BOHDAN

Bohdan stood on the overpass overlooking the Don Valley Parkway. He was looking into the abyss, trying to make sense of his life. He pressed his body against the railing; he wanted to step over. He hunkered a leg over the protective barrier and hoisted himself up on top. It was very uncomfortable, but he ignored the discomfort. He wanted to stare into the cars, but they were all driving away from him, as if frightened by his determination to kill himself. You are all of you cowards, he thought to himself and leaned forward. The shift brought about unforeseen effects. He plunged downward.

Lies. Storywriters can change things on you in a blink and you’re pissed off, but that’s their prerogative.

Bohdan hung downward, his legs had wrapped the rail tighter than an old whore on her last attempt at respectability. Cling to life. He worked and managed himself back up on top of the railing. He pushed at himself until he tumbled over the right way and was back in the realm of life. He lay on the sidewalk, resting.

Bohdan stood up and tried to get his bearings. The bridge no longer interested him; it was not inviting. He began his long walk home.

At home, Bohdan made himself a cup of coffee - he was not particularly interested in sleep, hadn’t been ever since the murders.

Why did Paul not kill him? Why did he ask him to go to the store to get the Haagen-Daas? Why did he take his time driving there and back? Was he afraid of the glass of wine that he had drunk with dinner? It was late, nothing could have happened. He was under the legal limit. No, he took his time driving and when he got home, everyone was dead.

A writer has the need to fit the story to the reader’s grasp. The writer will change things at will - take accidental truths and pervert them into Artistic Truths. Hopefully, the reader will suspend enough judgment to buy into the Writer’s Artistic Truths.

At home. What kind of home was it, without his wife? Everything was gone without Natalka. Everything was meaningless. Who cared about class? Who cared about the unemployed? Who cared about the homeless? Who cared about the New World Order or distant wars in distant countries? Who cared about the coming Revolution? Let it come, or not.

Bohdan had stopped meeting with his friends for discussions. They knew Natalka, they remembered her and yet their lives went on. It was horrible and yet the Revolution was yet to come. Bohdan lost interest.

Bohdan had been a successful salesman when he met Natalka. Successful, in that he sold Encyclopedia Britannicas, and much better than anyone else in the region. Natalka’s parents were looking over a sample volume - they respected books very much - and though they were careful with their money - they listened to this young man’s sales pitch. He was Ukrainian after all, and though not a scholar, a business man and involved in academics of a sort. They wondered about the books, perhaps it would help their son, Pavlo, get out of his laziness and do something with his life, besides playing with a guitar.

Natalka came home and walked in the living room to see what the commotion was about. Her father quickly said,

‘This is Natalka. She has a great future ahead of her. She is a scholar at the University. She is working on her doctorate.’

Natalka was embarrassed by her father’s effusiveness, but did not let the man with a head full of hair see it.

Bohdan wanted to say something appropriate,

‘Your parents are considering The Encyclopedia Brittannica.’

There might have been something crimson in that admission, and Natalka added,

‘That’s very interesting,’ and left the room.

Her parents turned back to Bohdan, but his mind was reeling from the girl’s condescension. He was unable to make the sale.

Bohdan smiled to himself when he recalled how superior Natalka had tried to present herself next to him. He opened the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the bottle of vodka. Then he replaced it. He drank mostly in happiness; he was not one to drown his sorrows. Bohdan went to his room and lay on his bed. It felt large. Empty. What was there to do without her next to him?

When Bohdan woke, all the old dreams at his beck and call scattered. What do we have to do with you, they seemed to ask. Your life is meaningless.

Help the poor realize some small portion of their right. Help the meek inherit the Earth. What could be wrong with that.

Bohdan ran into Natalka at a party of a friend. Natalka was less snobby, maybe because she had a couple of drinks to button down her attitude. Bohdan had noticed a young woman with chestnut hair and clever, brown eyes sitting beside a friend of his. He went over to introduce himself and recognized Natalka. He played the joke of not remembering her and, once they were by themselves, she tried to recall the earlier incident. Bohdan refused the bait and ever after pretended ignorance of their first meeting.

Why did Paul kill everyone?

‘Why can’t you study like your sister?’

‘What’s wrong with you, why don’t you do something with your life, like your sister did?’

‘Look at your sister, she’s got her Phd.’

‘I have a wonderful daughter who’s a professor and a no-good bum for a son.’

‘You work as a bartender? What good is that?’

‘If you were more like Natalka...’

‘Why don’t you do something, like Natalka did.’

‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Look at your sister.’

This went on every time Pavlo’s name came up. Bohdan knew it wasn’t as one-sided as the parents claimed, but Pavlo was a bum. He did nothing - what he did was probably worse than the parents imagined. But who doesn’t do worse than their parents imagine?

But how about Bohdan? The writer wants to know. What made him so goddamn perfect. Or perhaps my friendly little reader, what makes you happy with your life? You are... well good for you. Teach me your secret (I’m going to show you Bohdan’s).

Bohdan was no slouch at upsetting his parents. He adopted Marx, then Mao, as his guides through Life. He might have adopted Lenin, but being Ukrainian he had an aversion to Russian revolutionaries. At least for this his parents might have been happy.

But they were hard to please. They adored Natalka. Natalka who might have leaned to the left in her academic Tower was the Grand Master as far as his parents were concerned. Actually, they weren’t intellectual types. They had been brought up in Canada by parents or grandparents who had come over for the land. They were old and farmers, retired. What did they care about politics. They just wanted their son to get a good job. Selling encyclopedias wasn’t real work. Conning blind grannies out of their life savings was more criminal than anything they had imagined possible. How could he respect himself doing that?

Bohdan had told them his colleague’s conquest out of humour, hoping a good laugh was to be had. Was it? His father screamed of criminals, thugs and mafia. His mother cried for the evening.

When Bohdan quit his sales job, his parents kept their happiness to themselves. It was better to be without work than a criminal.

When Bohdan stayed unemployed, his parents howled.

Bohdan married Natalka. She accepted his state of development.

Bohdan had become more and more overwhelmed by the state of the world. He took to hanging out with some of Natalka’s fellow students. They devised schemes to free the world. They held a bonfire and ceremoniously burned copies of Shakespeare, Dante, The Bible and several years worth of subscription to National Geographic. They used a two dollar bill to start their pyre. A photo got into the Toronto Star and they were set.

Every week Bohdan would join a group of twelve fellow Maoists and discuss ways to save the World. They were undecided whether violence (theoretically) was the proper route to take. The meetings made important progress in spreading this gospel to those who were interested. One of the members even decided to run for Board of Education. He garnered 150 votes and the club was overwhelmed at the groundswell of support.

Authorial privilege allows me to skewer perspective. As far as Bohdan was concerned, he was helping toward the construction of a New Society. The Reader might mistake my view with the general feebleness of Bohdan’s beliefs. It might allow an armchair privilege in denying his attempt at benefitting our lot.

Paul was a zero in this story. He just did his own thing.

Natalka was composed and quite self-possessed. She didn’t dislike her brother, she didn’t particularly hold anything against him. She just was motivated to escape a pettier world into the World of Knowledge. She didn’t despise her brother, she just had no thoughts of him at all. Perhaps it was unreal the way she shut Pavlo out of her life. Bohdan could never figure that out.

Paul stayed with them once, for a couple of weeks, when he was between things. That was after Bohdan and Natalka had bought their home. Paul smoked a lot, drank a lot of coffee, watched a lot of television. One night Natalka exploded at him,

‘Why don’t you do something beside sitting watching that stupid box.’

Paul responded,

‘I’m just mellowing out.’

‘You’re lazy. Get up and do something with your life.’

The argument ended. A few days later Paul left.

What made the murders so horrible that I need to repeat them? That they occurred. What more can be said?

Bohdan felt the need to shower. He showered constantly, trying to wash something free. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps ignorance. What made him do it? Why murder your parents and your younger sister? He had the gun with him all along. He had brought it back with him from the States. From New York, off of 42nd Street. Bohdan only thought musicals and muggings. Why?

But the questions couldn’t be answered. Paul had killed himself last of all.

‘I’ve never saved anything at all,’ was said by him, but when? Was it in a dream? Did I imagine the whole thing? Did he tell me that once when we were both drunk? We’ve been drunk together once or twice. Maybe he whispered it; maybe it slipped out of his thinking, naked like each and everyone of us true bastards.

Why didn’t you kill me?

I mean I’m the least productive member of the whole lot. I’ve added nothing to anything. Natalka added to our knowledge of Ukraine and her literature. Her parents worked hard and put her through school. Even you brought something to the World. You served drinks to help celebrate happiness, to aid in the drowning of sorrow. I’ve tried to do things with my life. I’ve tried to better Mankind. I haven’t done anything. Worked to change class structures and I touched no one. All I did was save myself.

Am I not worthy to die? Am I such a non-entity, such a speck that you might disregard me? Were you enraged? Were you crazy? Were you simply evil? For what did you do it?

Sleep doesn’t come to people with questions - questions so pressing that in dreams you are working feverishly to answer them. Or you create Hells unfathomable in daylight. How far into this Hell can I take you? The nature of questions: do I know or do you know?

Bohdan does not answer any of his own questions. His resolution, his belief, his faith no longer stands. How can it? Nothing you do can stop Evil from happening. Even had he everything in his power, Evil would not be stopped.

There was a sobbing inside of him and a giving up of his vanity. This is my intellectual pride that makes me stand above others, beyond others. Laugh, ye Gods and philosophers, I am not of you. You are not of me. I am small.

There is a humility in telling this story, realizing a character more perfect than the author, more understanding. All the length of the story to realize this.

Bohdan - to pick up the story’s thread years later - had become devout in his love of God. He went to Church on Sundays and prayed, not like one who prays aloud with a proud bearing, but one who humbles the self before the Lord. In his heart he is contrite. In his heart he praises Jesus.

Born in Canada of Ukrainian heritage, Ihor Pidhainy is a teacher who lives in the American south. His chapbook "Meditations about Fathers and Sons" is out with Bottlecap Press. A micro chapbook, "Snowball" is forthcoming from Origami Press. His poetry has appeared in Washington Square Review, The Alchemy Spoon and other journals. His fiction is available at Union Spring Literary Review, Bright Flash Literary Review and Vermilion.