My New American Life (16 page)

Mister Stanley said, “Someone should be informed. One can't have . . . I'm sure the college . . .”

“I wouldn't go to that school if they paid me. I want to go home. And if you tell anybody about this, I won't apply anywhere. I'll move to the West Coast and work in a photocopy shop. I'll go live with Mom in Arizona.”

“Whoa there, big fella,” said Mister Stanley.

The waitress reappeared. “Can I get you something, hon?”

“Ant and roach poison,” said Zeke.

“Kids,” said the waitress, over her shoulder. “God love 'em.”

“That was terrible,” said Mister Stanley. “What you just said to that waitress. Zeke, my God.”

“ ‘Ant and Roach Poison' is a song,” said Zeke. “A Sweat Bees song. Don't you know anything, Dad? Okay. Miss? When you get a chance? I'd like a cheeseburger deluxe and fries and a chocolate milkshake.”

“You got it,” said the waitress.

Zeke wolfed down his food and ordered another side of fries. Lula and Mister Stanley each drank several cups of coffee. Mister Stanley tried to persuade Zeke to visit the other two colleges, but Zeke said no way, not now.

Mister Stanley said, “Look on the bright side. Everyone's still alive, no one is sick or in danger, and whatever happens at the other two schools has to be an improvement.”

After that, he kept quiet.

Zeke ordered a slice of blueberry pie. Slowly, his mood improved. Mister Stanley said, “The motel has movies on demand. You can stay up late and order in any movies you want.”

“I hope it's flat screen,” Zeke said.

Mister Stanley nodded.

T
he next morning they met in the motel lobby and drove home in the rain. Mister Stanley refused to start the car until Zeke fastened his seat belt. When they turned onto the highway, Mister Stanley said, “For the record, we never agreed that you could charge an adult movie.”

Zeke said, “You were snoring, Dad. The motel said it wouldn't show up on the bill.”

“You believed them?” said Lula.

Zeke said, “Dad promised me it was flat screen, and it wasn't. So who's the liar here, really?”

Mister Stanley said, “I'm sorry, Zeke. But this is a moral discussion I don't have the energy for right now.”

“Fine,” said Zeke. “Me neither.”

The minivan's wheels on the wet road seemed to whisper
sad sad sad
. What if Zeke didn't go to college? Could they stay like this forever, aging year after year into a trio of ghosts haunting Mister Stanley's house? Mister Stanley should have thought twice before getting so upset about his son leaving home. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you fear.

When they got back, it was late afternoon. Zeke slammed the door to his room. Mister Stanley sat at the dining room table and began opening the mail. Lula asked if he was hungry, and when he said no, she went upstairs.

Her room smelled faintly of cigarettes. On her blanket was a small red cardboard box. “Little Charmy Puppy,” it said, in Chinese-style letters. Lula took out the furry Dalmatian dog and flipped the switch on its belly. She set the puppy on the floor. It barked and waggled its rear, then rose up on its stumpy hind legs and yelped so piercingly that Lula clapped her hand over Charmy Puppy's mouth.

What an adorable present! She hoped it wasn't a thank-you gift. Thanks for taking care of the gun. Lula rushed to the bureau. She unwrapped the gun, to make sure. Did Alvo suspect it slept with her underwear? Let him meditate on that. She counted her money. All there. She switched off the puppy, lay down on the bed, and put the toy near her pillow. Watched over by her mechanical pet, Lula fell asleep.

Chapter Eight

I
n the days that followed, Lula rehearsed how she would thank Alvo for Little Charmy Puppy. It was nicer than imagining what she would say if Mister Stanley discovered that Albanians were creeping around his house when no one was home. When she noticed that she couldn't look at the mechanical dog without sighing, she shoved it into a drawer, as if it were Charmy Puppy's fault that Lula was attracted to a guy who would rather stalk her than see her. But then she took it out again and made it do its tricks.

Having lived with relatives in a cramped apartment, Lula had long ago learned how to construct an imaginary wall between herself and the pushy cousin brushing her teeth and spitting into the same sink. Brick by invisible brick she constructed such a wall between herself and Zeke, with whom she still grocery-shopped and ate and watched TV, though now it was as if they were living the same lives in separate buildings. Surely Zeke must have felt the chill. For once, Lula didn't care. She would knock down the invisible wall as soon as Alvo showed up. It wasn't Zeke's fault that Alvo hadn't called, but Zeke was the only one here to blame. She avoided Mister Stanley, except for the brief nightly exchange required to reassure him that his son was still alive.

To pass the time, Lula wrote a true story about having a crush on a neighbor kid and slipping notes under his door, but never having the nerve to write anything, so she'd doodle on the paper and hope he knew it was from her. Soon after, his parents moved out of the building, and later she heard they were terrified that the secret police were tormenting them with encrypted messages that said nothing.

One night, Mister Stanley told her that Don Settebello had asked if he could come for Thanksgiving dinner. “Little Abigail is going to be with her mom. I think that's why Don wants to be with us. His second family.”

“I'll cook a turkey,” Lula said.

“Have you ever cooked a turkey?”

“Many times back in Albania,” Lula lied. Her granny's
peshest
, crumbled cornbread soaked with turkey gravy and baked crisp at the edges, was a legend. Anyway, all you had to do was turn on the Food Network, day or night, and learn some famous chef's holiday turkey secrets. Lula kept hearing a funny phrase:
a successful turkey
. How successful could it be, dead and eaten by people?

But either to spare Lula the effort or because they didn't believe she was qualified to produce this national ritual of the grateful Pilgrim stomach, Don and Mister Stanley agreed to split the cost of a caterer who specialized in festive dinners and whom Don heard was fantastic. Lula tried not to feel hurt. It was less trouble for her. Less trouble was very American, she might as well enjoy it.

No one cooked in this country, though they were obsessed with every mouthful and afraid of how it might harm them. One bond between Lula and Zeke was the pride they felt in the market among the shopping-cart cornucopias of good-for-you citrus and leafy greens, wheeling their own fuck-you cart, empty except for pizza crusts and frozen burgers. Though maybe only she and Zeke imagined that anyone noticed. It occurred to Lula that her willingness to sign on to Zeke's diet might be an unhealthy sign of regression to someone else's childhood. Or worse, a symptom of depression, a disease that didn't exist when she was a child. Under Communism, suicide equaled a failing grade in the dead person's political education.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Lula worked beside Estrelia, straightening up, futilely trying to make the house welcoming or just presentable. Was Estrelia trying to say that she stuffed her family's turkey with chiles?

“
Pica
,” Estrelia said, giggling as she pantomimed steam rising out of her mouth.

That night, Mister Stanley told Lula that Don was bringing someone. A woman. He said, “I couldn't be happier. Don deserves some fun.”

“Great! Who is she?” Lula felt as if a fat cold raindrop had slid down the back of her neck. What was her problem? She didn't want Don Settebello. He'd come on to her, more or less, and she'd gracefully rejected him without anything getting messy. Maybe she should have turned her palm up. Played with his fingers, even. What if Don had been her last chance at romance? At home everyone knew some spinster who'd rejected a suitable guy because she thought she could do better, and no one asked after that. Lula thought of the game of musical chairs she'd witnessed at La Changita. She felt like that girl who'd lost the first round. But why would anyone want a hero like Don when she could yearn after a lowlife who stalked her and left her cute Chinatown mementos?

Thanksgiving dinner was at five, and at three a van full of Mexican guys in baseball caps arrived with a foil-wrapped turkey and plastic tubs of mashed potatoes.

“Microwave?” said one of them.

“I can do that,” Lula said.

Mister Stanley seemed dismayed. Perhaps Don had led him to expect handsome unemployed actors.

He said, “I'll bet Don helped those guys with immigration.”

One of the Mexicans gave Lula a page of printed directions.

“Microwave,” he said.

Mister Stanley sighed.

“Don't worry,” Lula said. “This will be great.”

Unwrapped, the bird looked gelatinous. No way this buzzard could be cooked from within by agitated atoms. Lula put it in the oven, and, just as she'd seen on TV, took it out early so it could drink back its own juices.

Don showed up at five fifteen. The woman with him was very pretty, a few years older than Lula. Don introduced her as Something Something, the sharpest lawyer who'd worked for his firm in years, maybe the sharpest ever.

“Tell me your name again,” said Mister Stanley. “I'm getting old and deaf.”

“Untrue, Stan.” Don glared at him.

“Savitra Dasgupta,” the woman said. The ends of her beautifully cut black hair brushed the shoulders of the pleated man's shirt she wore, tucked into pressed jeans. Lula felt sluttish and frumpy, a bread dumpling neatly sliced by the knife-edge of Savitra's pleats. Lula had gravy stains on her skirt, and she hadn't even really cooked.

The guests stalled in the front hall. Mister Stanley was supposed to ask them in, but that must have been Ginger's role. Mister Stanley should have hired someone else, someone unlike Lula, someone with the domestic talent to make him and his son a real home. Lula saw their pretend home through Savitra's eyes, just as she'd seen it through Alvo's. It was amazing how fast you got used to things and stopped seeing them at all. Where was Alvo spending Thanksgiving? Eating turkey and cranberry sauce? More likely, bellied up to a bar in the Bronx with his homies and ESPN and a keg of homemade raki.

Lula studied Savitra, taking lessons in the art of assuming a posture so regal that by the time they drifted toward the living room, where Lula had set out salami and cheese and sliced apples already edged with brown, Lula and Savitra had swapped places, so that Savitra was the hostess, and Lula the anxious guest. Lula hated these girl-on-girl dominance games, especially now when her hands were tied, because she was not about to repay Don for the miracles he'd worked on her behalf by being bitchy to his new girlfriend.

Savitra gazed at the cheese and wilted fruit.

“How autumnal,” she said.

Like an expensive brooch pinned to the edge of Ginger's sofa, Savitra sparkled as she told Mister Stanley about her rise to the top of her class at Georgetown and the cases she'd worked on at Don's firm. Savitra subtly conveyed the fact that she had turned down big corporate money to “give back” to the country that had provided her family with a chance for a better life. Don beamed as if Savitra were his own prodigious child. And indeed he treated her like a delicate, moody girl. Like Abigail, in fact. He kept asking, Was she too hot? Too cold? Was everything okay?

Mister Stanley poured the drinks. Wine for Lula and Savitra, cold black coffee for Zeke. Scotch for himself and for Don.

“A light one, please,” said Don, whose hasty glance at Lula was the only sign he gave of remembering their lunch.

Mister Stanley asked Savitra where her family came from.

“Great Neck,” she said curtly.

Don said, “Savitra's grandfather is from Bangladesh. Her family owned a textile plant.”

Savitra said, “My great-grandfather made silk for Christian Dior.” It took Lula a few seconds to understand the conspiratorial smirk Savitra flashed in her direction. As a fellow immigrant, Lula was marginally less white than Don and Mister Stanley.

“I like your shirt,” Savitra told Zeke. Zeke was charmed, as were the two men. As was everyone but Lula.

“Dog Breath?” Zeke read aloud, looking down as if to see what his shirt said. “Ever heard of them?”

“No,” Savitra said. “But I hope you'll play their music for me sometime.”

“Any interesting new cases?” Mister Stanley asked Don.

“Why spoil our dinner?” said Don. “Same psychotic freaks in the White House. Same al-Qaeda maniacs. Same innocent civilians trapped in the middle.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Mister Stanley.

Don said, “But listen. Our brilliant Savitra may have found a loophole that could crack open one of our Guantánamo cases.”

Lula could hardly bear it! Don's girlfriend was not only pretty and sexy but a legal genius. Couldn't Lula just be happy for Don and Savitra and the Guantánamo detainee?

Savitra said, “Don's the brilliant one.”

Don said, “And Savitra obviously has a mind of her own.”

Savitra said, “Don's the one who could wind up in Gitmo.”

“If I do, Savitra has promised to bring me samosas,” Don said.

The two lovebirds nestled on the couch. Zeke walked behind the sofa and mimed gagging so only his father and Lula could see. Lula asked Zeke to come help her in the kitchen.

“Open the oven,” she told him.

“Awesome turkey,” said Zeke.

“Big strong boy,” Lula said. “Bring this to the table. Make everybody sit.”

Zeke picked up the platter with a weightlifter's grunt. Lula scurried in and out the dining room with bowls of mashed potatoes and a basket of rolls she'd made from tubes of dough. It had been fun to watch through the oven door as the gummy blobs swelled into perfect crosshatched grenades.

“Can I help?” asked Savitra.

“Sit,” said Lula, which no one had done, no matter how many times Zeke told them. Lula had gone to great trouble to create an attractive holiday table. Organic beeswax candles from The Good Earth, Ginger's best china. She'd even ironed a tablecloth.

“Didn't I tell you, Stan?” said Don. “Aren't those caterers terrific?”

Savitra said, “Shouldn't we call Zeke back? He seems to have given up on us and disappeared.”

Mister Stanley frowned at Lula. Wasn't Zeke her job?

Zeke made them suffer a long, tense wait before they heard his footsteps.

“Welcome back,” Savitra said.

“Everybody begin,” said Lula. “Start eating. I forgot to make the gravy. It will take two minutes.”

Savitra called after her, “Are you sure I can't help?”

“No,” said Lula. “Please.” But Savitra, with that mind of her own, followed Lula into the kitchen, where she posed like a temple goddess with one hip thrust out and one elbow against the refrigerator door. Making gravy was tricky enough without Savitra saying, “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.” Lula was glad she could focus on whisking flour into the drippings.

Savitra took a sip of wine. “Did you ever fuck Don?”

“Of course not!” Lula said. How pleasant it was to tell the truth, and how false it sounded. “He's my lawyer.”

Savitra said, “So Don claimed. I just needed a reality check. We'd been dating for two weeks before he bothered informing me he was married and had a daughter. This guy's a human rights hero, but when it comes to women—”

“He's separated, I think.”

“Married, actually. Legally married. I know what legal is.”

“Don's a good guy,” said Lula.

Savitra said, “I hear you're a writer.”

“Look,” said Lula. “The gravy's ready.”

When Lula and Savitra emerged from the kitchen to find that the others had started eating, they exchanged a surprisingly friendly and rich communication. Both were thinking that an American girl would have been pissed at the rude American men. But Lula and Savitra came from older cultures that assumed men ate first, after having been waited on, like royalty or babies. They knew better than to expect a hollow show of chivalry from the greedy pigs, though the look that passed between them said, We're American now. The greedy pigs should have waited.

Mister Stanley was telling a story about a guy at his job who rode a motorized scooter to work and everyone in the office thought it was really cool, but last week the guy fell off his Segway and broke his collarbone in two places. Zeke and Don hated Mister Stanley's story, each for a different reason. As Lula and Savitra filled their plates, the three men watched.

“Savitra! Is everything all right?” said Don.

“Lovely,” Savitra said, gently squeezing Don's arm.

“How's business, Stan?” asked Don. “Who would have thought that my childhood pal would rise to become a Master of the Universe?”

Mister Stanley shrugged. Seeing Savitra touch Don had so deflated his spirits that he seemed to have lost the will to ever speak again.

Finally he said, “Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if the market goes the way of that hotshot's Segway. This housing bubble, the derivatives, the subprime lending . . .” Everyone watched his pale fingers glide along the table like a scooter and plummet off the edge.

“Are you joking?” asked Don.

“I don't have your sense of humor,” said Mister Stanley. “I never did.”

“Please,” said Don. “Don't—”