I have no idea what he’s saying. Sometimes, just by looking at me, people think I speak Spanish. It bugs the shit out of me, how people assume that. I kind of wish I did speak some Spanish, though. I mean, it’s close enough to Portuguese that I can read it okay, but my pronunciation is for shit, and I barely understand a word of it when I hear it.
“Where is she, anyway?” he asks.
Now that we know Ángel speaks English—messed up as his English may be—and that he understands most of what we’re telling him, Prashanti has Vivi helping out with other stuff—nothing that’s gonna make her puke. More like checking on the inventory of linens and restocking supply closets. She still hangs around for most of the day with Ángel, and whenever someone’s trying to tell him something important, we make sure Vivi’s there to translate, but she’s not in here all the time anymore.
I think Ángel misses her.
At first I thought she’d have a fit about all that mundane work. I mean, little Miss Ivy League stacking rolls of toilet paper and stuff. But she’s been totally cool about it. She never complains, no matter what Prashanti throws at her. The weird thing about Vivi is that she does every task like it really matters. Last Friday she was cleaning out the fridge in the break room, which is always super skanky. First she cleaned it really well, with bleach and stuff. She had these big-ass yellow gloves on all the way to her elbows, and a red bandana wrapped around her head. She had taken the top of her scrubs off, and she was wearing a black tank top. Her hair was piled up on her head and all sticking out in every direction and she was scrubbing away with a Brillo pad.
She looked kinda cute like that, if I’m being honest.
She came up with a system, for us to label all our food with different-colored sticky notes before we put it in there. She even went out and got the sticky notes and a marker, and she attached the marker to a little red string so it wouldn’t disappear.
It’s only been a couple of days, but her system is working so far. Maybe it will keep the fridge from turning into a petri dish again. Maybe that girl will start bringing her own lunch—save some money by not eating that crap cafeteria food.
Christ, I’m probably gonna be packing her a lunch every morning too, the way things are going. I need to pull myself together—grow a spine.
“Dunno.” I shrug. “Last I saw her, she was sorting towels.”
“No, I mean, what happened to Vivi to make her sad?” he says.
Oh, so I guess we are getting real here. I’m not sure it’s my place to say, and I don’t really know much. But for some reason, I feel like I should tell him what I do know.
“Her dad died. I don’t know when, but not that long ago. And she and her mom are alone, and I think they’re having a hard time, like with money and stuff.”
“You got a dad?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“And a mom?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve got a mom.”
“You got a big family, I bet.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Too big, if you ask me.”
“Nah,” he says. “That’s cool. Havin’ a big family. I don’t have a family. I mean, one drunk-ass uncle, but he don’t count.”
I figured Ángel didn’t have anyone, since he’s indigent, and since no one has ever visited him—not one person since he got here almost two months ago. But I’m not one to ask questions, so I didn’t know for sure.
It seems like he was pretty close to the people he worked for—the owners of that turkey farm. He talks about them sometimes. I think he really likes them. I think maybe he wishes they would visit. But from what I know about Ángel’s situation, there’s not a chance in hell those people will show their faces here. Everybody here knows it was their negligence that got him in this situation. They used him to cover up all those sick turkeys so the state wouldn’t shut down their farm. He was covered in blood by the end of the day, and I bet those people didn’t even have a drop of it on their own hands. Assholes.
There’s a soft knock on Ángel’s door. I straighten the sheets to cover his scrawny legs, and his social worker, Mrs. Rosales, walks in with a guy in a uniform. The guy looks like police or something. Mrs. Rosales is standing extra tall, like she’s stressed.
“How are you feeling today, Ángel?” she asks. Her voice is all forced cheerful.
“I’m all right, just chillin’ with my boy TJ,” he says. “How you doin’, girl?”
I’m still having trouble getting used to Ángel’s English. He’s got a thick accent and all, but he strings together words like they’re right out of some song or video. It’s hilarious.
At least he didn’t call her “homegirl.” That would have been a shit-show.
Mrs. Rosales is very good at her job, but part of what makes her good is that she is no-nonsense. She doesn’t let patients get away with acting all helpless. She tells them they need to be their own advocates, which—if you ask me—is some seriously good advice.
“I’m just fine, Ángel. Thank you for asking.” She turns to the man in the uniform. “I’d like for you to meet Officer Talmadge, from Immigration and Customs Enforcement. That’s part of the Department of Homeland Security, Ángel. Officer Talmadge has a few questions for you.”
Oh hell.
Ángel doesn’t say anything. I nudge his calf gently. “You want me to get Vivi?” I ask.
“No, thank you,” he says, his voice firm. “Please, no. I not need help. I do not wish her to be here.”
And just like that, Ángel’s English has gone all proper, and a little broken. I guess if it doesn’t come from a song or video, he doesn’t quite have it mastered yet. Honest to God, that kid’s smart. I think he could pick up just about any language you throw at him as long as he can mimic what he sees and hears—I mean, give the kid a couple of Bollywood movies, and he’d be talking Hindi in no time.
“Could you close the door behind you, TJ?” Mrs. Rosales asks.
I guess that’s my cue to leave. I nod, throw a weak smile at Ángel, and head out of the room, closing the door almost completely. Then I take two quick glances down the hall and lean in to listen.
Because Department of Homeland Security? That’s not good.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VIVI
BIRD JOURNAL
July 3, 8:05 P.M.
Scarlet macaw (Ara macao)
Rita is the coolest! Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, she’s bilingual. This amazing creature talks English and Portuguese!
Physical Description: a large red, yellow, and blue South American parrot.
Habitat: native to evergreen forests in tropical South America, found worldwide in captivity.
Social Behavior: monogamous birds, observed to maintain one partner throughout life.
Call: captive macaws are adept mimics of human speech.
“BEM-VINDO AO SABOR DO Brasil.”
A distinguished-looking man who seems to be about Mom’s age steps out from behind the host’s stand and takes my mother’s hand. He’s wearing a black suit, European cut, a white shirt, and a black tie.
“Obrigada,” my mom replies, smiling.
“A senhora fala português!” the handsome man exclaims, bowing slightly and releasing her hand.
“Um pouco,” my mom says. “We picked up a little Portuguese in Ilha Grande, right, Vivi?”
Incapable of producing any words, I stand dumbfounded beside her.
I’m not sure I can handle being back in this place. I try to remind myself that it’s better than sweating it out at the ghost tour, in my nineteenth-century getup.
Last night featured another bombed ghost story—this one a feminist tale of the first female lighthouse keeper, who took over from her husband in 1859, after he managed to plunge from a high scaffolding while trying to whitewash the lighthouse walls. I was three minutes into my carefully crafted account of the challenges faced by nineteenth-century women in Florida when a tourist lunged from the stairwell into the middle of the group, screaming about ho
w a ghost had tied his shoelaces together—which precipitated a fall down a short flight of stairs. Darren was less than pleased with my suggestion to the gentleman that the six-pack of beer he had consumed over the course of the hour might have been to blame for the fall. He gave me tonight off—told me I needed to “unwind a little, maybe.”
Anyway, I’m trying to muster up gratitude that I’m here, on a night out with my mom. And I’m trying to remind myself that there’s no way anyone will recognize me from one night eight long months ago.
“Ilha Grande—a spectacular part of my native country,” the host says. “Perhaps you ran across a cousin of our darling Rita?”
He gestures toward the stairwell, where an extraordinary scarlet macaw poses for tourists. She’s an amazing specimen—all bright red and deep blue, a lovely streak of turquoise along her upper tail feathers.
“Say hello, Rita,” he calls out.
“Hello,” she replies. “Hello. Hello.”
I bet Rita is lonely. Macaws are incredibly social birds, and they almost always travel in pairs.
“And is this your first time dining with us?”
Mom nods and glances over at me, but, thankfully, the host is still focused entirely on her, so he doesn’t notice the way I shrug and wander over to see Rita.
Mom found the flyer on the floor of my car yesterday—50 percent off a full meal, tonight only. TJ put it on the dash before he got out of the car, after I gave him back the mug that he brought me coffee in. That coffee was so good—it made my daily Starbucks taste like burnt dirt by comparison. And, as if bringing me coffee isn’t strange enough, when he got out of my car the other day, he mumbled something about a coupon and me being a vegetarian and probably not wanting it, and then he shoved the flyer onto my dash. He didn’t even look at me when he did it.
Ah, TJ. Pleasant and charming, as always.
When Mom saw that flyer, she got very excited. “I am so grateful for what you’re doing, Vivi—I mean, to keep us on a budget,” she said, grabbing my forearm. “But wouldn’t it be great to have a night out? To eat some meat?”
At Sabor do Brasil? I thought. No, that would be far from great. That would be utterly humiliating, and it might in fact result in some sort of panic attack.
But I couldn’t say what I was thinking because—thanks be to God—Mom doesn’t know anything about my one spectacularly terrible night at Sabor do Brasil.
I’m hoping TJ has the night off. I don’t have the energy for his attitude tonight.
“I have the perfect table for you two lovely ladies,” the handsome man says, gesturing toward the rear courtyard.
He leads us through the entrance to the old house, which has been converted into a tasteful, modern restaurant with just the right number of rustic and artisanal touches—distressed wood tables, sleek white lights, photographs of Brazilian landscapes in brightly colored frames, interspersed with colorful textiles and handwoven baskets. We leave through a set of French doors and emerge onto a cobblestone patio strung with white globe lights overhead.
I had forgotten how lovely this space was—or maybe I never even saw these parts of the restaurant. I definitely don’t remember a gorgeous, smart macaw. But by the time we got here on that awful night, I was already a handful of beers and a few shots of tequila gone.
He leads us to a small table in a dark out-of-the-way corner, for which I am feeling very grateful. He pulls out my mother’s chair and takes the napkin from in front of her to place it in her lap.
Quite the chivalrous one.
“Would you like to see the cocktail menu? Or perhaps a list of our finest wines?”
I shoot a not subtle glare at my mother, reminding her of our deal. The coupon covers food only, and we can’t afford to drink anything but water.
Mom shakes her head discreetly.
“Tap water, or perhaps sparkling?”
“Tap’s just fine,” she says. “With lemon, please, and no ice.”
“Of course, senhora.” He nods, smiles a charming smile, and turns to walk away.
I take my own seat and put my own napkin in my lap.
“Doesn’t it smell divine?” Mom asks, pulling in a deep breath.
The air smells distinctly of burning flesh, but—I have to agree with my mom—in an incredibly mouthwatering way. Maybe she was right. Maybe we did need a break from the vegetarianism.
Five minutes later we are both standing in front of the most beautiful salad bar I have ever seen: hearts of palm artfully arranged on a platter, enormous piles of artichoke hearts, black and green olives, fire-roasted peppers, and sun-dried tomatoes. Beautiful hand-painted ceramic bowls stand filled to overflowing with delicate balls of fresh mozzarella, stacks of sliced tomatoes, thick spears of asparagus, and hunks of Manchego cheese. All I can think about is how much these things would cost if I tried to buy them at Publix. I mean, a single can of artichoke hearts is almost four dollars. And fresh mozzarella? It’s so far out of our budget right now that I’ve learned to avoid the fancy cheese display altogether. It’s too painful.
Arriving at the end of the salad bar, I encounter a young man—a boy, really. He looks to be about thirteen. He’s standing beside a vast array of bottles, wearing that uniform—the same one I saw TJ in the first time I dropped him off for work, the same one I somehow ended up wearing.
I swallow hard and look down at my food, suddenly feeling nauseous. He can’t have been here that night. There’s no way. He would have said something. I would have remembered him.
Or would I have?
“Fresh pepper?” the boy asks, his voice still the high voice of a child. He holds a large wooden pepper grinder toward my overflowing plate.
I nod, and the boy begins to grind pepper over my food.
“Oil and vinegar?” he asks.
I shake my head, not feeling able to speak quite yet. I need to let go of this feeling. No one here knows what happened. No one could possibly recognize me in this place filled with people and activity, where a dozen waiters and waitresses swarm like bees throughout the restaurant.
I make my way back to the corner table, where a waiter is standing, poised, his hand on my seat back, waiting to pull it out for me. His back is turned to me, and in the dim light of the courtyard, it takes a moment for me to recognize that the waiter behind my chair is TJ.
My heart starts to race and my fingertips go numb. TJ looks at me and smiles, an enormous, beautiful smile. He’s never smiled at me before. It creates a strange and not entirely unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach.
“Senhorita,” he says, looking down at the ground as he pulls my seat from the table.
I come to a standstill in front of the seat. “You don’t have to…” I mumble, sounding as nervous as I feel.
“Actually, I do. It’s my job, and my uncle is watching us.”
“Your uncle?” I ask, looking up to see the handsome man in the black suit, observing us.
“My boss,” he says, by way of clarification.
“Oh, sorry,” I tell him, sitting down quickly, putting my plate on the table, and yanking my seat forward.
My mom comes along behind me, and TJ does exactly the same for her—same broad, beautiful smile, same humble gesture of holding the chair back and looking downward as my mother takes her seat.
When she says, “Obrigada,” he looks up at her and smiles for real. Then he darts a sideways glance at me and strides off toward the kitchen.
I wonder what it would take for me to earn one of those smiles from TJ—the real ones. Considering how he acts toward me, I have a feeling that simply saying thank you in decently accented Portuguese wouldn’t be nearly enough.
* * *
Almost two hours later it has become clear to Mom and me that we weren’t cut out to be vegetarians.
I kept trying to muster the willpower to turn the square card in front of my plate from green to red. But here’s the thing: when the card is on the green side, cute waiters constantly stop by our tabl
e, each one carrying an enormous skewer of freshly grilled meat—sirloin, rib eye, skirt steak, delicate little tenderloins wrapped in bacon. And, as if this isn’t enough, they also come by with tiny lamb chops, chicken medallions, shrimp, even lobster.
In short, this meal is a far cry from the rice, beans, and ramen on which Mom and I have been subsisting. For this, I will gladly endure the occasional arrival of TJ at my side, carrying a big stick of meat and an incredibly sharp knife. Plus, he has been a total gentleman all night, so kind and warm.
The first time he arrived at our table, carrying meat, this is how the conversation went:
“I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier,” he told my mother as he gently carved a thin slice of sirloin. “I’m TJ. I work with your daughter at the hospital.”
“So nice to meet you, TJ,” my mother said, gingerly removing the slice with her silver tongs.
That’s how TJ’s cousin Sabrina instructed us to do it. As it turns out, just about everyone working in this restaurant is related to TJ, and Sabrina is our waitress. When she first came to the table, she reminded me that we had met weeks ago, in the parking lot of the Alligator Farm. Sabrina’s the one who instructed us that when our card is green, the churrasqueiros (cute waiters who apparently are also cooks) will come by with meat options. “If you’d like some,” she explained, “just use the small silver tongs to remove the slice.” Or—in my case—slices. “And,” she told us, “if you need a break, or if you’d like to return to the salad bar, simply flip your card to red.”
I did take a short break, for a second trip to the salad bar. I couldn’t resist getting another huge pile of fresh mozzarella and artichoke hearts. But now my card is green again and TJ is back at my side.
“Vivi?” TJ asks. “May I offer you some more picanha?”
I nod, trying not to look too ravenous, trying not to think about that subtle accent he placed on more.
“And remind me how you like it?”
“Rare,” I say, looking down at my plate. “I like it rare.”
“Of course,” he replies, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Flight Season: A Novel Page 12