We never made it out to the club that night, likely on account of my poor tolerance and overstuffed belly. But I made a new friend—Mrs. A—who has looked out for me ever since.
After graduation, Melly moved back to Brooklyn to share a rental loft in Greenpoint with Jake, and I was a common couch-surfer there on nights when we went out. Melly and Jake got engaged four years later and began searching for a house, like real grown-ups, so I got the hint that it was time for me to consider getting my own place as well. Melly’s babushka had recently passed away, and when Mrs. A heard I was looking for a place to live, she sold me her mom’s apartment on Avenue Y for tens of thousands of dollars less than what it was worth. “The rent is toodamn high!” she proudly announced when she signed the paperwork. When I moved to Sheepshead Bay, she let me use their garage to store a beach chair and a few boxes of books. So now when I walk to the beach, I don’t have to carry a chair the whole way. I punch in the garage code, grab my chair, and go.
Which is exactly what I do today.
I find myself a nice stretch of sand near the jetty and unfold the chair. I settle in and pull my phone out of my pocket, content to bask in the warm glow of the sun. It’s about sixty degrees out, but the beach is empty, with the exception of a group of toddlers swinging merrily at the playground. I should be writing, but I feel like I’m at a standstill until I have Colin’s response to work with. Anything else I do now will be futile.
“Yoo hoo!” I hear in the distance. I open my eyes and see Mrs. A in a velour track suit the color of a ripe plum coming towards me with a travel mug in her hand.
I laugh and offer a friendly wave. “Zdravstvuyte, Mrs. A,” I call out. (In English, thissoundslikezraz-vut-ee-yuh. It meanshello.)
“Hallo, my Gracie!”
I stand up and she gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“I heard the garage. Is too cold for beach today, no?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s nice in the sun.”
“Ah, well. I bring you borscht.” She hands me the travel mug. Because truly, nothing screams “beach day” like a mug full of hot beet soup.
Still, I take a sip.
“How are you, mydevushka?” (This meansgirlin Russian.)
“I’m good,” I nod. “Khorosho.” (Russian forgood.As you can see, I picked up quite a bit of the language from Melly’s family. Just add it to my long list of talents.)
“Yes?” she asks. She looks at me with a pitiful gaze. “I saw on the Facebook that Scott has baby now, yes?”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Yes. A week ago.”
“She looks like gremlin to me,” Mrs. A says.
“Who? The baby?”
“No, no. The girl.” Mrs. A’s voice kills me. It sounds like she’s sayingZe girl.
I laugh. “You’re sweet to say that.”
“How baby even came out of that? She looks like baby herself. So small, like foolish demon child.”
“I love you, Mrs. A,” I say, smiling.
“Mela says you went home in Uber. From sickness.”
“Oh. Yeah. I drank too much last weekend.”
“No, there is no such thing as ‘drink too much.’ There is only ‘not eat enough bread.’” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and hands me a buttered roll. Purple pocket lint is stuck to the edge of it. “Here. I bring you bread.”
I accept it, even though it’s a little gross. Mrs. A is like that grandmother who shoves all the crackers from the diner into her purse, forgets about them, and then rediscovers them at the most inopportune times, like in the middle of a funeral. You wonder,What in the world is happening right now?as she’s snacking on her found treasure, crumbs flying everywhere—but you love her just the same. I take a bite of the bread.
“Maybe you come to my house. Is too cold for beach. You need lunch.”
“Oh, I ate already,” I say.
“So, you come have second lunch,” Mrs. A says.
I hold up the travel mug. “But you justgaveme second lunch! Soup and bread. Delicious.”
