Chapter 13
Buffalo, New York
November 1985
The house was quiet when Alexei got home from his night job. He tiptoed across the squeaky floorboards to the kitchen. It was too late for dinner and too early for breakfast, but he was hungry, and there was no point in going to sleep on an empty stomach if you didn't have to.
In four hours, he'd need to be up again for his day job. Joyce had found work in a grocery store, manning the cash register, and helped him get on as a bagger and shelf-stocker. It wasn't bad work, though sometimes he marveled that this was what he was doing with a Ph.D. in nuclear physics. Sometimes the customers were rude and told him to go back where he came from, but most just wanted to take their groceries and get on with the day. He wondered what they would say if he ever told them he couldn't go back, because the KGB would kill him.
He could usually grab a brief nap between shifts, though sometimes he ended up chatting with Jonathan. The boy was mature beyond his years, and he seemed to appreciate having someone else fill the role of the adult man in the house. It was because of Jonathan that he'd taken the second job. The boy had talked about how much he would have to save up if he was to go to college next year. It seemed barbaric to Alexei, charging people who wanted to improve their minds, but no one cared about his opinion. So he was quietly setting the extra money aside in a bank account, to help fund the boy's dream. He wasn't likely to have a family of his own, and for now he was quite content paying Joyce a little rent for all the comforts of home.
And the second job wasn't bad either. He washed dishes in a greasy little diner. It was completely quiet once the customers left, except for Hay-Zeus, who came to clean the dining room. Hay-Zeus didn't speak any more English than he did, but they had a friendly co-existence, switching the radio station when the other's back was turned and trying out words they'd just learned.
He found the ham and cheese and started to make himself a sandwich. He was humming a bit of a song he'd heard earlier when a floorboard creaked behind him. He stopped and willed himself to breathe. He peeked out behind the refrigerator door and sighed. El. He really needed to stop jumping at every sound and shadow. He held out the ham. She shook her head.
"Not sleeping?"
She shook her head. "Bad dreams."
He poured her a glass of milk. "You vant to talk?"
"How did Hopper die?" The easy answer was that he wasn't there. That could be interpreted as that he didn't know. But he did know. He knew all too well. "Joyce said there was an accident with the machine opening the door. But she doesn't want to tell me."
He hesitated. How would he have explained the details to a child, even if he knew the language? But the details weren't what she really needed. "It vas like-" He snapped his fingers. "Here, den not."
"It didn't hurt?"
"No hurting."
She nodded. "Thank you."
"You try sleeping?"
"Yes. Good night."
"Good night."
He sighed and put the sandwich back in the fridge, having lost his appetite. It had been less than six months, but the whole thing seemed surreal, like something out of someone else's life. Or perhaps that had been his life, and now he was living someone else's. Maybe he was meant to die in that explosion, and Hopper would be sharing this home with Joyce and her wonderful family. Other than his mother, no one would have cared. He shook his head. There was no point following that line of thought. What was done was done. Hopper was dead and he was alive. The only thing he could do was make his life count.