The Russian's Christmas Present

It’s coercion at its finest, but I’m not playing my parents’ game. I’m my own man and no one can take that away from me.

“Fine.” I concede to the event. “I’m doing it for you, old man.” I jerk my head toward my grandfather. “Only, you better be wearing a suit too. Otherwise, I’m sporting silk pajamas and a robe. I may even start smoking a pipe…”

I pull at my beard as Roan and my grandfather chuckle, but before I can enjoy the moment, my mother is back on task.

“Very well, it’s settled. Mauricio is waiting for you at the shop.”

Mauricio is an old friend of the family who has a custom tailor and formalwear shop in town. It’s very high end. He does the suits and his wife does the gowns and women’s formal dresses. He’s taken care of my family as far back as I can remember.

“Now?” I grouse toward my mother, who comes over and runs her hands down my arms.

“Yes, now.” She smiles, the lines around her red lips a bit deeper than I remember. Her blonde hair, swept up into a tight bun, glimmers with gray now. “You should look at some other things while you’re there. I swear you were wearing this same shirt last time you were here. Just bill it to our account. Whatever you want.” The disdain in her voice is thinly veiled but I know there’s strings attached to everything she offers so there will be no billing anything to the family tab.

“Flannel is in this year,” my grandfather chimes in, nodding toward us. He’s lost weight, his skin is dry and gray, and as much as I dislike my family home, I need to find a way to spend more time with him. “It’s all the rage. Think I saw a picture of Warren Buffet on the cover of Forbes dressed like a lumberjack. All he needed was Martel’s beard.”

“Dad,” my mother quips, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.” My mother waves her hand and makes her way toward the archway leading to the main hall. “We will see you back here by eight sharp for dinner. And speaking of dinner, I need to go check on preparations. They never quite make the Marlenka to my standards. If you don’t stay on top of your staff every second…” Her voice fades as she disappears toward the kitchen and I stuff my hands into my jeans’ pockets and look at my grandfather, who gives me a sympathetic smile.

“You’re going to be fine.” He gives me a wave. “I appreciate you agreeing to come to the event, if that helps at all.” He coughs as Emily comes over and hands him a tissue, but he shoos her off and finishes. “I tried to get her to tell you about it sooner. But, you know your mother. She thinks she knows best.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be there with bells on.” I nod.

He and I have more in common than I do with my own father, who right now is on a business trip in New York courting a merger with some other insurance company hell-bent on squashing the little guy whenever the opportunity presents itself.

My grandfather who was a supervisor at one of the steel mills my father’s family owned, may not have had the financial success that my own father has, but he had the kind of success that most will never have.

He and my grandmother made a life for themselves that revolved around love, laughter and loyalty, even in the hard times. And, as he would always say, a generous amount of vodka, which my grandmother always said cured just about everything.

I’ve never had much drive for financial over-abundance, which made me a bit of an outcast in the private schools and country clubs where I grew up. I was a loner anyway, Roan is one of my few friends left from around here, probably my only friend besides the ones I have back in Townley, none of which—to my knowledge at least—have trust funds.

It’s become my home, but I’ve always felt like I was waiting to belong to something. I don’t fit here and don’t quite fit there. Doesn’t help that I spend most of my time at work, and although my parents will never understand, it’s given me a sense of purpose.

Still, thinking about my grandparents, as much as I’d never admit it to my friends, what’s missing is my person. The one.

Emily a sturdy Russian woman a decade my senior comes back into the room with my grandfather’s oxygen, her light green scrubs decorated with little unicorns. “We should go back up. A little nap so you can have dinner later and not fall face first into your Solyanka.”

My grandfather gives her a wave but looks my way. “Sucks getting old.” Then he points at me. “Don’t forget to live first. You never know how much time you’re wasting waiting.”