My New American Life (17 page)

Mister Stanley said, “Does the word Enron mean anything to anyone here? Are our memories that short? If I were Joe Average, I'd be cashing in my pension and buying gold and stashing it in the mattress.”

Lula looked around to see how the others were reacting. Having had some experience with economic meltdown, Lula wanted to tell them: Don't think it can't happen here. But Don and Savitra were looking at Mister Stanley as blankly as if he'd just suggested that they might be in danger of running out of mashed potatoes. Nor did their expressions change much when Mister Stanley said, “What we saw with Enron was just the tip of the iceberg. Risk management is a fancy term for what the lemmings do when they hold hands and jump off a cliff.”

“Lemmings don't hold hands, Dad,” said Zeke. “Lemmings don't have hands.”

“You sound like Abigail,” Don told Zeke, then glanced worriedly at Savitra to see how she'd responded to his mentioning his daughter.

Savitra asked Zeke what his favorite subject was.

“Subject?”

“In school,” Savitra said.

“None of them,” said Zeke.

Don said, “Did I tell you, Stan, I was back in Guantánamo last week? The UN guys called off their inspection visit because they're not being allowed to talk to the detainees one-on-one. Oh, and the hunger strike's started up again. The strikers are being force-fed with gastric and nasal feeding tubes. They're reusing the same tube for every guy up and down the line, strapping them into these horrible chairs so they can't vomit up their food—”

Savitra said, “My God, Don! Reusable nasal feeding tubes? We're eating Thanksgiving dinner. You need to give yourself a break—”

“A break,” said Don. “Only the prisoners don't get a break. And those poor kids fighting our wars.”

Mister Stanley shook his head. “We do have a lot to be thankful for.”

“Name one thing,” said Zeke.

“That we're not in prison,” Mister Stanley said. “That you're not in the army.”

“Not yet,” said Zeke.

“When we were your age, there was a draft,” said Mister Stanley.

“You told me that,” singsonged Zeke. “And you burned your draft cards and went out onto the street and stormed the Pentagon and—”

Don said, “All over the country, American families are giving thanks. As we should, for the privilege of living in this country. We should be offering up our prayers of gratitude for our precious freedoms. It's not about the cranberry sauce. Nor is it about what the indigenous people taught us to grow before we slaughtered them all.”

“Not in the Northeast, Don,” said Mister Stanley. “Not so much slaughter went on here.”

“Stupid fucking wrong-way Columbus thought they were Indians,” Zeke said. He caught himself, horrified to have said “Indians” in Savitra's presence.

“Marvelous turkey,” said Savitra.

“Thank you,” said Lula.

Don said, “I really will have to thank the guy who turned me on to those caterers.”

Don and Savitra left early.

Afterward, Zeke and Mister Stanley helped Lula clean up. Mister Stanley said, “Poor Don! Betsy was a piece of work, but this one's going to put him through the wringer.” Lula made room for Zeke as he cautiously transferred the gravy pan from the stove to the sink.

Zeke said, “Dad, you just wish a girl that hot was putting you through the wringer. What's a wringer, anyway?”

Mister Stanley said, “Can you two finish up without my help?”

“We're good here,” Lula said.

Chapter Nine

T
he snow seemed apocalyptic, not falling so much as hurled. Bulletins came from the silent world: Zeke's school was closed, and so, more unexpectedly, was Mister Stanley's office. New rules, emergency measures, enabled Mister Stanley to turn on the early-morning TV news. Batting at snowflakes, as if in playful combat, a reporter puffed her cheeks and chafed her arms, while, behind her, a rickrack of broken trucks zigzagged across the highway.

“Record breaking,” Mister Stanley said several times to make it clear that he was being kept from work by severe climate change and not by unmanly squeamishness about inclement weather. Zeke faked jubilation when in fact Lula suspected he would rather be at school than home with her and his dad.

The endless day stretched before them. How would they get through it? Everything grated on Lula's nerves. The rumble of Zeke's music, Mister Stanley's footsteps. How could anyone live with anyone else, unless you were tied by blood or sex and didn't have any choice? How tiny the large house had become, and how she longed to escape it.

She said, “I'm going back to bed.”

“I don't blame you,” said Mister Stanley.

Months ago, Lula had found three sleeping pills in Ginger's medicine cabinet, and though she was wary of any Ginger-associated medication, she'd saved them for an emergency, which the news had assured them this was.

Lula's sleep was racked by nightmares, most of which she forgot, except for one in which she was visited by her dead parents and Granny, and another dream—or was it the same dream?—in which she sat in a stadium and watched truckloads of pastry flour dumped on Dunia. Lula somehow understood that this was a fundamentalist country in which adulterers were executed by being baked into apple pies.

When she awoke, it was still snowing. The sky was battleship gray. An alarming jingle was blaring from Lula's phone.

“Lula?” said a voice. “Did I wake you up? Wake up! It's afternoon.”

Lula said in Albanian, “I was just dreaming about you!”

Dunia said in English, “I hope I was having fun.”

“Where are you?” Lula said.

Dunia said, “Twenty miles from you. In Maplewood, New Jersey.”

“I thought you were in Tirana. You always talked shit about New Jersey.”

“I never got there,” said Dunia. “I'm here. Like you.”

“I didn't hear from you, I didn't hear from you. I started thinking you'd been trafficked.”

“Very funny,” Dunia said. “Though in a manner of speaking I was. Ha ha. I'm joking. I'm married. I married Steve. A rich American plastic surgeon. Very romantic story.”

“Why didn't you answer my e-mails?”

“That's the unromantic part,” said Dunia. “I'll tell you when I see you. Want to meet for coffee? Have lunch? Go shopping?”

“Now? Have you looked out the window? I don't have transportation. I'm stuck here.”

“I've got a driver,” said Dunia. “I'll come to you.”

“A driver?” Lula repeated.

“A driver!” Dunia shouted. “What's wrong with this connection?”

Dunia sounded the same and different. Well, Lula had changed too. Even if nothing happens, you get new cells every seven years, so technically the former best friends were now one-seventh strangers.

“I didn't mean today,” Dunia said. “I meant a week from today! See you then. Kiss kiss.”

Lula walked to the window. Mister Stanley had shoveled the walk without the help he always asked, and never got, from Zeke.

Zeke was playing like a child in the snow, a big child with no one to play with. He'd made a snowman self-portrait, three white snowballs, the middle one in a ripped leather jacket and with something—shoe polish?—trickled down the sides of its lumpy spherical head to give it vampire hair. Its eyes were two silvery CDs that caught the last light of day. The snowman had its back to the street, an unusual choice. It seemed to be looking at the house, and one silver eye winked at Lula.

L
ula had picked up, from Mister Stanley and Zeke, the good habit of not worrying too much about the neighbors, a welcome change from Tirana, where for many reasons, none of them good, the neighbors were the first thing you thought of after food and money and sex, and often before. Inhabited entirely by schoolchildren and their parents, and a few old relicts, Mister Stanley's block came to a sleepy sort of life only on summer weekends when someone held a yard sale. Today it was deserted except for cleaning ladies, delivery guys, and an occasional handyman blowing snow from one lawn to another.

No one saw the Range Rover pull up in front of Mister Stanley's house, and though Dunia moved as if on stage, Lula and the driver were the only audience for Dunia's theatrical scowling at each crumb of snow that menaced her beautiful boots. Where had Dunia gotten such shoes, or the stylish black coat, understated and, Lula could tell, terrifyingly expensive? How had Dunia skipped a step from servant maid to queen, from an illegal-alien East Village mojito-joint waitress to a rich New Yorker, or at least New Jerseyite?

Dunia was always a fast learner. It was Dunia who'd taught Lula how to navigate the fitting rooms and cosmetics counters. Lula told herself not to be jealous. Lula probably had many things that Dunia didn't have, though right now she couldn't think of one. Watching her friend's halting progress up Mister Stanley's front walk, Lula felt simultaneously overjoyed to see her and sick with love for Dunia's clothes. Lula's happiness should have been pure. Dunia was healthy and safe.

The two friends hugged in the doorway.

“You smell great,” said Lula.

“Specially blended,” said Dunia. “From roses that bloom once every twenty years.”

“You're kidding,” said Lula.

“Half kidding,” Dunia said. “Once every decade.”

They hugged again, and Lula pressed her face into Dunia's cashmere shawl. Only when the danger was past did Lula realize how worried she'd been.

Dunia said, “Can we go inside now? I'm freezing my you-know-whats off.”

“Sorry,” Lula said. “Coffee?”

“American,” said Dunia. “If you have it.”

“Starbucks,” Lula said.

She started off toward the kitchen so she wouldn't have to witness Dunia's response to Ginger decor and by extension Lula's life. Dunia was an emissary from another world, a messenger bearing a mirror. Meanwhile Lula noted with relief that Dunia's roses had already overpowered the musty dead air of houses like this, where everything fun had already happened in the distant past. Why should Lula make excuses for herself? Let Dunia do the talking.

Dunia followed Lula into the kitchen, perched on a stool, and leaned both elbows on the counter. Her pale breasts scalloped the empty space inside the V of her dove-colored sweater.

“Sweet scene,” Dunia said. “Homey.”

“It's a job,” Lula said. Mister Stanley's house was a step up, many steps up, from the skinny Belarusian girl's walk-up. But the purse that Dunia plunked on the counter was many steps up from Mister Stanley's. They were friends, they loved each other. Why should a pocketbook matter?

“Please don't smoke.” Lula's upturned palms cradled the fragile ecosystem around her.

Dunia shook her head but put her cigarettes away. “I'm used to it. It's American. I told my husband I quit smoking. Steve used to bring home photos of cancerous black lungs.”

“Tell me about Steve,” said Lula.

Dunia said, “What's to tell? Steve is nice. Steve is positive. Steve knows what he wants. Steve is rich. Is Steve hot? No, Steve is not hot. If I met him for the first time, I'd think he was gay. That's what I thought when I met him for the first time. Mistake. Steve is not gay. He's American. He wants me to be American. When I talk about my old life, he looks bored, so I quit. At the beginning, he was fascinated by all the Albanian stuff. But now he wants me to be newborn, he wants my life to have started on the day we met. No past, no friends, English only, except—”

Lula said, “Is that why you disappeared?”

“Not exactly,” said Dunia. “But sure, maybe yes. I was trying. I thought, I'll give the marriage a shot. Steve is very controlling. He throws tantrums, but they're easy to avoid. Don't leave the alarm system off or the faucet running. Otherwise, no problem. I get to shop till I drop in return for sex that's always short and always the same. Two, maybe three times a week. Of course his family assumed I was a Russian hooker. A million times his mom and sister and aunts interrogated me about how we met. Obviously they were thinking online, or some ad in the phone book. So now I'm like the Earthly Beauty. I make Steve pay every time he sees me naked.”

Lula leaned across the counter and kissed her friend on the cheek. It was too complicated to explain that she'd written a story about Earthly Beauty, but it made her happy to even consider explaining and to decide against it.

“What was
that
for?” asked Dunia.

“I'm glad to see you,” said Lula. “So how did you meet Steve?”

“At the airport.” Dunia reached again for a cigarette, then remembered. “I was having a problem with my ticket home. I should have known. I bought it from a bucket shop behind a realtor in the Bronx. The guy at the ticket counter hated me on sight. Our discussion got hot. I called him an asshole. Big deal. He was an asshole. Also a baby. Big Baby Asshole Airline Agent called for backup. I thought, Here we go. I'm traveling to Guantánamo on a one-way ticket.”

Lula said, “My lawyer has a client in Guantánamo.”

“Sad,” Dunia said. “Poor him. Steve was in the business-class line. He got out of line and saved me. He had time before his flight. That's the kind of guy Steve is, gets to the airport three hours early. He was going to Nassau for some plastic surgery convention. We sat at one of those little round tables with high stools. God must have commanded me to travel in a short skirt instead of a sweatsuit. After two whiskeys Steve asked me: If he canceled his trip, would I go home with him right then? The next morning he said he'd take care of everything. Everything. And he did.”

“That must have been some night,” Lula said.

“For Steve it was,” said Dunia. “End of story. He knows people. I'll be a citizen soon. Married to an American doctor. It's a dream come true.”

“Nice.” Lula chafed her palms together, dusting off the obstacles that ordinary people went through to get where Dunia was. She shivered with self-pity. Everyone else had it easy, everybody but her, everyone got the lucky breaks that whisked them along the road down which Lula was trudging, step by difficult step. She told herself, Have patience, or at least some pride. She had a work visa, she'd have a green card, she'd become a citizen maybe, and all on her own, without having to marry some guy she didn't love. On the other hand, everything could still go wrong. She could be deported back to Tirana, and Dunia would be in her fancy house, shopping for fabulous clothes.

“Nothing's easy,” said Dunia. “Tonight at dinner he'll tell me about some brilliant rhinoplasty or challenging butt reduction. But if I say anything, anything at all, he picks up a magazine. Any time I want some body part tightened or tweaked, he'll do it for free. His business partner gave his wife a permanent smile and a killer cleavage.”

“So why did you call me now?” Lula said.

“I missed you,” said Dunia. “I'm bored.”

“It can get boring here,” Lula said. How good it felt to say so. From time to time, Mister Stanley and Zeke suggested that Lula must be bored, and Lula always protested. No, not at all, she was finding plenty to do. Alvo and his friends had implied that Mister Stanley's house was a tomb. They'd said it smelled like the grave.

“Anywhere can get boring.” Dunia frowned at her pearly lip print on Mister Stanley's coffee cup. Licking her fingertip, she dabbed at the stain like a mother wiping another woman's kiss from her child's face. “So many minutes in a day! At some point Steve will ask the driver—in Spanish—what I did today, so it's good my driver can tell Steve about you, and Steve won't get jealous thinking I went to see some boyfriend. It's like living under Communism. Okay, I know it's not like Communism. The shopping is better. The sex is worse.”

“A driver!” Lula said.

Dunia smiled lewdly. “Jorge. Dominican. Twenty-two. Drop-dead handsome.”

“I can't even drive,” said Lula. “Most of the time I'm stuck here. Unless I take the bus.”

“I told you,” Dunia said. “Ten miles to downtown if you swam.”

Lula said, “You still have an accent. How does American Steve like that?”

Dunia made a face. “He likes to talk during sex.
Then
he likes the accent. He even likes me to talk Albanian. He thinks I'm begging, Fuck me up to my eyeballs! When what I'm really saying is, Tomorrow I have to tell Gladys the maid to clean the refrigerator. Out of bed he doesn't like the accent so much. He says the more American I speak, the more Americans I speak
to
, the more American I sound.”

Lula said, “It's the opposite here. Everybody wants me to hang on to my roots. They love all the fairy tales and the sayings and folk songs and crap. You know what? I've started writing little stories about home.”

“You always were a creative person. What an imagination! I remember you getting drunk one night after our shift at La Changita and making up some crazy shit about your dad teaching you to shoot Madonna in the heart. Whatever happened to Franco the waiter? He wasn't so cute, but still . . .”

“That was true about Madonna,” Lula said. “A
picture
of Madonna.”

Dunia said, “I missed you. But listen, no shopping today. I don't have the time I thought. The cleaning guy is coming to pick up the living room curtains. Also I have to go home and talk dinner with Gladys.” Dunia kissed her fingertips. “Fried chicken. She worked for Steve before I got there.”