“Tanyusha, I think there’s a dead fly stuck to your chandelier. Or maybe it’s a raisin?” Alla Fyodorovna’s voice had that sticky sweetness people usually use when delivering terrible news.
I did not even turn away from the stove, where the cutlets were hissing in the pan. As usual, my mother-in-law had let herself in without ringing, using the spare key my husband Volodya had “accidentally” left with her.
“That’s not a raisin, Alla Fyodorovna,” I answered calmly, turning the meat over. “It’s a surveillance camera for microbes.”
She froze, her famous white handkerchief suspended halfway to the top shelf of the cabinet.
“What a comedian,” she said through her teeth, though she still cast a wary glance at the chandelier. “I only want what’s best. Dirt creates stagnant energy. That’s why Volodya’s career never moves forward.”
“Volodya’s career is stalled because he plays Tanks at the warehouse instead of working, not because of dust,” I shot back, placing the cutlets onto a serving dish.
Angela, my sister-in-law, drifted into the kitchen next. Thirty-four years old, forever “searching for herself,” with nails long enough to defuse explosives. Behind her shuffled Pavel Gennadyevich, my father-in-law, carrying himself with the importance of a man who had just saved civilization, though all he had really done was park his company Toyota.
“Oh, Tanya, cutlets again?” Angela wrinkled her nose. “We’re eating clean now. Mom says fried food blocks your chakras.”
“And here I was thinking chakras get blocked by envy and other people’s money,” I said with a smile, setting the plate on the table. “But if you’re on a diet, the tap water is fresh and chlorinated.”
Angela puffed up in offense, but she was still the first to grab a fork.
Dinner unfolded in the usual format: a jury trial where the defendant had already been declared guilty. I was the accused, the poacher who had dared to lay claim to their precious Volodya. Volodya himself, a thirty-eight-year-old “boy,” sat in silence, staring at his phone and methodically eating, doing his best not to attract attention.
In the corner, at a little table, sat my son Gleb. He is thirteen, thin as a reed, and wears thick glasses. My husband’s relatives made a point of ignoring him, as though he were a piece of furniture, and not even one that matched the room.
“Speaking of cleanliness,” Alla Fyodorovna announced, dramatically unfolding her spotless white handkerchief and sweeping it along the edge of the table.
The cloth came away clean. She clicked her tongue in disappointment, then instantly found a new subject.
“By the way, Pavel Gennadyevich drove Arkady Semyonovich today, that famous satirical writer! A great man. He told Pasha, ‘Pavel, you are the salt of the Russian earth, a true man of the people!’”
My father-in-law puffed out his chest so proudly that one of the buttons on his shirt gave a pitiful creak.
“Yes, Arkady Semyonovich values me highly. Says I inspire him. Intellectuals are drawn to one another,” Pavel Gennadyevich declared with great solemnity, lifting one finger in the air. “Satire is not the same as giving injections in people’s backsides, Tatyana. It requires refinement.”
I took a sip of tea and looked at him carefully.
“Pavel Gennadyevich, satire is about mocking human flaws. If a satirist praises you, I would not be proud. I would go reread Gogol. You may well be his ready-made Chichikov, just without the carriage.”
My father-in-law choked on a piece of bread. His face turned dark red, and he flailed his hands, trying to answer, but all that came out was a strangled wheeze like the horn of a dying locomotive.
Like a deflated balloon that had once dreamed of becoming an airship.
“You’re mean, Tanya,” my mother-in-law snapped, thumping her husband on the back. “We come to you with goodwill, with a proposal, and all you do is sneer.”
“What kind of proposal?” I asked, instantly tense. Their proposals usually cost me either nerve cells, money, or both.
“It’s about housing,” Angela announced grandly, pushing aside her empty plate. “Mom found the perfect option. We sell your two-bedroom apartment and Mom’s one-bedroom place, buy a big house outside the city, and all live there together in the fresh air. It would be good for Gleb too. He’s so pale, he looks like a moth that fainted.”
I glanced at Gleb. He did not move, but I could see the knuckles of the hand clutching his book turn white.
“Angela,” I began sweetly, “biology teaches us that symbiosis only works when both organisms benefit. In our case, this would be parasitism. You do not work, Alla Fyodorovna inspects dust for a living, and Volodya plays tank games. So who exactly is supposed to support this little household? Me?”
“Why do you have to be so rude?” Alla Fyodorovna said, offended. “Volodya has prospects. And the house would be a family nest!”
“We already have a family nest. It’s my apartment, which I bought before the marriage. And I am not letting cuckoos settle in it.”
“You’re selfish!” my mother-in-law shrieked, launching into her signature act. “I raised my son, I gave him my life! And you… Speaking of cleanliness, I am sure it is not only dust you have here. As a housekeeper, you are hopeless. I can feel the filth on my skin!”
She whipped out the handkerchief again and lunged toward the refrigerator, clearly intending to inspect the top shelf.
“Stop,” I said, getting to my feet. “Alla Fyodorovna, you enjoy inspections so much? Wonderful. Let’s do an inspection of my own. A professional one.”
I walked to the cabinet where I kept my work bag and pulled out a portable Wood’s ultraviolet lamp. I sometimes brought it home to check the cat for ringworm, but today it would be used on a different species.
“What is that?” my mother-in-law asked warily.
“It’s a lamp that reveals organic residue, bacteria, and fungi invisible to the naked eye. You claim your hands are sterile and your intentions are pure, while my home is supposedly dirty? Let’s test that. Volodya, turn off the light.”
My husband, chewing on a gingerbread cookie, obediently flipped the switch. The kitchen sank into twilight.
“We’ll begin with your ‘spotless’ handkerchief, the one you just rubbed across my table after holding onto bus rails,” I said, switching on the lamp.
In the purple glow, the cloth that had looked perfectly white in daylight suddenly lit up with sickly green and brown blotches. It looked like a map of the night sky in a galaxy of pure grime.
“Oh!” Angela squealed.
“Do you see these stains?” I said in the tone of a lecturer. “That is organic matter. Sweat, grease, skin cells, and most likely colonies of staph bacteria. With this ‘banner of purity,’ you have just smeared germs all over my dining table.”
Then I moved the beam to my mother-in-law’s hands. Under the ultraviolet light, her palms glowed like those of an alien after a radioactive storm.
“And you said you washed your hands,” I remarked dryly. “Under your nails there is an entire microbiology museum.”
My mother-in-law instantly hid her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl caught smoking.
“That… that’s just my hand cream!” she blurted out. “It’s nourishing!”
“Of course,” I nodded. “Nourishing for bacteria. A perfect breeding ground.”
I turned the light back on. The effect was magnificent. Alla Fyodorovna’s smugness fell away like plaster peeling off an old wall. She sat there flushed scarlet, crumpling her now “dirty” handkerchief in her hands.
“It’s tricks,” Pavel Gennadyevich muttered. “Charlatan nonsense. Arkady Semyonovich says science nowadays is all bought and paid for…”
And then a quiet voice from the corner made everyone jump.
“Mom, can I say something?”
Gleb set his tablet aside. For the first time that evening, he looked directly at my husband’s relatives.
“And where do you think you’re butting in, runt?” Angela snorted. “Go do your homework.”
“I just happen to read the blog of that same writer, Arkady Semyonovich,” Gleb said, adjusting his glasses. His voice trembled, but his words were clear. “He posted a new story today. It’s called ‘The Mare’s Driver.’”
“What mare?” my father-in-law frowned. “He writes about me in elevated terms!”
“May I read it?” Gleb asked, then started without waiting for permission. “‘My driver Pasha is a remarkable specimen. A creature made entirely of swagger and cheap tobacco. He is convinced we are friends, though I only keep him because he steals company gasoline in such a funny way, thinking I do not notice. Pasha enjoys lecturing his daughter-in-law, though he cannot tell Schopenhauer from a latch. Today he spent a full hour telling me how he and his wife plan to “squeeze” — quote unquote — an apartment out of a “medical worker with baggage.” Meanwhile, Pasha managed to run three red lights while gawking at billboards advertising dumplings…’”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Not the bright, ringing kind. A thick, sticky silence, the kind that hangs in an overcrowded elevator after someone has very publicly ruined the air.
Pavel Gennadyevich’s face slowly darkened to the shade of an overripe eggplant. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish thrown onto the shore, but no sound came.
“That’s… that’s slander!” he finally forced out. “I’ll sue!”
“There’s a photo of your company car with the license plate in the comments,” Gleb added mercilessly. “And the caption says: ‘The Chariot of Greed.’”
Alla Fyodorovna sprang to her feet so abruptly that she knocked over the chair.
“Get your things, Pasha! We are being insulted in this house! We came here with all our hearts, wanted to unite the family, and instead… Gleb, you wicked boy! Just like your mother!”
“Just like his mother,” I agreed, feeling a wave of pride spread through me. “Smart, honest, and clean.”
“And you, Volodya?” my mother-in-law shrieked, turning to her son. “Will you allow them to humiliate your father like this?”
Vladimir, who had spent the entire evening trying to become invisible, finally raised his eyes. He looked at his mother, at the stains of her fake “cream,” at his father, freshly humiliated by the very man he worshipped, and then at me.
“Mom,” he said quietly. “But… it’s true. Dad really did talk about the gasoline. And you were discussing the apartment out loud.”
It was a rebellion. Small, hesitant, but still a rebellion.
“My foot will never cross this threshold again!” Alla Fyodorovna cried, snatching up her handbag. “Angela, we’re leaving! Your wife, Volodya, is a witch, and her son is a spy!”
They tumbled out of the apartment in noisy confusion, bumping into each other in the narrow hallway. My father-in-law forgot his cap, came back for it, locked eyes with Gleb, spat on the floor, and fled again.
When the door finally slammed shut, I let out a long breath. Volodya silently began clearing the table. He knew that tonight was a good night to stay quiet and wash dishes.
I walked over to Gleb and wrapped my arms around his thin shoulders. He pressed his nose into my stomach, the way he used to when he was little.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I whispered, stroking his stubborn cowlicks. “You absolutely destroyed them. How did you find that blog?”
Gleb tipped his head back, adjusted his glasses, and I saw a mischievous spark in his eyes that I had not seen in a long time.
“Mom, I’ve been subscribed to it for six months. Grandpa Pasha bragged about that writer so often that I decided to check for myself. And today I just got a notification about the new post. I thought… the time had come.”
I looked at him and felt a lump rise in my throat. My quiet little defender. While I had been fighting them with irony and ultraviolet light, he had landed the precise blow with the truth.
“You’re my hero,” I said, and the tears finally rolled down my cheeks. Not from hurt, but from overwhelming relief.
Gleb smiled, clumsily wiped my cheek with his palm, and said:
“Mom, don’t cry. If Grandpa Pasha starts showing up with his ‘plans’ again, we’ll just comment under that post and tell people how it really happened. Let them know what kind of ‘salt of the earth’ he really is.”
I laughed through my tears. Justice had won, and it had the face of a thirteen-year-old boy in glasses who loved his mother more than he feared bitter adults.