Zariah
Despite my elation that I won’t be living the single-mama life, due to the judge dropping all charges, the feeling of shame surrounds me. I unknowingly added Sammy into this mess. My mentor and my mother don’t fool me, they have feelings for each other. Deep ones. And Samuel’s awareness of how she’s been treated probably hurts her more than anything that asshole, Overstreet, dished out.
Sunglasses masks much of my mother’s humiliation, yet her glance is to the ground, and her lips are in a hard line. Mom broke out of that bout of melancholy when Vassili thanked her. One would swear she’s never received much acknowledgement from the male species. And now she’s as quiet as ever as Samuel drives us in a rented Escalade.
“Can we at least have lunch before the Judge wants us out of Georgia?” Yuri asks, having commandeered the front passenger seat.
“Mora, what do you suggest?” Samuel asks, glancing through the rearview mirror.
She shrugs. “Anywhere is fine.”
Damn, I thought I’d never see the day again when her tone of voice hardly reaches above a whisper. Her eyes are on Martin Luther.
“This is your hometown, Mora. You know where all the good eats are.” His eyes are the perfect mixture of playful and hopeful.
Since I have the middle seat in the back, I offer my mom a tiny elbow nudge.
She speaks up. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Anything.” Yuri sounds like a kid. “I’ll die if I don’t eat soon.”
“Fat fuck.” Vassili shakes his head, and then apologizes for cussing in front of my mother.
“Humph,” she says. “We know good and well, Vassili, that you cuss like a sailor. Now, I can recommend barbecue chicken, upscale Italian, French, and—”
“Ribs.” Yuri makes the call for everyone.
***
We end up in this hole in the wall joint where a canned soda pop is served with your meal or you can pay a quarter for a Styrofoam cup and tap water. But with an “A” grade, and a to die for homemade barbecue sauce, I cannot complain.
When I come out of the bathroom, Vassili and Yuri are pushing two tables together. Samuel is at the station where my mother is grabbing napkins and forks. He appears to be talking to her, but her level of interaction is uninspiring. In the past, I’ve had to narrow my eye and watch them interface for a while, before determining that they may or may not have a thing for each other. Today, I’d require more evidence of any chemistry the two shares.
I stop myself from heading over to them. First, I have no idea what to say. Second, my mom is a pro with the cold shoulder. So, I’m about as helpful as a public defender on the first day of the job.
My brother, Martin, shows up. His eyes target my mother, and I corner him toward the exit before he can confront my mother about her lack of judgment. We’re half masked by a life-sized pink piggy, standing on its hind legs in an apron, with the restaurant name along its hefty chest.
“Hey, Zariah, we need to talk to Mom, now.” He pulls off his prescription glasses, rubs them on his polo shirt, and is just about to walk off when I plant myself in front of him again.
“I understand where you’re coming from, big brother, but now is not the time. Sammy’s here, we’re all just hanging out for lunch—”
He cuts in, “I just heard that our mother was being…”
“I know.” I try to calm him from crying. There were so many times where my father and brother went pound for pound after Martin grew up and got tired of Maxwell going upside her head. “Listen, I invited you to lunch so we can all get together while I’m in town. The conversation you’re mentioning is inevitable. Nevertheless, now is not the time. Not in front of friends.”
“What should I do, Zariah?” He turns his wrath on me. “Pretend to be oblivious! I’m sure in the eyes of most people watching the news, a professional fighter going off halfcocked was the reason this made national coverage. The domestic violence is not that important to them, but that asshole hurt our mom. We can’t allow her to keep screwing with—”
“Martin, I’m not saying pretend to be oblivious. And look,” I nudge my chin to our mother and Samuel. She’s slowly beginning to blossom. “Sammy’s a good guy. Would be nice to have someone like that for mom.”
“Samuel is married to a different woman, every five years or so.”
But it would be nice if they gave it a shot. I huff. “You know what, last week when mom asked me about him, I made the same statement. Maybe he hasn’t found the right woman.”
Martin scoffs. “And the right woman is his ex-best friend’s ex-wife? Zar, you stayed with dad when they divorced. You don’t know what mom needs, I do.”
Mom begged me to stay with dad. I’ve never mentioned her reasoning, so I clamp my mouth shut.
“Zariah, baby.” Vassili heads over to us. “You are hogging your brother all to yourself.” He wraps an arm around me, instantly pacifying the tension in my shoulders. “How you doing, brat?”
They shake hands. Maxwell replies, “Not too well, man. I owe you for what you did to that asshole. Zariah and I need some sort of intervention with our mother. She’s too old to be a punching bag.”
“I see.” Vassili nods. “Your mother is such a beautiful woman. How about you have that chat with her at another time, though. She’s sitting with an old friend, and this is sort of a celebration. But, I promise you, the day won’t end before you two have that talk with your mother.”
I breathe easy as Martin nods. The three of us head to the tables. It isn’t until we all have a basket of ribs set before each of us…well Yuri has two…that my mom eases back into her fun-loving self. She sets aside a rib that has been utterly demolished, not a trace of meat is left, and asks, “Who’s this Karsoff that my son is going to put a can of whoop ass on?”
“Mom, ‘can of whoop ass?’ What do you know about Stone Cold Steve Austin?” I chuckle.
“What do you know?” Vassili feigns jealousy, kissing and nibbling my jaw.
“No, Stone Cold didn’t coin that term. It was Chuck Norris,” Yuri says. “Had to be him. I watched his movies and shows. When Malich would be angry that I wasn’t studying, I’d tell my pop, that Chuck taught me enough English.”
Our entire table is rowdy and laughing now. All except for Martin, I have the feeling he is becoming empathetic to the notion of waiting to discuss our mother’s domestic violence situation, away from friends. My brother can be so uptight, sometimes his reactions are long overdue, too! I had called him with a hunch, after I returned to California. He just said mom was alright. Now, he’s ready to start an intervention as he chews his food in silence.
“Wait, wait.” Samuel speaks up. “I think it was Popeye, had to be Popeye. That’s from back in my day.”
My mother is teary eyed with laughter, and I hold my sides. Martin almost chokes on a glass of sweet tea before he caves and lets a good chuckle take over. Damn it, but I wish I was capable of refuting Sammy. I can’t stop laughing to debate with him, and tell him that Popeye was a television cartoon, and couldn’t have possibly said those words.
***
Life’s good. I’ve taken the rest of the week off work, and have not been assigned any new cases, in order to attend Vassili’s training practice where media is available for him to officially announce his fight with Karsoff. My man is going to break the German fighter’s head off, and I’m ready for it.
We’re in the middle of Vadim’s gym. Some of the other fighters are crowding around the cage. I have to hold Natasha on my hip or she will literally attempt to run to the fence. Though she can’t, our one-year-old is stubborn enough to forget to learn to walk before trying to run.
“What song are you coming out to?” One of the fighters shouts.
Vassili stands on the canvass dripping wet with sweat, and damn it if I wasn’t holding our child, I’d be just as hot and bothered. “Where’s the DJ?”
My husband gestures to me. I come closer to the cage, and look up at him. He takes Natasha from me.
“Yuck, you’re so sweaty,” I tell him.
“Tell the DJ to play Trace Adkins, Whoop a Man’s Ass.”
“Huh?” I bite my lip. The singer doesn’t sound familiar. Lord knows I’ve had it up to my eyebrows with underground rap music, foreign and domestic.
“Trace Adkins,” Vassili tells me.
I head over to the DJ who is stationed where the free-standing weights usually are. She has purple hair, that’s shaved off on the left side, displaying a skull tattoo. She offers a bewildered look when I mention the singer.
“Is it country? I don’t have any country, give me a sec.” She pulls out her iPhone and starts searching for it. “Got it.”
“Thanks.” I head back toward the cage area, and my pace stops. I turn back to the DJ, and she shrugs her shoulders at the sound of a guitar. And the man belting out country lyrics, who I assume is Trace Adkins, crones about having to a whoop a man’s ass sometimes.
“Oh no.” I shake my head, and shout over the music, “Hell, no Vassili, you are better than this!”
“Kazen, I like this song, that mudak is gonna underestimate you, with this bullshit. You really got to…” Yuri sequences his wording perfectly to shout the chores with Trace Adkins, “whoop a man’s ass sometimes.”
The DJ shouts through the speakers. “I’m gonna remix this, Vassili. Still can’t have you going out like that.”
When Vassili steps down from the stage with Natasha, she has her hands over her ears.
“Oh, I thought she was a ruffian like you,” I tell my husband, kissing his lips. “I might not like country music, but I can see you whooping some ass to this song. Boy, you love making a statement, don’t you?”
He lifts an eyebrow as his only response. Cocky bastard.