Chapter Text
First, it's the beds.
Brand new. Exquisitely soft. They aren’t scratchy. No bugs. One for each of the children in the orphanage. With men to move them in and set them up and to haul out the old ones. Most of the kids are too young to do anything other than delight in their good fortune and get in trouble for jumping back and forth like they want to break them before they sleep in them.
It’s a good night. They get to stay up late and listen to The Bing Crosby Show on the radio and everything. (It’s no Backstage Wife, but she’ll take it.)
Alina can’t help but look to Ana Kuya and ask: “How?”
The response is short. “A nice man. In town.”
“Very nice,” Alina says.
Ana Kuya doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t ask again, when more men return with refrigerator and ovens, two of each. It will make it easier to do all the cooking, Alina thinks. She does like to help in the kitchen. Things will go so much faster.
She doesn’t ask again when the men bring new books. She runs her hands along the encyclopedias once they’re flush in their shelves. The younger kids aren’t as excited about these, but Ana Kuya lets her stay up late for a week straight so she can read.
She especially likes the maps.
It doesn’t occur to her to worry, that there would be anything at all to worry about, until she hears Ana Kuya in fierce, hushed whispers with Teacher.
“...too much.”
“It’s a good thing!”
“Yes, but why?”
It’s a cold morning in December, while she helps prepare the oatmeal and boiled eggs for breakfast when she asks Ana Kuya about the typist’s course.
Again.
She’s been begging for months to be allowed to go into town so she can learn something. Make a way for herself. The argument is the same. It’s too far to walk and the bus doesn’t come out to them. Where will she get the money for it? (She has a little, scraped together over ten years. Enough. It doesn’t seem to matter.)
“I’ve said no, and I meant it.”
It’s still cold and still December when the entire house is roused like it’s spring cleaning day. No one will tell Alina why, and the little ones are just thrilled they don’t have to do their lessons, as long as they wash up and brush their hair. She’s still stung, maybe, about the course, so she doesn’t help. They have to fend for themselves. She lingers near the window instead.
That’s why she notices the car so soon. It’s black and sleek and shining and makes the sunlight burst and pop as it comes up the bend. It stops, purring, right in front of the orphanage.
Then the man gets out. Dark hair, dark suit, dark beard, dark sunglasses. He leans against the car’s hood and waits, arms crossed. Alina should look away. But she’s up on the third floor and it seems like he’s waiting on someone to come out of the front—
Ana Kuya appears, walking brisk and spry, right up to the man. His smile. He’s got one of those real big, real nice movie star smiles. Like Brando.
She puts her hand to her stomach.
All the kids are rounded up, and ushered outside. They get arranged, like dolls, in little groups of two or three. The youngest at one end and Alina alone at the other. The man takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into his hair. It’s thick and waving.
The children are introduced in their little groups as well, mostly with some giggling. He’s almost to her when she finally catches his name.
“Davia, say hello to Mr. Morozova.”
Davia, eleven, and more serious than her peers repeats the words solemnly but the man’s smile doesn’t break. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, evenly. Not especially kind, but not mean either. It only takes a couple more paces before he’s in front of Alina.
She wouldn’t know, but sometimes she’s heard ladies go on and on about the way a man smells. She thinks she might like the way he smells. It’s very good.
“I’m Alina,” she says quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He nods, before he leans in, like he might share a secret with her. He smells even better then. Heat underneath the smell. It makes her hold her stomach again. It’s so nice and horrible. “You like the Imperial?”
She pulls back, blinking. “I’m sorry?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I saw you staring from the window. I figured you must like cars.”
This earns her a squawk from Ana Kuya. “It’s impolite to stare. You know that!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morozova,” Alina whispers, dropping her gaze to her shoes. She needs new ones. “It won’t happen again.”
A gentle tap under her chin. She lifts her head. He doesn’t move his finger. “I was only teasing, dove.” Just like that, he’s stepped away again. “And please, call me Aleksander.”
He’s here to be sure that all things have gone well with the “improvements.” That’s what he says. Alina doesn’t care. As soon as she can, she runs off to hide in the pantry. She doesn’t want to follow everyone around. She feels hot. Feverish.
But that’s how she catches Ana Kuya whispering with Teacher again. She thinks that he might be gone now. She heard a car start up outside. Ana Kuya says a horrible swear and murmurs:
“He’s shopping .”
Shopping. Alina’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean.
Christmas morning brings another delivery. There’s too many toys to count. A dozen, maybe, for each child. Well, except Alina. Ana Kuya does not look happy when the men bring Alina her own box. It’s very big. Wrapped in white and gold paper with a gold bow on top, frothing with curlicues of ribbon.
There’s a record player inside. Bright blue, with a record collection that would make half the townie girls spit.
“Special for you,” Ana Kuya says. She still doesn’t seem very excited, so Alina makes sure she’s gone before she hugs herself with a little squeal.
It’s January ninth when he comes back. He doesn’t acknowledge her in the window, or where she waits, at the top of the staircase to catch a glimpse of him. He goes straight into Ana Kuya’s office. He’s in there for a long, long time.
Finally, one of the boys finds her, as she’s chopping carrots for dinner.
“Ana Kuya wants you.”
He says with so much glee, Alina’s stomach drops. She walks slow, trying to figure out what she’s done wrong. What she’s forgotten or broken or failed. Sweat breaks out across her brow. She’s sixteen now and many orphanages would have kicked her out already. And she still hasn’t managed to take her stupid course, so what’s she going to do? How is she going to support herself once she goes?
After knocking, she waits for the call that she’s allowed to come in. Instead of sitting at her desk, Ana Kuya and Mr. Morzova are at the little table under the window. A third chair that doesn’t match sits at the table too. The room smells like coffee and a plate of butter cookies lay untouched between them.
“Join us,” Mr. Morozova says, with that silver screen smile.
She curls her shaking hands into tight fists in her lap as he pours another cup of coffee, steaming hot from the carafe. It surprises her when he slides it in front of her with a pot of sugar and a creamer. It’s quiet enough that she hears the clock ticking.
“Alina—” Ana Kuya starts, but Alina jumps in.
“I’m sorry if I did something wrong or if I somehow offended you, Mr. Morozova.” His eyebrows lift but she’s already turning the other way. “Or you, Ana Kuya. I’m sorry, I really am. I’ll do better, I’ll—”
“Relax, pet.”
A large, heavy hand on her forearm. Alina falls silent, her gaze going to it simply because she can’t help herself. It looks so strange there. A man’s hand, next to the lacy cuff of her cardigan. Mr. Morzova closes it around her and she has another, dizzying second to marvel at how large it is. How much of her arm it covers.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he says like he’s soothing a crying child. “Quite the opposite.”
When Alina glances over, Ana Kuya is staring at his hand too. It takes her a few seconds too long to look up to Alina’s face.
“Mr. Morozova would like to—would like to adopt you.”
It’s like time just comes to a stop. It wasn’t supposed to happen for her. She’s too old now. She’s never even considered that this could be a possibility, that—
There’s something urgent in Ana Kuya’s tone: “You can do whatever you like, Alinochka. You can make the decision.”
Mr. Morozova gives her another squeeze. “I assure you, I won’t be taking your Alina away. We can still come visit. And we’ll remain loyal supporters of the orphanage. In fact, I think with Alina, she can lead me to make some smarter choices. Investments where they’re really needed.”
There’s something in his voice, something she can’t quite catch. She feels like a stupid dog after its own tail. But she doesn’t have time for that. She hasn’t thought about having a family in years. She stopped wishing when she was ten, and was no longer cute enough for young, childless couples to want to take home. She does want to be safe though. She still yearns for a life outside these walls where she is okay.
“Mr. Morozova,” she asks slowly, “would you allow me to take a typing course?”
If he lets her, she’ll learn a way to support herself. Then she can pay him back, even. For the food and lodging. He must pity her. She really doesn’t want his pity.
He raises his eyebrows again, before his mouth tips up in a close-lipped smile. “I would certainly consider it.”
That’s the decision made, then.
She doesn’t own much, so it takes her less than an hour to pack up her belongings. She’s extra careful with the record player, and Mr. Morozova carries it out to the car himself. It takes her longer to say her goodbyes to the children. Some of them cry. She cries too. The littlest ones have grown up in her lap or clutching her skirt as much as they do Ana Kuya.
Who won’t look her in the eye, after they hug.
“Thank you for everything,” Alina whispers.
“You can always come back,” Ana Kuya tells Alina’s collarbone. “If you change your mind.”
“You don’t have to be sad. You said yourself Mr. Morozova is a nice man from town. If he’s as nice as we think...well, I’ll talk to him about the roof.”
Ana Kuya sounds near tears when she says, “Thank you, Alinochka.”
Mr. Morozova is waiting by the passenger side of his car. He’s already loaded her suitcase in the back. She waves goodbye one last time and then, with some surprise, realizes that he’s going to open her door for her. She smiles up at him and boy, the full force of his smile comes back.
He does just as she thought and she slides into the seat. The leather is so soft under her hands, seems like the heat of her body should melt it.
“What kind of car is this, anyway?” she asks, as he climbs into the driver’s side.
“Knew I had a secret motorhead,” he teases. “This girl right here is the Chrysler Imperial. Worth every penny. And this girl,” he says, giving her a pat on the head, “is going to see a little bit more of this world, huh?”
She thinks, for a split second, of the beds. Worth every penny .
“You ready?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition.
Yeah. Yes. She thinks so.