Page 23 of The Puppetmaster

She also doesn’t know what my semi-regular Boston trips are all about. And she also doesn’t know why I gift her with long, paid vacations on a regular basis, during which time she is asked to stay away from the house. She just accepts it and never asks questions.

“Welcome back,” she greets me warmly as I walk through the door. “Did you have a decent trip? Can I make you some coffee?”

It’s like those words are programmed into her. She always asks me those two exact questions, always accompanied by the same polite smile, the same tilt of the head, and the same readiness to immediately head into the kitchen to make me a fresh cup of coffee.

But today there’s something dancing in that smile. Her face looks brighter than usual, and her step has an extra bounce to it that is not typically evident.

“Yes, coffee would be nice,” I reply. I study her movements in an effort to figure out if I am imagining her glow or if there is something different about her.

“Coming up right away.” Dorota beams up at me, making a move to take the luggage out of my hand, but I don’t let her.

“That’s fine, I’ll carry it upstairs myself,” I tell her, holding the large bag closer to my body. It’s heavy and I see no need for this sweet sixty-something woman to carry it up two flights of stairs. Besides, there are some things in this bag that I would rather not put into another person’s hands, not even Dorota’s.

“Very well,” she responds, still smiling. “Where would you like to take your coffee?”

“Outside in the backyard. I need some fresh air.”

She nods, and for whatever reason, the smile on her face has grown even wider, despite our mundane exchange.

“What’s going on, Dorota?” I ask then, studying her joyous look. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

The expression on her face turns into an outright grin now, and she nods before she starts shaking her head wildly, as if to forbid herself from speaking.

“Oooh, I mustn’t!” she insists. “It’s not my story to tell, but... your brother called and…”

She pauses, leaving me clueless for a moment while she tries to figure out what she can share with me. Eventually, she waves me off, giggling like a young girl, which I don’t hear her do often.

“Oh, you should just call him yourself,” she says. “I’m sure he’d prefer to tell you in person.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is everything okay with him?”

The question is unnecessary, as it’s apparent from the way she behaves that nothing bad has happened. Still I’m curious why my brother Nate would call me.

There was a time in our lives when we didn’t have any contact at all, due to an array of incidents, his life choices, my mistakes—and ultimately the combination of the two, which led to him taking the blame for a crime I committed. For years I thought I’d never see his face again, not after what happened. Not after what I did, and then what he did in return. He disappeared into thin air, assuming all the blame, while I was left fighting to clear his name without knowing where he was.

It wasn’t until recently that we reconnected and tried to build a normal relationship between two brothers, which, frankly, we’ve never had. We’re only half-brothers, and the fact that our father treated both of us so completely differently has shaped and damaged our relationship from the day my younger brother was born.

I don’t hate him or even dislike him, but I harbor very little emotional attachment to him.

However, I know that we share a trait that’s best kept hidden from the outside world. That dark need to possess, to control, and to be served by a cute little doll who can’t help herself. We never openly discussed it, and up to this day he has no idea that the essence of my life is to make those little puppets dance. It’s a sinister secret I’ve managed to keep to myself—just like I have so many other secrets.

Nate may think that he’s the rotten seed in our family that could never bear sweet fruit, but recent developments have proven otherwise.

“Is it urgent?” I ask Dorota, before I make a move to bring my luggage upstairs.

She winks at me. “Raad, just call him. If only for my sake.”

With that, she turns around and trails off to the kitchen, her black dress swirling noisily around her legs as she walks. It’s the sound of my childhood, really. The stiff, thick material of Dorota’s dress swirling around her motherly figure as she scurries through the house, running the household of a very demanding man and his two troublemaking sons.

I wait to make the call until I’m sitting outside on the terrace, the steaming hot coffee next to me on a side table as I brave the chilly air of an early fall evening. Dorota was shivering when she brought me the coffee, insistent on bringing me a coat to drape around my shoulders while I’m sitting out here. I let it happen, even though I don’t necessarily appreciate this kind of excessive concern.

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d actually call back,” Nate answers my call in his usual cynical manner.

“Dorota insisted,” I tell him. “And you know how she is.”

He lets out a quick laugh on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry you have to put up with her. I know it must be terrible,” he mocks me.

---