Free Metronome, The by D. R. Bell

wrapped into a paper. When I protest, he waves me off. “You have a child to care for. My wife’s been saving this for him. Happy New Year!”
    We have our little celebration. Nastya saved a little bit of tea, and we open a can of ham and spread it on three pieces of bread. There were eight of us just a few weeks ago, only three are now left, one from each family. We listen to the broadcast from Moscow, which has not fallen, and we cheer the New Year hoping that’s the year we’ll break the blockade. Olga Berggoltz is on the radio:
     
    It will come,
    The bright day of victory,
    Of quiet, and peace,
    And aroma of fresh bread .
     
    Hope is everything. So many times this winter I wanted to die. I kept going only for Nastya and Andrei. This night, I want to live.
     
     
    The plane’s captain announces we are an hour away. I have to stop; I am overcome with emotion and can’t read anymore. I’ll finish the diary later.
     
    I get to my apartment by 4 p.m. It’s been just over three days since I left home. A few voicemails on my answering service, only two of significance: one from Sarah wondering about my well-being; one from Jennifer, my daughter, asking when I’ll come to visit. I want to talk to both of them.
    But first I look up Mary Gorossian, the travel agent we’ve used. I figure, correctly, that she works during the summer Saturdays.
    “Mary, hi, it’s Pavel Rostin. Remember me?”
    “Of course, how are you? I am so sorry…”
    Evidently, everyone in our Connecticut town knows about my bad fortune. “Thank you. Look, do you remember me bringing in my father last year? He needed to make some changes to his itinerary and I left him with you while I was doing shopping in town.”
    “Yes, I remember him. He was a dear, trying to use his little dictionary to explain things.”
    “Do you remember what he wanted?”
    “Yes, I do, it was kind of unusual. He had a ticket to Los Angeles, but he wanted to get to Santa Barbara. He was not sure about renting a car and driving, so he asked me to arrange for a commuter plane and a hotel.”
    “Santa Barbara? Did he explain why? He was not a wine country type person…”
    “Well, that’s what was so unusual – he wanted a place near the Santa Barbara Police Department.”
    “What?”
    “Yes, my reaction exactly! I’ve been a travel agent for eight years and nobody ever asked me for a hotel near a police department. But I found him a nice little place called The Garden Inn only a block away, booked him for two nights. I also checked on a taxi service from Santa Barbara airport to the hotel.”
    “Do you know where his was going after these two nights?”
    “I am sorry, I don’t remember. He already had his itinerary, I only helped with the Santa Barbara trip.”
    I thank Mary and hang up. The Santa Barbara Police Department? What was my father doing?
     
    I call Jennifer. She screams in delight, “Dad!” and my heart melts. I don’t know if it’s a special father-daughter connection, but Jennifer and I always have been close. I think Karen has been a bit jealous about it.
    There are voices in the background.
    “Sweetheart, where are you?” I ask.
    “We are in Laguna Beach, in grandpa’s and grandma’s house. Mom and Simon are here. So are Uncle Roger and Aunt Toni. Dad, where are you?”
    “I am in New York.”
    “Are you going to come over and see us?”
    I hesitate. I don’t really want to visit my in-laws, but I do want to see my children. And Karen. And I probably should go visit the Santa Barbara Police Department.
    “I’ll try to. I’ll give you a call beforehand. Are you all done with your classes at USC?”
    “Yes, I am done! I’ve got a 3.7 average!”
    “I am so proud of you. I love you.” I have to stop because tears well in my eyes.
    “I love you, too, Dad. I miss you, please come see us soon.”
    “I will sweetheart, I will.”
    I have to take a couple of deep breaths after hanging up. She is in my in-laws grand estate,