Chapter Twenty-Six

My further life consisted of a series of achievements and successes, difficulties and disappointments. Difficult (because of my poor English), but quite successfully (though still had to take it in English) were my exams for a driving license, and Mike bought me a small, but very nice car, a two-door Saturn sedan. Sporty, maneuverable, and light, it served me faithfully for the next four years.

At beauty school, being the oldest student, I felt quite like a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest. Mostly young girls of eighteen or twenty studied here. Not being English speaking, it was particularly difficult for me. But I tried. I tried hard. Teachers saw and appreciated that. Everything was fine, but not without small incidents. Of course, there was one person and, of course, it was a woman, a teacher-instructor, for whom I managed to stick in her gizzard.

“Polina, and how did you come to the United States?” she asked me once.

“I got married and my husband brought me here.”

“You see, girls,” she turned to all the female students. “These Russians take your men, and you sit here and let them do it with impunity.”

What was she saying to them? Stupid woman. She didn’t even remember I was from Ukraine, no matter that I had told her four times.

That evening at dinner, I told Mike this story, offended, and once again ready to go back to Ukraine. He calmed me down and taught me how and what to say if it happened again.

It didn’t take long for her to try to upset me again. Pity you couldn’t see her face and eyes full of anger, when I proudly raised my eyebrow and slowly answered, “My husband asked me to tell you that he can’t speak for all American men, but he is sure that those who are going for their wives to Ukraine or Russia are not satisfied with the attitude of American women. That they should learn from such women, like me, otherwise in the near future all American men will travel to countries of the former Soviet Union for wives.”

The owner of the school, having learnt about all this, soon fired this poor, bitter-at-the-whole-world woman instructor. Such an attitude towards students threatened the reputation of the school, and accordingly its financial wellbeing. C’est la vie.

Six months later, after successfully passing the exam, I started my professional path in the United States, a country I even didn’t ever dream I would end up in.

A year after my arrival grief broke into our little family. Mike called me at school.

“Please, come home,” he said, and I barely recognized his voice.

I don’t remember how I got home. Fear paralyzed my mind and body. What happened? What could have happened?

Stepping out of the car, I ran to Mike, who was standing at the front door with such a sorrow on his face.

“I killed a woman,” he said. “There was an accident.”

“Oh, God! And you? Are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Mike, you couldn’t. You couldn’t kill her. I know how you drive the car. You couldn’t! Tell me how everything happened.”

The situation turned out to be more than common. Mike in his huge truck, a Peterbilt with a trailer, was turning left at the intersection of two streets. All his moves were perfected to the mechanism for years. He certainly—always—waited for a green arrow on the traffic light, which allowed movement for him.

On the perpendicular road a claret-colored Volvo was racing at the red lights. Without paying any attention to the car which was stopped in the other driving lane, nor to the red light, the Volvo, driven by a woman, crashed right into the middle of Mike’s 36-foot-long trailer. My husband didn’t even know what happened, so little was the impact from the collision felt in the cab. Nevertheless he stopped and approached the car, where he saw a woman, with extensive nose and mouth bleeding. Having dialed 911, Mike stayed there, waiting for the ambulance.

The woman died at the hospital. Mike was so shocked by the incident that now he wasn’t sure if there was the green arrow permitting his turn at the traffic light. None of the witnesses of the accident stayed on the spot to testify to the police. It was the middle of the day and everyone was in a hurry.

The family of the deceased launched an accusatory campaign in the media. Everyone accused my husband. Only I knew that he wasn’t guilty. He couldn’t have begun turning without waiting for permission to move. Mike paced the room back and forth, like a wounded bear in a cage, and I followed him like a shadow everywhere. He was in such a condition that I was afraid he would do something to himself.

It was awful. Our life just began to settle. He was in love. And loved. And now threatened with jail? He was charged with involuntary manslaughter in the second-degree. I kept walking after him wherever he went, repeating like a broken record, “Everything will be fine. You couldn’t have turned without the arrow. You’ll see, they’ll find out you waited for that green arrow. You’ll certainly get free from any charges.” It was only on the third day I managed to persuade him to eat a bit and sleep.

For a whole week the media was throwing the book at my poor husband. And then the first good news came from the police. There were witnesses. They called the police and told they saw a wine-colored Volvo, speeding against the traffic lights. Later police found out that the deceased had already been fined once for running a red light.

Having inspected the truck, the police had to admit that it was in excellent condition and worked properly. Thanks to heaven! We began to thaw out slowly. Until the investigation was over they made him give a written understanding not to leave the town. He was allowed to go to work, but Mike couldn’t drive a car anymore. Each time he approached the car or the truck he got pale and perspiring. What to do? How to help him? He couldn’t live without a car. Forty years behind the wheel! Oh, my Lord! Again, this magic number, forty.