My New American Life (28 page)

Lula looked away. She felt as if the word
hopeless
was tattooed across Mister Stanley's forehead. In Albanian,
pashprese
.
Pashprese
meant an orphan begging on the streets of Tirana.
Pashprese
meant a family of eight crammed into one room of someone's aunt's apartment out near the Mother Teresa airport.
Pashprese
meant seeing your country run by dictators and gangsters and murderous politicians.
Pashprese
was not the same as
hopeless
.
Hopeless
was American,
hopeless
was Mister Stanley alone in his big comfortable house, working and making money so his wife and son didn't have to live with him.

Lula walked around so that Mister Stanley stood between her and the lamp. She memorized his glowing ears so the image would be available in case she needed it to light her way through some dark corridor in the future.

Lula said, “Mister Stanley, you saved my life.”

“Call me Stanley,” he said. “Please.”

“Thank you, Stanley,” Lula said.

“You're welcome,” said Mister Stanley.

T
he next morning, as Lula folded and layered her sweaters in a suitcase, she heard herself make a sound somewhere between a sigh of grief and a grunt of self-loathing. But why should she feel ashamed? She had meant it one hundred percent when she thanked Mister Stanley for saving her life. And now it was time to
have
that life. When a door opened, you had to go through. Was it paranoid or realistic, half empty or half full, to assume that the door, any door, might not open twice?

Lula surveyed her baggage, her new laptop in its case. In fact, she wasn't so mobile. When she moved here, Mister Stanley had driven her from the city with all her things, but it seemed cruel to ask him to transport her stuff to Dunia's. Could she find a taxi to take all this? Or did she need a truck? She would have to ask Dunia. Could someone come today? Or would she have to live like this, rooting around in boxes of clothes, breathing in the gritty sorrow and shame swirling around Zeke and Mister Stanley, abandoned yet again? How long would it take to find someone to get her out of New Jersey?

Tires screeched against the curb. Lula ran to her window and saw two vehicles draw up, an old-model American car painted a shiny eggplant color, driven by Guri, and behind it the black Lexus. The perfect timing of the G-Men appearing at the perfect moment inspired Lula to imagine even more unlikely events. For example, Alvo waiting for her in the back seat of the Lexus.

Okay, that was too much to ask. Lula watched the two men lock their vehicles, Guri with a key, Genti with a stagy flick of the remote.

It might be fatally stupid, her being happy to see them. She'd assumed they were the same guys from before. The friendly burglars whose boss had taken her dancing Christmas Eve. The appreciative ones who thought she could save him from jail. The grateful ones who could help her move to Dunia's. But for all she knew, the two bruisers hustling up the front walk were the thugs they'd always been, the violent sons of bitches come to punish her for letting them down. They were here to blame her for their boss being sent away. How ironic, how like the corny stories she wrote for Don and Mister Stanley: In the end, the two villains reveal their true natures. Just when things are finally starting to go her way, they beat her to a bloody mess no man will ever want again. Once you let the devil in . . . She tried to remember Granny's saying. Once you let the devil in . . . then what?

But neither Guri nor Genti was talented enough to fake the bright amiable faces they showed her when she cracked open the door.

“Little Sister,” Guri said. “Great to see you! Open up.”

“How was Pennsylvania?” Lula said.

“Connecticut,” said Guri. “Business trip to Norwalk. Open the door, please.”

“You missed all the action,” said Lula.

“Let us in.” Genti's shoulders were up to his ears. “Come on. It's chilly.”

“Why?” Lula asked. “What do you want?”

“To thank you,” said Genti. “I swear on my children's lives.”

Lula unfastened the chain. She said, “As a matter of fact, you guys couldn't have come at a better time.”

Genti said, “That's what I told this lazy fuck. You can thank me for dragging his sorry ass off the couch.”

They waited for Lula to ask them in and offer some refreshment. But it was no longer Lula's house. She was visiting too.

“What happened to Alvo?” she asked. “I mean Arkon.”

“Whatever your boy did, it worked,” said Genti. “The boss isn't going to jail. He's being deported instead. Too bad for us. But he's fine with it. For him it's a free ticket home, where he'll have his pick of Albanian girls. Plus his mom's a dynamite cook.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Lula. “I wish I could take credit.” Had Don made a call, after all? Lula doubted it. Things had taken their course. Some judge came up with a better alternative to the American taxpayer housing and feeding a big strong Albanian boy for the next fifteen years. For the first time since she'd been in this country, everyone was overjoyed about someone being deported.

“Who can say who did what?” Genti said. “Who wants to know? The outcome is what matters. And we want to thank you. Maybe there is a favor we can do for you in return—”

“There is,” said Lula. “You can give me a ride. I'm moving to my friend Dunia's place in the city.”

“How much stuff do you have?” said Guri.

“Not much. It could fit in the Lexus, easy.”

“It's about time,” said Guri. “Don't take it wrong, but we always wondered how long our Little Sister could go on living in this tomb.”

“It's not a tomb,” said Lula.

“It is,” said Guri. “It's the house of the dead.”

Genti said, “Shut up, idiot. A ride is the least we can do. I'll take you and your stuff in the SUV. Guri will follow behind.”

Lula led the guys up to her room, trying not to think about the night she'd brought Alvo upstairs. He had his pick of Albanian girls. His mom was a dynamite cook. The two men loaded their arms with suitcases and boxes. It would only take one trip. Lula grabbed her new computer. If she forgot something, she could get it. She'd meant what she'd said about staying in touch with Zeke.

With the two guys waiting outside, there was no time to get sentimental. Lula went through the house, checking for . . . what? Always when she'd imagined this scene, she'd planned on reclaiming the pitcher she'd gotten from Granny and given Mister Stanley last Christmas. But she couldn't do it. Not that Mister Stanley would notice. But it would feel wrong.

She was saying good-bye to the pitcher when Granny's spirit called her attention to something she might otherwise have missed, an envelope with her name on it, on the kitchen counter. In the envelope were five one-hundred-dollar bills, and a note from Mister Stanley that said, “Not as much as we might have liked, but with all our best wishes, good luck. Keep in touch. Warmest best wishes, Stan and Zeke.”

Dear, dear Mister Stanley. Lula hadn't wronged him, really. She had helped his son. She couldn't stay here forever. She was sorry she had let Genti call Mister Stanley's house a tomb. Even if it was a tomb. Which it wasn't. She wished she'd thought to tell him that living human beings lived here.

Lula climbed into the Lexus.

“Got everything?” asked Genti.

“Everything,” Lula said.

He pulled out, and Guri followed in his eggplant-colored sedan.

“We're both going into the city,” said Genti. “We'll carry up your things. Then we'll be on our way.” Lula pictured Genti and Guri trekking through Dunia's lobby as the doormen watched. She looked in the rearview mirror. Being followed made Lula nervous, even when she knew who was trailing her and why.

A few blocks from Mister Stanley's house Genti said, “Another thing. We remembered you don't know how to drive.”

“Alvo was going to teach me,” she said.

“That was then,” said Genti. “This is later. But I can give you a lesson. You have to drive. You need it to be American. You need it more than you need to know who was the first president and how many stars were on the Pilgrim flag.”

“You need it to be a human,” said Lula. “What human doesn't drive?” She knew better than to tell him, an Albanian man, any man, that there was no Pilgrim flag.

“You'll learn fast,” said Genti.

“When?” Lula said.

“Now,” said Genti. They were still on a quiet residential street. He parked in front of a house and reached across and opened Lula's door. He said, “Get out and go around and get in.”

“Here?” said Lula.

“Where else?” Guri had parked behind them. Through his windshield he gave Lula a hearty wave—of encouragement, she assumed.

“Don't you need a learner's permit?” Lula knew from Zeke that you did.

“No,” said Genti. “Don't worry. It means nothing. In this country, you need a license to take a shit.”

Lula got behind the wheel. Genti said, “Press on that pedal. Lightly! Okay, now the key.” Her hand shook as she fumbled with the key. Lula screamed when the engine kicked in.

“Lesson one, don't scream,” Genti said.

“I won't,” promised Lula. “I mean I won't again.”

“Turn the wheel, ease away from the curb. Good. Little Sister has talent.”

Maybe she did have talent, because it wasn't a problem, going straight and sensing the width of the street. Genti found a parking lot and told her to pull in. Guri followed and waited while Lula started and braked and did figure eights.

“You got the hang of it,” said Genti.

“I don't,” Lula said.

“You'll get it now,” Genti told her. Lula turned onto the street. “Look in your mirror. Our brother is behind us. You can brake if you need to. Our brother has your back.”

The road fed into a bigger road, more heavily traveled. Genti said, “Don't worry, I'm here. I'm here.”

It was what you'd want God to say if you believed in God. Lula didn't worry; she slipped into the stream of traffic, calm even though the sensible part of her knew she could get arrested, she could kill herself, or worse, she could run down an innocent person. A child. But if nothing too terrible happened . . . she was starting to think she could do this. Genti was watching out for her. He would lean over and grab the wheel if she did something wrong.

“Turn right up there,” said Genti.

“Onto the highway? I can't!”

“You have to,” Genti said.

And then, amazingly, Lula did. She was driving a vehicle! She was very careful, and the other drivers saw that, and they spoke the silent language, the language she'd learned from Zeke when they'd both thought she wasn't paying attention. She signaled and glanced and gestured like a person, driving. She found a place between two cars and folded the SUV into traffic.

“The law of the jungle,” Genti said. “Little cars move over for bigger ones. Survival of the biggest. It's why you want a big one.”

It had begun to feel like one of those dreams in which she was driving a car and didn't know how, only this time she did know how. Like one of those dreams in which the airplane turns out to be a safe winged bus that never leaves the ground.

“Take that exit,” said Genti.

“No,” said Lula. “Not the bridge.”

“Take the bridge,” said Genti.

Before her was the George Washington Bridge. How majestic it looked, as solid and grand and permanent as the Great Wall of China!

“I can't,” said Lula. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. You can do it. You can trust me,” Genti said. “Just watch out. Take it slow.”

The traffic was dense, which was fine with Lula, because she could crawl along and concentrate on keeping the greatest possible distance between herself and the car ahead. Let the other drivers cut in front of her. They had a lifetime of practice. She had enough to do, getting the knack of the play between the brake and the gas.

Genti said, “Take the far lane, the far lane!”

Someone honked, but not loud. Lula drifted from the slow lane into a slower one.

When the traffic came to a complete halt, Genti said, “Good-bye and good luck. If I were you, I'd find somewhere to leave the car. You don't want anyone asking questions. If you know what I mean.”

Lula said, “Is the car stolen?”

“Of course not,” Genti said. “I'm insulted you would ask. Fully legal and paid for. The papers are in the glove compartment, signed over to you. Sold to you for a dollar. Have you got a dollar?”

“I think so,” Lula said. She had twenty-one hundred dollars, counting Mister Stanley's bonus. It made her feel so hopeful that for a moment she felt a rush of friendliness toward Genti, though the feeling wasn't warm enough to tempt her into disclosing the reason for this upsurge of good will.

“Can I get the dollar from your purse?” Genti said. “Just to make it official.”

“No, please!” Lula said. The traffic moved again. A station wagon swerved into her lane, and she hit the brake.

“Nicely played,” said Genti. “I was just pushing your buttons. A lady's purse—I would never! Forget the dollar. You'll owe me. Okay, we're stopped again. No one's moving for a while. Gridlock. This is it.”

“It?”

“This is where I get off.”

“Where are you going?” asked Lula, plaintively. “I thought you were going to help me move my stuff to Dunia's.”

“Someone there will help,” said Genti. “I'm getting into my associate's car. You're on your own from now on.”

“In the middle of the bridge? Someone will see you switch cars. How can that be legal?”

“The traffic's stopped,” said Genti. “Our brother is right behind us. Everybody's got their own problems. No one will notice me moving from car to car. If anyone asks, the wife and I had a difference of opinion, and I decided to ride with my friend.”