Chapter 3: A Place of My Own
Joyce looked around in shock as Alfred wandered around the nice little town house that had somehow become hers in the course of about thirty minutes, experiencing culture shock that left her rooted to the floor. Her friend all but shoved the keys in her hand, bringing her back to reality.
"It's too big," she turned to him. "What am I supposed to do with this much space?"
"It's only a three bedroom, but I have furniture for you to fill it up with, don't worry. "
"It's only three people! A one bedroom would have been more than enough!"
"Not going to happen! Unless you are completely alone, you're getting more than one room!" he grinned.
"Alright fine." she sighed.
"And don't worry about anything. All the furniture will be here tomorrow."
"Oh dear."
"Nothing too fancy, don't worry." Alfred laughed. "You mentioned a dog, so I am planning accordingly."
"I'm sure Bosco will enjoy it anyway." she arched an eyebrow. "I'm… not too sure about accepting all this help from you though."
"Eh? Why?" he tilted his head. "What, are you going to tell me I'm helping too much?"
"Well…" Joyce walked over to a window and opened it. "It's just… it's odd. You only met me yesterday, and yet now I have cloths and a home and… and furniture! I already know all Americans are not like this, I met plenty before! What are you gaining from this?"
"I-I'm not gaining anything!" he looked offended, but the suspicion stayed in her eyes. "I'm not!"
"How do I know?"
Alfred grabbed her hands, taking a step closer so he looked down on her. Joyce felt her suspicion melt away as she looked into his eyes, finding herself calming down. She allowed herself to relax and fall into his arms. Surprised, Alfred's hands shot to her waist and shoulders, holding her close as he tried to figure out what was going on. But then, he felt her start to shake, and his chest suddenly felt a little damp under his shirt.
"Hey, are you okay?" he hesitantly allowed himself to rest his cheek on the top of her head.
"I-I'm sorry." she sniffled. "It's just… No one has been so kind to me since Dimitri… Oh you remind me of him! I-I can't handle it…"
"Well… maybe I should go." he carefully pulled back, but kept a hand on her waist. "I'll come back later."
"You… you promise?"
"Of course. Try to rest."
"Okay…" she watched him turn and leave. The second he was gone she dashed over to where she had dropped her purse, only to open it and pull out a gold pocket watch very similar to the one Vladimir had had earlier in the day. Joyce ran her fingertips over the hammer and sickle on it, tearing up when she touched her father's name, forever engraved over the symbol of the Soviet.
"Oh… папа, что я буду делать?[1]" tears spilled over. "Я так потерян...[2]"
Alfred clenched his fists, staring at the door to Joyce's new home. From where he stood outside of it, he could hear her crying, slurring together her Russian and English as she seemingly prayed for help. He stood there, wanting to barge in and wrap her in his arms and keep her safe, but a part of him knew she wouldn't want him there. It had been clear in her eyes when he had held her only minutes ago that she was scared and angry and confused, and he didn't want to see that unnerving look anymore. That small, nagging feeling he had felt that morning returned, making him turn to finally leave.
What if she had lied about Vladimir? What if she had lied about everything?
'What if she was… a Soviet?' he shook his head, quickly leaving the area. If one of McCarthy's spies were to find out he was still hanging around, they'd be after the girl in an instant. But Alfred couldn't help his curiosity. Afterall, McCarthy himself had sent him to the airport that day to meet his "special guest" in person.
The Russian girl in the green dress had arrived in New York, just as McCarthy had been told she would.
[1] папа, что я буду делать? - dad, what do I do?
[2] Я так потерян - I'm so lost...