“I probably should park the car,” she said.
“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Senderovsky shouted. “Karen! Nat!” He looked disheveled and emaciated, and had carried himself like a fifty-year-old since he was eighteen. “You found her!” he said to Karen. “Oh, thank you. We thought she had run away. We almost woke up Ed to help with the search.”
“Ed can’t even find himself,” Karen said. “And he’s looked literally everywhere.”
Senderovsky laughed. “So good to see you,” he said. “If only we could hug.”
Karen blew him a kiss. They looked at his wife and his daughter on the gravel, Masha whispering to her in Russian, words that only Senderovsky could understand, a calming mantra she deployed only in the most dire of circumstances: “I have a wonderful family and wonderful friends. I can do anything if I work hard and am kind to other people.”
The mantra must have worked. The girl leaned over and kissed her mother several times on the brow and had her kisses returned. Senderovsky, with a creaking Russian oy, bent down and did the same, his dressing gown now draped in mud. “We do that to make sure we’re the right prairie dogs,” the girl explained to Karen.
“I’m sorry?”
“Prairie dogs have to kiss each other to make sure they’re related because there’s so many of them,” Senderovsky said.
“May I kiss Aunt Karen then?” the child asked. “I think we’re related.”
Karen found herself stepping forward, expectantly, but Masha raised her hand. “Aunt Karen just came from the city, so we’ll have to give her a little time,” she said. And then to Karen: “Thank you so much for finding this crazy girl. I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
“How old is she now?” Karen asked.
“I’m eight!” the child shouted. “Look at the birthday bracelet my mommy gave me with eight merino wool beads for each year. The beads spell out N-A-T-A-S-H-A, and an exclamation mark. Natasha! But I really go by Nat. Also ‘she’ and ‘her’ are my pronouns, though I reserve the right to change them later.”
“She’s eight going on eighty,” Senderovsky said to Karen. “Anyway, sorry for the drama of our opening act. I promise it’s going to be country peace and quiet from this point forward. Masha can help you get settled; I have to pick up Vinod from the bus station.”
“You’re not going to help calm your daughter?” Masha said, in, she realized, the wrong language. “What’s wrong with you?” she added in Russian.
“I can’t leave Vinod at the station. Not with his health. And she’s okay now. She’s had her prairie dog kiss.”
Karen drove the rest of the driveway up to the garage while Senderovsky walked alongside her like an obedient liege. The futuristic car guided itself into a spare bay with verve. Senderovsky was saddened by the tumult that had accompanied his friend’s arrival, while Karen was gladdened by her promotion to “aunt.” She knew she would soon be bathed in her friends’ many problems. Unlike her younger sister, and her mother, when she was still alive, at least these two would listen to her.
3
Once again Senderovsky’s car attacked the innocent mailbox on a bend in the road leading to the bridge, further crumpling the na?ve art on its side, an ageless Easter bunny delighted by a field of clover. Once again Senderovsky pictured a crying child—“They hit Bunny!”—and a consoling parent, “Not on purpose. It was just a bad driver.” And once again his car’s proximity-alert gong sounded, but only as the carnage was already underway. Senderovsky sped on. Someday, he would buy the property owner a new mailbox with a rabbit drawn by an artist from the city, something bound to appreciate in value if weatherproofed properly, but today he offered a silent apology in the form of a self-justified mumble: “So many things on my mind.”
The twenty minutes of Nat’s absence had been brutal, Masha’s full-throated panicked voice （nothing more frightening to Senderovsky than a psychiatrist panicking）—“Natashen’ka!”—and his uncertain, unauthoritative one—“Nat?”—ringing around the property. Even though neither of them had been assigned to guard Nat, who, Senderovsky had presumed, had still been upstairs with her videos, he knew Masha would make him stand trial for her having gone missing. “She’s already dysregulated from having school moved online, and now you’re bringing five people to run around and make noise and do hell knows what.” “It’s good for her to be social.” “With her peers, not these people.” “These people. They’re my best friends.” “Oh, I know. How I know.” “They can be parental figures, too. You love Vinod.” “Vinod needs rest, not to take over the fatherly duties you’ve abdicated.” “So you’re saying she ran away because people are coming?” “She’s worried about new faces. It’s not like you’re a stranger to generalized anxiety disorder.” “If only I had conquered my social deficits as a child. I’d be doing a lot better than I am right now, that’s for sure.” “I remember you back at that bungalow colony when you were eight. You were pretty damn friendly. [Switching to Russian] We couldn’t shut you up.” “Exactly right. And this is Nat’s bungalow colony.” “Minus a peer group. While she’s having [switching to English] identity issues.” “While she’s figuring out who she is.” “And Ed Kim’s going to help her with that journey?” “He helped me with mine.” Just to be sure, this conversation never happened. But it could have, down to the very last therapeutic turn of phrase. How Senderovsky envied writers who had taken marriage as their subject.