My New American Life (27 page)

But Zeke was the one she would really miss. Maybe she and Zeke could stay friends. She could visit him at college. An abyss opened beneath her, a landslide set off by her inability to picture the place from which she'd leave to go see Zeke.

If the mild Mister Stanley had a problem with eye contact, his spitfire incarnation's gaze was a high beam directed at Lula. But at last Mister Stanley blinked and stopped and waited for her to respond.

Lula put everything she had into the ultimate Mr.-Stanley-pleasing shrug. She tried to infuse her rising shoulders with a thousand years of Balkan history, with the what-else-is-new of invaders, murder, pillage, and exile, the what-can-you do of failed monarchies, empires, promises, and scams, the what-do-you-expect of Communism, of decades when you couldn't know anything, couldn't do anything, couldn't say anything, when all you could do was shrug and teach your children to shrug. She turned up both palms with the you-can't-tell-me-anything-I-don't-already-know world-weariness of a person who'd spent the formative years of her childhood under the paranoid leadership of a psychotic dictator, a person who had seen economic collapse and rioting and chaotic violence and everywhere gangsters in control, in the open and from the shadows.

She said, “Zeke was never in danger. Not from Alvo, anyway.”

“How can you be sure?” Mister Stanley wanted her to have been sure.

“I'm sure,” said Lula. “Trust me.”

“I wish I could,” said Mister Stanley.

“Then fire me,” Lula said.

“Not so fast,” said Mister Stanley. “We've had enough drama in this house. Let's think about alternatives. Take our time. Mull things over.”

The way he'd said “mull things over” filled Lula with despair. She said, “I should probably quit.”

“What makes you think you can quit?” Mister Stanley said, his voice rising again. “Have you considered your chances of finding another sponsor after you asked my childhood friend to sacrifice his integrity, to risk his career, to help some thug you let into my home while my son and I slept?”

“He's not a thug,” Lula said. “Are you saying you won't sponsor me if I don't work here?”

“No,” said Mister Stanley. “I'm not saying that at all. Though it might be more tricky. Legally speaking. Let's sleep on it. Let's revisit the subject tomorrow night when I come home. There's nothing like twenty-four hours to clarify one's thinking.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
he next morning, Lula waited until eleven, an hour by which even the most pampered plastic surgeon's wife was certain to be awake. Still, Dunia sounded groggy when she answered the phone. A more thoughtful best friend might have asked how Lula was.

Dunia said, “Please God, somebody shoot me now. I am so hung over.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Lula said.

“Old school,” mumbled Dunia. “You sound like my granny.”

“You and Doctor Steve been partying?”

“What Doctor Steve?” said Dunia. “Doctor Steve was another lifetime.”

“Excuse me?” Lula said.

“The marriage is over. It's going to be annulled. Which makes everybody happy. Steve's family included. Steve's family especially. No ugly divorce courts, no bloodsucking lawyers, no scandal. Just a big cash settlement direct-deposited into my bank account. It turns out that Doctor Steve and the versatile Jorge my driver were having a little extramarital something on the side. I don't even want to think what special perfume Steve brought
him
. How could I not have known? Remember I told you that Steve liked me to talk Albanian during sex? The part I didn't mention was that he made me talk Albanian in a low growly voice. Pervert Steve wanted to imagine he was having sex with an Albanian guy! Speaking of which, whatever happened with that Albanian guy you went out with Christmas Eve?”

“Not much,” said Lula.

“It's probably better,” said Dunia. “Anyhow, no more Steve. What do they say? If it looks too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true? If it looks like a fish and smells like a fish, it probably is a fish. You know me. I'm an honest person. I'm not the blackmailing type. Steve was thrilled when I agreed not to ask for half of everything he's got. Which I probably could have gotten, if I was scheming or greedy.”

“Congratulations,” said Lula uncertainly.

“Thanks,” said Dunia. “Anyway, I was going to call you. Guess where I am now? Twenty-fourth floor, Trump Towers. Overlooking the Hudson. Like Jesus told Peter from the cross, I can see your house from here. I rented a two-bedroom. I was thinking you could move in. Don't worry about the rent, at least for now. I'm bored. I want someone to hang with. Hey, it's your ticket out of New Jersey. We'll max out Steve's credit cards. Then we'll figure out what next.”

“There's a job I want,” said Lula. As if she had to convince Dunia, of all people, that she was an upstanding future citizen of the United States. “A court interpreter, to start with . . .”

“Fine! I already said I won't charge you rent. When do you want to come and check the place out?”

“I don't know. When would be good for you?”

“Right now,” Dunia said.

B
y the time Lula got back that afternoon, she was already seeing Mister Stanley's house with the tender detachment of someone who used to live there. Or from the more objective perspective of someone else who used to live there. She wasn't the same person who, only a few months before, had gazed out her bedroom window and monitored the arrival of an SUV full of trouble.

The last remnants of that foolish girl had been blown away by the winter wind off the Hudson, the ice needles and face slaps of cold she'd fended off on her way from the subway to Dunia's overheated lobby, so like a cross between a Las Vegas casino and a grand hotel in Moscow. The uniformed doorman handed Lula over to another uniformed guard, who showed her to the elevator, where yet another lieutenant in Dunia's private army whisked Lula into the sky.

Dunia was waiting outside her door, perhaps to watch Lula admire the depth to which Dunia's high heels sank into the hall carpet. Welcome to America! Finally! They'd come a long way from Tirana. Dunia planted smoky kisses on Lula's cheek, then showed her into the apartment and stepped back to watch her friend's response to the Hudson River and half of New Jersey flinging itself at their feet.

“This works for me,” said Lula.

“Look out the other direction,” said Dunia, grabbing Lula's arm as they contemplated the skyscrapers poking their glittering heads through clouds of dusty sunlight.

“It's a sublet,” said Dunia. “In six months I will have spent every last penny I got from Steve. But worth it, don't you think?”

“I've got sixteen hundred dollars saved up,” Lula said.

“Don't make me laugh,” said Dunia.

“I like what you've done with the place,” Lula said.

Dunia said, “All the little personal touches ordered and paid for before I left Steve. I was thinking ahead.”

“Thank you, Doctor Steve,” said Lula.

“I thanked Steve, believe me,” Dunia said. “Jorge the driver thanked him, too. I think Steve's living with Jorge now.”

“The driver was cute,” said Lula.

“The driver
is
cute,” said Dunia. “Can you believe I put this place together, all by myself, in two weeks?”

“You should have called me,” Lula said.

“I called you now,” said Dunia. “We'll have fun. Let's wind the clock back a couple of years.”

“We deserve it,” said Lula.

“We earned it,” Dunia said.

N
ow that she was leaving, Lula welcomed the three bus rides home, which gave her plenty of time to figure out how to word her resignation. She knew it would be more professional to inform her boss before she told his son, but she wanted Zeke to hear the news directly from her.

As always, Lula was home before Zeke arrived, and as always she said, “Let's go get some food,” exactly as she had every weekday afternoon for, God help her, more than a year. Their drama would play out less tragically in the car. Zeke would be at the wheel of the vehicle that he loved more than anyone, including Lula. He would not be looking at her, and his mind would be partly on the road. Better to tell him en route to the store than on the way home, because if he was upset, he would have to pull himself together before they went into the market full of strangers for whom he would have to wear the mask of unshakable teenage cool. The Good Earth was only a few minutes away. Lula had no time to spare.

They were barely out of the driveway when Lula said, “We'll always be friends. But there are going to be some changes. I'm going to work as a court interpreter, and I found a place to live, nearer downtown Manhattan.”

Zeke said, “That's bullshit about your getting that job. So are you moving in with that guy who was here when . . . You know. The guy you said was your cousin. Like anyone believed
that
. The guy who let me drive his Lexus.”

“Not at all!” said Lula. “I think that guy's in jail.”

“I liked that guy,” said Zeke.

“So did I,” said Lula.

“What's he in jail for?”

“For being an asshole.”

“I didn't know that was a crime,” said Zeke. “Especially in New Jersey.”

“It can be,” Lula said. “The point is, I'm not moving in with him. I'm living with my friend Dunia. She's got a place in Trump Towers.”

“That is awesome,” said Zeke. “Can I move in with you too?”

“Maybe someday,” Lula said.

“So you're just leaving us? Disappearing just like that?”

“You're going to college,” Lula said. “You don't need me. You're practically grown up. You can pour your own cereal into a bowl.”

“I don't eat cereal,” Zeke said.

“Well, you should,” said Lula.

Zeke, who had been slumped behind the wheel, pulled himself up to his full height. He said, “Will I ever see you again?”

“Constantly,” said Lula. “You'll get sick of me. I'll visit you at college. I'll be your embarrassing old auntie. You and your friends can stay with me and Dunia when you come into the city.” Would Dunia still have her apartment by then? They would worry about that later.

“Here we are,” said Zeke. “At the store.”

“Park close, it's icy,” Lula said.

“I always do,” said Zeke. “I'm a guy. Anyhow, the parking lot's empty.”

Deserted except for a pickup truck, The Good Earth was closed for repairs. A worker wheeling out a cart of broken drywall told them, “Some dirtbags broke in and stripped the place clean. I don't know how those dumbfucks think they're going to fence a truckload of organic cauliflower.”

“Let's get out of here,” said Zeke. “Everything here is cheesy.”

Lula's head felt swimmy. Another supermarket break-in? Alvo was in jail and couldn't possibly have been the dirtbag behind this one. Which proved he was innocent if, as the DA claimed, the robberies were all committed by the same person. Was there someone Lula should tell? Should she mention this to Don? She'd mentioned enough to Don.

From the edges of her consciousness came a sound like a cat choking on a hair ball. Zeke was crying. Gelid tears slipped down his chalk-white cheeks.

“Everything sucks,” he said. “Mom going crazy. Now you're leaving. I think I might be gay.”

“You'll be fine,” said Lula. “I promise.”

“Sometimes I wish I was a vampire,” said Zeke.

“Why would you want that?” said Lula.

“Because you don't have to live and you don't have to die. It's easy.”

“Not for a vampire,” said Lula.

“Probably not,” said Zeke.

Lula put her arm around him. A stranger driving past might have mistaken them for teenage sweethearts. Lula tried to beam concentrated rays of friendship and reassurance directly from her brain into his, and from moment to moment she felt a warm rush flowing back in her direction, so that it almost seemed to be working.

She said, “Let's try the Shopwell. I know it's further, but the drive would be fun.”

Zeke looked at her. “It's too far.”

“Don't worry,” she said. “No one's going to tell your dad.”

“I know that,” said Zeke. He smiled his frozen fake smile, and then, as Lula watched, it slowly, slowly came unstuck and turned into a real one.

Lula put her head on Zeke's shoulder as he pulled out onto the street. And they rode like that, without speaking, all the way to the market and home.

I
f there was one thing Lula should have learned from living at Mister Stanley's, it was the folly of comparing your life with how you imagined someone else's life, based on their real estate. Once, passing a house like Mister Stanley's, she might have envied its inhabitants their American happiness, complete with all the American creature comforts. Now she knew better. But still she found it a challenge of the spirit not to sink into the quicksand of envy that lay in the gap between the suitcases into which she was stuffing her possessions and the apartment full of designer furniture that Dunia had earned by being a sex worker of sorts, if not the sort Lula once feared. Well, at least Lula was mobile. She could move across the river without the twenty-foot van that, she hoped, Dunia could still afford when they got evicted from Trump Towers. Lula was like her ancestors, strapping all their worldly goods onto the backs of donkeys and migrating to higher pastures.

The real trouble with packing was that it left so much of her mind free and undefended against the cringe-inducing memories of last night's conversation with Mister Stanley. Lula flinched when she recalled Mister Stanley suggesting they go into his study. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. And Lula, fearing that she might lose her resolve, announced that she was leaving while they were still in the kitchen. Even now, her face flushed when she remembered how Mister Stanley had struggled to turn his shock and disappointment into the legitimate concern of an upper-middle-class single dad dealing with an all-too-common domestic-help emergency.

“One would think you might at least give notice,” Mister Stanley said huffily. “After all this time, two weeks seems the least that—”

“I would stay, if you needed me,” Lula said. “If you needed someone to replace me. Mister Stanley, no insult, but Zeke is leaving for college in the fall. There's nothing I actually do. He can go to the market and microwave dinner by himself. I'm sorry, but he's growing up. And I'm not sure that it would be the best thing for Zeke to have me here for two more weeks when he knows I'm leaving.”

“The best thing for Zeke” were the magic words guaranteed to vanquish Mister Stanley. He said, “I suppose I should have expected this after our conversation last night.”

Lula said, “Zeke's a great kid. A very strong and beautiful person. You've done a terrific job with him in a difficult situation.” She believed every word she was saying, and at the same time she was aware of how desperately she needed to keep Mister Stanley on her side. The green card was only part of it. Mister Stanley was her sponsor. Sponsor was only part of it. Mister Stanley was family. Mister Stanley would always be part of her new American life.

Mister Stanley said, “You've done wonders for him. We all have to thank you for that.”

“Thank
you
,” said Lula, inadequately.

“You're an inspiration, Lula. Not just to Zeke but to us all. Watching how you live, your nerve and determination. The courage to leave one life and start a whole new one, somewhere else . . . It almost makes one think one could—”

“You could!” said Lula. “You could quit your job and go back to teaching, if that's what you want. I'm sure a million colleges would jump at the chance to hire you! You could . . .” They both waited for Lula to imagine another positive life change that Mister Stanley could make. “You could . . .”

“I suppose I could,” said Mister Stanley. “And given the likelihood of a financial crisis, or let's say a correction, I probably should.” Lula and Mister Stanley stared at each other across the kitchen, a look in which, it seemed to Lula, they exchanged more pure unvarnished truth than in all the time she'd worked here. Mister Stanley wouldn't quit his job. He would stay on until he retired or until the crisis he predicted occurred. Zeke would leave home, and Mister Stanley would live here alone, dutifully visiting Ginger, who would get better or not, relapse or not.