He still had his wedding ring.
Stepan stepped into the doorway just as Andrey approached the doorstep. Stepan was a slightly younger, skinnier version of his brother—or so people said. His hair was in a crew cut as opposed to Andrey’s disheveled dark blond curls. The lack of a welcoming smile served to harden Stepan’s sharper facial features, but, as Stepan offered a hand to his brother, Andrey recognized the relief in his eyes.
He took his brother’s outstretched hand before pulling him into a hug. They stood on their mother’s doorstep for a silent moment, arms wrapped around one another.
Skinny little brother, Andrey thought as a familiar warmth settled inside him. I told you to marry a woman who could cook without a microwave.
As they stepped away from each other, Stepan clapped him on the back.
At least that’s settled, he thought. But he still had to face his mother.
He glanced into the living room as the sound of female laughter drifted through the open doorway. His mother and sister-in-law weren’t in sight which meant they were having a good time in the kitchen.
“Does Mama know?” he whispered. The laughter implied she didn’t, but he expected word of his desertion to travel fast, as scandals usually did.
“No. They still haven’t made it public,” his brother told him solemnly.
Andrey nodded, more relieved than he let on.
Stepan gave him an assessing look. “You know I don’t keep secrets from Alena, but she won’t mention it. I told her that you’re just taking a break for a few days. You are just taking a break for a few days, aren’t you, Andrey?”
“No,” he sighed. “It’s final.”
Stepan said nothing, his gaze drifting off into the distance.
My stoic baby brother, Andrey thought. You’ve always been the strong one.
Stepan knew full well what Andrey’s decision meant: no UNEOA protection for the Luvkov family, no shelter from potential villain retaliation, and, now, no protection against the thousands of angry people worldwide who might be moved to vigilante violence in the aftermath of Shanti’s death. That required more resources than the UNEOA could spare.
Andrey glanced at his brother’s face. He could see from the wrinkles around Stepan’s eyes that he was worried. As far as he could tell, his brother’s worry might be well justified, considering the Oracle’s prophecies regarding the possible end of the world—prophecies Andrey hadn’t mentioned during their earlier phone conversation. He just wished that he had returned sooner, and not like this. Not with all this baggage.
“You look like shit, man,” Stepan noted. “Get any sleep lately?”
“I’m not sure. Not enough.”
“Better come in. Mama’s anxious to see you.”
Andrey followed his brother into the house. True to custom, he removed his shoes, placed them beside all the other shoes in the corridor, and put on the pair of knit indoor slippers that waited for him.
Scanning the living room, he noted that it hadn’t changed any more than the house. The ancient tube television sat on the same old occasional table in one corner, most likely still not seeing any use. An assortment of framed family photos lined the walls. The wooden floor creaked with every step, its dents and scratches visible wherever the huge Turkish rug didn’t cover. Next to the kitchen doorway, the dinner table had been drawn out to its full size.
Denis raced into the living room from the kitchen with a squeal of glee. “Uncle Andrey, can I interview you for my school project?”
“Relax,” Stepan said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Let him say hello to Grandmama first.”
Denis darted over anyway to hug his uncle’s waist. “I couldn’t come out before because they made me help with dinner,” he said, making a face.
Andrey smiled at him. “It’s alright. Mila would have been jealous.”
His mother appeared in the kitchen door. She looked smaller than he remembered, but not a day older. Her long gray hair was done up in a complex wreath of braids, a few loose curls framing her dignified features. Her face lit up like a summer sunrise the moment she saw him.
Andrey was relieved to see the lack of accusation in her clear blue eyes, even though she must have known about Shanti. The whole world knew. If there were an unspoken agreement not to bring Shanti up during the family reunion, Andrey would be grateful for it.
Stepan’s petite wife, Alena, appeared in the doorway next, her blonde hair woven into a long braid that hung over one shoulder. She was in an elegant blue dress with a modern cut, the latest trend from Moscow’s fashion boutiques.
“My son,” his mother said, stepping closer in her unadorned gray dress and patched apron. Her eyes flicked over her son’s form, her expression darkening as she took in the details of his face.
He knew there was no way to hide his sleepless nights from her, but he also knew she wouldn’t pry. Not with other family present.
Andrey took her hand, which felt a little rougher and more worn than he remembered, planting three light kisses alternately upon her cheeks, inhaling the faint scent of limes that surrounded her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he said into her ear. When he stepped back, his mother took notice of the silver cross around his neck. Her fingers squeezed his hand with motherly pride.
“Andrey, you are His chosen. Every compromise you had to make to fulfill your duties is forgiven.”
The words should have reassured him, but he couldn’t relate to them anymore. He just wanted to be the son for once. He had been the hero for long enough.
If God does exist, He has nothing to do with the Covenant.
Andrey looked over at his brother, who was withdrawn. One of Stepan’s hands rested on his son’s shoulder. Denis watched his uncle with childish admiration, oblivious to the weight of the moment.
“You remembered the daffodils,” his mother said, reaching for the bouquet that he clenched in his hand. “I’ll go find a vase, and put them next to your father’s picture.” While she returned into the adjoining kitchen, Andrey used the opportunity to visualize his father’s face from one of the framed family photos on the wall.
Ivan Luvkov had been a hero of a different kind. A simple railway worker, but an honest, hardworking man who inspired others with his ideals. He never believed in the idea of communism, but, like many Russians, he had taken the underlying idea of community welfare to heart and had worked it into his everyday life. After nearly two years of living in New York, Andrey appreciated his father’s daily sacrifices now more than ever.
Fifteen years ago, Ivan Luvkov had drowned while trying to rescue a capsized boat full of tourists on the Moskva River. He had never been featured in international newscasts, but the locals still remembered him. And none of his actions had ever inspired worldwide protests.
He was so much more of a hero than I could ever hope to become, Andrey thought wistfully.
***
After everyone had warmed their bellies with vodka, and filled the house with chatter about recent happenings and local gossip, the Luvkov family sat down to dinner. Alena helped her mother-in-law serve the solyanka soup, rye bread, pelmeni meat wraps, syrniki pancakes, and mashed potatoes they prepared for dinner.
Denis fidgeted around on his chair, brimming with questions about superhero life. Andrey would have preferred more mundane table conversation, but the boy’s enthusiasm was refreshing.
“What’s it like to fly? My teacher said that if you fly too fast, you can’t breathe,” Denis said.
“I fly so fast that I don’t need to breathe,” Andrey answered. That wasn’t the whole truth of it, but he didn’t know how else to explain it. Not to a nine-year-old boy, at least.
“Really? Faster than Samael?”
“Faster than anyone. Did your teacher tell you about the speed of light yet?”
“No! What’s it like? Different from an airplane?” Denis’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.
Andrey picked up his fork, and drew a line across
the tablecloth from his plate to the boy’s. “An airplane takes over nine hours to fly from New York to Moscow.”
He met the kid’s eyes, and Denis nodded.
“But for me,” he continued, making the fork jump from one plate to the other, “it takes less than a second.”
“Wow…” Denis replied, his eyes growing wide. He looked over at his father. “We should take Uncle Andrey on vacation next time so we don’t have to take an airplane!”
“If you did,” Andrey’s mother said, reaching over to touch Andrey’s arm, “I wouldn’t need to worry so much about plane crashes. There is always one happening somewhere. This is a terrible, terrible century. Your father predicted it, you know.”
I hope you’ll never learn just how terrible it is turning out to be, Andrey prayed with a tight feeling in his throat. Strange, he felt more vulnerable surrounded by his kin than he felt during the previous year and a half. Family is often a hero’s weakness, he mused, remembering the secondhand comic books that he collected as a boy. His mother probably still had them stashed away in a box beneath his bed.
Stepan broke the silence, voicing his train of thought. “Don’t watch the news, Mama. You have so many books, and your garden is flourishing so nicely. In fact, you should stay here for the whole summer. If you need anything from your apartment in Moscow, just give me a call.”
“Stiopka is right,” he chimed in, referring to his brother with the familiar form of address. “The city is chaos this year. Political unrest, exorbitant prices. Anyone with a dacha spends the entire summer out in the country.”
It wasn’t just a movie cliché that said disasters tended to hit large population centers first. In the past few months, Andrey knew, villages all over the world had begun to repopulate as people fled from the cities.
“Actually, we’ve talked about letting Denis spend his summer vacation out here with his Grandmama,” Stepan said. “He was sick for a week in the spring, and the doctor suggested the change of air.”
Good thinking, little brother.
“I would love to have him, of course,” their mother enthused. “It wouldn’t take long to get Andrey’s old room ready.”
“Yeah! My friends will be so jealous!” the boy cheered.
If only you knew the truth of it all.
“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” Andrey said, not wanting to burst the boy’s bubble. Still, the conversation reminded him of the main reason why he had come. To make a fresh start. To rebuild his reputation—at least in his own eyes—even if the rest of the world no longer recognized him as a hero.
He reached over to rub his mother’s wrist with his thumb. “Mama. Do you remember the day I left for New York?”
Her blue eyes became distant. “As if it were yesterday. I felt sad and proud at the same time. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.” She squeezed his fingers in turn.
“So you did both,” he teased. “You tried to hide it since the entire town was watching, and you didn’t want to look ungrateful after the UNEOA made that huge donation to the community.”
“Your father always said that tears are an expression of doubt.”
“You doubted me?” he asked, tilting his head as he watched her.
She shook her head. “I always knew you were a special boy. Stepan may have come off as the fierce one, but you never cried. You were always so strong inside. The other children looked up to you. Even the older ones.”
“He cried when we buried his dog,” Stepan interjected. There was a pause. “But when he cried, it was always for others. Never for himself.”
Andrey was grateful his brother didn’t elaborate. He was quite sure that all of the adults present remembered the weeks following his wife’s death, the event that had nearly broken him.
“Uncle Andrey doesn’t need to cry because he isn’t scared of anything,” Denis suggested.
That’s not true. I’m scared for you all. Andrey spent hours mulling over the options at his disposal for watching over his family, but he hadn’t been able to think up a watertight plan. Much as he wanted—no, needed—to ensure his family’s safety, he still hadn’t doubted his decision to leave the Covenant. Not even for a second.
Alena was in tune with his unspoken thoughts. “All little boys are scared sometimes.”
Stepan swallowed his last bite of pelmeni before speaking. “That’s right, so study hard and don’t make your poor mother worry.”
Andrey sensed a change of mood around the table. “Why don’t you go upstairs and have a look at my old room?” he suggested to Denis. “There should be a box with old comics below the bed.”
His mother nodded at Andrey. “And I still have your old motorcycle in the shed. I don’t know if it still works, but if you’d like to stay for a few days before you head back to work, I’m sure your cousin Ruslan could get it working.”
Fortunately, while he considered how to tell his mother that he couldn’t stay, Denis broke in. “Can I really hang out in your old room? Maybe if I sleep in your bed, I’ll be able to shoot sunbeams, too!”
Andrey fought back a grin as he pushed his finished plate of food away. “Sure, go on up. Just be careful with those comic books, okay? They’re quite valuable now, and I’m passing them on to you.”
Denis’s mouth fell open. “Really?”
Andrey nodded.
“Dad, come up with me and look,” the boy cajoled, unable to contain his excitement.
Stepan shook his head. “I’m going to talk with Uncle Andrey some more, but maybe your Mama will go with you.”
“But what about the dishes?” Alena protested.
“Go on,” Andrey’s mother urged her. “I’ll get the boys to help me clear the table.”
We'll always be boys to her.
Alena drained the last of her tea before rising from her chair. “Alright, then. It’s not every day I get to play with comic books and get out of doing the dishes,” she joked. “Come on, little hero, before your uncle changes his mind.”
With a blank expression, Andrey’s mother watched Denis and Alena climb the stairs. When her grandson was safely out of earshot, her eyes settled on Andrey.
“You never introduced this Alexandra to me,” she said with a hint of rebuke. “The TV and the neighbors were talking about her before your own poor mother knew.”
“Alexa and I are just friends, Mama.” Andrey wasn’t lying to his mother, exactly. But he wasn’t entirely sure of his feelings at the moment, either. His sense of romance had been buried alongside his wife.
“Does she know that?” his mother asked.
Alexandra’s last words to him echoed through his mind. Is that all I am to you now? A former teammate?
“Yes.” He did his best to sound more convinced than he felt.
His mother’s eyelids lowered. “Is that what they call it in America? Being friends?” She sighed. “I always worried the American culture would spoil you. Over there, everything is so … disposable.”
Stepan watched from across the table, sipping his tea. He was considerate enough not to complicate things by commenting.
“It didn’t change me, Mama. But I’ve already married once, and that’s enough.”
“You still miss her,” she remarked, her tone gentle.
Andrey didn’t deny it. But he didn’t want to have this conversation, either. He let his mother spill her thoughts, knowing that she would change the subject eventually.
“We all miss Natalya,” she said. “She was an angel, and perfect for you. You two would have made beautiful children, but perhaps the good Lord had more important plans for you.”
His fists clenched beneath the table. The idea that his wife’s death was some part of a grander scheme infuriated him. He needed to believe it was some arbitrary, horrible event. If he thought otherwise, he could never wear the cross again.
“We’ll take care of the dishes, Mama,” Andrey offered in order to change the subject, glancing across the table at Stepan. The dishes weren�
�t the only unresolved issue they still had to address.
“Yes, go have a seat in your armchair,” Stepan added, stacking the dirty plates. “Put your feet up. Relax.”
As Andrey entered the kitchen with a dirty casserole dish in each hand, his attention was immediately drawn to the fridge. The various drawings that had been pinned on it were all colorful and simple, scrawled by a child’s hand. All except one of them.
He set down the dishes and walked over to the fridge. He released the magnet, holding up a black sheet of construction paper with white lines drawn on it, and held the paper in his hands for closer inspection. The lack of color made it appear too gloomy to have been drawn by an elementary school kid.
The foreground showed a human figure with wings and a halo of white crayon rays that extended out to the edge of the page. Both of the figure’s arms were outstretched, with one hand pointing at something beyond the edge of the black paper while the other arm was stretched back at a procession of stick-figured men, women, and children behind him. The sketch didn’t reflect a great amount of artistic skill, but it displayed a lot more detail than the scrawled drawings that surrounded it. What really caught Andrey’s eye, however, was something about the scene that felt familiar to him.
He traced the white crayon lines with a finger. Yes, the black-and-white vignette stirred something in his subconscious. It wasn’t quite a déjà vu, and it certainly wasn’t a full-on memory, but something was there. But when he tried to make the connection, a painful pulse shot through his head, forcing him to avert his eyes from the drawing.
“Denis drew this,” Stepan said. The sound of his voice instantly cleared Andrey’s mind. The fleeting connection was gone.
“Is that so? It doesn’t look like the rest of his drawings,” Andrey said, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Unlike any of the other headaches he had experienced in his lifetime, the dull throb was passing already.
“No, it doesn’t,” Stepan agreed. He leaned against the fridge, crossing his arms over his chest. “He drew it when we visited last weekend. He wasn’t feeling well, so Alena told him to take a nap on the couch. When he woke up, he said something about a bad dream, and then he went straight to Mama’s craft drawer and drew this.”
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