Page 2 of Aftertaste

Kostya hoped the effort at his native tongue might tip the scales; his dad had spent the last few weeks battling Kostya’s aversion to Russian, the language beginning to feel foreign, mealy on his tongue. Kostya just wanted to be like the cool kids in school—American, English-speaking,normal—and to fit in, be seen instead of ignored.

Kostya’s dad gazed with weary longing at the fridge, then up at the clock over the stove, a frown replacing his momentary consideration.

“Can’t today, Kostochka.” He sounded truly sorry. “I have new route. Can’t be late.”

“But, but!” Back to English. “Justonetime. It’ll be quick.”

The last time they played their tasting game—his father slipping morsels into Kostya’s mouth for him to identify (eyes closed, no peeking)—Kostya had gotten four in a row right (doktorskayabologna, apricot preserves, a buttered radish, a halva cube) and was on the high of a winning streak when his dad fed him an oily piece of fish on the tines of a fork.

“Easy! Sardine!” he’d yelled, triumphant, before he even finished chewing.

“Nyet!” his father yelled back, smacking the table with delight, and Kostya opened his eyes in stunned surprise. “Sprats!”

But that had been weeks ago.

“Justonetime,” Kostya repeated now, his voice a donut, glazed.

His dad smiled and kissed him on the head.

“With you is never one time.”

They started the game years ago, when Kostya was eight, in the early days of emigration. A way to remind him where he’d come from. To hold heritage in his mouth. To taste their past, an ocean away. It was Kostya’s favorite thing, the bright memory he clung to when other kids, American ones, laughed at his ill-fitting clothes, his unfamiliar food, his poor grammar.

“I swear!”

“Kostochka, I must get bus.”

Kostya stalked his dad back down the hall and into his parents’ bedroom, where he watched him hunt on the nightstand for his name pin—Sergei Duhovny (Driver #0727)etched in chintzy gold lamé.

“But Papa—”

His dad sidestepped into the cramped corridor, back toward the kitchen. Kostya tailed him, relentless. He needed this now, needed it badly, needed something good. The day before, on Riegelmann Boardwalk, two boys had walked by the bench where Kostya was eating lunch, not bothering to lower their voices as they appraised his meal, the leftoverzharkoye—soft-stewed beef in thick brown sauce—in its mismatched Tupperware an affront to the all-American beef franks in their hands.What a weirdo, one said to the other.Can you hear us, weirdo? What’s he eating? Looks like diarrhea.

“Later, Kostya. When I come back.”

“No,” Kostya whined, a petulant pout materializing on his lower lip. “Now.”

“Nyet,” his father repeated firmly.“Later.”

“There’s never a later!”

His father sighed, equal parts exhaustion and apology.

“I must run. I kiss you.”

“All you do is work. This is our one thing!”

“Go in your room, Kostya,” his father whispered.

But Kostya didn’t budge. He was toeing an edge, deciding to leap.

“Mama’s right,” he spat out. “We should have stayed in Kyiv!”

He’d overheard his mother talking once, in a hushed voice to her sister on the phone. A whole-pack-of-cigarettes conversation.

“Mama? What does she—”

“You’d cook! You’d own a restaurant instead of driving a stupid bus!” Kostya shouted over him. “And I wouldn’t be so ashamed.”

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