By the time Lula surfaced for air, the smell had gotten stronger.
“Hey, where are you?” Alvo said.
“Right here,” said Lula, demonstrating how right there she was. She had reentered the state of steamy bliss when Alvo pulled away.
“What the fuck?” he said.
Lula turned. A dripping-wet woman, naked except for a towel wrapped around one hand, stood in the bathroom doorway. Lula turned the lamp on full. The woman was smeared with some brown substance that Lula hoped was mud. She was backlit against the bathroom glare, her shadowed face surrounded by a bright nimbus of reddish gray curls. Then she stepped into the light.
“Ginger,” Lula said.
“Who the hell?” Alvo said.
“The mom,” Lula said. “The mother and the wife. The wife of Mister Stanley. I know her only from pictures.”
“You stay away from my pictures,” said Ginger.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Stanley,” Alvo said.
“Go back to hell, hog boy,” said Ginger.
“Nice,” Alvo told Lula, as if it was her fault. “Nice manners your roommate has.”
“She’s not my roommate,” said Lula.
“Your boss,” said Alvo. “Your boss’s wife.”
“I told you, I never saw her before!”
“Then what’s she doing in your room?”
Ginger took a step forward. Proximity and lamplight were spectacularly unkind. Lula didn’t know where to look first, or where not to look ever. Not at the tires of soft flesh stacked around Ginger’s middle, not at the sunken loins and sparse pubic hair, the pouched thighs streaked brown, and certainly not at the grotesque mask of the face in the family snapshots.
“It’s chocolate,” Ginger said. “I had to cover myself with candy to get rid of the sour vibe you’ve brought into this house, miss.”
What exactly did Ginger mean by “sour vibe”? The psychic residue of Lula helping Ginger’s husband and son sweep up the ashes after Ginger had burned down their happy home?
“Chocolate,” Lula said. “I hope so.”
“Disgusting,” said Alvo.
“You shut up, asshole.” With a dramatic flourish, Ginger shook the towel from her hand, revealing, underneath, a butcher knife that she brandished, first at Lula, then at Alvo. Lula recognized the knife. The last time she’d tried to cook Zeke broccoli, it had sliced through the stem in one stroke. How had Ginger found it? It was Ginger’s knife.
“Put that down, lady, please,” said Alvo.
“Please, Mrs. Stanley,” said Lula.
“Call me that one more time, and I’ll cut your face off. I’ll kill you both and let you bleed out on the floor.”
“For your husband and son to find?” Lula said.
“Fuck them too,” said Ginger. “The kid’s a fruitcake like his dad.”
Where was the Ginger who had sent her son those cheerful postcards implying that the red rocks and the clean Western air were healing her spirit? Where had Ginger really been during her circular pilgrimage to and from New Jersey? What had she done with the money Mister Stanley sent, and how had she convinced him that she was getting better? Lula should have been watching the knife, but instead her thoughts ranged through space and time, until the fog finally parted, revealing an unobstructed view of the truth that had been there all along.
It had always been Ginger. Ginger had a key. How could Lula not have realized that Ginger was letting herself into the house, showering in her tub, writing on Zeke’s computer? The morning of the college trip, it had crossed her mind. But she’d instantly dismissed it. She’d wanted to think it was Alvo. And besides, Ginger was sending postcards from all over the country! Little Charmy Puppy had thrown her even farther off, as Ginger doubtless intended. Why would her employer’s wife be leaving her cute wind-up toys? The obvious was now obvious, as it always was, sooner or later.
“The crap you let my child eat,” Ginger said. “Frozen hamburgers! Pizza. You think a mother doesn’t know? You think I didn’t look to see the toxic slime you stashed away in the freezer?”
“We got what Zeke wanted,” said Lula. “We bought what he would eat.”
“First of all, what gives you the right to even say my child’s name. Or to feed him poison.”
“He’s not a child,” said Lula. “And it wasn’t poison.”
“To the mother he’s always a child,” Alvo said.
“Shut up, you Balkan boy toy.” Ginger waggled the knife at Alvo. Why didn’t Alvo grab it? He was as big and male and strong as Ginger was female and weak. Perhaps he doubted, as did Lula, that the substance with which she’d painted herself was chocolate. For now, squeamishness trumped mortal fear.
“What kind of house is this?” demanded Ginger. “I’ll tell you. A whorehouse. It’s Christmas Eve, and there’s not even a Christmas tree downstairs!”
“Please, lady, give me the knife,” said Alvo.
“In your fat gut I will,” replied Ginger.
“We won’t hurt you,” Lula said, illogically, considering who had the weapon. But Ginger was so vulnerable, so old and crazy and naked. Ginger came several steps closer, smelling like chocolate, but with an undertone of shit.
“Hurt me? You already have. Sleeping with my husband, turning my child against me, undermining everything I worked for—”
Alvo said, “So you did fuck the boss!”
Lula said, “I told you. I never had sex with Mister Stanley.”
“Mister Stanley,” said Ginger. “Listen to you. Stanley got himself a real servant maid. A real Transylvanian goat girl.”
“I’m not Transylvanian,” Lula said.
“She’s Albanian,” said Alvo. “So am I.”
“Bully for you,” said Ginger. “I’m from Indiana, but I don’t go around reminding people every five minutes.”
“Albania isn’t Indiana,” said Alvo.
“Enough!” said Ginger. “This is making me sick! I’m not discussing politics with some camel jockey.”
“Hey!” Alvo shouted. “Take that back!”
“Pipe down,” Ginger said. “Wake my son and husband up, and it’s your jugular, pal.”
Lula pictured Mister Stanley and Zeke slumbering in their beds. Her heart contracted with pity for them. For all of them, Ginger included.
Alvo said, “Give me the knife. Slowly and calmly. Nobody panic.”
“Where did you learn English? Watching Law and Order?” Ginger stepped closer to Alvo, pointing the blade at his neck.
“Why are you threatening me?” he said.
“Because you’re the threat,” answered Ginger. “What could this bitch do that she hasn’t done, except two-time my husband under his own roof? Maybe she’s done it already.”
“Have you?” Alvo asked Lula.
Really, that was it.
“Button your pants,” Lula told Alvo. “If you’re going to die, you’ll want your fly zipped to give a more dignified impression of your last minutes on earth.”
“No one’s going to die,” Alvo said.
“Everyone’s going to die,” said Ginger.
“Would you like a robe?” Lula asked Ginger. “You must be freezing cold.”
“I wouldn’t wear your slut clothes,” Ginger said. “I’ve seen what’s in your closet.”
For a split second, Lula was outraged. But it was only fair. Lula had held Ginger’s dashikis and fat pants against her body.
“It’s comfortable. Warm,” Lula said. “My granny made it for me.” Anyone would forgive her for lying about her granny. Granny would forgive her. She would want her to save her life. Lula cringed at the thought of shit or even chocolate smeared inside Granny’s robe. She needed to keep it firmly in mind that there was no Granny’s robe.
There was, however, a gun. That Lula remembered it only now proved she wasn’t a violent person. Loaded or unloaded, guns trumped knives. Her papa used to say, You don’t ever need to use a gun, you only have to show it. What if Ginger had found it? Gi
nger hadn’t found it. She’d be waving it at Alvo.
Not even Ginger could resist the offer of Granny’s warm love against her cold skin.
“Sure,” she said. “A robe would be nice.”
Lula said, “I’ll get it.”
Lula looked back over her shoulder at Ginger menacing Alvo. A stifled sob leaped from her throat at the sight of Ginger’s droopy behind. Some day Lula’s would sag like that. Young people weren’t supposed to know this, but Lula always had. Even her ass depended on her staying in this country. If she signed up at a decent gym, her muscle tone would hold up twenty years longer than it would in Tirana.
Alvo shot Lula a meaningful glance. He probably thought her plan was for him to grab the knife as Lula helped Ginger into the robe. Which would have worked, if there was a robe. He knew there was a gun, but not where Lula kept it. Because, unlike Ginger, he’d never been in this room with the time and motive and opportunity to look through Lula’s stuff.
Ginger was too busy with Alvo to wonder why Lula would keep Granny’s robe in a bureau drawer. With all her snooping around, how could she not have found the gun? Maybe Lula’s underwear had created a magic force field. If so, it was worth the money, even if the silk against her breasts and the tops of her thighs was now a shaming reminder of her ruined hopes.
Lula aimed the gun at Ginger.
“Drop the knife,” she told her in her most persuasive, and, she hoped, least cops-and-robbers tone.
Ginger tilted her chin at the gun. “Right. I’m dying laughing. Shoot me and explain it to my husband and son, then catch a one-way ride to the deportation center.” With a shrug, she turned back and waved the knife at Alvo. “You know what? I’m sick of your face. Your face in its present form.”
What was Lula supposed to do now? Nothing was going according to plan. A moment passed, another moment.
Lula squeezed the trigger.
The retort knocked her backward. Her papa would be furious to see her stumble and nearly fall. The room began to glitter, as if the walls were mirrored, the air bright with flakes of mica. The last thing Lula saw before she succumbed to a sudden, overwhelming need for sleep was Madonna smiling while a little girl riddled her with bullets.
Opening her eyes, Lula smelled incense. No. Gunpowder. Smoke. Ginger was slumped against the wall, stunned but evidently unharmed. No one had been hurt. The knife lay across the room. A trickle of plaster dust sifted from a charred hole in the wallpaper. Alvo grabbed a blanket and gently covered Ginger.
“What the hell?” said Ginger. “Where’s my fucking robe?”
“There is no robe,” said Lula.
“Liar,” said Ginger. “Lying whore. Murderer. You almost killed me.”
The door opened. Mister Stanley saw everything in five seconds.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Stanley,” said Ginger. “Look at me! Your nympho trollop tried to kill me.”
“She had a knife!” protested Lula, childishly.
“Hello, dear,” Mister Stanley told Ginger. His bending over to kiss his wife on the top of her head was the saddest thing Lula hoped ever to see. He picked up the knife and took the gun from Lula, going from weapon to weapon liked an exhausted mother gathering toys after a playdate. With the gun in one hand and the knife in the other, he went into the bathroom, where he left the weapons and shut the door behind him. For such a safety-conscious guy, Mister Stanley seemed awfully calm. But why should Lula have been surprised? That was how he was. His composure was admirable, but she could see how it might have been part of what drove Ginger crazy.
“Hello, dear?” The cruel precision of Ginger’s mimicry reminded Lula of Zeke. “That’s what you say? Hello, dear? Stan, you are so autistic!”
“Are you a friend of Lula’s?” Mister Stanley asked Alvo.
“My cousin,” Lula said. “Mister Stanley, this is my Cousin Alvo.”
“Cousin my ass,” said Ginger. “She and the so-called cousin were getting ready to fuck.”
Alvo rose off the edge of the bed and extended his hand to Mister Stanley. “I’m Lula’s Cousin Alvo.”
Just at that moment a voice in the hall said, “What’s going on?”
“Don’t let Zeke in,” cried Lula.
“Mom,” said Zeke. “What’s that stuff on you?”
“Chocolate,” Ginger said. “Remember we used to have so much fun baking cookies?”
Zeke wore a black T-shirt and plaid boxers. He screwed his fists into his eye sockets like a sleepy child. Look at him! Lula wanted to cry out. But what exactly did she want Zeke’s parents to see?
“It stinks in here,” Zeke said.
“You’re shivering, Ginger,” Mister Stanley said. “Your mom is shivering, Zeke.”
“I’m freezing inside,” said Ginger.
“This is gross. I’m out of here,” Zeke said.
“Somebody stop him,” Ginger said.
“Let him go,” said Mister Stanley. “He doesn’t need to see this. Are you comfortable down there, dear? Wouldn’t you like to sit in this nice soft chair?”
She’s filthy! Lula almost pointed out. But it was Ginger’s chair.
“Nobody come near me,” Ginger said. Propped against the wall, she pumped her legs under the blanket, and ten dirty toes wriggled against the satin border.
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” Lula said.
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” mocked Ginger.
Alvo looked from one of them to the other in such innocence and wonder, no one would have suspected that it was his gun. His loaded gun. He went into the bathroom and returned with the pistol.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Mister Stanley. “How did the gun get in the house in the first place?”
“I think it was your wife’s,” said Lula.
“Fucking liar!” Ginger yelled.
“And the knife?”
“From the kitchen,” Lula said, nodding at Ginger again. The crazy wife had come heavily armed. She wasn’t taking chances.
“Lying scumsucker,” Ginger said, more resignedly this time.
“Thank God no one got hurt,” Mister Stanley said. “My God, what a terrible illness.”
“I’ll say,” Ginger said. “And you know what the fatal part was? Being married to you.”
Mister Stanley sighed. Then he went to the phone and dialed without having to look up the number. He said, “Is this the doctor’s service? This is Stanley Larch. Ginger Larch’s husband. I’m sorry. I know it’s Christmas Eve. But could the doctor call us back? My wife has come home unexpectedly, and we’re having a bit of a crisis.”
“A bit of a crisis?” Ginger said. “What kind of faggot talk is that? And isn’t it just like my husband to send for that fetal pig, that Wannabe Sigmund Doctor Fat Fuck Freud who did such a fabulous job of curing me the last time?”
“You need to get dressed,” Mister Stanley said.
“If you touch me I’ll explode,” said Ginger. “If you come near me I’ll scream murder and rape and all your zombie neighbors will rise from their graves and come running. Hey, listen. Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” said Mister Stanley.
“The front door slamming,” Ginger said. “Elvis has left the building. By which I mean our son.”
“Is that true?” said Mister Stanley. “Did Zeke go out?”
“A mother knows things,” said Ginger.
Lula was sent to look for Zeke, and when she’d searched everywhere and couldn’t find him, Mister Stanley asked Lula and Alvo if they would mind locating his son, who probably hadn’t gone far, and make sure he got back.
“Your coats are on the floor,” Ginger pointed out helpfully. “Dropped on your stumblefuck way to bed.”
“Ginger and I will be fine,” Mister Stanley said. “Just make sure that Zeke’s okay.”
Alvo hurried out to the car, and Lula tagged after him. The SUV still smelled of Lula’s
perfume mixed with Alvo’s cologne. When Alvo put the gun in the glove compartment, Lula felt a deep sadness, as if she and the gun were breaking up after a long romance. Starting the ignition, Alvo said, “Poor kid. I have a little brother that age. He stayed behind with our aunt in Durrës. Big boy surfer didn’t want to leave the beach.”
“I’m an only child,” Lula said.
“Too bad for you,” said Alvo.
“Let’s check the bus stop,” said Lula.
“The buses don’t run at this hour,” Alvo said.
“Just check it.” Lula told him how to get there, and sure enough, they found Zeke huddled on the bench in the shelter.
“Get in the car,” Alvo said. “It’s cold.”
Zeke obeyed without argument. Lula wanted to tell him that he’d be all right, but Alvo’s presence inhibited her, and besides she felt dwarfed by the magnitude of what Zeke must be feeling. That crazy woman in Lula’s room was this poor kid’s mother. Zeke had rushed out in his T-shirt and shorts. Lula heard his teeth clatter.
“I’m blasting the heat,” said Alvo. “You’ll be broiling in a minute.”
As the temperature rose, the mood inside the SUV grew relaxed and mellow, as if they were old friends or even family. Mama, Papa, Zeke. And though Lula was the one who was close to Zeke, the one paid to watch Zeke, the one who cared about Zeke, Papa was in control. Let Alvo have the power. It was a relief to have someone help her carry the weight. Only now could Lula admit how heavy it had been, only now as she pretended that she and Alvo were sharing the responsibilities of raising a teenage son. Borne along on the current of this convivial warmth came the chilling certainty that she would never see Alvo again.
“Better?” said Alvo.
“Nice ride,” Zeke said.
“Thanks,” said Alvo. “Lula’s Cousin George hooked me up with a guy who got me a break on the vehicle.”
“Is that how you guys know each other?” asked Zeke.
“Want to drive?” said Alvo.
“Are you serious?” said Zeke.
Alvo hadn’t bothered asking if Zeke had a license, nor did Zeke bother mentioning that he wasn’t allowed to drive at night. Mister Stanley would kill them. He would especially kill Lula. But eventually he would forgive her for having found his son.
My New American Life Page 19