Chapter 32

December 31, 1987

They'd only been dating for a little over a month, but Alexei was starting to think he'd already blown it.

Not that he had any inkling how he might have blown it. They hadn't argued. He couldn't imagine that he'd done anything to offend her – and Joyce wasn't the type to nurture a silent grudge anyway. When you made her angry, she made sure you knew immediately. Perhaps she simply wasn't sure about him. He'd go over for dinner with her and Will, and sometimes she came to visit his apartment, but they hadn't gone anywhere publicly together. It had seemed prudent to him. He wasn't sure what the rules were in America, but any Soviet citizen who'd carried on a relationship with a visiting American was asking for police surveillance, if not blacklisting. But Murray insisted no such rules existed.

He hadn't told Murray who he was seeing, since he'd been Hopper's friend first, and Murray hadn't asked. Perhaps he didn't much care. More and more of their conversations ended in Murray telling him to just relax. Plenty of fish, whatever that meant.

He really tried to relax. He'd tell himself that there could have been any number of reasons Joyce seemed distant and distracted on Christmas, most of which would have nothing to do with him. And the fact that she'd told him she wasn't feeling well and would miss New Year's Eve didn't have to mean anything. It was cold and flu season, and she'd seemed tired lately. It all could be explained very easily, but his brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was about throw him aside. Falling for someone was truly exhausting.

He'd gotten out of work early for the holiday – the odds anyone in Russia was spending New Year's Eve trying to break through the barrier were not high, so Ricci had only kept one person to monitor the portal. They rotated working holidays, and his turn never seemed to come up. It bothered him a bit that they didn't trust him to work alone, but tonight that was to his advantage. He needed to stop at the grocery store before it closed. He'd quietly asked Dr. Jackson, one of the few who didn't seem to actively dislike him, what Americans did to care for someone sick.

"Chicken soup, I guess. You spoke English this whole time?"

"Yes." Was that in doubt?

"So you just didn't have anything to say for six months?"

"I didn't know vat to say." Dr. Jackson just shook his head and walked off. Alexei didn't expect him to understand how carefully he had to choose his words. Just asking about the soup had been an effort, and he'd had multiple lies and evasions prepared to avoid compromising Joyce by revealing her involvement with him. He was always a little nervous when she came to his apartment, in case he was being watched – though not nearly nervous enough to tell her to stop coming.

He bought the soup and some crackers and ginger ale, which Dr. Jackson had stopped by his office to suggest at the end of the day. He also impulsively picked up some fried chicken and potatoes for Will, so she wouldn't feel she had to cook. He had no idea if Will liked fried chicken – but didn't everyone? How could that be wrong? Even if it was wrong, perhaps he would get credit for thoughtfulness.

Joyce looked exhausted when she answered the door. No doubt, she was sick.

"I brought you dinner," he said, holding up the bags of groceries. She looked away. Oh God, she was crying. How had he done this wrong? "I'm sorry, Joyce. I dought-"

"You're so sweet," she said, and let him in. So why was she crying? He put down the food and hugged her. She leaned on his chest until she calmed down. "But we need to talk."

The worst words in the English language, he thought, but there was no arguing. If they needed to talk, they would talk, no matter how much he disliked what he had to hear.

Joyce sat down at the kitchen table. Her fingers were fiddling, like she wanted to light a cigarette, but she didn't. "I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it." He nodded, and focused all of his effort on summoning the mask. He didn't want to cry in front of her. "I'm pregnant."

The mask dropped. "Oh." She put her head in her hands. Was she crying again? He knew pregnant women cried a lot, but was this that? A thought crossed his mind. "Do you – do you vant it?"

"I was not planning on another kid in my forties, but I'm not having an abortion, if that's what you mean."

"Oh. Good. Dat's good." What was he supposed to say? "Should ve get married?" He wanted to kick himself. Not romantic at all. But wasn't it the obvious question? Maybe things were different here.

"That's what you want to ask?"

"Vill you marry me?"

"No, I don't mean rephrase it." She shook her head. "You don't have any other questions?"

He did, but they didn't seem polite. "Vat do you vant to tell me, Joyce?"

"I don't know."

"Den ve talk about it later-"

"No, I mean, I don't know. There was only a day or two between my last time with Hopper and my first time with you. There's no way to tell until it's born, and even then we won't know unless you have a different blood type."

"Oh." It was unwelcome, but not altogether shocking. He hadn't wanted details of her relationship with Hopper, but he'd assumed intimacy was a regular part of it. She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He chose his words carefully. "How does it vork here? Do you pick, or is dere an office to decide?"

"An office? Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised if this ends up in court-"

"So do Hopper and I go to dis court and de judge decides who gets de baby?" Hopper would have a distinct advantage, as a citizen. He probably earned more money, and had the advantage of being able to spend a day with Joyce without screaming, but would a judge value that? "Could ve just not tell Hopper? Is dat legal?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ve just pretend de baby happened later. Den no vone has to know." Joyce looked incredulous. "Babies can be early, or late. No vone vould be able to prove it. If-if you vant to raise it vid me."

"You're willing to raise a baby you don't know is yours?"

He didn't relish the idea of a miniature Hopper, but perhaps they could teach it to behave better. He nodded. "I alvays vanted a family. I dought it vas too late. Dis is-" he searched for the right word. "A gift. Yes?"

Joyce still looked unsure, but she leaned over on his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and rubbed her back. This changed everything. No more hiding, not once Joyce's stomach got round and people began asking questions. Would they hate her, see her as a traitor? His decision wasn't unselfish, but then again, neither was hers. She'd told him first and given him the right to choose the child, because she knew he would be a more stable partner than Hopper.

They ate the chicken, mostly in silence, then Joyce invited him to spend the night in her room. She was obviously too tired for anything but sleep, but he still felt absurdly like he'd been promoted. But of course she'd let him in. They were going to be parents, the most concrete proof in the world of what kind of relationship they had. She'd have to explain it to the boys soon, then to everyone else. Hopper would surely beat him up, once he heard, but that was just the price he'd have to pay for getting what he'd always dreamed of.

He laid absolutely still, to avoid disturbing Joyce. It wasn't entirely comfortable, but he wasn't going to sleep that night anyway, with all of the possible futures, good and bad, playing out in his head. He thought for a moment of the peasant custom of putting papers under your pillow on New Year's Eve and picking one to predict the future: "good year," "bad year," and "medium year." The question of what type of year was coming had never been more urgent, but for that night at least, he would choose to believe it would be good.

He watched the clock beside the bed as the red lights changed to read 12:00. "Happy New Year, Joyce," he thought, and closed his eyes.