VLAD
My trip to Evanston went about as I expected. My mother worked over dough in her tiny apartment kitchen as I sat at the rickety table. My only jobs were to eat, smile, and nod.
Wiping flour on her apron, she asked, “Are you seeing any young woman, Vladimir?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone.”
She tutted her tongue and folded her pastry dough over again.
“You should find a nice Russian girl,” Mama declared. “Somebody who can take care of you when I cannot.”
I didn’t take any of it to heart. As she gave her decrees, my eyes glanced over the silk flowers collecting dust and the aging heirlooms from another life.
“You raised me well,” I pointed out casually. “I can take care of myself.”
Shaking her head, she tutted and huffed.
“It’s not the same,” she swore.
“Of course, Mama.”
“You think I’m joking.” She pointed a finger at me. “You will see. An American girl may be exciting, but she’s not with you for the long life.”
“You think an American woman will divorce me?”
She threw up her hands. “Of, if only it were that!”
Yes, I wanted something real, something more than just a hookup, but why did it have to be the traditional marriage with a house and a two-car garage? Why couldn’t it be something more of my own making? I didn’t think it would be so bad if I forged my own path, but my mother didn’t need to know this. Instead, I ate my meal dutifully, doing my best to divert the conversation from my single relationship status.
“My business is growing,” I offered as a change in subject.
“Oh, well, that is good!” she chimed. “Makes you much better prospect as husband!”
I sighed. “We’ve expanded into an app for phones. It will be easier for the project to be publicized now.”
“This crowding thing is really popular?”
“Crowdfunding,” I amended. “And yes, it’s more necessary than I knew.”
It wasn’t a group I planned on joining, but I thought the work was worthwhile. The organization was a crowdfunding group that specialized in working with minority startups and small businesses. The software developers making it approached me in the early stages, asking me how they could viably vet groups and avoid the pitfalls of other major crowdfunding sites, but I saw the possibilities beyond the dilemma.
I’d seen how it could be hard for some to get loans from a traditional banking scheme, whether that was a Black woman trying to grow her small business or a Russian immigrant who didn’t fully understand the nuances of American banks.
My father could have used a group like that, but with his truck and his quick-thinking, his handyman business turned out just fine. Still, I never stopped wondering if it could be better.
“I’m glad you do so well, zolotse,” Mama remarked, snapping me back from my thoughts as she kissed the top of my head. “You will make a fine husband.”
With another small sigh, I smiled and said nothing. My mother was like a bulldog, and she wouldn’t give up. It was easier to watch her bake and let that sleeping dog lie. When the sweets were done, all I had to do was accept a tin of the fresh baked goods and hug my mother goodbye.
“You have to go so soon?” Mama complained.
“Yes, Mama, I have work to do,” I answered. “I want to avoid traffic too.”
“Such a good boy.” She patted my cheek, sending me out into the world like some young chick who had just learned to fly.
It didn’t matter that I turned thirty-five that summer.
As each weekend came and went, I wished I had more time to devote to the business or any of the other ventures I had cooking in my mind, but I felt a certain obligation to the university. They’d helped me get established in America. They were the reason I became an American citizen and was able to help supplement my family’s income. Eventually, I wanted to hang up my professor’s hat and spend more time as an entrepreneur, but that would have to wait.