“Mikey, take these. Fresh out of the oven. Made them for you.”
“Thanks, Miss Zina.” “No, thank you, son. For everything.”
Michael took the pies. Bit into one. Good.
Cabbage and egg, just like when he was a boy. He remembered his mother making the same kind. That had been a long time ago.
Another life. That evening he drove home to Marina. She was waiting with dinner.
Borscht, cutlets, salad. Simple food, but made with love. Michael ate and thought that this was what happiness looked like.
Not money. Not power. Things like this. After dinner they sat on the balcony and watched the sunset. The city below hummed with cars and voices, but up there on the ninth floor it was quiet and still.
“Mike,” Marina said. “I need to tell you something.” “Go ahead.”
She paused, gathering herself. “I’m pregnant.” Michael froze.
The words took a second to land. “Pregnant?” “A baby.”
“My baby?” “Are you sure?” She had gone to the doctor that day.
Eight weeks. Michael felt something warm spread through his chest. He had never really thought about children, never planned for them, never let himself imagine them.
Ten years in prison had trained that out of him. “And now this… this is wonderful,” he said at last.
“Really? You’re happy?” “Very happy.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Marina started crying.
Out of happiness, relief, everything all at once. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want this,” she whispered. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I want this. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened.”
They sat on the balcony until dark, making plans. Baby names. Fixing up the apartment. A stroller. A crib. Ordinary concerns of ordinary people getting ready to become parents.
That night Michael couldn’t sleep for a long time. He lay there thinking how strange life could be. Ten years behind bars, release, humiliation at the prison gate, the fight against Arthur and his men.
And now a woman he loved, a good job, and a child on the way. He thought of his father. The man had died without ever seeing a grandchild.
He hadn’t lived to see his son come home, get back on his feet, find his place in the world. That hurt. It really did.
But maybe his father was looking down from somewhere and feeling proud. Michael wanted to believe that. Another six months passed.
The auto shop was thriving. Marina was getting ready for the birth. Life moved along.
Michael got used to the new rhythm. Work, home, weekends with the woman he loved. No adventures. No showdowns.
Quiet, steady happiness. Then one day George called. “Mike, we need to meet.”
“Got news about Arthur.” “What about him?” “Not over the phone. Come by tonight.”
Michael drove out to George’s place with a faint sense of unease. Arthur had long since disappeared from his life. But hearing the name stirred up old memories.
George met him in his office. A bottle of brandy and two glasses sat on the desk. “Sit down. Have a drink.”
They drank. George lit a cigar and spoke. “Arthur’s dead.”
“Two days ago. How?”
