When Granny Olya Decided to Die

Granny Olya Shumakova had taken to her bed to die. After helping the neighbors bring in their harvest, then turning over her own four strips of land with a pitchfork and spreading the potatoes out to dry before putting them down in the root cellar, she’d taken to bed in her cottage, where the evening chill was setting in. She crossed her arms over her chest and breathed out all the breath that had collected inside her over the course of a long life. There was still a stitch in her side, and it had even spread into her back, and, on top of that, the stump in her mouth must have been tired of doing a proper tooth’s job and was starting to torment her.

Olya lay there for a half-hour or so, but nothing felt better. She sat up, fidgeted on the padded mattress atop the wooden divan that had been a wedding present given to her mama, and lay back down on her other side. The view was better from this position anyway, first because the window looked out on the street, and second, because now she could see the Holy Corner. Granddad had nailed up an icon shelf in that corner, and it had stayed put during the Godless years, even though Mama had glued wallpaper over it then, so no one would snitch on her. But as soon as believing in God was okay again, Mama had made a hole that let the two icons – the Pochayev Mother of God and Nikolai, Pleasing to the Lord – look out onto God’s wide world. It was fine – lovely, even. After all that time, the icons weren’t sooty at all, and the oiled wick in the lamp was still nice and straight.

Olya crossed herself, setting off a twinge under her right shoulder blade, which was covered by the padded bedspread that smelled of cooking and mouse droppings, and closed her eyes. She dozed off but still tossed and turned because she kept dreaming about her funeral, full of resentment over how Post Office Katka and Stone Deaf Zinka would pilfer her funeral funds, order a cheap coffin, and wouldn’t even have her taken to the church for her funeral service, and would have the service held without her to save money, and that would hurt because Olya wanted to be laid out in the church, beneath the Savior’s stern countenance and the Mother of God’s kindly face, and feel that she was on the threshold of Paradise.

The people at the funeral feast, Olya thought, would tell fibs about her, saying things they’d never said while she was alive, and would even make off with the little she’d wanted to leave to the kids and grandkids. Olya snuffled. Her daughter for sure wouldn’t come because what were the chances she’d travel from the ends of the Earth just to be with her mama? There was probably no way to get here from there anyhow, from the country they called Bolivia. Her ne’er-do-well son would come, though, with his new woman; he’d bring her and his kids, and they’d rummage around the cottage, and God forbid they’d find Granny’s secret hoard with Mama and Papa’s savings books, the bond certificates and loan papers, the engagement ring, the little gold watch, and the lacquer box with a young Lenin on the lid. That box was where Granny Olya kept her most precious things: a gold dental crown that had fallen out, earrings set with gleaming, transparent stones, and a fancy little cross with light-blue enameling on a braided golden chain.

Granny Olya sighed, and again there was that fretful, drawing ache under the shoulder blade, and her nerves sent needle-sharp bolts of pain into her hand that tried to escape through the tips of her fingers, and Granny decided that her hour had come. She stopped breathing.

Olya wanted to be laid out in the church, beneath the Savior’s stern countenance and the Mother of God’s kindly face

Post Office Katka and Stone Deaf Zinka were at the public standpipe. Zinka pulled on the lever, and a powerful stream of foam, thick as a child’s arm, spurted against the bottom of her bucket. There was a smell of rusted iron and pond scum.

Zinka moved her bucket away. “Hey,” she said. “Why’s it dark at Olya’s place?”

“Must be sleeping.” Katka hung her bucket on the hook. “Ugh, this water’s so rusty! She’s sleeping. She’s weary, so she’s sleeping.”

“What d’you mean, ‘weary?” Zinka looked at a bright yellow aspen leaf that was stuck to one of her shoes. “Didn’t she even light her stove today? Why’s there no smoke?”

Katka freed an ear from under her kerchief. “I know what it is,” she said. “She must be weary of life. She’s ancient, isn’t she?”

The women fell silent, their eyes following Gera the tractor driver, who was prowling across the vegetable plots behind the houses.

“Pasha Billy Goat must have bought the booze by now,” Zinka said at last. “That’s it, then – it’s long gone and gone for good. But the firewood’s paid for, right?”

“Yes,” Katka nodded. “And now they’ll both get hammered, and there’ll be no firewood for you.”

A gate slammed in the distance, and a dog began to bark.

“Oooh...” Katka let out a mournful sigh. “What if Olya really has gone and died? From her window she can see Gera running around, and wouldn’t she have grabbed hold of him by now, because she’s out of firewood too? Well? Shall we drop in on her?”

“No. I’m scared.” Zinka looked into her bucket, seeing there a gray sky, hoary skeins of clouds, and a birch tree’s golden crest. “Let’s get Gera onto it instead.”

Gera and Pasha Billy Goat had just cracked open their second bottle when Katka and Zinka barged into their hut.

“See here, lads.” Zinka had torn off the top button on her quilted jacket while trying to get it undone. “Olya’s gone and died.”

Gera nearly choked on his drink. “Oh frick!” he said. “That’s too bad for Olya. What ailed her?”

“Nah, she wasn’t sick,” Katka gabbled. “She must’ve died fit as a fiddle, just because.”

“That’s a downer.” Pasha Billy Goat poured a glass and handed it to the old girls. “Now I’m all torn up. There’s a granny who never turned me down for a loan. Come on, then – we have to call in the cops, a medic, witnesses. Such a downer. Why’s it always have to be another day, another downer?”

Screwing up their faces, the old girls finished the drink in turns, one sip at a time, wiped their mouths with their hands, and, as soon as Gera and Billy Goat were ready, scurried along behind them.

When Granny Olya stopped breathing, she grew as calm as could be. She seemed to feel her longtime cares retreating, her aches and pains flying away, and her whole body growing light and weightless, like a child’s.

“Oh,” she sighed. “This is good! Everything hurt before, here or maybe there, but now I bet I’ve found my way to Paradise. What’ll happen next, I wonder.”

The way she understood it, the Last Judgment would be like at the district center. A grim-looking judge in a black robe would come in and pound away with a wooden mallet. After that, there’d be these tiresome biddies who’d have a long debate between themselves then start reading something aloud in flat, droning voices, and at the end, a policeman would come and take her where she was supposed to go. But none of that happened. Instead, she was faced by a diminutive old thing in a brown, floor-length dress, with her head loosely wrapped in a simple kerchief. The little old lady sighed a little, stewed for a while, and then laid into Granny Olya good and proper. What was she doing, lounging around like that? Who said it was vacation time? All those chores left undone, and there she lies, like his lordship’s fine lady! “The goat wants milking, the chickens pecked up all the grain first thing, and there are eggs all over the barn! You haven’t got the cucumbers into the cellar, have you? So they’re still out there under their plastic lids but not put away! The firewood isn’t stacked! The cabin wants sweeping!..” The little woman went on and on, stamping her feet, and the sound was soft, as if filtered through a layer of felt. “Come now, up with you” – she was winding down at last – “and quit malingering. Pssht! Here am I, blind all my life, and worked all the time, and thanked God for every day. Pssht, you’re not a woman, you’re just a slacker! No communion, no confession, she’s just plunked herself down, and there she lies... Well then, get up, or am I talking to myself?” And she stamped her foot again.

So shamed, so piqued was Granny Olya by this telling-off that she started breathing again, panting actually, and got up off the bed, wiping her sweaty forehead. The knocking on the door stopped, and Katka, Zinka, Gera, and Billy Goat Pasha piled into the cabin.

Billy Goat was delighted. “She’s alive!” he cried. “Not dead yet, then, old girl?”

“There’s no dying while you’re around.” Olya rubbed the small of her back. “Gera, you devil, where’s my firewood? How long’s it been since you got the money from me?”

Katka elbowed Zinka in the side. “And there you were, wondering why she hadn’t lit her stove! She was all out of firewood, so she lay down to take a load off. But next time, Olya, just warn us, so’s it won’t be all awkward like this.”

The four straggled out of the cabin, while Granny Olya, after looking around for the little woman who’d been scolding her, shrugged and made for the barn, to milk the goat.