clears his throat casually and continues, “I accidentally killed one of my superior's daughters during a job. He told me someone in my family had to go.”

“Me or Mama?” I exclaim.

He gives me a stiff, slow nod.

“Then Alek found out, tried to stop them. They said he needed to be neutralized.” My dad releases a slow breath. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

I shake my head.

“So what now? Are they still gonna finish the job?”

“I don’t know. They would’ve that night.” He pauses. “But then you.” He lingers on the word “you” like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “You got in the way. And I’m paying for it.”

“I don’t understand.” My voice cracks; the lights seem to be blinding me.

“They plan to kill Delia.”

Pressure starts to build up behind my eyes, and my face gets hot.

“What?” The words hadn't fully registered yet. I stare back at him.

“You’re gonna let them kill Mom?” My chest is heavy.

Dad raises his voice.

“It’s not that easy. You act like I wanted this!” His eyes darken. He looks at me close, really close, as if I’m the only person in the room. “If it were up to me, I would’ve chosen you.”

My body trembles. It all sounds too crazy to be true. But my father doesn’t lie. I can’t bring myself to respond to him. So I just stand up and look down at his callous, sunken face.

I glare at him and try to blink away tears.

“I’m telling Mom everything. And I’m not coming back.”

His voice is quiet, and a dangerous smile paints his face.

“You’ll be back.”