Chapter 16

Pripyat, Ukrainian SSR, Soviet Union

July 4, 1986

Mariya Medvedeva crossed another day off the calendar. It was now more than four years since she'd had even a word from Alyosha. Andryusha had started to hint, none too subtly, that she should stop waiting. Which meant he was dead, probably in an accident the authorities didn't want to acknowledge. She suspected Vladislav knew something about it, but he shouted every time she asked about her son, and broke things if she wouldn't drop the subject. It had been a long time since he'd last struck her, but he'd threatened to beat her until she couldn't stand if she mentioned their second son one more time. But even though she knew it was hopeless, she wouldn't stop waiting until she heard him confirm it.

The days had become unbearably long. Most of the city had been evacuated, so only the workers of the remaining reactors and the clean-up crew were left. Soon, they would receive apartments in a new settlement and come back only for work. Mariya was close to retirement age, and she was eager to leave Pripyat behind. Still, she sometimes wondered: what if Alyosha came back someday, and they had moved on? Would he find them? Of course he could go to the registry office in Kiev and wait in line to find their address, but her heart clenched at the idea of him coming home to an abandoned apartment. But there was no good in thinking about it.

She had just started to make herself a glass of tea when someone knocked at the door. Vladislav was asleep in his chair. She answered the door, but kept the chain on.

Three men in police uniforms were on the other side. "Comrade Mariya Medvedeva?"

Her knees shook. She hadn't even been at the plant when the accident happened, but she'd still been expecting arrest for some time. "Yes, that's me."

"We need to ask you some questions."

She let them into the main room. Vladislav snorted, then startled awake. "What's this about?"

The leader saluted. "Comrade, we need to ask your wife some questions about foreign contacts."

"Foreign contacts?" Mariya racked her brain. She had never been abroad, and she didn't recall meeting any foreigners, other than those who came on carefully supervised tours. The organizers liked to have her answer a few questions, to display the Soviet commitment to gender equality. "I don't know what you mean."

"Do you know a Professor Bob Murphy, who teaches physics in the American state of New York?"

"I've never heard that name. Bob Murphy – I don't think I've even read that name."

"He says he met you at a conference in London."

"That's impossible. I've never left the country. You can check the records."

"We did. Which makes us wonder why Professor Murphy would make up a lie to try to get your address."

"Perhaps he met a different Medvedeva?"

"No. He included your given name, patronymic, family name and address. He said he was an admirer of your work and wanted to know if you had been hurt in the – accident. And he sent it to an old colleague of yours in Obninsk."

How many people in the USSR knew she worked at Chernobyl, let alone professors abroad? Suddenly an idea struck her, but she couldn't let herself think it. "May I see the letter?"

The officer shrugged and handed it to her. It was badly written – almost too obviously bad – like someone had used a dictionary to translate word by word from English to Russian. But she recognized the shape of the letters. She'd read over enough of her sons' essays to recognize their similar, but still distinct, styles anywhere. She set her face into a mask. "None of this looks familiar, comrade."

"You're quite sure?"

"It is a mystery."

The man looked to Vladislav. "Perhaps it will make sense to you."

Vladislav examined it. He'd never paid much attention to the boys' school work. Perhaps the officers would believe him. "It would save time if you told us what you were looking for."

"Your son went missing on an assignment in the United States over a year ago. We believe he's defected."

"And you think he's working with this Murphy?" Vladislav asked.

"We think Murphy is a pseudonym. The only return address is a post office box."

"That's impossible," Mariya said.

"Maybe. But we want you to write back."

"Why? What should I say?"

"It doesn't matter. We just need to see who comes to pick up the letter."

"No." Mariya shook her head. "This is ridiculous."

"We're sending a letter from your address either way. You can cooperate, and write something, or we can continue this discussion elsewhere. And you might think of your other son's career. One enemy in the family is enough, don't you think?"

"Alyosha isn't an enemy! If he did leave, he must not have had a choice. Or he – he had a good reason."

Vladislav turned to her. "And you wonder why he's gone bad? You spoiled that boy until you turned him into a lapdog. No wonder he'd bend over for the Americans."

"You can sort out who ruined your son later," the officer cut in. "Right now, we just need that letter."

Hawkins, Indiana

Alexei and Joyce had both taken a few days off work to take the children back to Hawkins for a vacation. This was the subject of great anticipation and nearly unbearable anxiety for him. The kids would stay with their friends, but he and Joyce would be at a motel. They would have separate beds, and perhaps it wasn't much more intimate than sleeping on her couch – but of course it was. He wondered if he snored. No one had ever complained, but everyone he'd shared space with was used to close quarters and sleeping through other people's noises. And what if he smelled? Jonathan had delicately explained the American devotion to antiperspirant, so he shouldn't sweat too much, but he couldn't control any other odors in his sleep.

It had been both thrilling and frightening to check in, as if the man at the desk was going to realize there was no way they belonged in the same room. But he'd just given them two keys and said the ice machine was at the end of the hall. Why would they need ice? The room had air conditioning. It didn't matter. He'd need all his concentration for important matters.

Joyce had caught up with a few friends during the day while he luxuriated in the cold air and worked on his English. Perhaps he should have written Professor Murphy's letter in English, but he wasn't confident he could pull it off, and he didn't want Joyce any more involved than she had to be. He'd set up to be notified if he received any mail, and resolved to wait. It would be months, if not years, before he got a response, if one ever came. There was nothing he could do but live his life. But Joyce was helping. She had suggested he come along, so he wouldn't be alone with his worries while she took the children back to Indiana.

She came back in the early evening and suggested they could go to the fair, since his last visit had been cut short. The corrupt mayor was gone, but people had liked his party enough that they decided to make it an annual event. He wasn't sure how much Joyce cared for fair food and rides, but he appreciated her willingness to do something he liked.

Until they pulled into the parking lot and he felt his chest tightening. He didn't want to ask Joyce to turn back, since they'd come for him, though, so he put on a smile and went in.

He found himself scanning the crowd for – what? Grigori was dead, and the others had long since moved on. The lights, the smells, everything seemed too intense. Then he heard the bursting noise he'd heard a year before. He pulled Joyce between the booths and wrapped his body around her. She yelped, then went quiet as the loud pops continued. "It's just the balloon darts," she said. He didn't understand – he understood each of the words, but together they made no sense – so she rubbed his back until he stopped shaking. Then she pointed to the booth where he'd won the cartoon bird a year earlier. He blushed. "It does sound like a gunshot," she said. "I have things I can't stand either, from when we had to get that thing out of Will."

He nodded. "Maybe – ve go somevhere else?"

"Good idea. I never liked these things."

They stopped to pick up a pizza and ate it in the hotel room, on their respective beds, while Joyce turned on "Cheers." Alexei didn't understand most of the jokes, but he laughed along with the audience on the tape. It was helpful to tell people when there had been a joke, though he wasn't sure why the Americans needed to be told. It was a funny program, but Joyce looked like she was watching a funeral. Alexei moved over to her bed and sat next to her. "Vy sad?"

She half-smiled. "I'm okay."

She'd never let him off that easily. "Vy sad?"

She sighed and turned off the TV. "I used to watch this show with someone special."

"Hopper?"

"No. He died before I met you."

"The man Bob?" Will had told him something about the drawing of the flying man on the refrigerator, though he hadn't fully understood what demodogs were.

"You know about him?"

"Will said he protected you. And him."

"He did. Sometimes when I sleep, I still see that thing over him – you understand, don't you?"

He nodded and put an arm around her. She leaned in on his shoulder. It was not the moment to try anything else, though he did brush a little kiss on her forehead. "Good man," he said. Joyce nodded. After a while, he felt her breathing deepen. His arm was starting to ache and there was no way he was going to sleep in this position, but there was also no way he was going to move. There would be plenty of other nights for sleep.