Everything’s Coming Up Josey (4 page)

Now this is more like it.

Museums, underground palaces of the Metro, the
Golden Ring
tour.

Okay, anyone else have chills? I click on the tour. It's a listing of cities,
ancient
cities. “Museums under the open sky” with 12th century Russian architecture. They have exotic names like
Yaroslav, Rostov, Suzdal
and
Palekh.
I say the last one out loud and it sounds like I'm spitting. I kind of like it and say it again.

Benny over at the cappuccino machine glances at me and I click on
Palekh.

It has, among other relics, a monastery with white towers and gold cupolas, and a prince buried in a convent. (Kinda makes me wonder what he's doing there—what kind of prince was he, exactly?)

I go back to the home page and click on entertainment.

Tour of Moscow. Okay, I'm game.

I tour the Arbat, where the poet Pushkin lived, check out the grandeur of the Bolshoi theater, and linger long in Red Square, enraptured with St. Basil's cathedral.

What about…food?

Restaurants, click.

Score! Chose by type of establishment or cuisine. Cafés, pubs (I've never been in one of those, but don't they sound cute?), night eateries and delivery. On the other scroll bar are cuisines from India, China, Taiwan, Thailand, Greece, Italy, America and something called Caucasian. That trips me up and I click on it. It takes me more than a few seconds to realize that this is specialty food from the Caucasus mountains. Not some sort of pre-civil-rights-era club. Phew.

Mutton pie sounds…well, maybe I'll stick to American for the first couple weeks/months/centuries.

I go back and click on cafés. Oooh, I like this picture. Umbrella tables, plants, people laughing.

I could be laughing. Letting the sun soak my arms, nursing a…slushy? Or maybe something more exotic?

There would be music playing, something hip and upbeat, maybe a Duke Ellington remixed jazz tune, and around me birds chirping, the smell of summer, the sounds of unfamiliar speech—

Wait, I have to speak another language?

Don't interrupt!

The sounds of unfamiliar speech. Perhaps I'm picking at a Greek salad. I'm looking svelte in a sleeveless silk blouse and black capris. My hair is long, sun-bleached, straight and a hint of pink dots my nose. I'm chewing, noiselessly of course, when a shadow cascades over me. I look up.

“Hi, Jose.”

I expected him and I push out the wicker chair with my foot. “Sit down, Chase.”

He's looking tan because he's been spending all that time in the mountains. His blond hair is long, slightly tangled and he's a little rumpled in an oxford and chinos, as if he's been in a hurry to get to me.

Of course.

“Are you in town long?” I ask as he sits.

He shakes his head, and there is definite disappointment on his face. “Just for an hour. But I had to see you.”

Elizabeth, eat your heart out.

“What do you want?” I'm buying. After all, the guy crossed an ocean for me. But he leans across the table, takes my hand. It is warm and strong, and for a second the touch sweeps the breath right out of my chest. Then he smiles, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Just you.”

“Josey, I'm going over to Red Rooster to pick up their grocery ad for the week. Can you man the office for me?” Myrtle hollers from the Java Cup doorway.

I blink out of the moment. Chase's hand dissolves in mine, leaving it cold. I'm staring at my screen, which has gone into saver mode. The Microsoft icon twirls around the page. “Man the shop. Yes, right.” I sigh, straighten my shirt and quickly exit the browser.

Yeah, I can man the office. But not for long.

I'm going to Russia.

 

H gave me two things when she exited Gull Lake.

1. The name of her hairdresser in Minneapolis.

2. Her AOL IM identity for future counseling purposes.

I'm not quite ready to coordinate my hair color with my clothes, but I need a friend tonight at 2:00 a.m., as the moon slants across Jasmine's empty single bed and crawls toward me. I'm in my jammies—an old T-shirt with the Tasmanian devil plastered on the front. I've had it since I was sixteen and my future mate will have to pry it off my cold, dead body before I'll part with it. If he doesn't like cotton, an oversized beast and a little rip in the sleeve, then I'm not his girl. He might actually like the rip.

I've got my laptop on my legs, and a glass of water with lemon sweating on the bedside table.

One good thing about having a friend who makes her living mixing margaritas and fuzzy navels is that 2:00 a.m. is her prime time. Besides, Jasmine is still on her honeymoon. H answers my IM query.

 

Hello, Jose! What's up?

 

Remind me why I'm doing this.

 

I've spent the last two weeks tracking down references, talking to my pastor, fielding objections from my mother, answering questions like, “What do you believe about Baptism?” (I don't let Myrtle see my answer), taking a mug shot and getting a physical. (And I didn't appreciate the doctor mentioning that I'd gained fifteen pounds since my last one. Good grief, I was twelve! Give me a break!) The finished envelope is sealed and sitting on my dresser. Like a bomb.

Tick tick, I can nearly hear it waiting to explode and change my life.

 

You want more from your life.

 

But I have a pretty good life. I like Myrtle. And I have a view.

 

Do you want to be Myrtle? I'm asking because if you don't do this you'll end up inheriting her cabin.

 

And the lawn art, I hope.

 

I'm not laughing at that. If you don't go, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.

 

Just tell me how you feel, will you? This isn't the only opportunity to travel I'll have.

 

Yeah, you're right. When you sign up for AARP, they'll send you an entire catalogue of cruises.

 

Now that wasn't funny. Mine was.

 

Or you could stay in Gull Lake and marry Fuzzy. I hear he's single again.

 

Fuzzy Zoman was the quarterback for our high school team until he knocked up Patty Lowe, had to quit and took a job running maintenance down at the local municipal pool. He's blond, big and brazen and Patty kicked him out like a mangy dog when she walked in on him and Kerry Fitger doing water aerobics after closing. He's moved on, a couple times I think, since Kerry.

 

Don't get nasty now. I'm not looking to get married.

 

I want to add “ever” but I think that's a little drastic. I'd probably say “I do” to the right guy, someone with blue eyes, a kind smile, enough muscles to prop me up when I'm feeling down and the wisdom to know when to keep his mouth shut unless I get in over my head. Notice those qualities do not define Chase. Well, mostly not.

 

I know. But I'm making a point. Leap now or forever hold your peace.

 

What if I flop? What if I get over there, find I can't speak a lick of Russian, my students hate me, I alienate everyone, and—

 

If you don't try, you'll never know. Besides, you'll alienate me if you don't do it.

 

Thank you for that unconditional love.

 

My pleasure. You need a change. It's either this or a nose ring. Take your pick.

 

Two days before high school graduation, Chase and I sat on the beach, tossing in stones and talking about our futures. The moon parted the waves as they lapped the shore, and the smell of freedom taunted, still just out of our reach. Shania Twain played on the stereo of his Kawasaki 350, which we'd just driven from graduation rehearsal.

“I can't believe you're not going with me. I thought we had a deal,” he said as he skimmed another rock across the waves. I hated how he could always out throw me. I snaked one across the water and only got three skips.

Those were the days when his curly hair took possession of his entire body. Cut short on top, it snaked down his back, where the wind brushed it against his leather bomber jacket. I was looking pretty hot myself in a pair of stonewashed jeans and a cotton cami. The nights were losing their chilly edge, but sometimes, when it was cold, he offered me his jacket. I liked it because it smelled like Chase.

I dodged his question (as you know, I'm very good at dodging). No, I wasn't trekking out to North Dakota State, thank you very much. They may have had an excellent journalism program, but I just couldn't—I mean, what is in North Dakota anyway?

And I just knew that if Chase hadn't nailed that scholarship, he wouldn't have gone there, either. But I didn't say that.

“You'll write to me, right?” I suddenly felt a gash across my chest. Chase wouldn't be there for me to track down after my dates and lament on the shortage of decent non-groping boys in Gull Lake. Or be the hero-friend to rescue me on those lonely Saturday nights when groping boys just might be appreciated. Who would follow me around school, hang out by my locker, run me down to Jerry's for a pizza lunch?

Who would haul me home when H talked me into trying some locally made hooch? Who would lecture me on the perils of hanging out with the one girl who might just make it all the way to the state penitentiary in Stillwater?

My throat was thick as he stared at me. His blue eyes were so powerful, they snatched me up and reached down to my heart. Sometimes, I can still feel it.

“I'm going to miss you, G.I.,” he said and ran his fingers down my cheek. He smelled good, and the moon was touching his face, turning it to gold. He leaned forward, his gaze on my lips.

And then I blew it. It is precisely at this moment, in all my reminiscence, that I want to grab the Josey of the past by the throat and smack her good.

“I suppose if I don't find the right guy in college, I could come back for you,” I said with a smile. “Sort of my last resort…”

At the time, I thought I paid him a compliment. He flinched, and leaned away.

“Yeah, right.” His voice was clogged, and I thought it was due to his emotions, being so touched that I'd consider him.

The breeze came up, rippled the lake. I shivered as it lifted the hair off my neck.

He didn't offer me the jacket.

It was then I began to suspect I'd ground to dust something precious in our friendship.

I awaken, that memory outlining my dreams. Until the sun clears the horizon I stare at the ceiling, adding up the profits and losses of sending the envelope. At 8:03 a.m. I throw my shorts and a sweatshirt over my Taz jammies, slip on my Birks and race down to the post office. Overnight FedEx costs $17.23.

$17.23 to change my life. Or regret it forever.

July 3, 2004

Moscow Bible Church/Mission to the World

1237 Righteous Boulevard

Waukee, IA 55302

“Where exactly is Waukee?”

Jasmine is sitting on her bed, cross-legged, leaning back on her palms, and critiquing every item I fold, put in my suitcase, take out, toss into a pile, then grab, refold and add again. It's been a week of packing and still I can't decide the look I'm going for here.

“It's in Des Moines.”

Conservative or liberated? My short, very cute low-rise Gap capris that make me look carefree and smart, or my J.G. Hook nautical dress, the one down to my ankles? Or do I wear a suit?

“That would be Iowa, right?” Jasmine shakes her head no to the nautical dress.

I guess I'll also say no to the cute little black leather skirt I picked up two years ago at a Saks sale. I'm envisioning having to drop to my knees to make sure my hemline touches the floor. Do they wear leather in Des Moines in July?

Fine, I admit it, the tag is still on the little black skirt. And the matching stiletto sandals I found at Macy's to go with it. But a girl can dream, right?

“Hey, how about the dress I gave you last summer?” Jas gets off the bed and pulls a floral shell from the back of my dusty closet, where I've hidden it behind two bridesmaid's dresses.

What is it with Jasmine and poppies? I can already feel my lungs bunching up.

“It's too small,” I say, trying to deflect the truth and pretty sure I'm right.

She shakes her head. “No, it's a size bigger than I wear. I know it will fit you.”

Oh, thanks, sis.
I force a smile. “Right. Thanks.”

“Besides, you look great in sleeveless.”

She's the one who looks great. Tanned, blond hair down her back and a glow in her eyes that hasn't dimmed once since the honeymoon two weeks ago. Even when I told her that yes, I was for sure going to Des Moines. And Russia. She blinked a couple times, but the glow stayed.

I don't want to know why. Please, I'm not even going to wonder.

Okay, yes, it bothers me more than just a little that I am the last remaining virgin over the age of eighteen in a sixty-mile radius. Not that I want the goodies without marriage, but the fact that my younger sister can sit over there and glow—well, see, I knew I was better off not pondering all this.

I throw the dress on the bed, unsure what sisterly urge to pursue at the moment.

“How long will you be there?” she asks as I survey my shoe selection.

“Ten days.” I'm adding in the training session because I know they'll accept me. But ten days is my limit because, being practical as well as confident, I only asked Myrtle for time off instead of quitting altogether.

I return to my closet. I really like my black, high-heeled sandals, but I'm not sure I can afford a pedicure before I leave and well, my toes aren't my best feature. I grab my old faithful leather closed-toe mules. (I'm sorry, but when in doubt, go with comfort.) Which then commits me to the capris, a few cotton sweaters and tanks. And I add in the floral shell (Jas is looking, and I'm past the petty moment) and a black shirt-waist dress that sheds a few pounds. Especially if people squint a little. You know, I've found that if we all just squinted more often, the world would be a much easier place to live. Blurry is nice.

Reality hurts.

Like the fact that I haven't heard from Chase since he left, not a huge issue, but still the guy has my e-mail address. And I happen to know he has a cell phone. I helped him pick it out last summer when he was home for vacation.

He hadn't mentioned Buffy then. Hmm. Not even when I drove him back down to the Twin Cities for his flight out. Nor do I remember him looking as good as he did at the wedding. I do recall, however, grimy jeans, a torn flannel shirt and a battered Twins hat.

I don't want to know who his personal groomer has been.

We listened to country music—his choice—and he crooned a few songs and told me about the assignment he just finished in Tuk, Alaska. He specializes in studying people. Which seems like a pretty strange profession for a guy who couldn't figure out that half the Gull Lake senior class was in love with him. I mean, couldn't he see the girls trailing after him like groupies, hanging out at the Dairy Queen (he did look kinda cute in that paper hat) and showing up at his baseball games? I practically had to fight the crowds as I brought him his chilled bottle of Gatorade!

But now the guy contemplates humanity. He writes studies and reports on people groups, on behaviors, on marriage rituals. I wonder what kind of marriage ritual he's preparing for him and Buffy.

Do. Not. Go. There.

I should have kissed him goodbye instead of the one-armed hug at the curb.

There are a lot of things I should have done.

“Are you flying?” Jas asks, reminding me that I have a future for which to prepare.

“No. It's only seven hours. I can manage.”

“But can your Subaru?” She laughs.
Oh, hardy har har.

“I'll be fine. Lots of Diet Coke.” I close my suitcase—wait, I thought this bag was bigger. Ten minutes of zipping and grunting and it is finally shut. The suitcase looks like a…Teletubby. Round and fat. I jerk it off my bed and nearly rip my arm out of its socket.

Jas gets off the bed and grabs the handle. “Good
night,
Josey! What do you have in here?”

“A few books?” All right! Yes, I did bring along four new romances—all inspirational. I might have some free time, and I get four a month in the mail. I don't want to fall behind. And my study Bible, of course. And a notebook.

And a picture of Chase and me in high school, the one we took just before we went backpacking with the 4-H club. He's bunny-earing my head and I am looking trim, toned and tan. I should have grabbed him and hiked into the hills, never to return.

Jas and I double-team the suitcase and wrestle it down to the car. Popping the hatch, we muscle it in and the car actually groans as it settles on its haunches.

“You're going to come back, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Maybe. I suddenly have a knot in my stomach. The July sun has already started to cook the morning. My mother is over at the restaurant, Dad is fixing something, the AC perhaps. Maybe I should say goodbye.

Or maybe I'm just asking for another round of questions. I've decided that if my mother ever wanted to change careers, get out of baking award-winning Norwegian specialties, she'd have a stellar career as a CIA interrogator. She knows how to put a person to the screws.

“I guess this is it,” I say. I hug Jasmine. She holds on just a little longer than I expected and when I pull away, I have to squint, just a little, through the tears.

 

There are exactly five rest areas between Gull Lake and Des Moines. I know because I also discovered that I have a bladder the size of an acorn.

I pull into Mission to the World HQ just as the sun is dipping into the corn fields. Des Moines turns out to be flatter—and hotter—than expected, and poor Stevie Subaru (yes, I name my cars, but that is another story) has drunk enough gas to put him in lock up to dry out for two weeks. I leave him woozy and panting in the parking lot and go in search of the office.

I have to say, I expected more. After all, the letter was written on linen stationary with a gold embossed return address on the envelope and a multicolored return address stripe on the bottom of the letter in navy blue and gold.

But maybe they spent all their money on letterhead. Mission to the World is headquartered in a 28-by-40-foot aluminum-sided…shed? My uncle Bert has an identical building for his tractors. I trudge up a cement walk, surrounded on each side by semiwilting shrubbery and a bed of thirsty pansies. They nearly beg me for sustenance as I stumble forward.

I push open the door and a gust of glacial air hits me in the face. My nose reacts and pain makes my eyes water.

Correct above assumption. They spent all their money on letterhead and Sahara-strength air-conditioning. Gooseflesh rises on my bare arms as I turn toward the receptionist sitting at the front desk. I notice she's wearing a pink crocheted cardigan and her long white-blond hair is tied into a low bun. She looks about thirty-five and when she smiles, lines of what I hope is good humor appear around her eyes.

“May I help you?”

“I'm Josey Berglund, and I'm here to meet with…with…” My eyes widen and I'm digging in my pockets for the letter, which I've folded and tucked, oh, please, somewhere accessible. “Dwight Wills.”

“Just a moment.” She picks up the telephone and five minutes later I'm sitting in Dwight's cubicle. Everyone in the building has cubicles. Dwight leads me down a maze of turns and twists and back alleys to the very bowels of the building where I am offered a metal folding chair. Shouldn't they have blindfolded me first? Is this a good or bad sign?

On his sixties-era desk sits a family picture. A tall, lanky boy and a little girl in ringlets. His wife is thin, and her smile seems tired. Dwight sits down and I realize he's aged, a lot, since the picture. Rail-thin, his hairline is defecting from his forehead leaving behind a smattering of age spots. He's wearing a dark green cardigan—I guess that's the uniform around here. I'm wishing I had a cardigan as the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I think I've lost feeling in my (still unpolished) toes.

“So, Ms. Berglund. You made it okay. Thank you for taking the time to travel down to Iowa. We have quite a weekend planned and I hope you will enjoy it as we get to know one another.” He folds his hands on his desk blotter. I notice it is neat. No doodles. To his left on a tiny table, a black Corona typewriter indicates a nod toward the twentieth century. This, I think, is good, but I'm giving myself kudos for not bringing the black skirt. See, I can be a missionary. I can be conservative.

I cross one leg over the other (mostly in an attempt to stay warm, but it also looks relaxed) and begin to field his questions.

Why do I want to be a missionary?
“I want to change the world, of course. I want to follow the Matthew 28 Great Commission.”

Why Russia?
“Because I've always been fascinated with the Soviet Union, and I want to help them in this new era.”

How do I respond under pressure?
I blink at this, just a second before I smile and say, “Well, I try and look for the positives. And of course I read my Bible.” Which is true, but also sounds really, really good, don't you think?

Can I work on a team?
“Sure, as long as I am the leader.” Ha ha.

He's not laughing. Whoops. I stop laughing. “Of course,” I say. “I think teams are essential to good ministry. Everyone has something to add.”

Hey, that sounded pretty good. Where did I come up with that?

Tell me your testimony.
Aha, I was prepared for this one. I had to write it all out on my application, but long after I sent it in, I pondered this.

I admit my testimony isn't very flashy. Born into a churchgoing family, baptized at age twelve, went on a short-term mission trip once to inner-city Minneapolis. Mostly I remember learning to play the guitar, spending a lot of time braiding hair and friendship bracelets, and sleeping on a church pew. “I'm hoping I get a real bed in Russia,” I say. Again, no laughter. What's the deal? I'm really funny, doesn't he know that?

I fold my hands in my lap and I'm wondering if they turned the temperature up because my hands are sweating. Dwight has dark inscrutable eyes.