My dear friend Yanka has been in the hospital for a couple of days now, and it drives me nuts that there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s thousands of miles away. My language skills are limited, which means there’s only so much I can communicate, and only with certain people. I can’t just call the hospital - and anyone who knows me knows that I absolutely would if I could. Last night I got word that she’s doing slightly better. The phrase I heard was “serious but stable.” I have no direct way to contact her family, so I’ve been sending messages and hoping someone can make sense of my Yoda-like Bulgarian. I’m lucky to have such a friend. Yanka is incredible. She grew up a village girl, became a nurse, and then life took a turn I doubt she ever expected. She won a singing contest, and suddenly she had a career. In 1971 there was the plane crash. Yanka was one of the few survivors, and the experience changed her deeply. A few years later she formed Trio Bulgarka. Their music was al...
I still don’t know if he ever fired a shot. That’s the funny thing about small-town stories. By the time they’re finished making their rounds, everyone remembers something different. Someone heard shots. Someone else swore the police found an arsenal in his house. Another person claimed he tried to lure a kid inside. But the truth is, none of us really knew. All I knew for certain was the way he used to greet us. The Southend projects sat just a few blocks from downtown, close enough that you could still hear traffic off Fourth Street and smell the bakery some mornings. Kids cut through the sidewalks on their way to the chippy, and old houses leaned into each other along Fifth like they’d been standing there too long. And almost every time we passed his place, we heard it. “Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.” He’d draw it out in a soft voice that never quite sounded friendly, even though it was clearly meant that way. My friend and I would hear it whenever we passed his place. This was down ...