“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.”
Then, before Lula could say anything else, Genti got out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him.
“Wait a minute!” Lula cried, as the traffic picked up. Guri’s car, with Genti in the passenger seat, passed her on her left. Both men waved and saluted her. When she looked again, they were gone.
The smartest thing, the most responsible thing, would be to stop and ditch the car. But she didn’t want to do that. She could go very slowly (everyone was) and be extremely cautious. She would finish crossing the bridge and drive into Manhattan. That would be enough for one day. Tomorrow she could do more. She would get her green card. A job. She would get a driver’s license. But what would she do with this big car when she was living at Dunia’s? She didn’t need a car. She could sell it and keep the money. The money would help her move on. But first she would ask the doorman to watch her fancy vehicle while the other doormen helped her move into Dunia’s apartment. Lula would be arriving in the car of a person who belonged there.
Genti had said that the papers were in the glove compartment. But still it would be complicated, explaining to a dealer how she came to be in possession of a fancy new SUV. She would think of something. She would say, I have this Cousin George, a car dealer in Tirana with connections in the States. She would say “connections” or “relatives,” depending on who was listening. She would say, I come from a tribe of people to whom such crazy things happen. If you ask around enough, eventually you find someone who doesn’t ask too many questions. Flirtation and charm worked everywhere, second only to money.
Rehearsing exactly what she would say, Lula, who couldn’t drive, drove across the George Washington Bridge in the brilliant winter sunshine.
About the Author
FRANCINE PROSE is the author of sixteen books of fiction. Her novel A Changed Man won the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and Blue Angel was a finalist for the National Book Award. Her most recent works of nonfiction include the highly acclaimed Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife, and the New York Times bestseller Reading Like a Writer. A former president of PEN American Center, and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Francine Prose lives in New York City.
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Also by Francine Prose
FICTION
Goldengrove
A Changed Man
Blue Angel
Guided Tours of Hell
Hunters and Gatherers
The Peaceable Kingdom
Primitive People
Women and Children First
Bigfoot Dreams
Hungry Hearts
Household Saints
Animal Magnetism
Marie Laveau
The Glorious Ones
Judah the Pious
NONFICTION
Anne Frank: The Book, The Life, The Afterlife
Reading Like a Writer
Caravaggio: Painter of Miracles
Gluttony
Sicilian Odyssey
The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women and the Artists They Inspired
NOVELS FOR YOUNG ADULTS
Touch
Bullyville
After
Credits
Cover artwork by Jack Wittrup
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MY NEW AMERICAN LIFE. Copyright © 2011 by Francine Prose. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition May 2011 ISBN: 9780062079251
Print ISBN: 978006173767
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Also by the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
My New American Life Page 26