The Fifth Doll(2)

Lifting her head, Matrona glanced at the wooden walls of her parents’ bedroom, a sluggish thought transforming it. The room itself became a giant chest at the end of a giant bed, the floorboards beneath the rag rug morphed into fingers that held her just as she held this doll.

Your foolish imagination is playing tricks on you again, she thought to herself. It was exactly what her mother would have said to her. She returned the doll to the box.

“I’ve never seen knit socks so small.” Roksana reached into the nearly empty chest to retrieve a pair. Her other hand went to her belly. “Did you wear these?”

Matrona shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly remember if I did.” She gathered her finds, restored the piece of satin to cover the doll and the other remaining contents, and returned the lid to the chest. “I’ll have to be very careful pressing the wrinkles from this dress.”

“I’ll help you when the time comes.” Roksana stood and brushed off the skirt of her sarafan. “But don’t even think of handling it after muddying up with those cows.”

Matrona laughed. “You sound like my mother.”

Roksana sobered. “Not funny.”

Picking up the pile of wedding items, Matrona gestured to the bedroom door with a tilt of her chin, and Roksana hurried ahead to open it for her. Voices ahead drew her attention, though they were too quiet for her to make out. Curiosity beckoned her toward them.

The wooden walls of the modest front room were decorated with a few pieces of framed embroidery and a simple weaving of the Virgin Mary. Her father’s writing table was pushed into the corner, her mother’s old wicker chair near it. The brick stove sat cool in the opposite corner, touched by a glint of late-morning sunlight from the window—sunlight interrupted by the shoulder of their visitor, Feodor Popov.

It was not a childish thrill that filled Matrona at the sight of her betrothed, but rather a wave of self-consciousness, of wondering, Why me? and What will he be like? Theirs would be a slow-burning romance, if there was to be romance at all. Deep down, she prayed there would be.

He was speaking to her father, who looked up and noticed her first, followed by her mother. Realizing she still held the wedding clothes, Matrona flushed and quickly shoved the marriage things into Roksana’s arms. Her friend, God bless her, wordlessly hurried back down the hall to Matrona’s small room to hide the items away.

Again Matrona tucked those short hairs behind her ears and straightened her bodice. Before she could speak, Feodor noticed her parents’ line of sight and turned around. The sunlight made his pale hair appear lighter and slightly red, which made his blue eyes bluer and his dark brows darker. Feodor was tall but slight of frame, and he stood with an erectness that looked almost painful.

“Ah, Matrona.” He gave her a slight smile and stiff nod of his head. It was then that Matrona noticed the ceramic jug in his hand and the weighted satchel in her father’s. Feodor was here for an exchange.

“Three pounds of beef today,” he said in answer to her unspoken question.

“Yes, Matrona.” Her mother’s sharp eyes focused on her. A few wisps of dark hair peeked out from her mother’s head scarf. “Fetch some milk for the Popovs. Don’t leave dear Feodor waiting.” She took the jug from Feodor’s hand and hurried across the room in small steps. “Best of the cream, now,” she said a little quieter as she shoved the vessel into Matrona’s arms. It was unremarkable other than the depiction of a rearing white horse on its front.

“Yes, Mama.” Matrona took the jug and stepped into the small back hallway that opened to the yard where the milk cows were stabled. The door was cracked open to let in the sweet morning air. Two layers of rug covered the floor, their tight braids stained with soil from outside. Multiple shelves lined the hallway, some stacked with tools, some with the barrels that held the milk. In a cellar the milk would last a few days, but there was never a need to store it there. Matrona’s family was the only one in the village that kept milking cows, and these barrels were always empty by sunset, even with the evening milking.

Holding Feodor’s jug against one hip, Matrona tapped the barrel to let the milk flow. It poured so easily, taking the shape of the spout as it would take the shape of the jug, doing as she wanted without complaint, without hiccup. It splattered against the bottom of the jug, wetting her sleeve with a few drops. Less than a mouthful dared to splash away.

Coolness on her hip pulled her attention down to a growing stain on her dress. She pinched her breath against her tongue—the jug was leaking. After fumbling to cork the barrel’s bunghole, she scrambled about the shelves to search for another vessel. She found an empty pail, shook her mother’s charm from it—bad luck to carry an empty pail about—and dumped the collected milk into it. Clicking her tongue, Matrona grabbed a rag and scrubbed her red skirt. It would dry clear, but stiff. She’d need to wash it tonight.

Feeling her parents’ impatience as a worm wriggling against the back of her neck, Matrona filled the milk pail and finished it with cream from the top of the barrel before carrying it with practiced balance back into the front room, the handle of the damaged jug looped through her free fingers.

“My apologies, Feodor,” she said, interrupting whatever conversation the trio had been wrapped in, “but your jug is leaking.”

Feodor sighed. “I’m not surprised. It’s been repaired too many times to count.”