Finn (21 page)

Marian’s neighborhood was definitely rich. There were only one or two houses on a block. It felt as if we had landed on a peace-loving planet where armies no longer fought wars but spent their days gardening and mowing each other’s lawns. Silvia relaxed a little. She said that someday she and Roberto might own a country villa. I didn’t tell her that Marian’s house was officially in the suburbs, not the country. My grandparents always made a big deal about Marian’s family living in the suburbs, saying wasn’t it a shame how some people had given up on the city. It was an empty complaint. There wasn’t much difference between where my grandparents lived and the suburbs, at least not in the type of people who lived there. Everyone in both places was white.

Marian’s house had enormous columns. Columns almost always look tacky, but Marian’s house looked like it had earned its big columns. The lawn was incredible. It looked as though the house had fallen asleep and let a gauzy green blanket drop around its ankles. It was a beautiful house, but all I could think about was how selfish it was for just three people to live in it—not counting the servants.

I knew where to find Marian’s window. She had described it to me enough times, telling me how I could throw bits of gravel from the driveway if I ever needed to “have a consultation” in the middle of the night. She claimed to be a light sleeper. I guess it was true, because as soon as the first handful of gravel hit her window, the light went on.

Instead of coming downstairs and opening the back door, Marian climbed out of the window and shimmied down the drainpipe, even though it ruined her nightgown. She didn’t seem the least bit sleepy. “Chlo!” she said, wiping a slimy clump of leaves off her sleeve. “How nice to see you! And you must be Silvia,” she said, extending her hand and shaking Silvia’s. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I wanted to tell her to stop sounding like her mother at a cocktail party, but I was too glad to see her. I asked her why she had climbed down the drainpipe instead of just coming downstairs. She said something about authenticity, which reminded me how strange she was. Then, like a fifty-year-old version of herself, she said, “But where are my manners?” She took us deep into the backyard to what she called the “gardening shed,” but which was actually an entire little house. “It’s not Buckingham Palace,” she said. “I hope it’ll do.” She harshed on it the way people do when they’re actually very proud of something. Truth was, it really did look like Buckingham Palace to me, and probably to Silvia, too.

The “shed” was full of very fancy lighting. “I’ll be right back with a snack,” Marian said, flicking on rows and rows of light switches. “Make yourselves at home.” I couldn’t believe that such a nice place was empty most of the time. There were Oriental rugs and antiques everywhere. Silvia patted the leather cushions on the sofa. “First class,” she said, plopping down with an
oomph.

Marian was taking forever. I hate to admit it, but I began to doubt her. I tried to imagine what I’d do in her place. One of the things I imagined I’d do would be to wake up my parents—assuming I was Marian and I lived with my parents instead of my grandparents—and tell them to call an ambulance right away for Silvia. I could see the logic of that, but I was worried because that plan didn’t take into consideration the fact that Silvia was illegal, not to mention wanted by the police for kidnapping and blowing up a nice house in the city.

I shouldn’t have worried. After all, Marian was Marian. It never would have crossed her mind to do anything as simple and direct as waking up her parents and calling an ambulance. She came back with a big bowl of salad and some crackers and cheese, kicking her shoes off in the front hallway and leaving them where they fell. She sat across from us at the marble-topped dining room table watching Silvia dig into the salad. I was starving, but I let Silvia get a good head start.

Marian made us tell her everything that had happened, in detail. I didn’t like the expression on her face for most of it, which was feverish and fascinated, as if we were just some characters in a story, and not actual people who had dealt with so much. She kept whispering, “You poor dears,” but she was obviously jealous of what we had been through.

When she asked, “What are you going to do now?” I realized that I had run out of ideas. The week’s turmoil, the pain in my wrist, worrying about Silvia and the baby—all of it had just about done me in, so when Marian suggested that she and I go to the “lodge”—that’s what she called the main house—and work on a plan, I said
fine.
We made up a bed for Silvia on the couch and buried her under a heap of incredibly soft blankets. She was asleep in no time, which helped me feel I wasn’t abandoning her, just changing locales.

Marian probably would have made me climb up into her room if it hadn’t been for my wrist. She offered to help me up the drainpipe if I thought it was “important for consistency’s sake,” but I told her she was crazy and to just let me in the back door like a normal person.

The lodge was incredibly clean. Everything smelled either like furniture polish or gourmet food. Marian sat me down at the kitchen table and made me a milkshake, which tasted fantastic. I worried that the noise from the milkshake maker would wake her parents up, but she told me that was silly because there were at least five closed doors between us and them.

Marian watched with greedy eyes as I drank the shake, as if she had laced it with truth serum. I called her on it. She said she was sorry. She was just so impressed with all I had done with Silvia. The way she said it was all wrong, as if Silvia were a prize show dog. I said that I had-n’t really done much of anything for Silvia, except to get her kicked out of a good hospital for supposedly kidnapping me.

Marian got to talking about what had been going on at the Field School in my absence. It was a relief to hear about the normal world. The spotless kitchen and the milkshake and the gossip were all so nice that I stopped thinking about Silvia altogether for a while. Marian finally said that she had to go upstairs and get ready for school. It was already seven thirty in the morning. I panicked about her parents, but she said they always slept in. Even on weekdays.

Marian told me to get some sleep. She said there was plenty of room for me at the lodge. I told her to forget it, a little sharply, probably, because I didn’t want to admit to myself how attractive an idea it was. I said that I had to look out for Silvia and that I still had no idea what to do with her. Marian laughed.

“You’re going to fly her to California, silly. We can’t let geography stand in the way of True Love.” I told her to quit joking, but she went and got her little purse and pulled out a VISA card with her own name on it. Then she called up an airline and made two reservations on a flight to California.

After she hung up, she talked to me like a travel agent. “Your flight leaves in a few hours,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me buy the tickets over the phone. It’s too last-minute. You’ll have to take my card with you.”

She wouldn’t tell me how much the tickets cost. I had some idea, though. Once, when I was little, I called to find out how much it would cost to fly away from my mother’s house that same day. The price the airline quoted me was astronomical. The airline lady told me that most tickets were bought far in advance. Only business people and the very wealthy bought tickets the same day they were flying.

Marian yawned and said that I wasn’t seeing the Forest for the Trees. She packed me off to the gardening shed with some roast chicken and a bagel. As I stumbled through the wet morning grass, I thought about how money made certain things so much easier. I was grateful to Marian, which annoyed me, because she had given me so many new reasons to really dislike her.

S
ilvia couldn’t believe that we were really going to California.

“It’s so wonderful!” she said. “Roberto will see his baby being born.” I told her to calm down because we weren’t there yet, but I was actually getting excited, too.

Marian came back to the shed to say goodbye. She made me practice her signature a few times. She said that sometimes they checked the signature when a young person made a big purchase. Then she kissed Silvia on the cheeks and slipped me a wad of cash, saying, “God speed!”, as if we were about to board the Titanic. I didn’t count the money until after she left. Somehow, she had managed to scrape together almost two hundred dollars.

Silvia was against taking a cab, because she wanted to have some money left when we got to L.A., but I was in charge of the money. I knew for a fact that we wouldn’t find any public transportation to the airport, at least not around here, where everybody had a car. It was even harder to find a cab than I thought it would be. When we finally managed to flag one down, the cabbie kept telling us how lucky we were because cabs almost never came out to Marian’s neighborhood. “Out here,” he said, “mainly you got your limos.”

All during the ride to the airport, Silvia talked about Roberto and the life that they would make in L.A. It was good to see her so happy. I let her go on and on about it, wondering where I fit in her plan. I started thinking about a new life in California for myself, but for some reason I couldn’t picture it. I wondered what was holding me back.

The cab ride cost twenty-two dollars. When I paid, the cabbie looked over his shoulder and said, “No luggage?” as if he was noticing for the first time. “Just what you see,” I said. It took both of us to pull Silvia out of the back seat.

All that was left was to buy the tickets. When we got up to the counter, a chubby airline man with a high voice and moussed hair asked me if “the lady,” meaning Silvia, would be flying with me. I said yes, of course. The airline man said he was very sorry but he wouldn’t be able to sell me a ticket for her, at least not for a flight today. I could see he was serious, so I did what my grandmother would have done. I made a big show of studying his name tag. I used his first name— Patrick—when I asked to see his manager. Patrick said he was the manager. Then I got angry. I said it was
deplorable
—I actually used that word—the way his airline treated Mexicans. I said it loud enough for the other people in line to hear.

Patrick got all embarrassed. He made a general announcement to the people in line: his airline didn’t discriminate on the basis of race, creed, or color. The problem, he said, turning back to me, was how pregnant Silvia was. “So you’re saying that the airline discriminates against pregnant people?” I said triumphantly. The people in line laughed quietly and started to mind their own business. Then Patrick got very snotty. He explained that it was the airline’s policy not to fly a very pregnant woman. What if the baby decided to be born in the middle of the flight? That would be dangerous for the lady and her baby, and extremely inconvenient for the other passengers, now wouldn’t it?

I was all out of answers. I took Silvia away and sat her down on one of the plush leather and chrome airport benches. I told her we wouldn’t be going to California after all.

You can imagine how she took the news. For once, I was glad of the noise of planes. Anything was better than Silvia’s sobbing. Usually I’m embarrassed by people crying in public, but Silvia had an impeccable reason. I tried my best to shield her from all the curious travelers. My grandfather says it’s human nature to be curious about other people’s tragedies. Of course, he’s not exactly the most compassionate man on the planet.

Suddenly, something warm seeped under my leg. Silvia doubled over and gave a low moan and said she couldn’t hold the baby inside any longer. Her water had broken, for real this time!

I screamed “Call an ambulance!” but people just stood by as if Silvia and I were a TV show. I kept screaming. Finally, Patrick came over with some paramedics and two policemen. They came running up with a gurney and rolled Silvia onto it.

I held Silvia’s hand and told her she was doing fine, even though she looked pale and was shivering. She kept saying, “Call Roberto.” I told her I didn’t have his telephone number. Every time she tried to tell me, the paramedics pushed me away. From the look on their faces, I could tell that something was wrong. One of the policemen, a tall one with a walrus mustache, asked me to please step aside, but I kept coming back. I had to get Roberto’s number.

The policeman grabbed me by the shoulder, but I pulled away. They were wheeling Silvia down a long glass corridor and I was running along with them. Silvia was writhing on the gurney and the paramedics were saying tense things to each other about her condition, which was apparently deteriorating. They were shouting at people to get out of the way. Outside, airplanes took off and landed as if nothing was happening. A luggage train down on the tarmac was keeping pace with us. We all seemed to be accelerating. The emergency was pushing us forward like a cannonball.

At least that’s the feeling I had until the walrus policeman took me by the wrist—the bad one—and yanked it behind my back.