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 ho
w 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.”
Monday 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.”
The postcard was addressed to Mr. Ezekiel Larch. Lula knew she should leave it for Zeke. But postcards weren’t like letters or e-mail. Postcards dared you not to read them.
Written in brown fountain-pen ink and chicken-scratch handwriting, it said: “My dearest darling Zeke, I hear you’re almost headed for college. There are some Great places out here where the air is clean and the magic isn’t sick and filthy and Polluted. Or anyway, not Yet. Come here for school? College? Kindergarten? Seems like Yesterday. Keep in touch. Love, Mom.”
There was no return address, the smudged postmark was illegible, and the capitalization was quirky, to put it mildly.
Lula put the card on the counter where Zeke couldn’t miss it, then returned upstairs to resume her vigil, watching and not watching for the black SUV until she heard Zeke’s footsteps.
By the time Lula got downstairs, Zeke was reading the postcard. She shouldn’t have left it out. She should have put it somewhere he would find it after he’d fortified himself with juice and a snack.
Zeke said, “College between two penis rocks? I’d rather stay home. Forever.”
“I don’t think that’s an option,” said Lula. “Staying home forever.”
Zeke said, “Dad would like that.”
“Untrue,” said Lula, reflexively, though maybe Zeke was right. Albanian eagle parents pushed their offspring out of the nest as soon as they could fly, but maybe that was just to make sure they flew back after their divorces. Lula had no nest to return to. Problems or no problems, Zeke was a lucky baby bird.
Lula said, “Are you looking forward to the college trip with your dad?”
Zeke said, “You’re joking. Dad and I saw this Sopranos episode before you got here. Mom hated me and Dad watching it, but it was almost the only thing Dad insisted on. Tony killed this guy while Meadow was at an interview on her college tour. Something like that would be cool.”
Lula said, “Something like that would not be cool. Come on. You get time off from school. I get out of the house. We both get a change of scenery. It’s a win-win situation.”
Zeke said, “You’ve never traveled with my dad.” Staring into the refrigerator, he asked, “Do you want to hear about the worst summer of my life?” Lula’s dad used to talk like that, addressing himself to the icebox. So did Mister Stanley. It was strange how men preferred deep conversation with a kitchen appliance.
Zeke said, “This was after eighth grade. We took a family cross-country road trip. From New York to Chicago Mom and Dad fought about the air conditioner. Dad said it couldn’t be fixed, and Mom said that was Dad in a nutshell: Nothing could be fixed. Dad wouldn’t let Mom drive, he did the crawly speed limit. We were in Nebraska for like twenty years. We only stopped to sleep or eat or piss until we got to the West, and then we’d stop at every national park, and I’d get out and kick some pebbles, and my mom would cluck her tongue and say weird spiritual shit about nature, and Dad would give me a lecture full of fascinating facts he’d learned in college geology, and Mom would look like she wanted to kill him. Then I took pictures of Dad and Mom against the natural wonders, and my dad took pictures of Mom and me. Then we’d get back in the car and drive fifteen hours to the next national park.”
“That was your worst summer ever?” Lula said. “Everywhere in the world kids are being kidnapped and drafted as child soldiers. Or blown up in munitions plants. I’ll bet when Don Settebello starts going down to Guantánamo, he meets kids—prisoners!—not much older than you.”
Zeke said, “Don should stay home and take care of Abigail. Are you trying to guilt me or what?”
Lula said, “Okay. Sorry for the lecture. So is that why your mom left? Boredom?”
In all of Lula’s time here, she had never asked Zeke directly about his mother’s departure, and he’d never volunteered. It wasn’t that she didn’t care or wasn’t curious, but she was afraid that Zeke would hate her if he told her. Men were like that, even young ones. Her first boyfriend in Tirana told her his uncle used to sneak into his bed and fondle him, and the next night he broke up with her. Another guy to whom she’d practically been engaged told her he’d stolen from the church when he was an altar boy, and then he left her too.
“I wish,” said Zeke. “To say you’re bored in this house is like saying the sun rises in the east. It is the east, right?”
Lula remembered a grade-school play about valiant Chinese people all working together to feed their population. She’d played the wife of a rice farmer, and in the end they all sang a Chinese song, translated into Albanian, about the sunrise.
“I was joking,” Zeke said. “About the sun. My mom went kind of nuts. One day, I was riding the school bus home, I saw her standing on the corner. From her expression I thought she’d come to tell me Dad was dead. She said she needed to ask me something private. She said, ‘Zeke, pretend I’m a stranger, and you’re walking home, and you see me. What do I look like?’ ”
“What did she look like?” said Lula.
“Like a bag lady,” Zeke said. “But I couldn’t say that.”
“Good boy,” said Lula. “Smart boy.”
Zeke said, “Hey, are you wearing makeup?”
“Not really,” said Lula. “Go on.”
“After that she turned into a clean freak. She burned through two washing machines in a year. They were still under warranty, they just gave us new ones. I had to hide my T-shirts. She shrunk them into doll clothes. She started making Estrelia wear fluffy slippers when she cleaned the house.”
“Poor Estrelia,” said Lula.
“Poor me,” said Zeke. “Poor Dad.”
“Poor everybody,” said Lula. No wonder
Mister Stanley had hired her. They were lucky to get someone sane.
“Dirt and filth and pollution were all my mom ever talked about. Her face would get twisted up—” Zeke attempted to demonstrate. He got as far as clenching his teeth and narrowing his eyes until a shudder shook his features back into slacker default mode.
“She wouldn’t like Albania,” Lula said, just to say something. “For them a garbage dump is a clear mountain stream or the side of a country road.”
“Not here,” said Zeke. “Here you have to be a corporation to get away with that. Anyway, my mom stopped leaving the house except to go to this support group in the Lutheran church basement. Tree-hugging twelve-step crap. That’s when she started talking about working her way back to cleanness.”
“Didn’t your dad make her see a doctor?”
“He did. She hated the guy. He put her on meds she refused to take. Finally one evening Mom sent us to the store for dishwashing detergent and laundry soap, and when we got back she was gone. I’m pretty sure she knew The Good Earth would be closed on Christmas Eve. We had to drive to the Shopwell, which was closed too, by the way. It gave her more time to escape. She took her passport and a big suitcase. Maybe she was nuts, but she was sane enough to write herself a huge check from my parents’ joint account. Christmas Eve, did I say that?”
“You did,” Lula said. “How do you know about the check?”
“I heard Dad telling Don,” said Zeke. “Christmas Eve. Really nice. I wanted to call the cops, but Dad said give it a week. He said that’s what the police would say. Sure enough, a week later, we got that postcard of glaciers in Norway.”
Lula asked, “Do you miss her?”
“I think I miss a feeling from before she got sick. Dad says she has an illness.”
“Sounds like one,” Lula said. She tried to recall the message on the card Zeke was holding. Pollution had been capitalized, she was fairly certain. “Do you think she’s happier now than before she left? Or less angry, like your dad says?”
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