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dropped his dinnerbucket, then bent to pick it up.
That’ll improve his mood, I thought.
He went in. I watched him cross the living room and put his dinnerbucket on the kitchen counter.
He turned and saw the new high chair. He obviously knew his ma’s modus operandi, because next he
opened the rusty refrigerator. He was still peering into it when Marina came out of the baby’s room.
She had a diaper over her shoulder, and the binocs were good enough for me to see there was some
spit-up on it.
She spoke to him, smiling, and he turned to her. He had the fair skin that’s every easy blusher’s
bane, and his scowling face was bright red all the way to his thinning hair. He started shouting at her,
pointing a finger at the refrigerator (the door still stood open, exhaling vapor). She turned to go back
into the baby’s room. He caught her by the shoulder, spun her around, and began to shake her. Her
head snapped back and forth.
I didn’t want to watch this, and there was no reason I should; it added nothing to what I needed to
know. He was a beater, yes, but she was going to survive him, which was more than John F. Kennedy
could say . . . or Officer Tippit, for that matter. So no, I didn’t need to see. But sometimes you can’t
look away.
They argued it back and forth, Marina no doubt trying to explain that she didn’t know how
Marguerite had found them and that she’d been unable to keep “Mamochka” out of the house. And of
course Lee finally hit her in the face, because he couldn’t hit his ma. Even if she’d been there, he
wouldn’t have been able to raise a fist against her.
Marina cried out. He let her go. She spoke to him passionately, her hands held out. He tried to
take one of them and she slapped it away. Then she raised those hands to the ceiling, dropped them,
and walked out the front door. Lee started to follow her, then thought better of it. The brothers had
put two ratty old lawn chairs on the porch. Marina sank into one of them. There was a scrape below
her left eye, and her cheek was already starting to swell. She stared out into the street, and across it. I
felt a stab of guilty fear even though my living room lights were out and I knew she couldn’t see me. I
was careful to remain still, though, with the binoculars frozen to my face.
Lee sat down at the kitchen table and propped his forehead on the heels of his palms. He remained
that way for awhile, then heard something and went into the smaller of the bedrooms. He came out
with June in his arms and began to walk her around the living room, rubbing her back, soothing her.
Marina went inside. June saw her and held out her chubby arms. Marina went to them and Lee gave
her the baby. Then, before she could walk away, he hugged her. She stood silently inside his arms for a
moment, then shifted the baby so she could hug him back with one arm. His mouth was buried in her
hair, and I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying: the Russian words for I’m sorry. I had no doubt
that he was. He would be sorry next time, too. And the time after that.
Marina took June back into what had been Rosette’s bedroom. Lee stood where he was for a
moment, then went to the fridge, took something out, and began to eat it.
7
Late the following day, just as Lee and Marina were sitting down to supper ( June lay on the living
room floor, kicking her legs on a blanket), Marguerite came puffing down the street from the
Winscott Road bus stop. This evening she was wearing blue slacks that were unfortunate, considering
the generous spread of her butt. She was toting a large cloth bag. Poking out of the top was the red
plastic roof of a child’s playhouse. She walked up the porch steps (once more deftly avoiding the bad
one) and marched in without knocking.