Read Online The Sunlit Night by Rebecca Dinerstein - Free Book Online Page B

neck while she said, Soon, soon, soon . “Your bogus wedding can wait a little while, can’t it?” Yasha said. “We won’t be gone for ten years. I promise. Tell your fucking boyfriend—”
    “Ian,” his mother said.
    “Tell Ian he can hold his horses.”
    A speckled, sad-looking carriage horse clopped just then over the footbridge. Yasha had taken over as ringleader; the actors and animals were taking his cues now. Following the horse he had conjured, Yasha turned and walked out of the park, two blocks west to Broadway, down from 67th to 59th, picking up into a run that led him into the waiting mouth of the B train.
    At the bakery, he found his father singing the Simon part and Mr. Dobson singing the Garfunkel part of “Homeward Bound.” Mr. Dobson was slapping a loaf of rye against the counter, keeping time, which helped, as neither man was singing in tune. His father was throwing out all the bread in the store. He walked around with a big black garbage bag, emptying all the baskets.
    Home! (He dumped the challahs.)
    Where my thought’s escaping!
    Home! (He dumped the babkas.)
    Where my music’s playing!
    Home! (He dumped the egg, everything, and onion bagels.)
    Where my love lies waiting silently for me . (He dumped, finally, the bialys, tied the bag up, and threw it to the floor beside the cat bowl.)
    “Silently for me,” Vassily whined, solo.
    “Dum, dum dum dum, dum dum,” crooned Mr. Dobson.
    “Yakov Vassiliovich!” said Vassily, looking up.
    “Jesus Christ,” said Yasha.
    “It’s only Mr. Dobson!” said Vassily. “He’s our final customer.”
    “The Gregoriovs visit the homeland!” Mr. Dobson sang out.
    Vassily started shimmying his shoulders—a dance Yasha would never have expected to see his father’s body perform—and waving his hands in the air. The fourth finger of his left hand still bore a gold ring.
    “Papa,” said Yasha.
    “Yasha!” said Vassily. “I have some shirts to show you.”
    “When do you leave?” asked Mr. Dobson.
    “Thursday,” Vassily said. “Back before winter, but who knows when?”
    “Come here, Sam,” Yasha called. The cat looked up at him. Yasha lifted him under his front legs and held him up, while his father hoisted the bag of bread over his shoulder, knocking the cat bowl to the wall. Vassily opened the door.
    Yasha looked out the door in the direction of the ocean. Rows of clouds pushed inland. His father had written BACK INDEFINITELY onto a piece of butcher paper and hung the sign on the front door. Yasha inhaled, and the bakery smelled empty.
    “Well, my dear Gregoriovs…” said Mr. Dobson.
    “ Good riddens ,” said all three men, each at his own pitch, and it sounded more like harmony than any of their singing.
    •    •    •
     
    After school on Wednesday, Yasha said goodbye to Stephen, did not say goodbye to Alexa, and ran directly to the subway. Now that he’d asked his mother to stay away, it seemed only more likely that she’d appear. She hadn’t been at the school door, and Yasha feared that he would find her at home with Papa, getting her papers signed if it cost her Papa’s life. Yasha rode the empty subway home standing up, in preparation.
    When Yasha got to the Gregoriov Bakery, it was closed. The lights were off, and the shelves empty. The door to the basement was propped open, and from the sidewalk he could see a single lit bulb dangling from a cord. He ran down. Vassily was there, alone, his jeans rolled above his knees, frantically swatting at a foot of water with a garbage bag.
    “Flood,” said Vassily, his forehead covered in sweat. “The whole boulevard. The pipes are telling us, Get out of here!” He laughed and dragged his wet hand across his forehead, making water run down his face. He was smiling, but the drops resembled tears, and Yasha was paralyzed. “Help me clear this out, Yakov Vassiliovich,” Vassily said, “so we can go upstairs and pack.”
    “Has anyone come to see you today?” Yasha