Rivka convinced me it would be in no one’s best interests if I tore Professor Lowendorf’s arm off and beat him to death with it. We decided to shelve that issue until later. Lulu was singing through Rivka’s little radio about crayons and perfume. We theatrically sang along, “What, what can I give you in return?” We slow-danced, naked, for the rest of the song. 

“So, no girlfriends? No whores? No flirting? I can’t believe girls didn’t try to flirt with you.”

“I already had a girlfriend . . . and every time I thought about her . . . I almost had a panic attack . . . or just started weeping uncontrollably.”

“I get it. I’m thinking between the two of us . . . we could have flooded that big river.”

“Da. Maybe let’s not cry anymore for a while,” Then I started weeping. She tried to kiss away my tears but ended up at my mouth and we hungrily kissed and I lifted her up so she was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter. She lifted up her legs and crossed them behind my neck as she guided me in with her left hand.

“So, you’re able to control fannings now,” she said as we were lolling in bed in afterglow.

“Yeah, it was during the night, when you and your parents were . . .” I had to stop. We’d think our emotions were in check and then one of us would say something and . . . tears.

“When we were kidnapped,” she finished for me.

“Yeah. I had a dream where I closed my eyes and inhaled a certain way and everything just opened up. In the dream I moved my head a certain way and everything closed. I woke up and tried it several times successfully. It was so early in the morning I couldn’t call you to tell you. And I really wanted to tell you.”

“Do you know what time it was?”

“My clock said 3:05.”

“My God, that’s when the Nazis were in our house, rousting us.”

“Oh, Good Lord! Fucking fuck!”

“Misha, there has to be connection. Must be.”

“Absolutely . . . what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, but something to do with multiverse, you know, your fannings. Too bad they didn’t show you we were being kidnapped.”

“My God, Ri! I could have stopped them.” 

“No, my love, you couldn’t have. But you might have been killed. Albino Nazi pulled gun on me in limo in front of our house. I think he was capable of anything.”

                                                                                           ***

“We have to call my parents, Misha.“

  I was silent, thinking about how extremely close with her parents I’d been, about the countless conversations with Itzak and Rakhel about . . . everything. Rakhel was a brilliant Anthropologist and had infected me with her passion for the study of everything South American.

Itzak was arguably one of the world’s three most brilliant particle physicists and fanned the flames of curiosity in this ten-year-old American boy who would sit for hours with Rivka in Itzak’s study, being schooled by her in Math and Itzak in Physics and Torah. Except for my private and very secret meetings with Rabbi Roi I had kept this passion about Judaism much to myself before meeting Rivka.

“And you have to call yours too, cowboy.”

“I’m . . . a little bit afraid, Ri.”

  It looked like the words “Suck it up!” were starting to form in her mouth. But she thought better of it and stopped at “S . . .”  “It’s been some time, da? Are you afraid they’re going to be angry with you?”

“That, and . . . I don’t know . . . maybe they’ve kind of . . . moved on?”

“Oh, Misha, if you could hear how your mama sounds when she talks about you . . .” She had to stop. Our emotions. “You know, I spoke with your papa too.” 

I looked up. “How did he, uh, sound?”

  “Distraught. He said he felt like, maybe, he kind of drove you away . . . then he had to hand phone to your mama.”

“Oh, God . . . I was so awful to him. He was trying to be . . . tough with me, and I just dismissed him . . . like he was nothing . . . I am a terrible son. They did not deserve this. I need to try and make it right with them.”

“You are not terrible son, but, yeah, you need to make it right. Buck up, cowboy,” she said gently. “I’ll be right beside you.” 

“Hello, Papa?” I began.   

                                                                                                ***

Plan was to go by early train to Boston for Rivka to pick up some clothes, then DC, hoping to arrive before dark. When she informed her mama we intended to spend the night together at their home in DC, Rakhel didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ll take care of it. No need for you to talk to Papa,” she said, trying to reassure her daughter. Rivka told me about the conversation almost word for word and she and I were still a little concerned.

“Rivka, I’m not letting you out of my sight . . . ever . . . I mean for fucking ever!”

“I’m not leaving your side . . . ever, Misha. And you’ve picked up some very colorful Russian in the last two years.” 

I looked at her, trying not to smile. “Russians . . . with tattoos.” She accepted that explanation without question.

 We had no intention of sleeping apart and decided if that was going to be a problem, we would take the late train back to New York. But her mama assured her she had the situation in hand. She would handle Itzak. Rivka smiled when she told me that, then told me about all the times Rakhel had said things like, “It doesn’t matter how old they are, or how mature they are,” alluding to me in my younger days, “they need to feel in control . . . Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way men are built.” I felt certain Rivka was violating some Girl Rule by telling me this.

That evening we were packing for our trip and there was a knock on our door. Mmm . . . Our door, I thought and smiled, remembering fantasizing with Rivka about living together before we were ripped apart. 

“Should I hide? Will you be in trouble if I’m here, Misha?”

I summoned the fannings and found only one negative outcome, if Rivka accidentally exposed herself, like naked, so I made sure she had one of my T-shirts and answered the door. “Hi, Sonya. Thank you so much for coming up.” Sonya is the diminutive or affectionate for Sofia, just as Misha is for Mikhael.

  “Good evening, Misha.” I was sure Rivka could hear her smile.

  “My girlfriend and I are traveling for a few days. Would you be able to look in on Kot and make sure he has milk. Should be plenty in the refrigerator.“

Rivka could, I am sure, hear Sofia’s smile disappear when I said “my girlfriend,” and she looked utterly crestfallen when Rivka appeared at the door in my T-shirt. 

“Hello, Sofia. I’m Rivka. Misha has told me so much about you, but you are even more beautiful than he described.”

Crestfallen changed to shy and Sofia blushed and looked down. “I think YOU are beautiful,” she said as she looked up and gave Rivka a bright smile.

  “Oh . . . you are so sweet. Beautiful young woman and so sweet.” She gave Sofia a warm hug.

“I will be happy to look in on Kot. He is such a sweet cat.” Kot came in right on cue, nuzzling the girls’ legs, and giving me a desultory bump.

After Sofia left I said, “She may have had a crush on me, but she is IN LOVE with you.” I nuzzled her neck and she laughed.

“Meow.” Kot sat beside his dish and insistently wanted milk.

We arrived in DC just before dark. My reunion with her parents was tumultuous. In many ways I was closer to them than to my own parents. I’d shared so many meals with them, had so many nights of homework with Rivka at their dining room table, had so many long conversations with Itzak and Rakhel. One topic was off limits . . . the War and the Holocaust. Even Rivka didn’t know much about her parents’ experiences in the War but she and I knew it was bad. Rivka had told me about her mama’s slip, mentioning Itzak and a death camp. Despite gentle queries, Rakhel would say no more about it. But given they’d lived in Ukraine and Itzak’s family lived in Kiev, we could only surmise that the death camp had been Babi Yar.

After dinner Papa Itzak poured vodka in shot glasses and after several we were all in a rosy mood. During and after dinner, I caught them up on my last two years and as I did Rivka got more details of my taking the bus and hitchhiking across America. I tried to speed through the street fight resulting in several stitches, but was forced to reveal the scar, to her parents’ great dismay. I spoke of working on the docks in Hell’s Kitchen and my Russian boss, Yuri, and ended with our chance meeting during a respite in a rainstorm. I left out my brush with the Russian mafia, the gun, my near miss with suicide and, of course, our fucking like bunnies.

“We’re going to Hillsdale to see Papa Owen and Mama Sharon after the end of term in a week. Misha has to get his violin and guitars.” Her parents were very sad to hear I hadn’t played in over two years. I decided I would leave out the part of the last two years where music triggered terrible depression and anxiety, especially any music that had significance for the two of us. For almost six years my violin and Rivka’s piano had filled their home with music.  She led me over to their new piano and we sang some of our old repertoire from Rivka and Misha days, both of us sharing the keyboard. 

“You must remember this,

A kiss is just a kiss . . .” then I choked up.

“A sigh . . . is just a sigh,” Rivka picked it up, just like we had always done, finishing each other’s lines if necessary.

I rallied. “The fundamental things apply . . . as time goes by.”

At evening’s end I summoned the fannings. I’m not sure why. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where Rivka and I would spend the night apart. Nevertheless, no bad outcomes appeared and we slipped away to the downstairs spare bedroom. Two separate beds, of course. Pushed by Papa Itzak as far away from each other as possible. Easily surmountable. Rivka had been afraid there was going to be a fight, but her mama had worked her magic.

She told Rivka months later about the conversation she and Itzak had had:

“Izzy, you know they were sleeping together before they were separated. We will not be able to keep them apart, and I don’t want to. Misha has been living on his own for over two years. You know how mature he is, even at ten years, understanding things no little boy should be able to, such a sweet young man. Like a son to me. (She apparently got very emotional at that point with Itzak, like she had as she was telling Rivka) If we don’t let them spend the night together, they will take the night train back to New York.”

“Rakhel, I will not be handled. I will not be having my only child, my daughter, spending the night with a boy under my own roof.”

“Of course not, Izonya. It is your decision. It is your roof. I have no say.”

  “That is not what I meant. Of course you have a say. I mean, you are right, he’s not just any boy. He is like a son to me too. Maybe they will spend a life together, maybe not. It’s just they are so young. She is so young.”

“We should tell them before they travel. Maybe they will come at a different time. Maybe early in the day, so they can return to New York before dark. Like maybe just come for lunch, then get back on the train. Maybe they can come after they visit Misha’s parents. Maybe come in January, or maybe February. Da, maybe that is better. I will call them now.”

“Rakhela, don’t . . . don’t call. I want them to come. I miss my daughter. I miss Misha. Ok. They can spend the night together, downstairs . . . Separate beds!”

“Oh, Ishenkala. You are a good man. Kind and just. You are a Mensch,” she said hugging him tightly and kissing him sweetly.

We pushed the beds together and made love hungrily but quietly. We slept, arms and legs entangled only waking twice . . . for love making . . . we were still catching up. Staying for a few days, she showed me DC, though nothing was open on the weekend. I loved it. I loved the history, gazed at the Capitol Building, Lincoln Memorial. 

“The Washington Monument looks like a giant phallus.” When I said that, she looked thoughtfully at my crotch. “Rivka!?”

“If there were no people around I assure you I would throw you down on the ground and ride you like a pony,” she whispered in my ear.

When we got back to her house, we feigned fatigue and went down to our room where she made good on her promise. On the floor. Beds were too squeaky . . . and she rode me hard.