Scared Vows, Part IV

Dad lifted off his hulking plastic helmet to adjust my Corellian bow tie. After months of tensions, squabbles, and threats (mainly from his side of the family) to defect back to Ukraine, I needed an anchor just now. However temporarily, I had to pick a side. “Papa, thank you for putting up with this. But you know these American girls. Hopefully this will quiet her silly Western temperament,” I grinned, rubbing my dad’s gray mane the way Marisa did her family’s mare. She’d have eviscerated me slowly with a hot serrated rake for this betrayal, but it came easy now. It felt good on this side, simple and right.

“Don’t worry son,” Dad said, hugging me. He pushed me away slightly for a better look and fixed his squarely eyes on mine. “This is the way with women.” No doubt about it —he was sending me a grave message, a warning more profound than the simple words couching it. And all I could do was nod back with practiced solemnity. But he was back on my team. Back where we had started. My father placed his right hand, calloused from a lifetime of grinding factory work and unmentionable side employment, on my back, as if to support me in case I fainted. “I wasn’t going to do this, Vitka…but my friend Edik said he did this for his son Misha —you know, the doctor?” I ignored the immaterial implication. “Anyway, he says this is an American tradition, so, here, I want you to have the American wedding.” Dad produced a tiny box and for a moment I thought he was proposing to me.

“Papa, I’m afraid I’m already spoken for. Maybe Mom can use a second ring.”

“Smartass, ey?” He took his hand off my back and gave me a quick shaloban —a mild act expressing both affection and aggression as a middle finger, pulled back like a slingshot by the big finger, lands on your forehead with considerable impact. Dad opened the box with some embarrassment, the way he’d always opened costly, elaborate gifts for us. Producing a clear zip-locked bag, I saw the contents immediately, incredulously. “Look, even has initials.”

Rapt with gratitude for this unlikely present, I felt a tremor only experienced during stirring old movies and the night Marisa smiled at my first profession of love (naively surrendered in appreciation for her sleeping with me). Suddenly the lids around my eyes swelled and filled with that familiar but —in my family — forbidden substance. My fingers numb with stupid happiness, I pinned my dad’s nuptial gift onto my shirt sleeves and jacket: pair of 24-karat gold Millennium Falcon cufflinks.