New Stories from the Midwest

Pure Superior

68 Pure Superior ■ Chris Leslie-Hynan Katrín came to us from Russia, with love and hate, almost a year ago. She was my parents’ bane and my only friend, and she confirmed for me something I’d been suspecting about our Upper Peninsula. In every place, there’s somebody who stands for the whole cycle of life there, and it’s because of Katrín that I know that our particular cycle is waiting for interesting people to visit from real states, and then watching them leave again—and that little gush of life in the middle, for which we wait so long. We lived then in an old woolen mill that my parents ran for the county. By about fifteen I’d ceased to be a burden, except for the homeschooling, and poor Pop had never produced any more children for Mother. Out of this sad and idle void, Katrín was applied for and received in what would have been my senior year. I suppose my parents wanted to try out an able-bodied child for a year. Our friendship began on the night Katrín arrived at the mill in a holy fury—her parents had told her she was going to California. Katrín spoke very good English, and she called my mother a fuck on her very first night. I was godawfully delighted. I think it serves everyone well to be mistaken for that once in awhile, and no one ever crosses Mother, so she was a touch overdue. I would have applauded, but applause to me is slapping my expert hand down atop the knuckles of my off hand, and I felt that to parade evidence of my disability before our new guest so soon and so obviously would have gone against the perfectly agreeable Jane Austen manner in which I wished to greet my brand new Russki, not to mention being something less than thoroughly cute. “How’d you get like that?” Katrín asked when we were introduced. Mother breathed in sharp. “I have cerebral palsy,” I said, prompt and calm, to show Katrín this wasn’t anything to work your lungs for. “Hemiplegic. I was born with it. Part of my body isn’t too good at doing what I want it to. The right side, mostly. My left leg is okay, and my left arm works fine.” Pure Superior ■ 69 “Katrín, didn’t you and your parents get the information we sent along about Sinda’s disability?” “Not unless that’s a store in Beverly Hills,” said Katrín. “No one would name a store Sinda’s Disability,” Pop offered accurately. “Listen,” I said. “You’re not going to have to take care of me at all. I thought you should know that right away. And there’s nothing wrong with my mind.” “Don’t worry,” Katrín said. “I can tell by looking at you that you’re not a retard.” “We don’t say ‘retard’ here,” Mother said. “Mom.” “She did say she wasn’t a retard,” put in Pop, who’s the retard savant of the family anyhow if there is one. “I just want everyone to be aware of the words polite people use,” Mother said, looking over at Pop. “That’s right,” said Pop, rising hastily to the call of responsibility. Pop became Father. “It’s a little complicated, but you’ll get the hang of it. We say Sinda is disabled , not retarded or handicapped. She can have a handicap, but it’s not nice to say she is handicapped.” “No, it’s not right to say ‘has a handicap’ either,” Mother said. “The correct—” “Listen, Katrín,” I said. “Just don’t talk to me like you’re afraid to break eggs, and don’t call me a retard or a spaz, and I won’t call you a Commie or a Cossack, and we’ll get along like a couple of fine ladies.” “Sinda doesn’t mind some words, but you girls will sort it out.” “Thanks for the summary, lady,” said Katrín. “Can I see the orange grove now?” ■ The paperwork we received from the exchange program listed Katrín’s birthplace as Nizhny. Her address for mailing purposes was blank, and her parents were described as a businessman and businesswoman of Saint Petersburg. Katrín claimed she had never been to Saint Petersburg and that she’d never even heard of Nizhny. “I used to have...