(she began, her body tensing from toes to tip in a movement that he felt along the length of his body, portending the time when lovers close their eyes and open their mouths and utter the secrets that they hide from everyone, even themselves)
When I was two years old, my wings were the size of a cherub’s, and they had featherlets that were white as snow. I lived with my “aunt,” an old Russian lady near Downsview Air Force Base, a blasted suburb where the shops all closed on Saturday for Sabbath and the black-hatted Hasids marked the days by walking from one end to the other on their way to temple.
The old Russian lady took me out for walks in a big black baby buggy the size of a bathtub. She tucked me in tight so that my wings were pinned beneath me. But when we were at home, in her little apartment with the wind-up Sputnik that played “The Internationale,” she would let my wings out and light the candles and watch me wobble around the room, my wings flapping, her chin in her hands, her eyes bright. She made me mashed up cabbage and seed and beef, and bottles of dilute juice. For dessert, we had hard candies, and I’d toddle around with my toys, drooling sugar syrup while the old Russian lady watched.
By the time I was four, the feathers had all fallen out, and I was supposed to go to school, I knew that. “Auntie” had explained to me that the kids that I saw passing by were on their way to school, and that I’d go some day and learn, too.
She didn’t speak much English, so I grew up speaking a creole of Russian, Ukrainian, Polish and English, and I used my words to ask her, with more and more insistence, when I’d get to go to class.
I couldn’t read or write, and neither could she. But I could take apart gadgets like nobody’s business. Someone—maybe Auntie’s long dead husband—had left her a junky tool kit with cracked handles and chipped tips, and I attacked anything that I could get unplugged from the wall: the big cabinet TV and radio, the suitcase record player, the Sputnik music box. I unwired the lamps and peered at the workings of the electric kitchen clock.
That was four. Five was the year I put it all back together again. I started with the lamps, then the motor in the blender, then the toaster elements. I made the old TV work. I don’t think I knew how any of it really worked—couldn’t tell you a thing about, you know, electrical engineering, but I just got a sense of how it was supposed to go together.
Auntie didn’t let me out of the apartment after five. I could watch the kids go by from the window—skinny Hasids with side-curls and Filipinos with pretty ribbons and teenagers who smoked, but I couldn’t go to them. I watched Sesame Street and Mr. Dressup and I began to soak up English. I began to soak up the idea of playing with other kids.
I began to soak up the fact that none of the kids on the TV had wings.
Auntie left me alone in the afternoons while she went out shopping and banking and whatever else it was she did, and it was during those times that I could get myself into her bedroom and go rooting around her things.