Fifty-nine minutes after my mother found Dimitri, Kristina, and me entangled on the living room floor, Kristina trudged down the front steps and handed off her three bags to a taxi driver. Dimitri and I tapped at the upstairs window, but she slid into the cab without glancing up.
An hour after Kristina’s departure, my father entered our bedroom. He was red-faced and short of breath. Skin under his eyes hung in loose, black folds. His thick lips were dry, his teeth yellow, his breath foul. Finger trembling, he motioned me and Dimitri to sit on the edge of the bed. He pulled up the chair to face us.
“So, you have offended your mother and godmother, is that right?”
The closed question was a trap, but we nodded.
“She thinks you are perverted beasts.” He looked from Dimitri to me and back. “What do you have to say for yourself Dimitri Vladmir Karpov?”
“We didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Ahhhh.” My father nodded as if that answer teetered on acceptable. “And you, Michael Sergei Romanov?”
“I have no regrets.” A lie since I had one regret—that my mother had found out about Kristina and put an end to my idyllic life.
“You are eleven years old.”
“Twelve. Twelve in two weeks.” Had he forgotten my date of birth? A sour taste crawled up my throat. He’d remember Alexei’s birthday for the next thirty years I was certain.
“Twelve in two weeks means you are now eleven.” He swiveled his gaze to Dimitri, then back to me. “Whose idea was this?”
“Mine,” I said before Dimitri could open his mouth. “I forced Dimitri to go along.”
“Now that,” he said, “is a lie. But I don’t doubt you were the instigator.”
“I was.” I lifted my chin, waiting for the back of his hand across my face.
Instead, he threw his head back and roared. When he finished guffawing, he wiped his eyes. “I have not laughed since your brother’s accident. Thank you.”