Muttontown with Irakli and Kuliko

Maya Rose Bater

My heart is filled with lead, heavy and sickeningly sweet. The metal seeps into my bones while I pick up one of the Dresden lace figurines that are placed on the dining room table. I brush my thumb over the girl’s legs, her tiny feet, and the dress she is wearing; the image of soft, billowing fabric and intricate point lace disappear as I touch the porcelain. I pick up the other girl and inspect her ballerina tutu and the Tiffany blue hair bows that match it. My heart thunks against my ribcage and the sound fills my ears. My palms become clammy; I focus very carefully to set the Dresdens back down on the table. 

I turn my attention to the tapestry hung on the wall right above the small wooden clock and the stash of decade-old Ferrero Rochers. It is slightly faded, or perhaps was just made with subdued, pastel colors. It depicts a scene of merry folk, kids running amongst the Rococo furniture and trying not to bump into the large hoop skirts of their mothers. I remember sneaking into the dining room after dinner and opening the case of hazelnut sweets only to be caught and reprimanded. I tried one, after honing my stealth, but it tasted stale and musty. I click my tongue against my teeth, still tasting hints of that expired chocolate. My father warns me not to take the tapestry down by myself as it is too heavy. I try anyway, but I hear my spine crack under the weight and decide to leave it where it is. 

I leave the dining room and walk past the foyer into the living room. Scarlet red chairs with gold ram armrests are lined against the wall with price tags taped onto them. Fifty dollars. The velvet pillows with tigers on them are five dollars each. My lip twitches and I clench my fists, but I try to focus on the baby grand piano, still cozy in the corner. The action was always terrible – the keys heavy, some sticky. The pedal was sticky too, and it was terribly out of tune. But I remember the smiles, the sweet smiles I would get when I played that piano. Warm smiles full of pride and hope and unbridled joy. The house is silent now, though. Not even the music of rain pattering on the skylights is there to keep me company. 

I walk around aimlessly, looking at the backgammon table and the old office where diplomas no longer hang on the walls. I played backgammon with my grandfather only one time; I never asked him why he let me win. The hospital bed is still in the room, next to my old drawing desk. I move forward to look at some childish paintings from long ago, pictures of family that have faded. A small handprint next to larger ones and people with scrawny stick legs and triangle dresses. Towards the door there is a larger wooden desk. There are papers stacked on top of one another, along with dismounted diplomas reading Ira Bater and a stethoscope. Someone should really come and sort everything out before people come to see the house. 

I return to the kitchen, where the island is void of hatchapouri or blinchikis or homemade bread. I immediately think of this one picture I have of me holding a loaf of bread with this toothless grin on my face. That was when my grandmother could still walk well enough to help me around the kitchen. That was when we still made fun of my grandfather for being completely kitchen incompetent. I look at the sullen white chair sitting at the kitchen table. It doesn’t have a price tag on it. The seat cushion is flattened out, well worn. She would wait there for him, wait for him to walk in from the garage and put down his beeper. I would wait next to her, waiting to hear that tired voice say, “Hi, May,” the rhyme provoking me to jump up and hug him, smell the confusing scent of cigarettes and doctor’s office disinfectant. I look out the windows to the rust-red patio and gazebo and pool. I turn my head to see the television, the space where the television used to be. I wonder if this house will ever hear The Bold and the Beautiful again. Or Jeopardy or The Price is Right. I wonder if I will see those shows again. In the morning, during lunch, after dinner... the only source of entertainment for a woman trapped in her mind. It was as if they existed only in this house. Now in place of the TV is a wheelchair with a blank price tag. Hell, we’d give it away for free. 

My family and I set aside the two figurines and the tapestry and a couple of other things (including all the Moser glassware – my mother refuses to part with the Mosers) while people walk in. They come in empty handed and leave with pieces of my history, my family. Some devil of a woman comes and buys all the Dresdens I didn’t put aside. I glare at her as she walks out. I pay close, close attention to her feet as she walks away. When she doesn’t fall I sigh – partially with relief and partially with longing.

Most everything is gone by the end of the day. A prickling pain resides under my skin, lead occupying every organ in my body. I struggle to stay standing – I feel like collapsing onto the floor. I remember all the times my grandmother couldn’t keep herself up. The memories taste disgustingly sweet on my tongue. My father and his sister look at the empty house that used to hold so many of their memories. The bastards even took the backgammon table! The only things left are the strangely modern white chair, worn and faded, and the stethoscope. The images of stubborn people. A woman who forgot just how much beauty she had and a man who didn’t realize just how influential he could be. The images of ill people. A woman who slowly faded away and a doctor who didn’t know how to be a patient. The images of my grandparents: Irakli and Kuliko, Ira and Natalie. Out of all the treasures they amassed over the years, how ironic is it that all that is left is an old stethoscope and a chair? 

When I look outside the window, the rust-red patio appears to be a deep brown, almost black. The lamps have turned on outside, and the surviving bugs flock to the light, hoping for warmth and not comprehending their inevitable autumnal death. I hug my aunt, who laughs nervously and mentions how lonely she’ll be in the empty house tonight. “You could come and sleep over at our house,” my dad offers. She declines politely and shuffles us off to our car. She waves as we drive away from 240 Willis Avenue, away from Muttontown. I look out the window and see the rose bushes aren’t in bloom, the cold being too much for them. The car is silent for awhile as we navigate through the dark roads. 

“I hope the new owners take care of the rose bushes,” I say as we merge onto the Long Island Expressway. My dad murmurs in agreement, his eyes steadily focused on the car in front of ours. My mom turns around and offers her hand to me. She smiles the way she does before she cries. I squeeze her hand and turn back to the window. My eyebrows narrow over my glassy eyes and my teeth clench. 

“Natalie would like that we kept the Mosers, Tom. That dining hall was her pride and joy.” My dad looks at my mom and smiles lightly. “Yeah, it was.”