69 Keeney Avenue Read online

CHAPTER TWELVE

  The cool air gently washed over us as we walked down the busy sidewalk in West Hartford Center. It was a very sunny late spring day, and many families were taking advantage of the weather to go shopping. Alexander held my hand tenderly as we made our way past young sweat-stained ladies in baseball caps walking their dogs, groups of teenagers munching on ice-cream cones, and businessmen in dress suits and ties, hurrying to gobble down their sandwiches. We walked past a greeting-card store on Farmington Avenue that caught my eye. It had the façade of an old German house bordering the top edges of the building. Brown lines crossed over a beige background, and there appeared to be seven gables on the roof. I gazed into the window and was saddened to find the shop empty. Alexander confirmed that the store had recently closed due to a lack of business.

  We took a quick peek down LaSalle Road, the next street over. Several bustling restaurants greeted us as we ambled down the hectic pavement. There was a Jewish delicatessen, a Japanese sushi bar, and a hip new burger joint. There were jewelry stores, high-end clothing boutiques, and several large banks. As I crossed the hustling boulevard, I spotted a familiar figure in the middle of the street directing traffic. To my surprise, I saw it was my old foe, Paulie Dante. We had complained to the West Hartford Police Department regarding Dante’s conduct during the investigation of Nicholas’s disappearance. Apparently, we weren’t the first to complain about his methods, for he was soon demoted to foot patrol. Dante held his right hand up to stop traffic, and motioned us to cross the street. From my vantage point, he appeared to briefly stick up one middle finger for my benefit; it was possible that I had imagined it, as I had imagined so many things over the past few weeks. We didn’t cross, choosing to cut through an opening between buildings, traversing a back parking-lot to get to South Main Street.

  As we strolled across this parking-lot, Alexander pointed out sights of interest from his youth to me. He indicated a narrow alley behind the La Petite France Bakery, where he used to climb the fire escape to make his way up to the roof. He laughed as he recalled naming it the “Temple of Doom,” presumably taken from the famous movie. Alexander and his friends used to sneak up to the roof every Thursday evening and throw water balloons upon the unsuspecting people below whom they contemptuously referred to as “Yuppies.” Alexander told me of great changes made to the center, located right here in the heart of West Hartford. Formerly, there had been an old-fashioned movie theater, a bowling alley, and several small family food markets and drug stores. The Center had been completely transformed, becoming an upscale metropolis of fine dining and real estate. There were only echoes left of the old Center he had known as a child.

  Alexander and I passed through a driveway, entering South Main Street via the busy sidewalk. We paused in front of Himmlers, a classy shop specializing in lamps. “Himmlers?” Alexander remarked with a sly grin. “That’s a German name. I wonder if any of those lampshades are all that’s left of my Jewish relatives?” he joked.

  I slapped him playfully; I then linked my arm with his own. We were now engaged to be married. I wore his gold engagement ring on my finger, a small, simple piece of jewelry, free of any history or curses. We rarely spoke about that horrible night at 69 Keeney Avenue. After Ivan had died, it was determined by the courts that he had no other legal heir than Alexander. After some litigation, Alexander inherited all of Ivan’s real estate holdings and money. These holdings included property in the newly-built development called Blue Back Square. It lay in an area of West Hartford Center between Raymond Road and South Main Street, adjacent to both the town hall and the public library. Standing in front of the library was an impressive statue of Noah Webster, the man who had written the first American dictionary. To me, he appeared to be reaching down to implore people to read. Alexander laughed at my naïve observation, promising to bring me to visit the Noah Webster House Museum which was just down South Main Street.

  “If Mr. Alexander can put smart phone down for moment, maybe he can enlighten Sonia more about his hometown,” I teased him. He had been ignoring me for a moment while he stared at his Blackberry screen and typed into his phone. Alexander smiled apologetically, turning his phone off for the moment and returning it to his pocket. “I was just texting my brother’s lawyer to say we would be at the apartment soon. And I don’t have to enlighten you about anything Sonia. If anything, you’ve enlightened me about a great many things,” he said with a smile. He placed an arm around me and gave me a small hug. I kissed him in response, returning his smile with one of my own.

  “Speaking of lights,” I mentioned. “Please to explain something to me. That night we come to house on Keeney Avenue and lights being out, why you not use cell phone instead of lighter? I not that knowledgeable with technical stuff, but sure that your phone give off better brightness than lighter,” I said.

  Alexander was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “You are so much more clever than my brothers or aunt gave you credit for. Yes, of course I could have used the light from my phone. It would have been a smarter, more efficient thing to do at the time. But I didn’t for a very good reason,” he said.

  “What being reason?” I asked.

  His voice was quiet, almost sad. “I didn’t want to show off, like I usually do. I wanted you to look at me in a different light,” he whispered.

  “I do,” I whispered back, holding his hand tightly.

  Despite my hesitation, I actually was catching up with the technology of my new home. Alexander had been teaching me about Twitter and other computer wonders. I could now text myself, and send messages to Russia, keeping up with the gossip back there. The world was getting smaller with all of these new social networks. But it made me sad to think of the old world that was quickly vanishing because of this.

  As we approached the outskirts of Blue Back Square, a first-class restaurant greeted our arrival. It was one of the hottest new eateries in Connecticut. It was called ‘The Cupcake Factory’; I had never consumed such desserts as this particular factory produced. Rich, exquisite cupcakes that tantalized the taste buds; my mouth watered just walking past the place. But it had a special meaning for me personally; I was to apprentice as a pastry chef there soon. Alexander had gone to school with the owner, and though I hesitated to benefit from any more Pavlovich connections, the opportunity was too good to pass up. I was to start in only two more days. Two days…then my American Dream would start to come true.

  Alexander had inherited another piece of property as well. Apparently, Nicholas had willed 69 Keeney Avenue to his youngest brother. I had mixed feelings about this inheritance. I was glad for Alexander’s sake that he would get to keep his old family home. However, I was still haunted by the terrible things I had seen in that house. Alexander had brought me to the hospital upon my collapsing that night. After a day of observation, I had been released to his care. We had stayed at a hotel in downtown Hartford, the two of us really having nowhere else to go. Although I had suffered multiple traumas, I marveled at the strength of Alexander Pavlovich. He had twice been drugged, physically assaulted, and had witnessed the deaths of several members of his family. How he was able to bear these misfortunes and still support me I was unable to understand. But here he was, with an arm around my waist, and that silver cross around his neck. But his appearance had changed somewhat. Instead of jeans and a plaid shirt, he now wore fashionable trousers and a smart dress shirt. His black mane of hair was now cut short, and to my happiness he had shaved off that horrible mustache and goatee of his. Altogether, he cut a much more dashing figure than the rough, unkempt Bohemian I had met on the stairs that day so long ago.

  We were to be married soon at the Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street, the same one that I had been worshipping at all spring. We had attended a more somber event there recently; the funeral of Father Nicolai. Alexander had been impressed with the spirituality of the place. To my surprise, he seemed eager to attend services there with me; it certainly had been no struggle to get him to agree to
be married there. He would only have to take some religious classes; his iconoclastic heart had seemingly balked at this initially. But in the end, he assented to the classes to please me. I now felt confident that we could launch our new life together with the support of my church to help us through the tough times ahead.

  As we walked down the steps that led past the Criterion Cinema, I admired the Blueback speller letters that adorned the brick wall of the building. They were colored shades of blue, gold, and black; they seemed to have been inspired by Noah Webster’s own Blueback speller, thus the name of the development. We strolled past various clothing boutiques, restaurants, and specialty shops. Everything about Blue Back Square suggested modernity. In contrast to the old-world charm of 69 Keeney Avenue, our new living quarters here would surely be contemporary and more agreeable. I would have no fear of hearing the dogs howl every night in this chic plaza.

  I had discovered a new strength in myself these past few weeks. I found that I was no longer afraid to speak up for myself. When interviewed by my prospective employers, I didn’t hesitate to show confidence. Harriet had taught me to believe in myself. It made me sad to remember her betrayal and death. And the fact that she had not believed in herself.

  As I peeked around the corner of one of the civic buildings, I spotted the police station where Alexander and I had been previously detained. The day after my release from the hospital, the two of us found ourselves back there for more questioning. We had related a slightly-altered version of what had really occurred on that horrible night. Alexander had testified to the fact that his brother Ivan had kidnapped Nicholas in an attempt to wrest control of 69 Keeney Avenue away from him. He told the police that Harriet, Nicholas, and Ivan had all died tragically in a fire upstairs. Strangely enough, the investigators had discovered evidence that suggested that they had indeed been incinerated. The investigators had been surprised by how little of the house had actually been touched by the blaze. It was as if the fire had risen up in the one little study, and perished itself without spreading to the rest of the house. To tell the truth, I got the impression that the Police Chief was more than a little glad to be rid of Ivan Pavlovich, and really didn’t care to dig too deeply into the details of his death. The case was closed shortly after our testimony.

  Alexander had put the house on the market, putting a ‘For Sale By Owner’ sign in the front yard, and placing various advertisements on the Internet. It would still be a few months until Alexander himself would become licensed to sell real estate. He was taking classes at Hall High, his old school, and within a few short months he would hopefully become a salesperson. Becoming a Realtor like his brother Ivan would take him a little longer, but Alexander seemed determine to follow in his older brother’s footsteps. Secretly, I hoped that he wouldn’t be quite as successful as Ivan. In Alexander, confidence didn’t cross over into arrogance and ruthlessness as it had in his older brother. I wondered if that gentle soul of his was indeed the legacy of his mother, Catherine. I wished that I could have met her when she was alive; I think that we could have been friends.

  We met the lawyer at an apartment building called ‘The Lofts’. It possessed various one to two-bedroom apartments, each with brick accent walls, granite kitchen countertops, and beautiful hardwood floors. There was even an underground parking garage, with an elevator leading to a spacious lobby. When we stepped into Ivan’s former condo, I was overwhelmed by the exquisiteness of the furnishings. Ivan had furnished the dining room with items from John Widdicomb. There were Queen Anne Baroque-style arm and side chairs, a golden-finished Biedermeier extension table, a Russian China tip cabinet, and a Staffordshire dining table. The lawyer furnished this information; I only knew that it was the fanciest stuff I had ever seen. Magnificent Persian rugs lay on the beautiful wooden floor. In the living room, was an Essex-style leather sofa with a matching chair and table. The leather was soft to the touch, and very graceful in style. The lawyer informed us that it was all Stickley furniture, which was apparently an expensive type to have.

  “This is all eclectic in style,” Alexander remarked. “One might think that Nicholas Pavlovich had decorated it, not Ivan Pavlovich,” he said with irony.

  “Is beautiful,” I replied.

  And it was. I especially liked the paintings that hung on the walls of this apartment. While the pictures at 69 Keeney Avenue had been mysterious, even creepy, these were not so. There were reproductions of Renoir, Chagall, and even Monet. An exception was a large oil painting displayed prominently in the living room. It was enormous; it must have been at least eleven feet tall and about twenty-five feet wide. It struck me more as a mural than a traditional painting. What really drew me to it were the suffering people and animal portrayed in the painting. In the center was a horse in the act of collapsing, apparently mortally wounded. He had a gaping hole in his side. Perhaps he had been struck by a spear; I really couldn’t be certain. On the left-hand side of the painting, a bull stood over a crying woman who had a dead child in her hands. Under the horse was a dead soldier, his severed arm seemed to be holding a shattered sword from which a flower was growing. Something about this reminded me of the rose garden back at the house on Keeney Avenue. On the palm of the dead soldier was the stigma of Christ. On the right side of the picture was a figure, his arms raised in fear and endangered by fire. To the right of this figure was a dark wall with an open door. This painting struck me as being as terrifying and enigmatic as anything I had experienced in the past few weeks.

  “Pablo Picasso’s Guernica,” Alexander informed me as I stood transfixed in horror and wonder at the painting. “Picasso painted it in 1937 to protest the horrors of war,” he told me. “Interestingly enough, that was the same year that my Grandfather Vladimir built the home at 69 Keeney Avenue. They say that if you stare at the picture long enough, you can identify an unseen Harlequin overcoming death,” he wryly commented.

  I gazed very hard at the surface of the mural. To be honest, I was pretty much fed-up with haunted paintings that contained hidden mysteries. As I examined the picture, I could actually make out the outline of a face and head. The Harlequin appeared to be crying a diamond tear for the victims of the bombing. To my astonishment, the face seemed to resemble that of the man on the horse who had ridden off with my friend Becky. I felt that this man must have been a true Makari, an ascetic hermit who understood the nature of human suffering and came to Earth to end it. I thought I felt an urge to pull on my earlobe; it was simply an itch that I chose to ignore. I somehow knew that I would never need to pull on it again.

  The lawyer departed, and Alexander and I had the apartment to ourselves. In my moment of happiness I was saddened to consider what price had been paid for it. Alexander had lost his entire family; not simply lost it to death, but also to treachery and betrayal. I remembered my own dead father and brothers. Though they were gone, I would always remember them with fondness. How would Alexander remember his brothers? As his siblings or as monsters?

  Alexander took me by the hand. He had once been seemingly afraid of physical contact. But now, he appeared to be comfortable with me; he seemed relaxed in a manner which he had never before had. On my own part I felt an intimacy with him that no other person could ever make me feel. He was the man that I wanted to share my life with, someone to tell all of my inner secrets to. And strangely enough, I even felt that the horrors we had experienced together had made the bond between us eternal.

  “You’re frowning, Sonia,” Alexander observed. “Are you thinking of my family? We’ve never really spoken of that night at the house, have we?” he said.

  I was silent for a moment. Finally I spoke. “Da. I was thinking of first impression of you and brothers. I think of you as Troika, a Russian team of horses. One main horse in middle, two supporting ones on each side,” I informed him.

  Alexander smiled, though there was sadness in his eyes. “And who was the brother in the middle? Ivan? Nicholas?” he asked.

  I shook my head, looking
him straight in the eye. “It is turning out to be Alexander Pavlovich. You are the third eye in my mind,” I told him.

  Alexander shook his head with a slight look of disappointment in his eyes. He put his hands around my waist, embracing me in his arms. “I think that I have had enough Rasputin to last me a lifetime,” he commented. “We need to let go of the past, you and I both. I never want to see either that Samovar or that house on Keeney Avenue again. Once the house is sold, we will be free of its dark legacy forever,” he declared with a look of steely determination.

  I wasn’t as certain. When the police had searched Vladimir’s study, no mention of either a Samovar or a necklace had been made in the official report. Had they been destroyed in the fire? Had much of what I had witnessed there been simply the result of the drugs Ivan and Harriet had plied me with? I somehow suspected that some of the mysteries concerning 69 Keeney Avenue would never be explained. And I thanked God for this.

  Alexander attempted to change the subject. “So, little Sonia is going to become American chef,” he said with a little devilish smile. “I hope the Cupcake Factory is ready for your Russian desserts,” he said, tilting his head to one side as he did so.

  I gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “You marry me, you get just desserts, Mr. Pavlovich,” I told him half-mockingly.

  Alexander tenderly took my hand, kissing its knuckles. “We’re engaged now, Sonia. Please to call me Mr. Alexander Pavlovich,” he said playfully.

  I kicked him in the shin lightly. He chuckled in response, and we strolled out upon the porch. It was small, with wooden trellises attached to the sides. Roses were growing out of a small, tan rectangular pot. They were blood-red, much like the ones at the Pavlovich home. We gazed out at the view afforded us of West Hartford Center. It was rapidly approaching sundown; the street lights shone brightly in the twilight of the day. I glanced down at the street and happened to spot a yellow taxi cab. It looked much like the one that had brought me to 69 Keeney Avenue. I wondered if it was ferrying another immigrant to her dream. I looked up, regarding the diminishing sky. As the sun sank, it seemed to me to turn black. The moon glowed with a reddish hue. A swarm of insects suddenly flew by the porch. They resembled horses marching off to battle.

  “It’s getting dark, Sonia,” Alexander said with a gentle smile. He held me tight in a loving embrace. “Aren’t you going to pull on your earlobe?” he mocked me playfully.

  I continued to gaze out at the city lights reflecting in my eyes. “I am not being afraid of the dark any longer,” I declared with confidence. And I meant it.

  And we both regarded the beautiful rapture of a West Hartford street filled with walking dead souls.

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