by LRH Balzer
"Hey!" Tony glared at his sister. "Whatever happened to sibling confidentiality?"
"Oh, he did, did he?" Graham intoned darkly.
"I will pick the movie," Trish said. "And you will enjoy it, won't you, Tony?" she asked sweetly.
"Uh, Dad? I think I should pass on the movie. I've got some reading to do."
"Forget it, kid. I think you're in trouble now."
"It was really for professional reasons, Mom," Tony said conciliatingly, rising from the table and edging out the door. "A doctor needs to be well versed in anatomy and -- Ow!"
"I think there is a part of your anatomy, my son, that could use a little brightening up," Trish remarked.
Graham was laughing as Tony rubbed the seat of his pants where Trish had landed a well-placed, and well-practiced, swat.
"Just see if I'll make any house calls here," Tony said threateningly. "I'll get you later, Short Stuff," he added to Tanya, "when you get back from your bike ride. The only thing saving you right now is Sandra meeting me at the library. See you tonight, Dad. Mom." He eyed Trish cautiously and backed out the door.
While her father lingered over his coffee, Tanya chatted on to him about her audition the night before and moved into a detailed account of who had missed which steps. Graham's limited knowledge of ballet and the kids in Tanya's class made most of her conversation incomprehensible to him, but he staunchly disagreed with her when she discussed how bad she had been, told her he thought she danced well enough to win a dozen parts, agreed completely that he knew less than nothing about ballet, alternating between amusing and exasperating his daughter throughout lunch.
Misha nibbled half of his sandwich into the shape of a car, and making motor noises, drove it around his plate. Illya, head down, seemed to become more downcast as lunch went on, scarcely touching his food. Graham caught Trish's glance and raised an eyebrow, she shook her head slightly and shrugged, just as mystified by their guest's continued lack of appetite.
The phone rang and Tanya was up like a shot, visibly startling the young man who inhaled sharply as she raced past him. "I'll get it!"
"Take it easy," Graham called out after her.
"That was very rude, Tanya," Trish warned.
"But Mom, it could be news!" Tanya grabbed the telephone receiver from the wall and disappeared around the corner of the kitchen, using the long cord to gain some privacy.
"is something wrong with your sandwich, Ilyusha?" Trish asked quickly, taking advantage of Kuryakin's raised head. "Would you like something else?"
"I am not very hungry." Illya thought for a moment, then said precisely, as if reciting a formula, "May I be excused?"
And who taught you that? Graham wondered.
Trish sighed softly, and took his plate. "You did not have much lunch."
"I am not hungry." There was an edge to the Russian's voice, almost of anger, certainly of warning. The young man might as well have been squared off at them, and the NO TRESPASSING barriers raised were almost visible. Illya rose from the table, his movements stilted. He had only taken a few steps before Tanya came flying around the corner, her arms outstretched.
"We did it! You did it! I did it!"
Graham was half out of his chair before she even touched the Russian, his own internal warning signals at full alert, the page from Illya's dossier, listing his Survival School scores in hand-to-hand uppermost in his mind. My god, he could kill her with one blow.
Illya froze in shock as the twelve-year-old girl grabbed him and bounced up and down. "I did it. I got into fourth level! Lyusha, we did it!"
Six feet away, Graham hesitated as the young man took a deep breath and then visibly relaxed. He could see the effort involved as the fists unclenched and the shoulders deliberately dropped. Illya took another controlled breath and let it out slowly. Very slowly. Then he stepped deliberately away from the girl. "I am pleased, Tanya. My... congratulations." His look could have frozen a volcano, though. "But I did nothing," he added. He edged away from her and escaped down the stairs.
Tanya turned back to the table in confusion. "Daddy? What's wrong with him?"
"Ilyusha comes from a very different place, Tanya," Trish answered shortly. "You startled him. I am pleased that you got into fourth level, but you could work a little harder on basic manners. Such as, not running screeching to the phone from the table and not grabbing guests from behind." Her own eyes dark, Trish left the table and the kitchen.
"What's wrong with her?" Tanya said, wide-eyed.
"Nothing." Graham held out his arms. "Come on, honey. How about the prima ballerina giving her old man a hug?"
"Oh, Dad," Tanya grinned, and complied.
*****
Illya shut the door to his bedroom, willing his heart rate to slow down. Damn these people. Why was he here?
The pain across his chest eased slightly and he dropped into the chair. Still trying to control his breathing, he leaned forward over the desk and rested his head on crossed arms. The run with Tony had taken more out of him than he had realized. He hadn't been doing his exercises. There seemed to be no point.
If he was understanding this assignment correctly, it was turning out to be more difficult than he had originally anticipated. Blending in with these people outwardly was not the problem. It was inwardly, that he was stumped -- it was almost impossible to control his reactions at times. His instincts failed him.
He had almost hit the girl. Graham knew it.
So what now? He raised his head and sighed. A shower, certainly. Then... then he would try again until Alexander Waverly pulled him. Perhaps if he went into the rec room and read the paper, he would appear more normal. They seemed to either read the paper or watch television while they were in that room.
Why was it so difficult to interact with these people? Without almost killing them.
*****
Norm paused at the door of the master bedroom, and then entered gingerly. Trish was standing at one of the long windows, staring out across the lawn. From this vantage, one could only see the long drive and the rolling front lawn. The gate and the guards were invisible, but, of course, they were there. They were always there.
He picked up his wallet and car keys.
"Where are you going?" Trish asked tightly.
"Miniature golf. Remember? You set me up."
"I had forgotten."
"Too bad Misha didn't. But one game should keep him happy and only cost me an hour or two," Norm smiled, but Trish didn't return it. "You were a little hard on Tanya, don't you think? She's just a kid."
"It's time she started acting like a young lady."
"No," Norm groaned. "Please, not that. No way. I want at least another year before I have to start worrying about boys and dates. We have a deal. She gets a car at eighteen as long as she doesn't have any dates till thirteen -- or was it sixteen?"
Against her will, Trish smiled.
"That's better." Norm wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her back to rest against him. "It's going to be all right. And if it isn't, well, we'll have done the best we could. We can hardly undo years of damage in a couple of weeks. Tanya didn't mean any harm. We can't expect her to change overnight."
Trish stiffened and pulled away from him. "You seem to expect Ilyusha to do so."
Norm stared at her. "Tanya is ours. And she didn't do anything wrong. Illya --"
"Did nothing wrong, as well. He helped Tanya."
"And she was thanking him. If Illya can't deal with normal family behavior --"
"I thought he was here to receive our help, not our criticism."
"He is. But that doesn't mean we sacrifice our own kids for him."
"A little sacrifice would probably be good for them," Trish said wryly. "Tanya has no idea how fortunate a life she has had."
Norm's jaw tightened and he turned Trish in the circle of his arms, his eyes meeting hers. "Now, just a minute. Just because Illya has had a rough time is no reason to start penalizing our own kids. I want my kids t
o have a good life. I fully intend to spoil them as much as possible. Regardless of what Illya is used to, this isn't KGB headquarters. And he is going to have to adjust to it, because we're not changing for him."
Trish pulled out of his arms. "Misha is waiting for you," she said shortly. "You had better get going if you expect to go with Misha, and still drive to the office and get back here in time to go to the movie tonight."
Norm sighed. "Fine. We'll talk about it later, Trish. But we will talk about it. We can't let Illya's presence disrupt our whole household." He left the warning plain as he grabbed his keys and walked out.
She stayed at the window, not yet ready to go back to her day. After a moment, she saw Norm come out of the front door, Misha riding on his shoulders. He swung the boy to the ground and the child ran to the car, opening the driver's door, and crawling behind the wheel. She heard the horn sound and Misha's giggles as Norm tickled the boy to the other side of the seat. Then the car went slowly down the drive, Misha bouncing excitedly up and down next to his father.
His father. Her husband. Never, in the past twelve years, could she remember feeling so ambivalent, so disjointed, about her presence in this country, her life, and how she had raised her children. Not until she had seen, in the face of Illya Kuryakin, what might have been. It was easy, in the absence of visible reminders, to forget what she had left behind. She was an American now. Her children were American. Her husband was American. But she had been born Russian, and though it was deeply buried, she was Russian still.
Just like her troubled guest.
She knew, of course, that Norm was right. She had come to this country for a better life, for herself and her young son. And the promise of America had been personified in her husband's character.
He had the casual self-assurance that Americans were simultaneously envied and despised for throughout the world. His confidence had fascinated her, even more so when she discovered what he did for a living. That alone had been warning enough for her to give him a wide berth -- she had already lost one love to war and another to revolutionary causes, and she had no desire to set herself up for that kind of loss again.
But Norm had been irresistible. Despite his career -- and after her past experiences, she had sworn to steer far clear of soldiers, spies, and agents -- he had been the paradox. It had seemed impossible that the handsome agent not only wanted her, he wanted the same things she wanted: to build a home, to raise a family.
They had built that home and raised that family. And she had never looked back. Their children had grown up indulged, if not as spoiled as Norm would have had them. They had half-Russian blood in their veins, but they had been born American, raised American, and knew nothing but that most comfortable and happiest of existences. And they had their father's same casual American self-confidence. All of which she had wanted for her children.
So why was she confusing Norm, as well as herself, by suddenly resenting the very attitudes she had raised her children to have?
Because she looked at Kolya's son and she saw the life she had left behind. The life from which she had rescued her own son. A life that Tanya and Misha would never experience, and could never imagine. Not even Tony, after fourteen years of living in America, had a clear memory of what it had been like and certainly no experience of trying to survive the Russian system as an adult.
In this house of Americans, there were only two Russians. Herself and Illya Kuryakin. Her almost stepson. If Illya did not have her as an advocate, whom, in this entire country, did he have? Certainty not Alexander Waverly. And as sympathetic as Norm might be, he could never really understand.
Perhaps she was too involved. But who else was there? And if she turned her back on that young man, how could she face herself and her own children again? She owed at least that much to her past.
Trish almost missed him when she brought a load of laundry down an hour later. He was sitting in a corner by the billiard table, arms wrapped around his knees, staring straight ahead. It seemed a strange location for him to be in, until she realized that the surveillance cameras couldn't catch him from that angle.
His head raised quickly enough as she came closer and he scrambled to his feet. "Did you want newspaper?" He glanced down at it, almost guiltily.
"No, thank you. You look tired, dear. Why don't you lie down and have a nap?" She wanted to reach out to him somehow, but he radiated such a dislike of being touched that, instead, she bent over to pick up the newspaper pages he had been reading -- the section Tanya always snatched.
Her eyes fastened on the headline that must have grabbed his attention. "BALLET: 'SLEEPING BEAUTY' KIROV TROUPE CONTINUES LONDON SEASON WITH STUNNING PERFORMANCE OF WORK." She scanned the article quickly, but there was no mention of either Nureyev's defection or Illya Zadkine's death. Typical for the Soviet group, but why would the British reporter, John Martin, not have made a note of the events? Politics!
As she went to close the page, she saw another article, near the bottom of the page. "RUSSIAN DANCER WHO DEFECTED APPEARS WITH BALLET IN PARIS." She leaned against the pool table and read the report aloud as Illya sank down onto the couch. "Rudolf Noureev, the Russian dancer who claimed asylum last Friday, did not have to wait long for a job. He made his first appearance as soloist with a Western company tonight, dancing the role of Prince Florimond in 'Sleeping Beauty' with the International Ballet of the Marquis de Cuevas." She stopped and smiled at the pale face looking up at her. "He didn't waste any time, did he?"
Illya looked away, still silent.
She continued to read aloud, faltering when she reached the fourth paragraph, a quote from Nureyev to a French reporter. "I shall never return to my own country but I shall never be happy in yours." Is that how you feel, Ilyusha? Is that what you are sitting here thinking? "Ilyusha --"
He interrupted, rising smoothly to his feet. "I am tired. I will rest now, thank you." Without looking back, he disappeared around the corner and into his room, the door closing firmly between them.
Trish sat with the paper, wiping ineffectually at the tears that ran down her face, then pulled herself up and continued on to the laundry room.
*****
That evening, Graham entered the front door, dropped his briefcase in his office, and headed for the kitchen. "Movie night! If we want to get hamburgers and still make the 7:00 show, you kids had better get a move on." Throughout the house, books and toys were dropped, the television was shut off, and feet pounded their way to the kitchen.
"All right, let's count heads. One, two, three... where's four? Somebody get Ilyusha and tell him to get a move on," Norm demanded.
"I'll get him, Dad. He's downstairs."
Tanya pounded on Illya's doorframe and stuck her head around the half open door. "Ilyusha! It's movie night!"
Illya didn't look up from his book. "Yes. I remember. Have a pleasant time."
"What do you mean? Dad says to tell you to get a move on."
Illya's brow creased in puzzlement and he looked up. "What?"
"What do you mean, 'What?' Didn't you hear me? Come on. Dad says to get a move on."
"Get... a move. On? I don't --"
"Hurry up! Put your sneakers on, tuck in your shirt tail, and let's go! We're waiting for you."
"For me?" Illya shook his head and looked back down at his book. "I do not think so. You are mistaken, Tanya. This is a private family --"
Tanya picked up his sneakers from the floor at the foot of the bed and threw them at him. Illya jumped like a scalded cat. "Will you hurry up! Oh no, you've got something on your shirt. What is that, grease?" She turned to his bureau and started rummaging through his drawers while he stared at her, wide-eyed. "I am so tired of living in a house full of uncouth boys! And when are you going to get some decent shirts, Ilyusha? Everything here is old! Oh, well, this will have to do." She tossed one at him. "Put that on and be upstairs in five minutes, tops!"
Two minutes later, Illya came up the stairs and edged cautiously into the kitch
en. "The girl told me to --"
"Oh, good, you're here, Ilyusha. Everyone ready? Let's go, troops," Norm thundered, steering them all outside.
"Can I drive, Dad?"
"Sure, Tony. When I'm completely disabled."
"Hey!" Tony said, stung. "I'm a good driver. One little ticket -- and that was a speed trap. And it's your fault anyway."
"How's that?" Norm said, amused, sliding into the driver's seat of the station wagon.
"Didn't you make me take that U.N.C.L.E. driving course? I think I spent half of it learning how to go 60 miles an hour in first gear. Anyway, when your Dad's an U.N.C.L.E. agent who spends his days driving 200 miles an hour down the wrong side of the road -- well, a little speed just seems natural."
"Keep it up, sport, and the bus is going to seem even more natural. Don't give Ilyusha any bad ideas, Tony. We're trying to get him familiar with American traffic laws, remember?"
"I want ice cream first, Daddy," Misha interrupted, clambering into the middle of the front seat and leaning over to honk the horn.
"Ice cream, after, Misha. Hamburgers, before."
"No. Pizza, before."
"We don't have time for pizza, sport. We'll get pizza on Tuesday, okay?" Graham started the car and checked in the rear view mirror. "Seat belts, everyone. Ilyusha: seat belt. Tony, show him how to buckle it."
"Want pizza."
Tanya leaned forward. "What is wrong with you, Misha?"
"Nothing is wrong with him, darling. He is four years old. You were the same at his age," Trish said, sliding into the vehicle and counting heads.
"Never," Tanya avowed.
"Oh, yes, you were," Tony grinned. "Mom's right, except for one thing. You were worse."
"I would not be telling tales on your sister, Tony," Trish smiled. "I can always tell some on you."
"What movie are we seeing, Dad?" Tony asked, changing the subject. Misha enthusiastically waved at the guards as they drove through the gate.
"Haven't the foggiest. Trish, what movie are we seeing?"
"A special showing of 'The Wizard of Oz' that's at the Repertoire Theater. This weekend only."
