The elevator doors opened, and it was like stepping out into an old-world cabin.
Everything was covered in wood paneling. Pictures hung on the walls, cheap thrift-store paintings of ducks and ponds and mountains. Roman stepped out and walked forward, his steps creaking the floorboards.
I hesitated on the threshold. “What is all this?”
“Come.” He kept going down the hall and stopped outside of a door.
I followed him. The place smelled like smoke and pine. The walls looked aged, like they were fifty years old, a hundred years old—and it was the first time anything in this bunked seemed less than pristine.
He stepped into the room.
I looked inside. A twin bed with a space-themed comforter was pressed against the far wall. There was a window, but it showed nothing—another reminder that we were underground. A desk was across from the bed, and a dresser was on the opposite wall. Baseball cards littered the floor, the bed, the desk, the windowsill. The ceiling was covered in softly glowing star decals. The floor had a big baseball rug, and trophies lined several shelves, little league and swimming and running, some of them draped with big blue and red ribbons. Small plastic army men were lined up in a battle in the corner next to the bed, some of them knocked down as if they’d been played with recently.
It smelled like gym socks and bubblegum.
Roman sat gently on the bed and smoothed the comforter, tugging at it nervously.
“Roman?” I said his name softly, like I was afraid that it might break the spell of this place.
It was a child’s room. A little boy, if I had to guess. Maybe twelve or thirteen. Several baseball bats leaned up against the closet door.
“My brother’s name was Anthony. I called him Ant and he called me Lix. I hated that nickname, but I loved my brother fiercely.”
It hit me all at once. This room, the little boys. “This was his, wasn’t it?”
“As close as I could make it. His real room is long gone, his things packed away or sold or burned, I don’t know.”
“Did you live here?”
“My room is next door, but I don’t bother going in there.” He stared at the little green army men. “This was our cabin in the old world, up in Siberia back in Russia. My father insisted we visit once a year in the dead of winter, when the snow was six feet deep and the lakes were iced over. He said it would make us stronger.”
I drifted into the room. It felt like breaking through a paper barrier, like stepping into a dream.
It was the past. Roman’s past. Still real, made manifest.
He sat in his own memory.
“Your brother’s dead.”
He nodded. “Died when he was twelve and I was ten. This is all that’s left of it.” He picked up an old framed photograph and held it out to me.
I walked over and took it. A young boy smiled out at me, holding up a massive trout, grinning ear to ear. Tan, scruffy hair, little-kid skinny, in jeans and a white t-shirt. He looked like Roman, but different, sideways somehow.
“I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine.”
“I know it’s hard to understand. I’ve tried to explain before, but I think maybe telling you how he died will help.” He patted the bed.
I sat next to him.
His dead brother’s comforter. I handed back the picture.
“Explain what?”
“Why I hate my father so much, and why I’ll do anything to avenge him.”
I put my hand on his leg. “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen. But just know, you don’t have to.”
He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. I fell into rhythm with him and only realized after a few seconds of synchronicity that he was looking at me again.
“It started close to spring. I thought we were through the worst of it.”
