Chapter 29

Thanksgiving 1987

Hawkins, Indiana

On paper, Alexei knew he had much to be thankful for. He'd survived his time with the KGB with his mind and body more or less intact, been accepted back into the United States, offered work monitoring the old portal, and even allowed to settle near people he cared about. Joyce and her children had moved back over the summer, so he could see her from time to time. It was more than he could have hoped for. But he couldn't muster too much gratitude as he took a bite of his dry turkey sandwich and wondered how he was going to pass four days without work or anything else to do.

His mind had felt like a child's teeter-totter in the months since the Americans had released him: one day he was full of hope and wonder at his new life, and determined to make himself a part of the Americans' world; the next day he had to drag himself to work and couldn't force himself to practice English, because what did it matter? He would never belong. He hadn't had this difficulty before. Perhaps that had been a honeymoon period of sorts. Or perhaps Joyce had smoothed the difficulties in ways that he hadn't appreciated at the time.

He had seen Jonathan and Nancy fairly often over the summer. His apartment was over the newspaper office, which had hired them again because the new editor didn't share the old one's prejudices. He hadn't particularly liked summer in Hawkins – far too hot – but it had been nice to exchange pleasantries with them every day. But they had gone back to school, and he'd lost his connection to his substitute family.

Hopper had made it clear he didn't like Alexei hanging around the store where Joyce worked, and while he wasn't sure if Hopper would beat him if he found him leaning on the counters, he didn't particularly want to chance it. And it was painful, to hear Joyce talking about some movie she and Hopper had seen, or a restaurant where they'd had dinner. Not so painful that he would have given up his one true friend, if Hopper hadn't been so insistent. But something like his leg – a nagging that never quite went away and that he'd just learned to live with.

He'd tried going to bars, since as far as he could tell those were the only places where Americans considered it socially acceptable to talk to a complete stranger. It wasn't going well. No one had thrown a drink on him, so it could have been worse, but everyone seemed to think he was either a little foreign boy who didn't know anything, or a dangerous spy. He'd visited Murray and begged for help cracking the code, but most of what Murray suggested involved packaging: different clothes, and trying to firm up the noticeable belly he'd developed.

He'd never have thought to worry about what his abdomen looked like – his body had been malnourished for months, and it was trying to protect itself from the next famine by demanding more food. Other Russians wouldn't have cared. Some might have even taken it as a sign that he was prosperous. But Americans were shallow and vain, Murray said, and so he'd done his best to hide his imperfections. Maybe that was what Americans did with all the time they didn't have to spend searching for the necessities of life. If so, it seemed like a poor trade. Maybe he'd had to search every department store in Moscow for a suitable pair of shoes, but eventually he had succeeded in finding one. Even if he put in the same time and energy, he'd never look like the men on magazine covers.

He wondered if Murray's advice was bad – the man had been single for a long time – but he had no one else to ask. He knew his coworkers were suspicious of him, so he kept silent whenever possible. He'd tried to join some of the other men for lunch on his first day and met with stony stares, so he stayed in his office as much as he could. Some days, the only person he talked to was the 7-11 clerk.

Will had come by a few times to beg for help with geometry, which Alexei had been happy to give. But that was bound to end soon too. The boy was getting the hang of proofs, and then there would be nothing to bring him back. The thought made him sadder than it should have. He'd secretly hoped for an invitation for this feasting holiday, but it hadn't come. Maybe it wasn't only Hopper. Maybe Joyce didn't want to see him either. Foolish Alyosha. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, that everyone else could see, or infer from each other – if something had been sitting on the shelf a long time and no one queued up for it, it was junk or worse. It suddenly seemed to him an apt metaphor for a 42-year-old bachelor.

When it had become clear he'd be alone for the holiday, he'd briefly considered buying a few bottles of vodka and writing the long weekend off entirely, but he wasn't sure how much his liver could handle. And everyone at work already assumed he was a drunk. No sense in coming back hungover on Monday and proving them right.

He finished the sandwich without really tasting it and went to put on a record. He'd never lived alone in his life, and he hated the silence. He knew he should probably put on something cheerful, but he picked up the Paul Simon record the store owner had helped him find a few weeks before. The man had been friendly and talkative, even though Alexei had had to work not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of skunks in the store. He decided he would go buy another record the next day. It didn't really matter what it was – he just needed the company. For now, Paul Simon would have to do.

"She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead
And she said, 'Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow …'"

Author's note: Sorry to write a depressed Alexei chapter, but I felt like after everything, he'd struggle to adjust back. I promise it gets better soon. By the way, the lyrics are from Graceland.