My New American Life (8 page)

“It's hard for everyone to see what's going on here,” said Don.

Lula said, “Everywhere it's common sense to keep your mouth shut. Growing up under Communism wasn't such a picnic.”

“Amen,” said Mister Stanley.

Don said, “I promise you, Lula, this is a free . . . My God, I almost said free country. Knowing what I know.” Staring into his wine glass, Don said, “The thing that kills me is . . . the beauty of the U.S. Constitution. I love that fucking document, it still makes me cry, the sheer goodness and purity of the Founding Fathers' hopes and dreams, their ideas about what humans deserve and how they should be treated. The way these guys in Washington are trashing it . . . Christ, I've got to quit drinking. Every night's the same. The fourth glass of wine, I'm crying about the Bill of Rights and ruining everyone's fun—”

Abigail said, “Oh? Were we having fun? I must have missed the fun part, Dad.”

Lula said, “Mister Stanley's house is a wonderful place to write.”

Don said, “It's adorable, Stan, the way Lula calls you Mister Stanley. Like some servant girl from the nineteenth century.”

Mister Stanley shook his head. “I've begged her to call me Stan.”

Lula shrugged. She didn't know what to call Don Settebello, so she didn't call him anything.

They went back to tearing at their steaks. Abigail ate one last dab of spinach and pushed her bowl away so hard it spun. The others watched till it stopped.

Don said, “It's a miracle when the system functions. More often it's like with my Salvadoran client—all your ducks are lined up, actually your clay pigeons, one of them gets shot down, and it's back to square one, the poor guy is sent back to wherever. If he's lucky. And then you have a case where it works, and a person with Lula's brains and heart and talent gets to live here.”

Mister Stanley said, “Here's to Lula. And Don.”

“And Stan.” Don's swallow of wine lasted so long that even Zeke and Abigail watched his Adam's apple bob up and down.

Lula said, “Thank you. I'm happy and grateful to be here.”

“We want you here,” said Don Settebello. “Fresh young blood. You're what keeps our country young.”

Zeke stage-whispered to Abigail, “Fresh blood? That's so vampiristic.”

Abigail said, “Are you actually listening to Dad?”

“Shut up, young lady,” Don told her. “Okay, here we go.” Don clinked his spoon on his glass, and half the restaurant turned. Don waited till the eavesdroppers went back to their meals.

“Dear friends, I've got an announcement. This is a celebration for me, too. Just because my life isn't already busy and difficult and frustrating and overextended enough, I've decided to take on a new project. I'll be doing some Guantánamo work, going down there and trying to get those guys to trust me. Do whatever I can. Not that I have high hopes, or any hopes at all, but I can't just sit back and watch. Plus to be honest with you I was flattered. They've got the top guys on this. The sharpest habeas corpus guys, the heavy-duty death penalty guys, famous law professors from Germany and France. And who am I among these superstars? Don from immigration—”

“You're hardly Don from immigration,” Mister Stanley said. “Not for ten, fifteen years now. You have a very public career. You're a hero.”

“Stan,” said Don. “Are you listening? Did you hear one word I said?”

“I'm still processing,” Mister Stanley said. “Guantánamo. Jesus Christ, Stan. I don't know what to say. I mean . . . how did all this happen?”

“Actually, I was recruited. This old friend of mine from law school—”

“Amazing.” Mister Stanley didn't want to think about Don having other old friends besides him.

Abigail said, “Don't do it, Dad. Don't go. We all know you can't keep your big mouth shut. They'll probably keep you there. They'll lock you up in one of those orange suits and say you're Osama bin Laden.”

“Darling!” said Don. “It makes me so happy that you not only know where
there
is, you know what goes on there. Stan, Zeke, Lula, do you realize that this . . . child understands more than most adults. It makes me want to keep doing it, to preserve the beautiful country in which my daughter is growing up.”

Abigail said, “Think about
me
for five minutes.”

“And what's more,” said Don, “she seems genuinely concerned about my welfare.”

“God,” said Abigail. “Do you think I'm stupid? If you get sent to jail, it goes on my permanent record. Fat chance of my getting into boarding school and getting away from Mom once they find out my dad is a terrorist.”

“Let's raise a glass to Don,” said Mister Stanley. Everyone's glass was empty. Mister Stanley waved over the waiter, who was so perturbed to be getting instructions from him instead of Alpha Don that he filled Mister Stanley's glass to the top. Mister Stanley spilled a few drops. Lula watched red flowers bloom on the white cloth as Mister Stanley said, “We're grateful to you, Don. As your friends, as Americans, as citizens of the world!”

Lula lifted her glass to Don Settebello, then to Mister Stanley, then Zeke. Abigail wouldn't look at her.

“Cheers,” said Lula. “
G'zoor
.”

N
ow that Lula's big night was over, Zeke grabbed the passenger seat, and Lula climbed in back. A few blocks from the restaurant, Mister Stanley ran over a curb on which, miraculously, no one was waiting to cross. Furious honking pursued them, but Mister Stanley didn't notice. Zeke turned around to Lula and pantomimed pouring something down his mouth. Wasn't he worried that his father would see? It worried Lula that his father didn't see.

“You want me to drive?” asked Zeke.

Mister Stanley said, “Are you kidding, Junior? Your learner's permit specifies no night driving.”

“What learner's permit? I've got a license,” said Zeke.

“No night driving,” said his father. Lula was reassured that Mister Stanley was sober enough to remember. If only she could drive! But that was the red wine talking. Even if she had a license, she'd drunk twice as much as Mister Stanley and was probably half his weight. Drunk or sober, her father was always a terrible driver. He'd learned too late to have the reflexes. His whole generation had. And soon it would be too late for her as well. Lula fastened her seat belt and braced herself as they sped toward the tunnel.

“Dad, that's a red light!” Zeke cried.

Mister Stanley slammed on his brakes and fell silent until they'd passed the Newark exit, when he said, “Do you think Don could be developing a tiny bit of a drinking problem? Poor Don. Who could blame him for tying one on, with that daughter? All that great work he's doing, and that girl treats him like . . . Jesus, I hope we don't get stopped. I should have stuck to club soda. Let this be a lesson to you, Zeke.”

Zeke said, “What lesson would that be?”

“I don't know,” said Mister Stanley. “Maybe about the downside of living in the moment.”

Again Zeke wheeled around in his seat. “Did you hear that?” he asked Lula. “Dad thinks his problem is too much living in the moment.”

“Fasten your seat belt,” said Mister Stanley. “Or I'm pulling over.”

Zeke said, “This kid in my school wound up in the ICU because someone told him if you eat mothballs you can pass the Breathalyzer test.”

“That's a myth,” said Mister Stanley. “Deadly deadly deadly.”

“Concentrate, Dad,” said Zeke.

Lula shut her eyes and thought of everything she'd ever done wrong, sins against her parents, boyfriends, girls whose boyfriends she'd slept with, every lie she'd ever told Mister Stanley, Don, and Zeke. She decided to count her sins, starting from the first, but she kept losing track and having to go back to the neighbor boy whose hand she purposely stepped on and broke his pinkie and almost got her whole family sent away because the kid's dad was secret police. Then Lula gave up counting and apologized for each one. Sorry, Granny, for not returning the change when you sent me to buy butter. Sorry, Papa, for telling Mama we used Madonna for target practice. Underneath were the real sins. The time she chose to play with her friends and refused to visit her dying grandpa. The secret gladness she'd felt when her parents left for Kosovo, and then after graduation when there was so much more room for her in Aunt Mirela's apartment. But why was she even thinking this way, when there were monsters at home who'd sent innocents to their deaths during Communism and never apologized, never felt guilty? What about the Dictator? Had he woken in the middle of the night, worried he'd hurt someone's feelings?

Against all odds, Mister Stanley seemed to be parking in front of the house.

“Thank you, Mister Stanley,” she said. “Thank you, Zeke.”

“Why are you thanking
me
?” said Zeke.

“Because we're alive,” said Lula. “Safe.”

“No one's safe,” said Zeke. “Full moon.”

L
ula had to grab the banister on her way upstairs. Maybe that was why the wine cost so much, for waiting politely until you got home to slam you against the wall. Lula sat on the edge of her bed. Beyond her tented fingers, the revolving room picked up speed. A bath would feel nice, a cold bath, shocking the dizziness out of her, boiling off the alcohol just to keep warm. Hand over hand, she made her way to the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid.

Something was wrong. Out of place. The shower curtain was drawn. Lula never took showers. Could Estrelia have left it that way? Lula had taken several baths since Estrelia cleaned. Why would Zeke or Mister Stanley rearrange her shower curtain? Was that a shadow moving behind it?

Lula pulled back the curtain. She must have closed it and forgotten. She was turning the knob that stoppered the tub when she noticed that her soap was not in its dish. Now that was strange. Lula was obsessive about her soap, hand-milled in France by monks consecrated to silent prayer and shampoo. The soap lay beached against the drain, in a milky puddle. A sudden rush of nausea felt like a new kind of thirst that could only be slaked by immersing her body in water. But how could she bathe in a tub in which a stranger might have been?
Might have?
The tiles were wet.

And what was this? A curly red hair inscribed in the gooey lavender skin of the soap. Oh, hideous. Disgusting! Lula grabbed a swatch of toilet paper, and, averting her eyes, swabbed the soap with the paper, which she flushed down the toilet. Pretend it was one of the Lower East Side water bugs, puny wimps compared to the roaches that used to chase her around Aunt Mirela's apartment.

She would have been more frightened if she hadn't been drunk. Alcohol was so skillful at widening the distance between the self that knew what was happening and the self that felt compelled to do something about it. This was not her imagination. Something had to be done. Lula flung open the closet doors, then crouched and looked under the bed. What about Zeke and Mister Stanley? What if the red-headed serial killer had showered as ritual preparation for stabbing them in their beds? It would be her fault. Those guys with the gun, who were they? She had no idea. But she'd let them into the house.

She stepped into the silent hall. Propping herself against the wall, she listened and heard nothing but the distant buzz of Mister Stanley snoring.

A sense of peace overcame her, a feather quilt of fatalism. Let what happens happen. Most likely, it would be nothing. She was tired. She needed her rest. Things would sort themselves out. If she was murdered in the night, it would mean she'd made a mistake. Just before she fell asleep, she had a disturbing dream in which she saw Don Settebello, blindfolded and in shackles, his head gleaming behind the window of a plane painted camouflage green and black, bouncing over the ocean.

Chapter Four

T
he burning coin of pressure glowing between Lula's brows made it hard to remember why she was supposed to feel grateful to be waking up at all. Maybe because she hadn't been bludgeoned in her sleep by the killer who'd left his hairy signature scrawled across her soap. That is, she hadn't been murdered
yet
. It was only 4:00 a.m.

In the darkness, Lula ran her hands along her arms and legs. Unhurt, but for the hangover. Maybe the so-called intruder was a wine-fueled hallucination, a byproduct of rich beef protein and the frightening drive home. But she could picture the red hair, the winking copper wire. Someone's hair was that red.

Alvo's. It was Alvo's.

The possibility that Alvo had sneaked in and showered in her tub seemed marginally likelier than a quick cleanup by some random psycho. So it wasn't so scary. But troubling, she had to admit. And weirdly, sort of hot. It was foolish and stupid to have feelings for your stalker. As Lula got older, she seemed to be growing less mature about boys. At university in Tirana, her sensible younger self ended a brief romance with a guy just because she didn't like something she saw in his eyes during sex. Later Dunia's cousin went out with him, and he held a rotisserie skewer to her throat in bed.

Unless Alvo's late-night visit had nothing to do with her . . . Lula switched on the night lamp and vaulted across the room.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Thank you? The gun was still in her underwear drawer. Then she remembered her money, and a fresh surge of adrenaline propelled her to the desk where—thank you again!—the envelope of cash was where she'd left it. She was deranged to think first about the gun and only then about her money.

They needed to put new locks on the doors. If something happened to Mister Stanley or Zeke, Lula would never forgive herself. In the morning she would have to figure out what to say. Mister Stanley, I made some new friends. I was so happy to meet Albanians, and one of them was cute, so I agreed to keep their gun. And now there's this little detail, they're breaking into the house when we're out. Showering in my bathroom. Bye-bye job, good-bye green card, farewell new American life.

She rolled onto her side and crossed her arms over her chest like a mummy. Both arms were numb when she awoke again at seven-thirty.

In the morning light, her imported soap was dry and smooth, her shower curtain open. Maybe she had dreamed it. No need to alarm Mister Stanley, especially if the hair belonged to Alvo, which it probably did. It was definitely his hair color. Maybe stalking was a courtship thing for him, a New World improvement on the old-school bride kidnap. She wondered if she could ever ask Alvo about it some day, or even make a joke. If she ever saw him again, unless she caught him creeping around.

It was Sunday, her day to cook breakfast for Zeke and Mister Stanley. She stripped off her slept-in party clothes, scrubbed the bathtub, rinsed it, and filled it again. She slid beneath the water to her chin and let the hot steamy bubbles melt away the soreness. By the time she got out, it was like any other Sunday. Sunday with a headache.

Lula threw on her jeans and a sweatshirt, then hurried downstairs, where she found Mister Stanley, drinking coffee at the dining room table, his back bowed over the Sunday paper. Lula made a quick tour, checking for shattered windows, busted doors, anything to track the route that Alvo, or someone, had taken. But there was only the usual mess, the usual sad Mister Stanley. How glad she was to see him. Mister Stanley wasn't hurt or even, it seemed, aware that anything unusual had occurred.

Maybe she could turn this into one of those cultural comparisons that Mister Stanley and Don so enjoyed. In her country, under Communism, if someone broke into your place and didn't take anything, it meant you were in trouble. Whereas after Communism, no one would bother breaking in unless they were planning to take something. Under Communism, there had been nothing to take. Every night, she and Zeke watched a news story about the White House insisting there should be more spying on private citizens. People acted shocked, as they should be, even if it was naive. In Europe, people admitted that the desire to spy on your neighbor was basic human nature. . . . They could discuss this in the abstract, but it wouldn't be long before Mister Stanley realized that Lula meant something specific.

Mister Stanley said, “I'm sorry, Lula. I overindulged last night.”

“Sorry for what?” said Lula. “Nothing bad happened.”

“The drive home couldn't have been fun,” he said. “I shuffer . . . Shuffer? I shudder to think what could have happened. I will never do that again, I promise, never—”

Why was he looking to Lula, of all people, to absolve him? Because she was the only one here. She wanted to give him a consoling pat on the shoulder, but she never touched Mister Stanley, and she didn't want to start now, both of them weakened in body and spirit, both perhaps seeking relief from the damage that alcohol had inflicted on their bodies. Mister Stanley wasn't the type of guy to hit on the nanny, but every guy was a hangover away from being that type of guy. Even a friendly shoulder squeeze was a door best left unopened. Meanwhile, a surge of fondness almost persuaded Lula to tell him about her shower, the soap, her suspicions. It would be a relief to share her worries with him. And wasn't it her duty, as his employee? The impulse hovered in the air, spinning like a smoke ring. Lula told herself: No one's in danger. Relax and see what happens.

“We survived,” she said. “No one got hurt. The car didn't even get scratched.”

“I'll never do it again,” Mister Stanley said.

Maybe she had imagined the incident with the soap. Her father used to say, My daughter Lula has some imagination. He'd made it sound like a genial way of calling her a liar. Imagination was part of what had gotten her this far. It was a tool in the arsenal that armed you for survival.

“Did you see this?” Mister Stanley slid the paper across the table. Another munitions dump had blown up near Durrës.

“Great,” Lula said. “My country is practicing for the future nuclear reactor.”

Mister Stanley said, “You know what it was? A factory full of little kids some gangsters paid to disassemble Kalashnikovs and stockpile explosives.”

Lula said, “I told you things are bad there. You think it's all sworn virgins and blood feuds and paranoid dead dictators?” In case everything fell apart and she was deported for the crimes of her Albanian brothers, she wanted Mister Stanley to know what she would be going back to.

Mister Stanley glanced up. His face reminded her of how Estrelia had looked when Lula marched her into the kitchen to taste Granny's pepper paste. Lula said, “Everywhere seems romantic until you actually—”

Mister Stanley said, “One was never under the impression that Europe's most repressive dictatorship was romantic.”

“It was the hangover talking,” said Lula. “Sorry.”

Mister Stanley's expression was uncharacteristically chilly and removed, as if he was looking at her and seeing someone else. Maybe Ginger.

He said, “You women always come at things from a crazy angle.”

You women? This conversation had to stop before their hangovers exchanged one more word. Lula was heading into the kitchen when Mister Stanley said, “Anyhow, it was fun last night. Don's quite a guy. A hero.”

“A hero,” Lula agreed. “I wouldn't have the courage to do what he does.”

Mister Stanley said, “I don't know. People do what they have to.”

Where had Lula heard that before? She'd said it to Mister Stanley. A ribbon of pain cinched Lula's temples. She went into the kitchen and started separating eggs. The third yolk slipped into the bowl with the whites, and loudly, in Albanian, she cursed the eggs for fucking their mother.

Through the door she heard Mister Stanley say, “Good morning. Finally, Zeke!”

How could Mister Stanley and Zeke sit at the table without even making small talk? Maybe Ginger had been the talker. At La Changita, Lula had often seen mothers and girlfriends propping up the conversation, while the husbands and sons sulked or drank. It was easier in Albania, men and women divided, no one expecting the other sex to say anything much worth hearing. Lula brought in a bowl of Cheerios and an egg-white omelet for Mister Stanley, plates of scrambled eggs and toast for herself and Zeke.

Mister Stanley chewed his cereal.
Crunch crunch
pause
crunch crunch
pause. He said, “I want my low cholesterol back. I want to be young again.”

Zeke said, “Dad, don't be depressing.” The eggs were runny and undersalted, but Zeke seemed to enjoy them. Lula made a resolution to cook more. Kids appreciated it when adults made the effort.

Mister Stanley said, “Did you hear what Don's doing, Zeke?”

Zeke said, “I used to think Abigail's school was cooler than mine, but now it sounds like it sucks.”

Mister Stanley said, “Don pays a fortune in tuition. Here's a guy who does nothing but good, who has nothing but decency in his heart, and that daughter of his, poor guy—”

“Abigail's awesome,” Zeke said.

“What year is she in?” Lula asked.

“She's a senior, like me.”

Lula said, “I thought she was twelve.”

“Food issues.” Mister Stanley contemplated his remaining Cheerios and wedge of egg-white omelet. “Tragic. Speaking of being a senior, Zeke, I got a call from a Mrs. Sullivan, the college counselor at your school.”

Zeke said, “Do we have to do this now? I'm actually enjoying my breakfast. You want me to wind up like Abigail? I could quit eating too.”

Mister Stanley said, “Not only have you not been to see Mrs. Sullivan, Zeke, but she thinks you haven't applied to one college, nor have you handed in the list of colleges you plan to apply to.”

“I forgot,” said Zeke.

“No one forgets something like that,” said Mister Stanley.

“Okay, I was busy. Like you, Dad. And Mom wasn't here to help.”

“You must be thinking of Old Mom. By the time New Mom left, she couldn't have helped anyone much, including herself.” Normally Mister Stanley went overboard not to criticize Ginger. His tone made Lula suspect they might be headed for a dark place disguised as Zeke's college plans.

“I could have helped,” said Lula. The idea that Zeke might not go away to school filled her with claustrophobic panic. No one was holding her prisoner here. She didn't have a contract. She could leave whenever she wanted, even if Zeke never left. Don Settebello and Mister Stanley had promised to help her become a citizen whether she worked here or not.

Zeke said, “No insult, Lula, but it's not like you know anything about the American college application process. You said Albanian girls got into the popular majors by blowing the professors.”

When had Lula said
that
? Probably during an evening of mojitos, junk food, TV, and Lula speaking too freely. It was fun, trying to shock Zeke. Fun, but not very smart.

“You
said
that? You told
Zeke
that?” asked Mister Stanley.

“I don't think so,” said Lula. “We had exams, like here.”

“You did,” said Zeke. “You told me that.”

“You must have misunderstood,” said Lula.

“These eggs are awesome,” Zeke said.

“Have some more,” said Lula.

“Watch the eggs, Zeke,” said Mister Stanley. “You'll probably inherit my cholesterol numbers. It's never too early to develop healthy nutritional habits.”

“That's what I mean,” said Zeke. “This is exactly how Abigail got that way.”

Mister Stanley said, “Mrs. Sullivan suggested we use the Veteran's Day weekend to visit a few New England colleges. She wrote down the names and Web sites. We're already late with this—”

“No freaking way,” said Zeke.

“Lula could come with us,” said Mister Stanley.

“I'd love to!” Lula said. A road trip was a road trip. America awaited her out there. She'd never been farther than New Jersey. She'd never even been to Detroit, where she'd told the visa officer she was going.

Mister Stanley said, “Come on, Zeke. We used to travel all the time.”

“All right, fine,” Zeke said. “Maybe we'll have a car wreck, and I can miss the rest of school.”

“Knock on wood!” cried Lula.

“I thought Albanians weren't superstitious,” said Zeke. “That's what you're always saying, but then you knock on wood.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” his father said. “Even Protestants believe that.”

M
onday was cold but sunny, and Lula decided to take a walk. After a full weekend of Zeke and Mister Stanley, it would be pleasant to sit and read in the cozy library with the steam pipes clanking. And she didn't want to stay home. She knew the feeling would pass, especially if nothing else happened, but for now the idea of a stranger using her shower had spoiled her pleasure in being alone at Mister Stanley's. Most likely it was a one-time event.

Yet if the intruder was Alvo, maybe he would return. What if he came back today, and she missed him again? She weighed the odds, and chose to bet on the chance that Alvo might reappear. If the psycho stranger showed up, she would have calculated wrong.

Lula spent the day alternately looking out the window and trying not to look out the window. No one drove by, no one walked past but the mailman. The most exciting event was the
plop-crunch
of letters sliding through the slot.

How much mail Mister Stanley got, and how much went into the shredder! The three envelopes that arrived today—two invitations to upgrade credit cards and a charity solicitation—seemed destined for the same fate, but another item whispered to her as it skimmed across the floor. On the thick, hand-tinted, old-fashioned postcard two sepia rock formations rose like craggy penises. The caption said, “Red Rocks National Monument. The Scout and the Indian Maiden.”