The Lullaby Of Polish Girls Part 17

"If you ask me," pipes up the blond girl with impressive cleavage and a pouty mouth, "I bet she's having an affair with a Polish man. She's got that look about her, you know? That pining look."

"Well, no one asked you, Wiola," Danuta answers with a professional smile.

Kamila makes a show of yawning. Her leg jerks up and down and she doesn't quite know how to stop it.

"Jet lag," Kamila announces, now checking her leather boots for smudges. "You called the cab, correct?"

"Yes, yes," promises Wiola, and then she leans in across the desk. "It's gotta be a man. If she were here on business it would be in Warsaw, like it is for every other American."

"That's enough, Wiola!" Danuta hisses. "Mrs. Ludek, will you be needing anything else before you go?"

"Do you have some water?" Kamila asks quietly. "I don't feel very well," she says to herself, as Wiola rushes over a bottle of mineral water, Naczowianka.

"Thanks. It must be the jet lag. I just got back from America myself."

"Oh, how exciting!" Wiola exclaims.

"That's funny, isn't it? Two guests arriving from the States, at the same hotel ... Tell me, are you sure she's American?" Kamila asks and takes a long swig of water.

"Yes, of course. I saw her pa.s.sport. She doesn't speak Polish. And anyway, she looks American, you know?" Wiola answers. "And when I told her that her last name meant ram in Polish she thought that was so funny. Oh! Your cab's here, miss."

"Baran?" Kamila whispers the word, and it cracks in half.

"Baran! Except in English it sounds like Berrin or something. Like I said, my accent is horrible." Wiola laughs.

The sound of a horn blares. Kamila stands up and walks toward the door. Her steps are deliberately, painstakingly slow. "Thirty-six Witosa Road, over at Sieje." The driver nods and revs the engine. Kamila rolls down the window and breathes in the frosty air, but it does little to calm her.

Justyna.

Kielce, Poland.

When the knock comes, Justyna can't quite hear it. She is upstairs, lying on her bed, staring at that one spot on the ceiling, by the pipe, the one that's swollen with moisture. The pipe Pawe was supposed to fix as soon as the snow let up, because there were black patches of mold forming. The lights are off. The electric bill is coming soon and Justyna's account is empty. There's just an old pillowcase now, filled with some loose bills. There's Damian's skarbonka clanging with zotowki that she'll have to break open if things don't get better quickly. She's already decided that when Kamila gets here she'll ask her for a loan. She figures Kamila must be doing all right if she can afford plane tickets to America. Besides, Kamila owes her, and she knows it.

For two days now Justyna has held the fort down. Elwira and the kids have been at Babcia Kazia's, and there are patrol cars parked in front of both Kazia's building and Justyna's house, from sunset to sunrise. It was the most that Officer Kurka said he could do. "Holidays, Mrs. Strawicz." Kurka had explained why she couldn't have twenty-four-hour surveillance. "Besides, in my opinion the dog was his last hurrah."

Justyna wondered if she would ever be able to stop waiting. Not just waiting for Filip to show up, but for Pawe to return.

When the knocking at the door turns to full-on pounding, Justyna bolts up in bed. She runs down the stairs and when she reaches the foyer she exclaims, "Christ, didja fly here? That was"-she opens the door-"fast."

"I did fly here. But that was three days ago."

The woman standing before Justyna looks like her old friend Anna, only better.

"I was about to leave."

"Hi. I was upstairs, napping.... Hi."

And then Justyna pulls Anna in for a hug, a messy, jubilant hug.

With her arms still wrapped around Anna's neck, Justyna laughs. "What the f.u.c.k is that perfume? You smell like a grandma, Baran."

"Patchouli," Anna says, twisting herself free. "Let me look at you, Strawicz. But let me in first, it's cold as h.e.l.l out here." Justyna leads Anna into the house, and locks the front door. She quickly ushers Anna into the kitchen, runs to the kettle. "Tea? Holy h.e.l.l, I wasn't expecting a movie star to visit me tonight. I would have cleaned up a bit," she says, referring to the kitchen and to herself.

"Dobra, dobra. Movie stars don't weigh 140 pounds."

"It suits you. b.i.t.c.h." Justyna laughs again and Anna smiles. "Anyway, you can lose the weight. But you can't lose the face."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Baran, you're liczna and you know it. f.u.c.k the tea, right? You want a shot?"

"Yes, please."

Justyna watches Anna take off her leather jacket, watches as she unwraps the silky blue scarf from around her neck, until it hangs from her hand in cascading sheaves, like a waterfall.

"That's some scarf."

"Ralph Lauren."

"Rafloren? What's that?"

Anna doesn't answer. She looks at Justyna, looks her up and down. There's not much to look at, but Anna takes her time and Justyna stands her ground in her rumpled Nike tracksuit, her dirty crew socks, her unwashed hair sticking up in short tufts around her face. She knows she looks like s.h.i.t, but there's good reason for that.

"Did you sew those shoulder pads into your shirt?"

"I did."

"Still? Still with the shoulder pads?" Anna smiles sadly.

"Always." Justyna takes a cigarette from her pack on the kitchen table. "All right, enough. You might be used to people ogling you, but I'm not." Because Justyna knows it's not just her outer layer that Anna's taking in-she's trying to get at something deeper.

"Are you kidding? Who used to lay out on the Tcza benches, one hand in the air, begging for someone to walk by and whistle?"

"I didn't have to beg." Justyna grins. And then the grin fades, but just a little. "Anyway, dziewczyno, that was a long a.s.s time ago. I look like s.h.i.t now."

"Well, who can blame you ..." Anna's voice trails off and she looks around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact. "Where's that shot?"

"We're still waiting for one more guest." Justyna winks.

"Who?" Anna asks guardedly.

"Who else?"

Anna's mouth drops open. Justyna sits at the table and lights a second cigarette off the dying embers of her first one. "Weird, right? When was the last time all three of us were together?"

"Seven years ago," Anna answers quietly.

"Right. I remember a bottle of wodka. And that's about all I remember." Justyna grins.

"And your mom. Your mom died that night."

"Oh, yeah. Riiiiight." Justyna smiles and stands up. She never heard a word from Anna regarding her mother's death back then and she sure as h.e.l.l doesn't want to hear one now. She starts walking into the living room.

"Bring some shot gla.s.ses, okay? And I think there's some Pepsi-Cola on the counter. And ice!"

They say every seven years the tide turns, the world shifts. Seven years of f.u.c.king c.r.a.p. Tonight Justyna will drink to the next seven.

When Anna comes in, balancing everything in her hands, Justyna is on the wersalka, smoking a cigarette.

"What are those?"

"Papierosy," Justyna drawls. "I believe your term for them was always cancer sticks."

"A girl can have a change of heart. Can I b.u.m one?"

"Ja pierdole! Or as you say, 'Fak meee!' Anna Baran smokes...."

"Anna Baran does a lot of things she shouldn't do."

"Take a pack, I have a whole carton in the barek." Anna sets down the gla.s.ses onto the coffee table. "And get a bottle of bimber, and that bottle of Luksusowa vodka. The bimber, my uncle brewed in his bathtub. It'll destroy you."

The knock on the door startles them both. Justyna looks at Anna.

"You wanna get it?"

"And give her a heart attack?"

"Why not?"

Anna laughs quietly, smooths the front of her jeans, and heads to the door. Justyna c.o.c.ks her head and smiles to herself. It's so easy to pretend, it's so easy sometimes.

A moment later there's a squeal, and Anna walks in with a hyperventilating Kamila. She's skinny-painfully so-skinnier than she was in the bathroom at Desperados four years ago. f.u.c.king Kamila, just beside herself.

"I stopped at the gas station on the way! Wine and stuff." She takes a gulp of air, and then, "I knew it! I f.u.c.king knew it! Those dumb girls at the hotel were talking about some Amerykanka! f.u.c.king knew it! G.o.d! Moj Boe! Dziewczyny! This is incredible! Like, kurwa ma!" And then Kamila rushes over to Justyna, who is still sitting on the couch grinning from ear to ear, and Kamila kneels on the floor in front of her and clasps Justyna's hands.

"Jezus Maria, Justyna. I don't know what to do. Wait! I can't even get over Ania Baran over there, looking gorgeous as ever. Jezus!" And then Kamila's smile dissolves. "Justyna. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Kamila starts crying, fingers flying to her face, to wipe away the tears, but she can't quite keep up. For a while, no one says anything. Anna leans in the doorway and Justyna looks at her.

"f.u.c.king Kamila. We were doing fine till you got here," Justyna says. And when Kamila raises her head from her lap, Justyna Strawicz is crying. No one has ever seen her come undone, or apologize, or crumple, or beg for mercy. Even when Teresa died, she saved the waterworks for late at night, when she knew everyone was sleeping. Now, Justyna quickly covers her face. She takes a deep breath.

"Okay. So we started the evening like p.u.s.s.ies. But we're not gonna end it that way. ZG.o.da?" She holds out her pinky.

And they answer in unison, loudly and clearly.

"ZG.o.da."

Justyna pours the first round of shots. They sit on the floor and catch up on everything they want to talk about, and forget everything else.

When the bimber is gone they start on the wine Kamila brought. They go around in a circle, one-upping each other, their words breezy, bright, honest.

"My husband's a h.o.m.o!"

"My husband's dead!"

"I never had a f.u.c.king husband to begin with!"

They don't let up, and they don't want to. It's too soon, and not soon enough to joke about it, but that's what Justyna needs because saying it like that, like it was a big fat joke, made everything surreal, and yet more real than ever. They are hardcore, breathless, and wasted on Uncle Marek's moonshine.

"Wanna know why I'm here alone?" Justyna asks when the clock strikes midnight.

"Yeah, where's Damian? Poor Damian, I wanna see him," Anna drawls.

"He's at Babcia's. With Elwira and her kid. 'Cause that f.u.c.ker snuck in the house the other day. Strangled my dog and left him gift wrapped," Justyna says quietly and her friends fall silent.

"Rambo?"

"Wait," Kamila exclaims, "you're not serious?"

"Oh, yes, I am. I'm so serious. Look how serious I am!" Justyna widens her eyes in exaggerated fear, brings her hands under her chin in fright, teeth chattering. And then she grows still.

"Rambo was your mother's dog," Anna says quietly.

"Yes, he was. The last bit of Teresa I had." Justyna says this like she says everything else, matter-of-factly.

"Is that why there's a police car outside your house?" Kamila asks, and Justyna can tell she's spooked.

"Yes! I'm not the only one with a bodyguard now, how about that? Huh, gwiazdo?" Justyna turns to Anna and winks.

"Wait a second." Kamila's not smiling. "So he's not in jail?"

"Nope." Justyna gets quiet, wishing she had never brought up the f.u.c.king dog.

"Do you miss Pawe?" Anna asks. Of course it would be Anna to ask that. The question lingers in the air.

"I will. Once I stop believing he's coming back." And with that, Justyna downs the last bit of the Luksusowa and stares into her gla.s.s. "Kamilka, go upstairs and go into my room. Remember which one it was? Second floor. There's another bottle of bimber under my wersalka." Kamila gets up with effort. She looks scared.

"Are the lights on?"

"Kamila!" Justyna barks and Kamila scuttles out of the room. Justyna sidles closer to Anna and leans her head back against the couch. She can feel Anna's eyes on her.

"I'm okay, Anna. I'm okay." Anna nods and closes her eyes, tucks her head in the crook of Justyna's shoulder. Justyna smiles. This is the kind of night she had hoped for. And maybe the light of day would bring a bit of regret with it, regret at how wasted they got, and how disrespectful they had been, to both the living and the dead. Or maybe they'd continue in the only way they knew how; at once shielding their pain and sharing it, brutally, in revelatory spasms, but always with a wan smile and a wink.