12. Olga

Olga

M ichael insisted on driving us to my parents’ house. He had a late model Mercedes that ran so quietly you hardly knew the engine was on, with leather seats that were soft as butter.

“Nice ride,” I said, making a mental note not to ever drive him anywhere in my twelve year old Camry. I liked my little car, but it was a piece of crap next to this fancy car.

Once we got to Ukrainian Village, I directed Michael to the rowhouse where I’d grown up. By a stroke of luck, someone was pulling out of a parking spot right in front of my parents’ place, and Michael slid right in, parallel parking like a pro.

Like a good little suck-up, Michael had brought a bottle of wine, as well as flowers for my mother.

Mama opened the door the instant I knocked, telling me that she’d been watching for us through the window.

“Olga!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a tight hug like she’d last seen me years ago instead of last Sunday when she came with me and my sister to get pedicures.

“Mama, this is my friend, Michael.”

I added a little emphasis on the word ‘friend’ to drive home the point that I’d been making for several weeks now: that Michael and I were just roommates. Although if the situation between us was different…

“Hello Mrs. Pavlenko, it’s been a long time,” Michael greeted her with a charming smile. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Michael Kobylarczyk. I went to school at St. Stanislaus with Olga when we were younger.”

Mama’s gaze bounced between us, recognition dawning.

“Wait,” she said in her accented voice. “This is boy you have crush on when you were a little girl?”

“Yep, this is him,” I said brightly. “Can we come in now, Mama?”

My mother stepped back, then her expression brightened as Michael handed her the bouquet of flowers he brought. It was a huge arrangement with a variety of wildflowers, exactly the kind of thing my mother loved.

“Why, thank you!” she beamed.

My father came to join us, and I noticed that he was walking a little more slowly with every passing year. That didn’t keep him from sizing Michael up like he might be a secret operative for the Russians.

“Tato,” I said, using the Ukrainian word for father, “this is my friend and roommate Michael. Mikey, this is my father.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Michael said politely as he handed my father the bottle of wine. “I brought you some wine.”

My father continued to look at him suspiciously. From behind Michael’s shoulder I gave my father a warning look that made him soften his gaze.

“Come, come, we must eat and get to know each other,” Mama said, shepherding us all to the table.

She’d set out the good dishes, the china she only brought out for holidays and special guests. She’d somehow managed to get it all here from the old country without breaking a single dish. She’d maintained a complete set for years, at least until about eighteen years ago when Alona and I were hand washing the dishes on Orthodox Easter. As my sister handed me a bowl, it had somehow slipped from our hands and shattered against the sink. Mama hadn’t spoken to us for two days after that. Alona and I had tried in vain to find a replacement piece ever since.

We sat around the dining room table, Michael and I across from each other with my parents at either end. Mama had made a feast. We started with borscht , a beet soup topped with sour cream and fresh herbs, then we had varenyky , dumplings filled with mashed potatoes, deruny , a type of potato pancake, and kovbasa, a Ukrainian sausage, as well as a cucumber salad, roasted carrots, and thick bread with butter.

Michael ate like it was his last meal on Earth, expressing appreciation to my mother with every dish. She practically glowed at his obvious enjoyment of her food.

We were just finishing dinner when my father, who’d been mostly quiet during dinner – not that he was usually chatty anyway – cleared his throat and started to speak.

“Michael, I was in the army when I was a boy, before I came to this country.”

“Tato,” I said warningly, seeing where this was going. He ignored me.

“In my day, a man did not live with a woman outside of marriage,” he continued.

“I told you that we are just friends, Tato.”

He ignored my interruption and continued speaking, his voice grave. “When I was in the Army, I learned many ways to kill a man. Slow or fast, painful or easy, I learned this very well.”

He leaned forward in Michael’s direction. “My family is the most important thing in my life. I will not hesitate to get revenge if anyone hurts them . Ty rozumiyesh?”

Michael sent me a confused look.

“Yes, Tato, Michael understands you loud and clear, okay?” I said impatiently. “Now can we please move on and stop making my guest uncomfortable?”

“Yes donechka,” my father agreed, calling me the diminutive that meant ‘daughter’ in his native language. “I have said what I need to, I will say no more.”

“Great. Now how about we finish our meal?”

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Michael and I washed the dishes, fortunately not breaking any of my mother’s good china, then we joined my parents in the living room for coffee and an assortment of cookies my mother had picked up from the local bakery. By the time we left, my parents both seemed more comfortable with Michael, to my relief.

“I just need to run to the restroom before we go,” I told Michael as we got ready to leave.

When I got back there was a weird vibe in the room, and Michael looked bemused. Figuring I’d hear about it later, I gave my parents a hug and headed out to Michael’s car. He opened my door for me and closed it after, as if we were on a date, then went to his side, turning on the engine before shifting to look at me.

“Just so you know, your mother wants us to get married.”

“What?” I asked, my voice raising several octaves.

“When you went to the bathroom she informed me that she liked me and has decided that I would be the perfect husband for you, even if I’m not Ukrainian or Orthodox. She’s hoping I convert before we get married though.”

“What?” I repeated again, a little higher pitched this time.

“Oh, and I should know that you’re saving yourself for marriage like a good girl, so I’d better not try any funny business before we get married by a priest like God intended. This was from your father, by the way.”

I lowered my head into my hands and squeezed my skull. “Oh my God.”

“You could do worse for a husband,” he assured me. “I’m quite a catch.”

For just a second I let myself picture Michael in a dark suit and me in a wedding dress standing in front of the altar at our church, then I shoved that image away just as fast. I’d long ago accepted that marriage and a family just wasn’t in the cards for me, and I was mostly okay with it. If I didn’t think about it too hard…

We’d driven about four blocks before my phone pinged with a text.

Alona: I hear you found a prospective husband.

Me: OMG your parents are crazy.

Alona: At least Mama and Tato like Michael.

Me: We’re not dating.

Alona: Yet. LOL. So do you like him? Mama thought you two had ‘the vibes’.

Me: We’re roommates. And friends.

Alona: That didn’t answer my question, but I’ll let you off the hook for now. I’m going to need to meet this guy.

Me: He’s already been threatened by Nick and the Olivers and Tato. He doesn’t need you up his ass too.

Alona: My mind is exploding with butt sex jokes.

Me: Goodbye weirdo.