SLAVKA’S MITTENED HAND clung tight to mine as we walked through the darkening streets of Kiev. The iron-colored sky overhead sent snow spiraling down to catch in my lashes. “Put your tongue out and catch a snowflake,” I told my son, but he was silent. “Hot pelmeni with sour cream when we get home?” I tried next, but he just kept trudging through the muddy snow, shoulders hitching now and then.
“Morzhik,” I cajoled softly. It meant little walrus—a name I’d given when he was still nursing at my breast. He’d certainly fed like one.
“Papa doesn’t like me,” Slavka mumbled.
“It isn’t you, morzhik. Your papa doesn’t really like anybody, even me.” Feeling my fingers tremble with anger in my patched gloves. “We’re not going to see your papa anymore, Slavka. You don’t need a papa. You have your babushka, your dedushka.” My parents, who hadn’t approved of my separation from Alexei, but who had still taken me back in, doted on Slavka with all their hearts, cared for him so I could work a lathe in a factory and study for my exams. “And you have me, Slavka. Your mama, who is always proud of you.”
“But who will teach me to shoot? I need a papa to . . .” Slavka floundered. He was only five; he didn’t understand those phrases Alexei had flung around today: be a man, make this puppy into a man, baby him too much. He just understood that somehow his father had found him wanting.
I looked down at his dark head. “I will teach you.”
“But you missed,” my son blurted.
I had missed my shot. Because I’d made a mistake, let myself be goaded. But there wouldn’t be any more mistakes—I couldn’t afford them. I’d already made one colossal error when I fell into the arms of the wrong man, and my entire life had nearly tumbled off its tracks. Now I had a son, and if I made another mistake, his life would come tumbling down with mine. I drew a long breath and let it out. “I won’t miss again. Not ever.”
“But . . .”
“Rostislav Alexeivich.” I addressed him formally, drawing him to a halt by a streetlamp and going to one knee in the snow, holding his small shoulders. My heart thudded again. I’d missed the wooden target at the range, but I couldn’t make a mistake here. “From this day, I will be your papa. I’ll be your papa and your mama both. And I will teach you everything you need to know to be a fine man someday.”
“But you can’t.”
“Why not?” He looked uncertain, and I pressed. “Do you know what it means to be a fine man, Slavka?”
“No . . .”
“Then how do you know I can’t teach you? Women know fine men when we see them.” Especially after clashing with men like Alexei. “No one better to teach you to be a good man than a good woman, I promise.”
Slavka just looked back in the direction of the gun range, snow veiling those long dark lashes. “You can show me how to shoot?” he whispered.
“Maybe I missed today, but that doesn’t matter. Your mama goes to the shooting club sometimes already. Well, with a little more practice I can qualify for the advanced marksmanship course.” I hadn’t even considered it before—with a full course load at the university already, who would add on a three-times-weekly class in the finer points of ballistics and weaponry? Shooting was just a casual hobby, something I did to prove I was a proper civic-minded joiner in state-approved recreational activities. I’d gone because my friends were going; we’d fire a few rounds after work or after Young Communist League meetings, then we’d go off to a film or more likely I went home to care for Slavka. I’d never taken it very seriously.
That was about to change, I decided. An advanced marksmanship badge—now that would wipe the smirk off Alexei’s smug face. More important, it would make Slavka believe I was more than just his soft, fond, loving mamochka. Because I had so much more to teach him than shooting, to make a fine man of him. To work hard, to be honest, to treat the women in his life better than his father ever did . . . But that marksmanship badge—yes. That would be a good place to start.