69 Keeney Avenue



  69 Keeney Avenue

  By Coolidge Templeton

  Copyright 2011 Coolidge Templeton

  CHAPTER ONE

  I could feel the coldness of the house as I slowly advanced across the front lawn. It was smaller than I had imagined it would be, a chocolate-brown cape with forbidding shutters protecting its claustrophobic windows. There was a small flower garden to my left, its tiny rose buds bravely fighting for life in the chilly spring air. A shadow, cast from the pointy-shaped building enveloped the bloom in darkness. A shiver ran up and down my spine, but I only hesitated a moment before approaching the creepy house.

  “Do you like the flower garden?” a young girl’s voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed her before. She stood next to the hunter-green bushes, picking petals from a daisy. Her skin was pale, almost as milky-white as her sweater. I had never seen a dress like the one she was wearing, save for old grainy black and white films. Her hair was blonde, almost ivory in its lightness.

  “The soil reminds me of Chernozum,” I replied.

  “Cher… what is that?” she inquired. She wore a puzzled expression on her pale features.

  “It is black soil, like tar of earth,” I replied. “It is very common in Ukraine, near my native Russia.”

  “Oh, you must be that new Russian girl who is supposed to cook for the brothers Pavlovich,” she said excitedly, her eyes brightening as she smiled. What is your name, Miss…?”

  “Godunov. Sonia Godunov is being name,” I introduced myself by sticking out my hand with a straight arm to shake her own. She shook it limply, using the tips of her tiny fingers. “And you are being…?”

  “Oh, I’m Becky,” she replied quietly. “I’m not supposed to be over here. My mommy thinks there is something odd about this place,” she laughed suddenly. “But I don’t care! I come to protect the roses. They used to be something in the days of old lady Pavlovich, but it seems like these brothers can’t be bothered.”

  Becky appeared to be about eight years old. She confounded me, seemingly shy one minute, outgoing the next. She wordlessly plucked the remaining petals from the stem, and then carelessly threw it into the dark bush.

  “I am staying here at 69 Keeney Avenue. You are always welcome to come and have cookies with me,” I smiled warmly.

  She returned my smile, but her eyes weren’t smiling. They were sad; something about them reminded me of my older brother Sasha, who had died in the Chechnya War.

  I looked up at the front porch. It was no bigger than an old-fashioned telephone booth. It was enclosed, with small glass panes on the rectangular wooden doors. I wondered if its doors were locked. The wind howled as it shook the feeble walls of the porch. I turned back to say goodbye to Becky; she was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the morning mist. Doubtless, she was a next-door neighbor who had found 69 Keeney Avenue to be something more interesting than her own home. I felt certain that I would meet this mysterious girl again.

  I was about to reach for the porch door when it abruptly swung open; an angry, red-faced woman greeted me with a sneer. Her hair was blondish-gray, her eyeglasses old fashioned with oval lenses. Her large frame filled the doorway, giving her the appearance of some ogre from a Grimm’s fairy tale.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice having a trace of a European accent. “Are you another one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, looking to save our souls? Well, forget it! We’re past saving,” she said sarcastically as she sized me up with a challenging stare. “Or maybe you’re selling face cream. Are you insinuating that I have wrinkles?”

  As she smiled, her face seemed to wear a thousand wrinkles. I couldn’t say for sure, but the woman seemed to be about sixty years old. I was too intimidated to speak, yet too embarrassed not to at least try to communicate. I stammered, “I…I’m Sonia. I’m new cook from Russia, please,” I managed to say.

  Now the large woman looked positively enraged. “So, now I see. You are peasant girl that Nicholas found in the back of a cheap magazine. Yes…now I see who is replacing me,” she said, more in sadness than in anger, though I still didn’t care for her stare. “My cooking was fine for last twenty years, but now comes the upgrade. Out with old, in with new,” she remarked.

  I felt embarrassed as I stood there, bearing the brunt of her fury and frustration. I began to pull on my earlobe. I don’t know why I do this, but my brother Sasha used to kid me about it, back home in Russia. He joked that one day one of my ears would drag on the ground, and that I would then learn all the gossip in the village.

  “Well, don’t just stand there girl, come in, come in,” the tall woman abruptly said, as she opened the door wider. I slid past her with some hesitation. The porch had a dank, musty odor, like an old shed. There were old, unused tennis rackets leaning up against decaying baseball gloves. A small, black mailbox rested on the wall to the immediate right of the front entrance. Thin flakes of brown paint fell to the floor as I brushed my arm against the wall. The heat was incredible; I was soaked with sweat in a matter of seconds. And there was no welcome mat on the cold, stone floor.

  The large woman pushed the front door open. It creaked at its hinges, as if it hadn’t been oiled in years. Immediately, the sound of a loud barking dog rang in my ears. I looked around the room. There was no sign of a living animal here. There was a small fireplace located in the center of the room, with black stones forming a frame around the hearth. A pair of black iron dogs held the short-cut logs that fed a smoldering fire. A long white wooden shelf crowned the top of the fireplace. Various old books rested upon it; they were held in place by two black wooden book marks shaped like dogs.

  But what caught my attention were the bells. These were no ordinary knick-knacks; they lay upon the mantle like an army marching into battle. They were all sorts of shapes and styles: some traditional, others more unique. I had never had any kind of fascination for bells, but somehow these were different. Something strange and hypnotic called out to me, imploring me to ring every one.

  My host turned to me and smiled. “So, you are liking living room? It is furnished rudely, and I am ruder still for not introducing self,” she said with a half-grin. “I am Harriet Blom,” she stated as she stiffly shook my hand. Her smile seemed false; I couldn’t help thinking that I had offended her in some way. I didn’t understand American manners; perhaps something I had said or done had displeased the lady.

  I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of men arguing in the next room. There seemed to be two voices: One loud, angry and commanding, like a lion’s roar; one silky and cunning, like a leopard’s purr. The first voice boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the white plastered walls, vibrating in my ears. I wondered what kind of beast could possess such language?

  “You are killing time, Nicholas!” The louder man shouted. “Mine, yours… There should be prisons for people like you, who waste valuable time!”

  “But you’re mistaken, Ivan,” the second man replied, his voice softer, almost a whisper. “I can’t kill time, but the hands on the clock will certainly strangle me some day,” the silky voice replied.

  “You’re a fool…two good eyes and you can’t see the world as it really is!” bellowed the first man.

  There was a pause, as if the second man was carefully choosing his words. Finally, he responded. “Perhaps this is true. But as our beloved Rasputin well knew, the third eye is in the mind,” he purred.

  “I have no more patience for your daydreaming, Nicholas,” the first man declared. “Consider my offer for this old shack, and remember, I’m doing you a favor. Again,” he added with meaning.

  The loud man almost ran me over as he abruptly burst into the living room. For a split-second his viper-like eyes gleamed with malice, but he quickly reco
vered his composure and smiled at both of us.

  “Well, who do we have here?” he inquired, smiling warmly. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. And it is a pleasure to meet such a pretty young lady,” He took my hand, kissing the back of it in some old-world manner. I blushed in spite of myself.

  “This is Sonia, our new cook from Russia,” Harriet introduced me. “I’m remembering now what Nicholas told me. She is from small village called Gogol. It’s being one piece of real estate you don’t own yet,” she added, a hard edge in her voice.

  “Oh, give me time, Harriet, he replied jovially. “Everything has a price. Property, people, souls…it’s just a matter of negotiation,” he paused. He and Harriet exchanged a quick look. “Since my aunt has neglected basic civility,” he admonished her. “I will introduce myself. I’m Ivan Pavlovich, Realtor and local businessman,” he said with a charming smile.

  Ivan was a hulking, large man, broad-shouldered and tall. He had a red goatee, an enormous bald head and a huge, prominent nose. He seemed confident, almost arrogant; I was captivated by his manners, yet I found him to be a bit intimidating.

  Ivan glanced at his watch. He gave me a quick nod of the head, and then began to walk away. However, he suddenly stopped at a picture hanging on the living room wall, just to the left of the mirror. He stared at it for some time, examining it closely, as if he were viewing it for the very first time.

  “My father hung this painting here when I was just a child,” he remarked. “It had some relevance…I’m not certain. All I see is a river going nowhere and an old, decrepit bridge,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Ivan advanced to the front door, but then paused for a moment. “It was quite nice meeting you, Sonia. I hope to sample some of your Russian cuisine in the near-future,” he said in an agreeable fashion.

  “Da, Mr. Pavlovich,” I replied. “I will be happy making you special Charlotte Russe cake.”

  Ivan smiled in response, but his eyes weren’t smiling. “That would be excellent, Sonia,” he said in a softer tone of voice. “I am a bachelor, and don’t do much cooking on my own. Though I do dabble in mixed-drinks and such potions,” he added. He abruptly turned to the door, slamming it hard as he exited the house.

  Harriet’s face grimaced with displeasure. I tried to smile sympathetically; I then turned to look at the picture on the wall that had riveted Ivan’s attention. It was a river; there was an old wooden bridge spanning it. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Hidden in the rushing waters was something…a face. That was it, it was some kind of face. But it didn’t look human. It was more like…

  “A ghost?” a soft masculine voice from behind me startled me. I whirled around, coming face-to-face with the second man from the next room. He was of medium build, somewhat flabby, with lazy hunched shoulders and poor posture. He wore eyeglasses that were both dirty and ill-fitting on his round, moon-like face. He had a long skinny nose that tilted to one side, as if it had once been broken and never properly set. Though he was smiling, his eyes were empty of emotion. They were gray and watery, like some dead fish. His hair was thinning; he was slightly bald on top, what remained was badly-cut. His hair was walnut-brown, graying a bit at the temples. Altogether, he cut a rather slovenly, unimposing figure.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, flustered. “I don’t…”

  “Know who I am?” The pudgy man finished my sentence. “But you should, you see, for I am the one who sent for you. I’m Nicholas Pavlovich,” he introduced himself, gently shaking my hand. His handshake was rather limp; it actually felt cold to the touch.

  I managed a smile. “Being pleased to meet you, Mr. Pavlovich. I hope you will find my cooking satisfactory,” I said hesitantly.

  Nicholas Pavlovich smiled back. His dead eyes focused on me wearily. “Oh, I know it will be,” he replied, crossing his flabby arms. “You certainly wouldn’t want to wind up like our last cook. She burned our supper, and then disappeared into that painting,” he said mischievously.

  I crossed myself. As cold fear gripped my body, I managed to take another look at the picture. The ghost I had imagined before seemed to be floating right out of the painting, reaching out to steal my soul. I fought the urge to run screaming out the front door.

  “That is quite enough, Nicholas,” Harriet declared impatiently. “The poor girl doesn’t get your strange behavior. Few of us do,” she added, her forehead wrinkling with disapproval.

  Nicholas shook his head sympathetically, clucking his tongue in his mouth as he did so. He smiled again, this time with surprising warmth and feeling. His eyes, too, seemed to come to sudden life.

  “I am sorry,” Nicholas said, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Harriet is quite right. Well, I do have to have my little jokes, don’t I?” He paused looking into my eye. “You do understand I was only joking, Sonia? It is Sonia, isn’t it?”

  I breathed a little easier. Once more, I managed to smile. “Yes, being Sonia Godunov,” I replied. “I received your kind letter in Russia, I here hoping to learn the better English, become chef someday. I do best here, promise,” I declared. I looked down at the floor in embarrassment at my poor English.

  Nicholas slowly nodded his head approvingly. “Our best…well, we all promise that, don’t we?” he said dully. He regarded the clock that hung on the white stucco wall in the hallway. “It’s getting rather late,” he declared. “I have some papers that I need to correct. Harriet can show you to your room,” he said, dismissing me. He turned to leave, then hesitated a moment. He suddenly walked around me in a circle, nodding his head enigmatically.

  “Yes…you will do, Sonia Godunov,” he declared. “You have the dark eyes of the Black Goddess. Yes, I am very glad that you’ve come here,” he stated. Nicholas turned without warning, vanishing into the shadow of the unlit kitchen.

  “I am being sorry, Sonia,” Harriet apologized. “My nephew Nicholas is really a sweet dear. After his mother died, I’m being mother to him,” she confided. Harriet paused for a moment, as if she were choosing her words with care. “You’ll like him too, thinking I to myself,” she declared.

  I wasn’t so sure myself, but I kept silent. I suddenly realized that I was nervously pulling on my earlobe again. I stopped self-consciously, and began to examine the white stucco walls of the side hallway. They were like white frosting that had been thickly spread upon a half-baked cake. The sound of Harriet’s sharp voice tore me from my observations.

  “Are you being hungry?” she inquired gruffly. “I have cooked family dinner already. Can I make you sandwich or something?” It wouldn’t be fancy Russian dish, mind you, but still tasting fine,” she said tartly, a strange look of jealousy in her expression as she regarded me.

  I smiled, attempting to ease the sudden tension. “No, I had late lunch on plane,” I said. “But thanking you all same.”

  We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a figure descending the long, narrow stairwell. It was that of a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. He had jet-black hair, like the color of midnight, and a pale face. His eyes were large, somber, yet brimming with intelligence. He was tall, with a slight build, and wore a loose plaid shirt which he hadn’t bothered to tuck in at the waist. The young man wore blue jeans, black sneakers and a large silver cross around his neck. He also wore gloominess about him; he certainly was not a person who smiled easily.

  Harriet addressed the tall, lanky figure. “So, Mr. Alexander is making special appearance from room. What is special reason? Did Internet run out of things for you to surf?” she asked caustically.

  Alexander shook his head, a look of profound irritation visible upon his features. He ignored Harriet, focusing his attention on me. “Who the hell are you?” he abruptly demanded.

  I was taken aback by his apparent hostility. These Americans were not as friendly as I had imagined them to be. “Please Mr. Alexander,” I said hesitantly. “I am being Sonia Godunov, the new cook. Your brother placed advertisement in n
ewspaper, and so I come,” I explained.

  “The newspaper?” he asked, laughing in a somewhat cruel fashion. “That is funny. Hey Sonia, the year 1899 just sent a message by smoke signals; it wants its technology back,” he smirked tauntingly. “Ever hear of something people call a computer?”

  I frowned. It was so frustrating, talking to this young man. I couldn’t understand why he was acting so unfriendly to me. “Please,” I began. “I am not having either computer or Internet at home in Russia. There no need for you to be Cossack,” I informed him.

  At this point, Harriet interrupted our conversation. “Alexander, your mother would be ashamed, your being so rude to guest,” she admonished him. “Sonia is staying here, and you need to treat her respectfully,” she informed him, poking him in the chest with her finger for special emphasis. “Sonia, this being Alexander Pavlovich, youngest of my three nephews. And he is something of Cossack,” she remarked.

  Alexander ignored his aunt’s cutting remark. “Funny you should mention Cossacks,” he said. My grandfather Vladimir and his sister were chased out of their town in Russia by those murderous bastards. My great-aunt was blinded in one eye by a saber cut to the face,” he informed me with a look of accusation. “They were Jews, you see,” he added.

  I felt terrible. I had heard of horrible atrocities committed against Jews by Russians in the past. My family had no connection to the Cossacks; however, my father had been extremely prejudiced against Jews and other foreigners. I suddenly felt a deep sense of shame.

  “I am being sorry,” I declared. “I did not know you were being Jews. There has been much evil in my country in past. Now though, we are free and trying to do better,” I said hopefully.

  Alexander stared at me in silence for a moment. I felt that he was peering into my soul. And it made me feel vulnerable and self-conscious. Then he spoke. “I wouldn’t blame you for what your ancestors did,” he said gently, his eyes softening for just a moment. “After all, you’re just a country girl from a small village, aren’t you?”

  For a brief second, I saw someone that I liked under his gruff exterior. Lightly touching his arm, I said, “Perhaps there is something you are liking to eat, I cook tomorrow?”

  Alexander pulled his arm away abruptly, a look of embarrassment visible on his face. He rubbed the cross that hung from his neck vigorously, then turned without another word and ascended the stairs, disappearing into the blackness of the second floor of the house.

  “Did I offend?” I inquired of Harriet. “Am sorry, not intention,” I apologized.

  Harriet stood with her arms crossed, shaking her head with disapproval. “Alexander’s not offended,” she declared. “You have to learn, Americans not standing close together like we Europeans,” she informed me.

  There was so much for me to learn. I wondered if I shouldn’t just get back into a taxi and return home. But then, I thought of something. “I am not understanding,” I said, perplexed. “If you are Jews, then why Mr. Alexander wearing cross around neck?”

  Harriet rolled her eyes. “It is fashion statement,” she answered. “And now interrogation being over. I will show you to your room, Sonia Godunov,” she said with authority.

  Harried walked very quickly. I could barely keep up with her, despite my youth. I retrieved the small suitcase that I had left in the hallway and raced to follow the tall lady. We turned a corner, arriving at a secluded part of the house. Harriet forced open a badly-painted door, and we entered into a dark room. She switched on a light, and I had an opportunity to examine my new home.

  I briefly regarded the little room. There was a brass bed, covered with heavy purple blankets with gold embroidery, on the side of the room that faced the front of the house. An enormous wooden box stood to the left of the bed. A white shelf, similar to the one in the living room, was attached to the wall. Various Russian dolls, ones we call Matryoshks in my country, stood fiercely at attention on the pale shelf. There were dozens of them, their dark eyes following my every movement.

  “So,” Harriet said. “You are liking,no?” It was more of a command than a question.

  “I’m not taking your room, huh?” I asked nervously.

  Harriet laughed heartily. “First job, then room, eh? You Russians are being good, occupying territory not own. But no,” she said with a friendly smile. “This was Elizabeth’s room. She was wife to Grandfather Vladimir,” she explained. “Elizabeth lived here some months before she died. She was from Ukraine, very quiet and soulful they say,” Harriet remarked, almost softly.

  The room was cold; a chill was quickly creeping up my spine. It smelled musty, like it hadn’t been cleaned or dusted for some time. I pulled on my earlobe, so hard that it felt as if it would come right off in my hand. I looked imploringly at Harriet for some sympathy, silently begging her not to leave me in this dark cage. But there was no sympathy in her large brown eyes; only impatience.

  “You being fine, my young pretty friend,” she said impassively. “In morning I will show you kitchen and new responsibilities. You have suitcase?” she demanded. I nodded, lifting my little red valise so that she could see it. Harriet nodded approvingly.

  “Well, good night Sonia,” she said solemnly. “There is a bathroom with toilet and shower, being next door to your room,” Harriet paused at the door. “You have lock on door. Use it,” she said unsmilingly. She quickly departed, perhaps to the comfort and safety of her own room.

  I took Harriet’s advice, locking the door then placing my few belongings in the cherry-finished dresser. I put on my nightdress and quickly hopped into the bed, pulling the thick purple covers over me and tucking them in tightly. I noticed a small lamp resting on the nightstand next to my bed, and I reached over to switch it off. It took two or three tries; the lamp was old and spooky-looking, just like everything else in the house. As I lay in the quiet, frigid dark, I began to tremble with fear and uncertainty. This was not how I had expected America to be. I felt apprehensive about my future as I considered the events of the evening. Suddenly, a piercing cry shattered the still, night air. It was the howling of the mysterious dog that I had heard earlier. I pulled the heavy covers uncomfortably over my head, singing Russian folk songs to myself until I finally fell asleep.