The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(13)
“No one ever does, Charlie.”
Alex was quiet the rest of the evening, and Jenkins could tell she was upset. He let her be. She usually worked things out. This would take time. She sent CJ up to bed, and the boy was on his best behavior. Then she disappeared. Jenkins watched television alone, then turned it off and went upstairs. Before going to the bedroom, he went to Lizzie’s room. He heard Alex rocking in the rocking chair beside their daughter’s crib, the same chair she had used to rock CJ to sleep as an infant. In the glow from the lamp on Lizzie’s nightstand, Jenkins could see tears lining his wife’s cheeks.
5
Yakimanka District
Moscow, Russia
Maria Kulikova purchased the first bundle of fresh-cut flowers she saw at her customary street vendor, not bothering with the particulars or the price, then jumped on the Moscow Metro for the fifteen-minute commute to her home in the Yakimanka District—Old Muscovy. Her district was well known for Gorky Park, the Tretyakov Gallery, and its many churches, including the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour—the golden domes of which she could view from her bedroom windows. Being this close to Lubyanka was both good and bad. Good, because she hated commuting. Bad, because Sokalov mandated she be at his beck and call at all hours of the day and night.
Exiting the Kropotkinskaya station, she emerged aboveground on Volkhonka Street directly across from Christ the Saviour. She paused at the bus stop on the busy street as if to admire the cathedral’s gold onion domes glistening in the fading dusk light. She took out her lipstick and her compact and used the mirror to check behind her and to each side, searching for anyone watching her or who looked purposefully disinterested. She used the lipstick to draw a check mark on the glass shelter of the bus stop, then pocketed both lipstick and compact, and crossed the street. She walked until she reached the Prechistenskaya embankment, which ran parallel to the Moskva River.
She crossed triangles of lawn and trees dissected by paved cobblestone walking paths lined by antique streetlamps, not yet lit. Muscovites lazed on blankets reading and enjoying picnics. Anything to stay out of an apartment baked all day by the unseasonably warm September weather. Fathers chased after young children, and shirtless men kicked a ball. It reminded Maria of the years when she and Helge used to picnic outside their small apartment. Helge would challenge young boys to a football match, not revealing that he played professionally in Russia’s Premier League.
But a sad recollection accompanied each fond memory. She recalled the evening she told Helge she could not bear children. A lie, like so many others that so easily slid from her tongue. She had been taught to lie, without guilt or regret, to serve a higher cause. She could bear children. She was not willing. It would not be fair to the child. The decision had pained her, but she did not choose this life. Her parents had chosen it for her. Maria also never knew when she might have to flee, without leaving even a note to those she loved. She could not do that to children.
Her parents, both now deceased, had warned there would be sacrifices to defeat a communist regime, and now an authoritarian one. Kulikova never realized those sacrifices would compromise her to the very core.
In the marble lobby Maria greeted the doorman, and they exchanged pleasantries while she waited for the elevator. She rode the car to the twelfth floor. Their apartment was at the end of the hall, a two-bedroom, two-bath, nearly one-thousand-square-foot residence with a kitchen, dining area, and separate living room. The deadbolt was not engaged, meaning Helge was home. Where else would he be? Since his retirement he rarely, if ever, left the apartment. He stayed inside, drinking vodka, which would make her efforts to get away long enough to place the tape at a dead drop more problematic.
From behind the door Stanislav barked, and his nails clicked excitedly on the hardwood floor. She pushed open the door speaking to the small white ball of fur.
“Da, ya tozhe rada tebya videt’. Day mne snyat’ pal’to. Seychas.” Yes. Yes. I’m happy to see you also. Let me take my coat off. One moment.
Kulikova set her flowers down on the bench seat just inside the door, removed her lightweight summer coat and scarf, and hung them on a coatrack hook. She bent and picked up Stanislav, his body twitching and shaking as he licked her chin and provided unconditional love.
“Ty segodnya ne vykhodil? Poetomu u tebya stol’ko energii?” Did you not get out today? Is that why you have so much energy?
She had bought the Franzuskaya Bolonka from a breeder for Helge’s retirement. She had hoped the little dog would provide him companionship and give him a reason to leave the apartment. Helge needed exercise as much as the dog. His body had deteriorated, but if she pointed out his need for exercise he bristled and returned the criticism. “Who do I have to look good for?”
She stepped into their living room. The arched, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a gorgeous view of the fading light reflecting off the domes of the surrounding churches and sparkling on the gray waters of the Moskva River. Helge sat, as always, in his white-cushioned chair facing the television, another football match. Within his reach on the side table stood a tall glass of vodka. Most nights he passed out in the chair and Maria helped him to bed.
Helge could never move beyond his unsuccessful attempt to make the Olympic football team, a failure that had quashed his spirit. Maria had helped him secure a job with the City of Moscow’s parks department so he had something to do. He remained employed for thirty-five years, rejecting one promotion after another because the job would entail longer hours and greater responsibility. He used to come home from work and drink vodka and watch football.