Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  Eduardo remembers the time Susan was advising a young Mexican woman who was due to appear in immigration court the following day. The woman had paid a shyster immigration lawyer who had all her paperwork when he was arrested. Susan visited the lawyer in jail, shamed him into telling her where the young woman’s papers were being held, and drove to a dingy office in San Bernardino, where she recovered the paperwork in time to submit it to the judge the following day.

  I recall the time I managed to flood Todd’s master bedroom carpet while watering a large potted Kentia Palm. The water stain was dark brown, and I thought I’d have to have it professionally cleaned or even replaced. Susan came to the rescue with pails of warm soapy water, an unending supply of towels, and a hair dryer that she locked in position with a giant clamp she found in the garage. Before Todd got home the stain was gone and the carpet dry.

  Once we are done with our memories, we throw our roses into the ocean and watch them float away until their white shapes become indistinguishable from the white crests of the waves far out at sea.

  ✽✽✽

  Eduardo has taken the day off to spend it with me. We’re having a leisurely lunch, reading today’s LA Times. The headline reads:

  “GOP SWEEPS HOUSE; BROWN WINS.”

  “The Republican wave crashing across the nation stopped at the California border on Tuesday, as Jerry Brown won the governorship and U.S. Senator Barbara Boxer claimed a victory that would send her back to Washington for a fourth term.”

  Several paragraphs down, the article comes closer to home. “Granger spent much campaign time impugning welfare recipients and illegal immigrants. Granger’s lack of a human touch was reinforced when his former handyman announced in a tear-strewn interview that the candidate had thrown him out ‘like a piece of garbage’ after he admitted that he was in the country illegally.”

  Eduardo looks up from his reading. “I want to talk to you about the future.”

  “You’ve been distracting me from that,” I joke, “ever since I turned up on your doorstep—when was it?—two centuries ago?”

  “And I don’t want it to end.” Eduardo takes both of my hands in his.

  “Me neither,” I say, finally discarding my habit of first denying what I truly feel.

  “Let’s start with, where are you planning to live?”

  “Good question. I don’t know.”

  After a long pause, Eduardo says, “Jenny, I am asking you to stay on here with me and let us see where this takes us.”

  There’s nothing I want more than to share my life with Eduardo for as long as it works for both of us. But I momentarily relapse into an evasive reply.

  “We’ve only known each other for a matter of days,” I say.

  “I knew Isabella for almost a year before we became involved. A lot of good that did us. We can only find out if our feelings for each other go deeper if we share our lives together. I’m not doing this just to help you. This is really important for me. Please say yes.”

  “Yes,” I say, tears brimming up, “Yes. I would love to share our lives for as long as we both want this. I know this seems premature, but I love you in a way I’ve never loved anyone before.” I get up and bend down to kiss him lingeringly on the lips.

  I break the spell by returning to my chair and say, “But—”

  “I don’t want your ‘buts,’” Eduardo interjects.

  “But first I have to find a decent job.”

  “Funny you mention that,” he grins. “I was going to ask you what kind of job you are now thinking of applying for.”

  “All I know is that it cannot be another part-time, temporary, let’s-get-by kind of job. It has to be worth doing, and it has to pay me a living wage.”

  “And what do you consider a living wage?”

  “A minimum of $50,000 a year, with benefits, and with the prospect of increases based on performance.”

  Eduardo clasps his hands together in delight. “Almost exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What do you mean, you had in mind?”

  “I want to make you a job offer.”

  “What?” Now I really feel that I’m dreaming.

  “I want you to work for the Coalition as a researcher.”

  Just as I’m opening my mouth to reject this as a disguised act of charity, Eduardo continues: “I’ve been in desperate need of an assistant who can take the initiative without much oversight and pursue a project to a conclusion. You fit the job description perfectly.”

  “Well, thank you for the compliment.”

  “You deserve it. Nothing is going to change the treatment of immigrants until we have enough votes to compel the government to change the present laws. I want to find ways of doing that while exposing the false information put out by the likes of Dan Granger. I guess I’m wanting a combination of researcher and campaigner. Are you interested?”

  “It certainly sounds like a job that would combine earning a living with following the inclinations of my head—and my heart.”

  “Great.”

  “What exactly would it pay?”

  “Thanks to you and the check you solicited on our behalf, I can meet all your criteria and a little more. So, $55,000 a year, health benefits, and a performance review after a year. What do you say?”

  My head is spinning. Still, I have the clarity of mind to say, “I don’t think it would be healthy for us to spend all our time together, at the office and at home. Too symbiotic, don’t you think?”

  “That won’t be a problem. Your job will be out in the field. You’ll need to report back to the office one half day a week. Otherwise you’ll either be out talking to people and searching out information, or home accessing data on the computer.”

  “Sounds a lot more interesting and fun than watching videos of workers in pain or faking disabilities.”

  “Then you accept my offer?”

  “You bet I do. Thank you so much, Eduardo.”

  “I suggest you start next Monday. I’m planning to take the rest of the week off. That will barely give us enough time to get out of the bedroom.” He grins at me.

  “We won’t have to leave at all if we order in our meals,” I say.

  “Perfect,” he says. “Let’s start now.”

  ✽✽✽

  Hours later I wake up naked in bed. The Business News section of the LA Times is lying crumpled at the foot of the bed. I reach out to throw it to the floor, then catch sight of the headline at the top of the front page:

  BLUERIM MAKES $80 MILLION IN 1ST QUARTER

  My eye wanders to the bottom half of the page. In a single column in smaller type I see:

  COALITION FOR IMMIGRANT RIGHTS TO RECEIVE $1 MILLION FROM ANONYMOUS DONOR

  MIGUEL

  Ignacio Allende 103

  68120 Oaxaca,

  Oax., Mexico

  November 3

  Dear Mamá and Papá,

  How I miss you. How I miss West Covina. I was such an idiot to take on those officers from ICE. Now it’s too late. I’m stuck here where I cannot even speak the language. Yes, I know I will eventually learn it. But it’s all so bewildering. I feel completely lost. The only member of the family here who knows even a very small amount of English is my twelve-year-old cousin, Teresa. So there’s no one I can talk to.

  My grandparents have been great, welcoming me into their family. They made a small space in Uncle Roberto’s bedroom for me to sleep in. But the house is so small and so many relatives live in it or come to spend the day there. I feel terribly selfish wanting a room of my own. But this communal living that they all enjoy leaves me desperate for my own space. All I can do is take myself off for long walks, which help a little.

  Have you seen Adela yet? Of course, she must have told you how I got arrested. Mamá, I know you don’t much like Adela. But please remember she will be as devastated as we all are at what’s happened. Please be kind to her and tell her I miss her so much. I don’t have her address, so I can’t write to her. Could you ask her
to write to me and include her address? On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t do that. I don’t want to hold on to her when we can no longer see each other. She should be free to find someone else. Just writing that makes me sick to my stomach.

  Tomorrow Grandpa is taking me with him to the fields. How strange it will feel after spending my whole life in the city. I guess it will toughen me up physically. But digging and hoeing and raking is not what I want to be spending my life doing. I was looking forward to working on the computer controls of modern cars. I don’t think I’m the outdoors type. But that’s all I can do for now to earn some money.

  Why is the United States so obsessed with us Mexican immigrants? We never asked them for help getting by. We paid our taxes. I worked my butt off at Cal Fowl. What have I done to them to make them so afraid of me? How can they go on splitting up families like ours?

  I know. I’m asking the wrong people. I wish I could ask the President in person.

  I feel such an anomaly. Like an old man at a rave party. This household feels like one ongoing party. It’s a marvel. And yet for me it’s incomprehensible. I want my privacy back. I want to be able to choose what I do with my time. There are moments when I want to shout at everyone: Go away! Then I feel awful.

  I’m so lost. I miss you two so much. I miss my friends, and college, and Adela, and just sitting up in bed with my laptop open in my own room.

  But what’s the use?

  Your loving, lost son,

  Miguel

  THE END