reckless

Clementine sipped and nodded happily as Luca spoke, happy to be able to be quiet for a little while. “Your kids will be first generation,” she said quickly, her voice soft. “If you have children born here, they’ll be first. Like me. On my Mama’s side, anyway.” Clementine watched him carefully, but listened more intently, trying to find the inflections of a long-gone accent that she’d missed before. She’d known Luca was Russian, as it was the reason for camomiles being included in his mother’s flowers (as they were the Russian national flower). Clementine wondered what else had slipped right under her nose.

“Mandarin? No, no, it’s easy, I swear!” she insisted, grinning. “It’s easier than English. It makes way more sense. I’m sure it’s the same with Russian.” Clementine supposed she should help Luca reset the table, but she wanted to drink medovukha, and did so happily. “We spoke Spanish and Maori, too, and a little Hebrew during holidays.” It wasn’t hard to get Clementine to open up about her family - they were nearly constantly on her mind, all that was needed was a little prodding or prompting, and she’d be an open book. It helped her remember that they were real, that it hadn’t all been a fairytale she’d dreamed up. It was hard to remind herself of sometimes - the summer days they’d all spend in that cramped, colourful, Cape Cod house felt lifetimes ago. How long had it been since the entire family had been together? It must’ve been years.

“Oh, look at you,” Clementine cooed, laughing, her finger nearly touching one of the photos. He was so little, chubby, and baby-faced, she could hardly believe it was the same Luca she was familiar with. “I guess I know what it’d be like to be an only child now,” she mused, her eyes scanning the room and all the adoring remnants of Luca it held. “This is amazing, honestly.” Then, as if she felt very awful, or was telling a great secret, Clementine whispered, “what is salted herring?”

Luca nodded, attention completely on Clementine as she spoke. It was easy to listen to her spoke, her voice soft and soothing in a way that most of Luca’s friends didn’t possess. He liked to think of them all as the Loud Crowd, constantly yelling or screaming about something good or bad in their lives and inviting Luca in to do the same. So this was nice, connecting with someone who didn’t share that aspect. “So I’m - Generation Zero then?” Luca said, making a logical guess from the information she had given him. 

“I’ve heard Mandarin has thousands of separate characters, though.” he replied, laughing. Luca reached out for a moment, straightening up a picture of him with a horrible 90′s middle part that had fallen over. The table was seriously getting over crowded, but yet his mother persisted on adding more and never packing away any old pictures that lay there. “Russian is extremely easy compared to English. English has all these articles and sentence fillers.” He chewed on his bottom lip as he thought up an example. “So, if I were to say Clementine is very beautiful. I would say Клементина очень красивая. Which is translated literally to ‘Clementine very beautiful’. If I needed someone to pass me the salt at the table, I wouldn’t say ‘Can you pass me the salt please?’, I would say ‘pass salt please’.”

Luca laughed, his cheeks growing red as Clem focused on one of his younger pictures. Of course, she would find the pictures of his chubby years, the years where he looked like he was hiding food in his cheeks, giving his mother an ample amount of them to grab and pinch for a while. “Well, I guess this is what happens when I’m all my mother has. If my dad hadn’t moved back to Russia, I’m sure we’d have more than just the picture of him over the fireplace. But -” Luca gave a shrug, one that he hoped would show that he wasn’t upset about his father, that it wasn’t information that he was giving her that she should feel awkward or pity him over. 

Luca turned around and leaned gently against the table, his expression amused because Clementine wasn’t the first of his friends to ask what the food his mother would cook was. “Salted herring is just fish. It’s called salted herring because, well, herring spoils very fast and easily and you have to salt it to keep it fresh. I promise it’s delicious.”

Pretty friends? She hadn’t quite been expecting that one, and comments on her physical appearance usually startled her, but she just felt pleased. When Luca’s mother - still nameless, so she’d remain ma’am to Clementine for now - touched her hair, it was her instinct to flinch away, to grow distant, but it wasn’t malicious, it wasn’t the teasing she’d once experienced, and so she just grinned. “You’ve got no idea - I’m never able to get my hair nearly as straight as yours, I promise.” She gently threaded a tuft of the woman’s hair through her fingers, as if to make her point clear. “I swear, it’s incredible, you’re very lucky. It’s just like my mother’s.”

Clementine took the medovukha in it’s cup and saucer gladly, blowing cool air on it through pursed lips in an effort to cool it a little. She grinned at the interaction between Luca and his mother - it was so nice, so similar to her own family, though a rather downsized version. It made Clementine miss home just that little bit more, but all was forgotten as she took a sip of the drink. “Oh, wow,” she grinned, glancing down at the cup in amazement. “Does this have alcohol?”

She followed Luca happily, mug and saucer in hand, though she took her time, gazing at all of the newspaper clippings and photos that adorned the walls. “Baby photos?” she grinned, sipping at the drink and eyeing Luca over his shoulder. “How cute were you? I was adorable.” Clementine walked a little quicker to walk beside him, and then, nearly shyly, added, “I didn’t know your Mom was an immigrant. Mine, too, from China. Are you - Russian?” She was guessing - most of her interpretations of Russians were from media, and not actual Russians, but it was the most common culture she could attach his Mother to.

While his mother went back to her humming, something that never filled to fill the house most every night of the week, Luca quickly went around the table to fixed the small discrepencies that he knew his mother would chide him on later. “Medovukha is probably one of my favorite things to drink to wind myself down. My mom likes to joke that she dropped breast feeding me early and brought up on that stuff in the bottle.” he said as she rearranged the forks beside each of the three plates, straightening out the spoons and knives as he carefully laid them down. 

“And yes, fully Russian. First generation here, I think? I can’t remember if first generation is born or just raised and living. I moved here when I was eight.” There was a pause as he polished a spoon on the hem on his jeans. “China? So you know one of the most complicated languages in the world and I’m completely in awe of you already, then?” Finally, once he was content with his work on the table, humming the accompaniment to his mother’s tune, though much quieter, he joined Clementine where she had found herself skimming through the newspaper clippings that lined the walls, telling of Luca’s bigger and vaguely connected achievements throughout his lifetime that his mother was so proud of. 

“Okay, I didn’t have great hair like yours that my mom is already in love with or anything. But I was totally that little three year old on a playground that had fifteen girlfriends and kissed all of them on the cheek before recess was over.” he joking, leading her over to the other side of the room where a chest of drawer was all but spilling over with framed and unframed pictures of Luca throughout his childhood. There was no flow with the picture and how they lay on the tabletop, his graduation photo’s frame stuck and covered by little leaflets of his accomplishment and cut-outs of his face from magazines and little wallet sized pictures of a 12 year old Luca the year his mother was obsessed with family glamour photoshoots. “I could probably get someone I don’t even know in here to write about my life just by looking at this room.” he joked. 

Clementine, if prodded for an answer, would admit she had no idea what salted herring was. Was it fish? She assumed fish. But why salted? No matter how strange the cuisine got in the Gueye household - and with those children experimenting, and with that blend of cultures, things got strange - she’d never encountered a salted animal. Clementine wondered if there would be an opportunity for her to sneak off and Google it. It was too late now, though, and Clementine was distracted by Luca’s description of svass - she hummed happily at the thought of it. “That sounds incredible - I’d love a cup? A mug - a glass? Whatever you’ve got.” She was starving, and only just realizing it. Clementine wrung her hands together, trying to warm them up. It was still Summer, by her definition, and Boston would be warm for weeks to come, but Clementine’s hands managed to be constantly cold no matter the weather.

“Oh,” she said quietly at the sight of Luca’s mother. Clementine beamed at her, so happy to put a face to the countless flowers that had gone out of Mushnik’s door on her behalf. It was just the particular sort of woman she’d been expecting, sweet and little and kind-looking, but she hadn’t realized that Luca’s mother, like her own, was an immigrant to America. It made her feel more comfortable, and a little less odd. She could notice, though she hadn’t before, the inflections of Luca’s voice that implied non-American heritage. “Hello,” she said, as the woman hugged her, though a small ‘oof’ sound escaped upon impact. Clementine reacted instinctively, hugging her like she would her mother or grandmother, arms around her shoulders tight and leaning her cheek against the other woman’s shoulder. “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am,” she said, retracting a little from the embrace. Clementine was thrilled at the prospect of being referred to as ‘flower girl’. “Luca’s said so many wonderful things about you. I hope you like the flowers today.”

Luca gave Clementine a smile and left her to the hands of his mother as he ventured over to the cabinet to pull out a set of his mother’s favorite tea mugs. He listened carefully while he poured them all a cup of medovukha from the brass traditional samovar that sat in the corner of the kitchen on it’s own decorative place mat. “Not sure how Luca makes such pretty friends but will believe its because he was taught manners well by me.” His mother spoke, her fingers prodding and touching at the fabric of Clem’s shirt and the curl of her hair. “Such pretty hair. My hair flat and old. Am very jealous of yours.” 

“Mama, you’re going to overwhelm her.” Luca chided, bringing over Clem’s cup and saucer first, steam rolling off the warm golden drink in a non-threatening way. His mother gave him a look and bounced the back of her hand off his outer thigh in a playful way that made both of them laugh. “Hey, ow! I’m joking!” 

“Joke while you reset table, precious boy. I know it’s not done right.” She said before sharing a look with Clementine and turning back to the stove to put the final touches on their dinner, the aroma already rolling through the house steadily. “I’m sure flower girl - Clementine - would like to see baby photographs of Luca while you work.” And with that, Luca motioned for Clem to follow him back to the dining room, eyes rolling as he did so.

Voices were audible before Luca had even opened the door, but the sounds were too muffled for Clementine to make out any actual sentences. She flashed a wide, silly grin at Luca when he answered, and had to remind herself twice to not read too much into his compliment - he did it so casually, it nearly floored him. “Hi, Luca,” she squeaked out. Clementine stepped forward quickly, past him and into the home. It wasn’t that she was scared of Luca, really, but she’d always had a school girl crush on him - though, for Clementine, being scared of someone and having a crush on them was one in the same. She couldn’t contain her smiles, though, and passed the flowers to Luca gently. “I hope they’re good this time. I added in a few extra hyacinths - I couldn’t help myself.”

She knelt down quickly to unbuckle her shoes, and set them very carefully and gently on the mat provided, lined up perfectly. When Clementine stood up again, she was free to observe the house - it took her a moment to take it all in. It was a cluttered, pretty thing, with newspaper clippings and organized messes to behold. It reminded her of her childhood home, and of her grandmother’s, though there were no stray tarot cards lying about, or crystal balls rolling around. It was just the sort of home Clementine liked most, and it set her at ease a little. She felt giddy, bordering on anxious, and flexed her hands one at a time. Her heart felt hot in her chest. “Your mom’s house is beautiful,” Clementine offered, and meant it. “Which way is it?”

“They are more than good, as always.” Luca said softly, taking them from her hands and waiting for her to finish taking off her shoes. It didn’t go unnoticed that she lined them up, perfectly flush with the mat, and for a moment he was worried that his mother’s house might be more of a mess to a stranger than to him and his close circle of friends. “She’s going to love these. Hyacinths are some of her favorites.” 

He nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen, just two rooms away with the dining room between them. “Do you like fish? Mom is making salted herring and dumplings tonight. With a choice of water, svass, or wine for a drink.” Even after living in America for nearly his whole life, Luca still fell into a habit he hated, thinking that most people knew both Russian and English such as he and his mother did. “Sorry, uh, Svass is a tea made from fermented honey. Really popular in Russia. One of my favorites and my mom loves to spoil me with it.” He peeked around the corner and then led Clementine into the kitchen after him, to see his mother hunched over the stove humming a gentle tune to the dumplings as she checked their temperature. “Isn’t that right, momma?” he addressed her, making her start with a soft peep as she turned towards him with hands on her hips. 

With an expression that read so clearly that she was about to scold him for startling her, it immediately softened upon seeing the flowers and even more so when she noticed Clementine behind Luca. “Is this flower girl?” she asked in a heavy russian accent. “Girl who help little Luca impress his mama every week?” She wiped her hands on the towel on her shoulder and moved past an amused and comically annoyed Luca to envelop Clementine in an inescapable hug. 

Closing time at Mushnik’s hadn’t come soon enough - Clementine had finished all her tasks and then some with an hour to spare, and who bought flowers at seven in the evening, anyway? (Other than, of course, husbands who’d just been caught cheating and who were attempting to instigate immediate damage recovery. This percentage made up a surprisingly wide margin of Mushnik’s customers.) She was sure the night had gone so slowly in anticipation of what was to come - Clementine was making her first-ever house call to the Mother of a customer. It was a long-standing order - preceding her employment at Mushnik’s - and it’d been her favourite of all her regular arrangements, the first one she’d memorized. 

With the bouquet - a carefully organized, colourful thing filled with camomiles - wrapped with newspaper and tied with string in her button-covered backpack, Clementine had needed to use her phone to navigate her way to Luca’s mother’s house. Partially due to her terrible sense of direction, and partially because she’d never even been in the area. While Clementine had lived in Boston for an upwards of two years, she rarely ventured out of the immediate downtown area. It was nice, though, all cute little houses and beautiful parks. She reached the address, finally, and took out the wrapped parcel from her backpack, arranging it carefully in her arms. Clementine reached to touch her hair - what would Luca’s mother think of her, all curly hair and brown skin? She hated that the thought even crossed her mind, but there it was, though it disappeared as soon as it’d shown itself. Clementine jumped up the steps quickly, and rang the doorbell, drumming her fingers against the flower stems as she waited.

“No, mama, I actually don’t know what it’s supposed to mean when the man at the corner store gives you a discount on your milk.” Luca was saying as he placed the plates down like he did every Tuesday. Having dinner with his mother once a week was quite the tradition, stemming from both his extreme adoration for the woman and also from her constant need to see her precious little boy’s face as often as she could (though Luca insists that he’s 26 and fully capable of being called her handsome man at this point). Yet this week, there was an extra plate set out. It happened more often than not, with Kyle dropping by or Vera tagging along to get a taste of the Petrov’s best lasagna. Though tonight it was set out for a new face. Clementine. The florist who always helped him pick out flowers for his mother for their dinners. 

He had worked a double shift at Good Luck the night before and in turn sleep past his alarm that morning, causing his entire schedule to be thrown off. This meant he wasn’t able to pick up his flowers. But luckily, his reputation with the shop, and his friendliness with Clementine had resulting in her agreeing to deliver the flowers. As the doorbell rang, Luca sloppily placed the fork that he had in his hands beside each other plates and rushed to the door, a typically normal Luca grin plastered across his face. As he pulled open the door, he called out to his mom, finishing his train of thought from earlier. “You know, why don’t you just call him, Mom. Ask him on a date.” He cast his attention back to Clementine, and the flowers arranged in her arms, leaning on the edge of the door as his mom responded behind him in Russia, a playful tease about how she’s too old to go out on dates anymore. “Why hello my savior Clementine. You look almost as pretty as that gorgeous bouquet you were kind enough to deliver.” And with that he stepped aside and motioned her inside. “Come in come in, dinner is almost ready and you’re going to need at least ten minutes to get used to the force that is Mama Petrova.”