Out of Nowhere (15 page)

Mr. Plourde had snapped to attention. He knew exactly who this was.

“Hi, I’m Myla,” she said, extending her hand.

He didn’t miss a beat; he took it.

“Myla from the K Street Center?” he said politely. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Myla looked genuinely surprised. She blushed. I’d never seen her off balance until that moment.

“Oh. Well. Hope it’s not
all
bad,” she said, laughing nervously.

“Not at
all
,” he said pointedly, and smiled his most charming Donnie Plourde smile, which, like I’ve said, worked on virtually everyone except for Sister Marie. And Cherisse. Devon. Come to think of it, it didn’t work on any girls at Chamberlain.

Myla teetered on her heels. She turned to me.

“I was actually gonna call you. I was totally out of line this afternoon, and I want to apologize.”

It was my turn to be surprised. I’d been thinking I needed to call her and apologize for being a jerk.

“Yeah. Me too. I was gonna call
you
. Even though I don’t have your number.” We both laughed. “I guess I don’t take criticism very well.”

She shook her head.

“I was out of line,” she said. “Two years ago I was in exactly your position and I was freaked out. Totally stressed. So it’s pretty unfair of me to judge how you’re handling things.”

Two years. So she’s a sophomore.

“I also think … you know, I work with so many kids who would give anything to be in your shoes and go to college that I start to get judgmental. I shouldn’t do that.”

“Really, Myla, it’s okay. I could probably use a little judging every once in a while. Hope I didn’t break anything when I walked out.” She grinned.

“Another jar of that chili cocoa,” she said.

“Oh. Good,” I said.

Myla laughed. She began backing up, returning to her friends.

“Anyway, I’ll see you later, Cap. Enjoy your dinner,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Donnie.” She ducked her head, then sort of quick-step-skipped across the crowded dining room. We watched her go, and once she was seated, Donnie sighed. He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Son,” he said, “you have a problem.”

Donnie didn’t just stay for dinner. He spent the night. Joined us for mass the next morning, and went with us to breakfast at Grandma’s house afterward.

I wonder now, if we’d known what that brunch was going to be like, we might have both taken a miss. That’s because it was the first Sunday after The Letter. First time my aunt Maddie and uncle Paul were in the same room since The Letter appeared in the Enniston paper.

Don knows about my aunt and uncle: their fights are epic. Their name-calling is epic. Like, Paul calls Maddie a pseudo-intellectual bleeding-heart liberal. My mom says that’s his way of saying she went to college and votes for Democrats. Maddie calls Paul a right-wing Neanderthal, which Mom says is her way of saying he votes Republican and hates taxes.

Dad just says they’re both incredibly rude and pigheaded and he’s glad he married the only member of the family, besides Grandma, who is reasonable.

Anyway, it could have been a Sunday just like any other
Sunday, except that in the Friday paper the mayor of Enniston had published a letter, addressed to the entire Somali community, asking them to please tell their friends and relatives who might be thinking of moving here to … not. She said Enniston was maxed out and needed a break from all the new immigrants. She asked them to exercise some discipline.

To be honest, that edition of the paper arrived and made its way into the recycling without my notice. Guess I was too busy kicking Whittier’s ass with the help of my Somali teammates to read the news about how maxed out we all were. Too busy painting the rock, making balloon animals, and sorting cans. I mean, was this really news? Hello, people. Stop by Chamberlain High School on any given day and watch new kids who barely speak English get handed schedules they can’t read.

Did the mayor think she was telling us something we didn’t know? Did she think this was going to help?

Maybe instead of writing letters she could have come up with something actually useful. Like hiring someone to direct traffic in the hallways at our school and steer all the wandering kids to their classrooms.

Instead, we got a Molotov cocktail tossed into a crowded room. A match struck in a gunpowder factory. A Peterbilt kissing a Mack truck on the interstate.

That was The Letter. And that was brunch.

Mom, Dad, and I always go to the eleven o’clock mass. That’s the one with the Praise Band. The good music, as Dad puts it. As opposed to the tuneless choir at the eight o’clock that adds ten minutes to the service with all the extra warbling. The Praise Band’s songs are lively and we’re usually out of there in exactly one
hour, which is good. Timing is important to Catholics. I once met a guy who always found the shortest mass possible. He ended up going every Sunday to the Catholic service at the local hospital chapel. Twenty minutes, start to finish.

My grandmother goes to the French mass at the cathedral on Saturdays at four o’ clock. This way she can make brunch for everyone on Sunday morning as she listens to her favorite radio show:
La Revue Française
, two hours of Franco programming, mostly music. She says it helps her hang on to her French.

Grandma spoke only French for the first five years of her life, which is hard to imagine because she speaks perfect English now, without a trace of a French accent. But when she does speak French, she could pass for a real
Québécoise
.

She says up until the day her mother,
Mémère
Louise, passed, she dreamed in French. But the night after they buried her, after
Mémère
’s funeral mass, the dreams switched to English. That very night. Grandma always tells that story dry-eyed, no drama. She’s that kind of no-nonsense lady who brings in her own wood and doesn’t think twice about driving during an ice storm. Mom gets all teary when she tells it. She’s pretty emotional about the whole Franco heritage thing. Grandma, on the other hand, actually
lived
it.

Anyway, take-out pizza and a night on the pull-out couch, followed by church and family brunch, isn’t a big draw for most guys I know, but Donnie seemed almost hungry to tag along. It had been ages since he’d slept over; I couldn’t remember the last time. When we were little, I think he slept over most weekends.

He was lucky I didn’t kick him out of the car pre-pizza, because as we drove from Michelangelo’s with the hot pies to my house, he started annoying me about Myla.

“She likes you,” he said. In that singsongy voice I hate.

“You saw her for thirty seconds. You can’t tell what she thinks.”

“Uh, you can totally tell if a girl likes you in thirty seconds,” he said. “She was doing that squirrelly thing.”

I almost drove off the road.

“Squirrelly thing? What are you talking about?”

“You know. When they’re near a guy they like, girls move differently. They sort of … you know.” Donnie started doing these contortions, twisting his face into this strange half smile, wiggling his shoulders. I burst out laughing.

“They have spasms? Maybe that’s what girls do around
you
, but I’m unfamiliar with the squirrelly thing.”

“Trust me. I have special perceiving powers. Like, the way I can always tell when somebody’s gay? Even if he hasn’t come out yet, I know it before he knows it? It’s my gaydar. Well, I’ve got girldar, too. And that Myla likes you.”

“Don, you don’t have radar, gaydar, or girldar. You just have dar. Which is first cousin to duh.”

“Okay, so I’m not going to punch you for that while you’re driving. The fact remains: you have a problem. It begins with the letter
C
. And I don’t have to tell you about all the sorts of dar she’s got.”

“Seriously,” I said.

“And it’s gonna start going off like a freakin’ car alarm, buddy.”

“Uh, why’s that?”

“Because not only does this Myla like you. You like
her
.”

He knocked it off by the time we got to my house. For the rest of the night he was actually decent company, probably because he
hadn’t had anything to drink for the previous ten hours. We stayed up late watching the Red Sox smoke the Yankees in extra innings, and because I didn’t feel like driving him home he just crashed on the couch.

The next day, the smell of baked meat and strong coffee greeted us when we arrived at Grandma’s. Donnie had borrowed a clean shirt from me and tucked it neatly into his jeans. His hair was combed back and still damp from the shower. A big smile broke over Grandma’s face when she saw him. She was sitting in her little living room with the starched lace curtains in the windows. There isn’t a pin out of place in my grandmother’s house; even her garage is cleaner than most people’s kitchens. Every fall that garage is draped with long braids of fresh garlic and onions she pulls from her garden and hangs to dry.

“Quelle surprise!”
she said, holding one hand out toward Donnie. He grinned as he bent toward her and kissed her lightly on one cheek.

“Hey, Mrs. Thibeault,” he said. “It’s really good to see you.” He settled into the armchair alongside hers like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. Mom and Dad each gave her a breezy kiss before heading straight into the kitchen, where they knew a large pot of coffee awaited them. As I leaned over to kiss Grandma, we heard my mother exclaim.

“Wow!
Tourtière!
What’s the occasion, Mom?”

Grandma smiled. Her
tourtière
, an amazing combination of meat, potatoes, and vegetables surrounded by crust and baked in the oven, wasn’t usual Sunday brunch food.

“No occasion. Except it’s my grandson’s favorite and I was in the mood. Or maybe I just had a feeling we’d have special company
today.” She reached over and squeezed Donnie’s knee. I seated myself on the couch. “And guess what I made for dessert?”

“No clue,” I replied.

“Maple sugar tart,” she said.

“Oh wow,” Donnie said. He sighed contentedly. Grandma’s maple sugar tart—this mixture of
real
maple syrup and cream, thickened, then cooled in a pie crust—is the best thing ever. She said when she was growing up her mother couldn’t afford maple syrup, so she’d make it with brown sugar, but the authentic
Québécois
recipe calls for the real thing.

“How was your show this morning?” I asked her.

“It’s always wonderful, but I’ll confess I only half listened to it. I switched to the talk radio channel. Everyone was calling in about the mayor’s letter.” I glanced over at Don, but he shrugged.

“What letter?” I asked, just as the swinging door between the kitchen and living room yawned open and Uncle Paul, mug in hand, entered.

“The long-overdue letter,” he said. A bit loudly. He settled on the couch alongside me. His glance fell on Donnie.

“Mr. Plourde,” he said. “Looking wide awake and neatly dressed. Welcome.”

If you knew Paul, you’d have recognized the tone. A certain politeness with edge. Like someone who was either spoiling for a fight or had just had one.

Grandma pursed her lips. She didn’t look at Paul.

“In Friday’s paper there was a letter from the mayor asking the Somali people to please not encourage any more immigrants to move to Enniston,” she said. As she spoke, Mom and Dad joined us. “She said the city was overwhelmed and really couldn’t afford any more new families.”

“Amen,” Paul said, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast. Grandma frowned.

“Actually, I don’t recall the word
please
anywhere in her letter,” my mother said primly.

“As if
that
would make a difference,” Paul said.

“Have you boys not heard about this?” my father asked, surprised. “Weren’t we just talking about it last night?”

“They ate dinner in the den, watching the game,” my mother reminded him.

He sighed.

“Gotta read more than just the sports section, guys,” he said.

“Wait,” Donnie said. “The mayor says we’ve got too many Somalis and they should leave?”

“No, she’s saying we can barely afford the ones we’ve got and we can’t afford any more,” Mom explained. “She’s asking them to … well, what exactly
is
she asking?”

Grandma got up from her chair.

“I’ve got the article in the kitchen,” she said. “And I also think our
tourtière
is ready. Why don’t you all go sit down?” Mom followed her; the rest of us moved into the dining room. Paul carried the Sunday paper to the table, as always. No one ever objects to this. I once commented that if he could read at brunch, why couldn’t I text? To which Aunt Maddie replied, “Because we
want
to hear what you have to say, hon.”

I pointed Don toward my usual spot, next to Grandma. Dad was already rummaging through her sideboard drawers for more silverware and another place mat. I pulled a chair up for myself.

“All I can say is it’s about time somebody spoke up for this city,” Uncle Paul said as he eased into his seat.

“How is picking a fight with the Somalis good for this city?”

Dad asked. “Things are tense enough as it is. C’mon, Paul. Use your head.”

“The mayor just put into words what everybody’s thinking,” Paul replied. “Enough is enough.”

“I still don’t get what she wants them to do,” Don said. “Move?” Paul grinned.

“That would be a start,” he said.

Shut up
, I wanted to say.
For once in your life say something useful instead of picking a fight
.

“Uh … can we wait until after the soccer season is over?” I joked instead. Taking on my uncle wasn’t part of my skill set.

“Yeah,” Don agreed. “The Somali guys on the team pretty much rock. Don’t want to lose them.”

Mom, Grandma, and now Aunt Maddie entered, carrying dishes. I hadn’t realized Maddie was in the kitchen.

It explained Paul’s mood.

The hot
tourtière
was placed on a trivet next to Grandma’s place. Salad and bread appeared; there was a big pitcher of icy water and another of orange juice. A thermal carafe filled with hot coffee was positioned on the sideboard. Everyone sat, crossed themselves, bowed heads for grace.