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had been fighting in life's swamps
too long for their own good, forgetting there's sunlight above all the
murk.  Nicolasha looked tender and kind and was impressed by it all,
formal and polite, sensing Dad's mettle, naive where Dad was seasoned, too
young and warm to understand there was quicksand out there in the first
place.  I couldn't put a finger on what I was feeling, seeing them together
for the first time.  It was weird.)
    "I
was just showing Nicolas around."  Dad smiled at me again. 
Huh!  He seemed to approve of my teacher.  Who knows?  Maybe it
was the scotch.
    "Your
home is very, very nice, sir."  Nicolasha raised his glass with respect
to my paternal unit, and finished the ghastly drink. 
    "Can
I get you another, for the road?"  He reached for the glass, an
expensive crystal with Northwestern's crest frosted on the side, the only glass
Dad took his poison in.  Not everybody got a drink in one of those. 
    "I
would actually love to, but I am already late meeting someone
downtown."  In this cold, it would have to be another Russian, I
thought.  
    "Can
I give you some money for gas, for your trouble?"  Dad's tone was too
damn nice.  Suddenly, I realized I was being girded up for something.
    "Oh,
no, sir, that's very kind, but it was my pleasure."
    "Please. 
I insist."
    Nicolasha
bowed his head reluctantly.  Dad grinned and headed back into the kitchen,
where his wallet was usually tossed.  I hesitated, wanting to give
Nicolasha the record and get a hug back when Dad returned with a scowl on his
face, his natural look, if you asked me.
    "I
must have left my billfold upstairs."
    "Please
don't bother, sir."
    Waving
him off, Dad bounced up the stairs and down the long hallway to his bedroom,
away from us.  Nicolasha turned and winked at me, touching my cheek and
smiling lips with a mock fist.  I took the opera out from behind me and
handed it to him.  Surprise, little father.  His mouth and eyes opened
a bit as he stared at the flamboyant, over-decorated belly dancer on the box
cover, swallowing audibly in his astonishment.
    "What's
the matter, Nicolasha?  Doesn't anybody ever buy you a gift?" 
He looked like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. 
"That's for being a great teacher, and a friend, too."  I
giggled quietly as I held my arms open.  Nicolasha practically jumped into
them.  I rested my face sideways across his chest, while his cheek touched
my hair, his arms and the opera pressing against my back.  He kissed the
top of my head and gave me a last squeeze.
    "Here
it is," Dad called out from his room.  We took an immediately step
back from each other.  Nicolasha glanced nervously between me and the
staircase, shifting on his feet.  He looked so afraid and so alone, all of
a sudden, like he was about to be locked outside in the cold for a year. 
    I
wanted to leave with him.  I wanted to go back and see the Hammer film
again.  I wanted to sit next to Nicolasha.  I wanted to listen to all
of his records, and sit in his lap.
    Hell,
I wanted to take a Comrade Bubblevitch bubble bath with him.
    I
reached forward and took my teacher's arms in my hands, holding him still as I
leaned forward and put my lips on his for a soundless, full clock second,
followed by a silence so deadening it would make the falling snow sound like a
Shostakovitch symphony.
    "My
kind of woman."  Dad smiled at the belly dancer, nudging the
wide-eyed Nicolasha in the side as he handed him a twenty-dollar bill. 
"I don't think I've ever heard that one before.  Have you, son?"
    "Nope. 
Mister Rozhdestvensky will have to lend it to me after he's had a
listen."  I smiled at him, my voice and gaze strangely confident in
Dad's presence, as if I had just proved something to somebody. 
    Nicolasha
stumbled through his good-byes and thank-yous and see-you-on-Mondays and
careened out of our little big home into the safety of his Volvo.  He sped
away from us like we were a pair of devil