Chapter 7: Babcia's Stairs

Babcia lives on the ground floor of a senior building on Archer Avenue.

The front stoop has a rail that has been loose since the Clinton administration.

On Sunday, Marta and I climbed the three steps with flour, farmer's cheese and a bottle of vodka.

Babcia says you cannot make pierogi sober.

She opened the door before we knocked.

She is eighty-four years old and five feet tall.

Her housedress has pockets that hold a rosary, a pencil and a roll of antacids.

"You're thin," she said to me.

"I'm not."

"Marta, you are thin."

"I'm medium, Pani," Marta said.

"Come in, medium."

The apartment smells of cabbage, floor wax and the sweet dry smell of old paper.

She had already put out the board.

We worked at her kitchen table with our sleeves rolled, Babcia cutting rounds with a water glass, Marta spooning filling, me folding.

It is the one thing I can do without thinking, and for an hour I didn't.

"So," Babcia said, pinching a seam shut. "The money."

"What about it?"

"You said you sold things. What things? You have no things. You have a bag and a cat."

"I don't have a cat," I said.

"You have a face like you have a cat."

Marta kept her eyes on the filling.

"He's paying me back," I said. "In installments."

"Dominik?"

"Yes."

"Installments of what?" Babcia asked.

"Of being sorry."

Babcia stopped with a round of dough in her hand.

She looked at me over her glasses for a long time, the way she looked at a hot oven.

"Sorry is not a currency," she said.

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