Excerpt from Moving Target

Maxim braced himself, running a hand through his hair as he stood outside her door. He never knew what to expect. Fortunately, Lidiya showed up. She was a thin strap of a girl with big brown eyes and black hair that trailed down her back in one long braid. She carried a small bowl of Doukhobour Borscht soup. When she saw Maxim, she bowed her head.

“Mr. Osinov,” she said quietly

“Lidiya,” he said, mimicking her gesture. “How is she today?”

“Today is a good day. She has been asking for you?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. That was always a good sign. “I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for the bowl that she carried.

She smiled as she handed it to him. “I’ll be in the parlor if you need me.”

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to the door. Rapping lightly at first, he turned the handle and stepped in. His mother was sitting in a chair by the window, so intrigued by something she was watching outside that she didn’t notice him as he entered. He sat the bowl on the table beside the bed and walked over to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She turned slowly at first and then her eyes seemed to light up as they settled on his face. “Zoloto,” she said. It was a pet name of sorts, meaning ‘my gold’. “Where have you been?”

This surprised him. Typically, she never comprehended the length of his trips. Once, he was gone for over a month. Of course, that time when he had returned, she hadn’t recognized him at all. “I have been working mother,” he said, stooping to one knee on the floor beside her. “Didn’t Lidiya tell you?”

Her weathered hand traveled shakily to her forehead and she squeezed her eyes shut, as if she was trying to remember the answer. He should have known better. He took her hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes. You are.”

“What were you watching?” he asked, tilting his head towards the window.

Turning back toward the window, her smile widened. She pulled her hand from his and pointed off in the distance. “See there. See that cat crouched at the edge of the field. It is a Caracal.”

He looked out the window, but was only met by the image of a sloping hill covered with rhododendron in various shades of pink, scattered amongst blue green spruce and cedar trees donning a more vivid green. A long wooden garden bench sat at the head of a small path which led down to the Catawba River, but there was no field and no cat. “I see,” he lied.

“I wish your father could see it,” she said, looking back out the window. “I have been telling him for weeks that poor thing has been hanging around, but I do not think he believes me. I think the horses scare it away when he comes in. It is so small. What if it is an orphan? I have heard they can be tamed if handled from an early age. You will tell him when he gets home, won’t you. He would believe if he heard it from you.”

Maxim’s chest tightened, but he smiled when she turned to see his reaction. “Of course. I brought you a bowl of Doukhobour Borscht,” he said, quickly changing the subject. He stood up and turned away so that she couldn’t see the dampness in the corner of his eyes.

“Did Lidiya peel the potatoes first this time?” she asked. “I do not like the skins.”

“She did,” he said, rolling the table next to her chair. “I wager she even added a sprinkle of cayenne.”

His mother clasped her hands together and pursed her lips. “It smells delicious.” She picked up the spoon and her hand shook as the spoon neared her mouth. Maxim reached out to steady it, but she smacked his hand away proudly with her free hand. “I have it.” He watched as the spoon made it to her mouth. Surprisingly, she didn’t spill any. A few bites later and she pushed the table away. “That is enough.”

“You have only had a couple of bites,” he protested.

“A few here, a few there, it adds up. It does not matter. I am not hungry anymore,” she said when he tried to inch the table closer to her.

“What if I take a bite and you take a bite?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. It was no use. He had seen that look before and she wasn’t going to budge. Stubborn, his father had called her on more than one occasion. Still, his father loved her like there was no other. Maxim couldn’t help but wonder if things would be different if his father was still here. Would she have more good days than bad?

“I want to lie down. I am tired,” she said, breaking him from his thoughts. He pushed the table aside and helped her to her feet. Keeping one arm securely around her waist, he led her to the small bed that centered the room and adjusted the sidebar down with his free hand. After he helped her into the bed, he pulled the cover up to her neck, just the way she liked it, and adjusted the pillow behind her head.

“How is that?” he asked.

“Perfect,” she said and sighed. “Have you met anyone?” she asked, surprising him.

“What do you mean?” he asked, taking the seat beside the bed.

“You know exactly what I mean. A lady? You have that look about you,” she said.

“What look?”

“I may be old, but I am not dull. You cannot tell me that women have not tried to wed you.”

Maxim chuckled. “No, I have not received any proposals.” It was true women often threw themselves at him, but the subject of marriage had never once been broached.

“But there is someone,” she insisted.

“No mother. There is no one that holds a candle to you. Why bother?”

“You are too kind. Too much so,” his mother said, raising an eyebrow. “If there was someone, you would let me meet her, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, mother.”

She narrowed her eyes, studying him for a moment. She must have concluded that she believed him, because she closed her eyes and yawned, settling back into the pillow behind her. He waited until he could hear the start of soft snoring, a sure sign that she was resting well. He stood back up and walked over to the window, looking out over the blossoming landscape. It reminded him of Russia in the summertime. The way the flowers would blossom, flourishing almost as soon as the snow melted. It was as if they knew it would only be a short time before the cold winter months would return with a vengeance.

It looked like Russia, but it wasn’t. There were no Caracal here and father would never come home.