Sometimes It Snows In America

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “Pay attention!” Mrs. Lucchese warned her, because the streets were still dangerous at that hour. Fatma believed she was more worried about someone stealing the key than harming Fatma.

  Most days Fatma wore a suit or a dress with high heels and a fake white fur coat, as though she were going to work in a bank rather than a pizzeria. She descended to the second floor where the Luccheses lived and then down one more flight to Main Street. Some mornings Pia would be leaving for the university at the same time, in her jeans and black peacoat and sneakers, her long brown hair shiny and smelling of coconut, and she’d walk with Fatma to her bus stop. Over time a short walk adds up to many minutes, and Pia was easy to talk to. She never pried.

  “I can’t imagine living so far from my family,” she said one day. “I envy your courage.” “It wasn’t my choice. Courage come with choice. Like you for choosing school.”

  “I’m not going to scoop mozzarella balls for the rest of my life.” Then, realizing her words were like a fistful of pebbles tossed into the air without a thought for a landing place, she added, “Not that it’s a bad thing to do. My family’s done well, and I’m proud of them.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t clean pizzeria rest of my life either,” Fatma said.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “Be successful business lady, like my mother. Like your mother. You?”

  “I’m going to be a doctor,” she yelled as she sprinted across the street to catch the bus.

  *

  It took only two hours to clean the pizzeria, and afterward Fatma often sat in Little Venezia sipping cappuccino and daydreaming of ways to trick her grandfather and sister to win back Hussein. At that hour the customers in the café were mostly men – old and young ones both, who talked excitedly, their tones ranging from whispers to loud outbursts and even arguments. But there was never any fighting. Some played cards; others discussed serious issues, their heads bowed close to one another; then they got up abruptly and left as if on a secret mission. Others ran in and out, holding newspapers folded in quarters and open to the horse-racing schedule, and through the front window of the café she could see them at the pay phone on the corner, excitedly placing bets.

  Fatma liked living upstairs from the Luccheses and sitting in Little Venezia. She liked being surrounded by people who were similar to the ones she had known in Italian Somaliland. It took away the loneliness that came with liberty. Sometimes she sat there for hours, because all she seemed to have those days was time. She had let herself forget about the rent from the Poplar Street house that her lawyer was putting into an account for her; perhaps one day it would be enough to send Fatma back to Saudi Arabia or to hire someone to steal Hussein. But she would need more money to take care of her son; besides, she needed something else to do. She had never liked being idle. She walked into stores with Help Wanted signs in the window, but she became so ner vous and tongue-tied that her English was more mangled than ever.

  “Do you have experience in flower arranging?” “Where have you waitressed before?” “Are you old enough to serve liquor?” The last question was the only one she could answer yes to, but no one was interested enough to check her identification. “Why can’t they learn to talk English good?” the baker at Sweet Grace’s Cake Shop said to his wife, as though Fatma were invisible. It was exactly the way the Kornmeyers used to talk about her. “You black lady want work in Chinese restaurant?” the owner of Hung Lee shouted for all the diners to hear before bursting out laughing.

  When the manager at Juicy Burger asked if she could assemble forty-five burgers in ten minutes during their peak hours, with no chitchatting, she landed another job in America.

  On her first day she had just sprinkled onions over ketchup and begun laying down the pickle slices when she heard a familiar cackle at the register behind her. She looked up to see Elsa Martinez paying for her lunch.

  “Fatma!” She waved.

  Fatma went back to building her hamburger. When her shift ended at two, Elsa was waiting for her. “Where you been, chica?” she said, throwing her arms around

  Fatma.

  “Where you been?” Fatma pulled away.

  “I’m sorry. I had to go away for a while. What? You think it’s because of what we did that night? Don’t be silly. I forgive you.”

  Fatma grew hot with embarrassment and anger as her co-workers watched them. Then Elsa put her face close to Fatma and whispered, “I got into a little trouble, that’s all.” Returning to full volume, she went on, “You look good, chica! You’re not back with Daniel, are you? How long you been working here? Maybe you can get me a job.”

  In Kenya they say you can live without a brother but not without a friend.

  Even though she’d been hurt by Elsa, she thought how nice it would be to have a friend again, one she could actually do things with and not just walk to work with, one whose unpredictability was like a big surprise package.

  “Come on, chica. Let’s go to the movies. My treat. There’s a good action picture around the corner. A lot of fighting and hardly no talking. Real easy to understand. Just like you like.”

  And Elsa was right. It was just like Fatma liked.

  Columbus Day

  There began to be days when Fatma did not walk to the bus stop with Pia, days when she barely made it to work because she had been up late the night before drinking with Elsa at the Royal Lion on Gaylord Street. The Royal Lion had a few tables, one disgusting bathroom, and a window lit up with BUDWEISER – KING OF BEER in neon. Even beer wants to rule the world, Fatma thought when Elsa had first taken her there. The small white cinder-block building was surrounded by a chain-link fence. No running in or out of bar. Service for paying customers only painted on the door announced the caliber of its clientele, the familiar faces of people who were becoming her friends.

  When Fatma had first met Mrs. Lucchese, she thought her nose was too bumpy and way too long for her to be considered attractive, but after a while she didn’t notice her nose anymore. Her voice was what struck Fatma with a reprimanding tone that made a simple Have a nice day an order, as though she was mad at the world. There were days when Fatma emerged from her flat and heard Mrs. Lucchese disapprovingly call her la dormiglione – which she gathered meant something about her sleeping late – to Sal, who would be wiping down a counter or the glass beverage case. Days when Fatma felt vulnerable among the crowds of dark suits and long coats that poured out of the office towers. Days when she felt naked alongside figures who held portfolios securely under their arms, tight against their bodies like Turkish towels, as they scurried across Main Street to the courthouse or to lunch at Casa Lisa. Days when she wanted to run back into the safety of the dark and seedy Royal Lion.

  Sometimes Mrs. Lucchese caught her returning home at six in the morning, as the energetic woman and son were getting ready to open for the day. Fatma would try to sneak into the doorway so she could shower and change before she picked up the key to the pizzeria. She sneaked because she knew what the older woman must have been thinking about her – what Auntie would have thought of her. But Mrs. Lucchese always saw Fatma and motioned for her to come into the store, handing her an eggplant panini left over from yesterday or the fatty end of a slab of prosciutto. As Fatma took it Mrs. Lucchese would cast an accusing eye at her and slowly shake her head. It’s not nice, her look said, for a young woman to be out at all hours of the night. Where’s your family? Where’s your mother?

  *

  On one of those lazy mornings the trees on Main Street blazed like a brush fire – red, orange, and gold. Something was different about this particular day, however. Something was happening in Rockfield, something that people were beginning to position themselves for. Seated at the curb in beach chairs, with jugs of drinks at their sides and squirming children waving miniature Italian flags, they scanned the empty street as though a movie were about to begin. They kept coming, carr ying bags of popcorn and cups of coffee, forming a giant snake that wound itself around S
tate Street and up the hill. The police were there too, setting up barricades and rerouting traffic. Fatma could hear distant drums rolling like a thunderstorm. People craned their necks to see up the hill and around the corner. Down the street came a large group of men holding a purple Knights of Columbus banner; the mayor, waving, walked behind them. A group of marching teenagers played shiny brass instruments. Then a float carr ying a strange-looking ship made its way down the hill. A short man in a velvet jacket, tights, and a big plumed hat waved from a platform on deck.

  “Mira, Cristóbal Colón.” A young man pointed; a toddler sat on his shoulders, its legs curling around the man’s neck like a boa. “Y la Santa María.”

  “It’s not the real one,” his wife said, holding another child’s hand.

  “No shit,” the man said annoyed.

  Of course. The Columbus Day parade. Daniel had taken Fatma to see it her first year in America. The dislocation happened some weekends: there were days when she felt she was living her life inside out, when she lost track of time and purpose; days when only the ringing of the church bell signaling the Masses at Our Lady of Mount Carmel reminded her of the hour.

  She stepped into Little Venezia for a double espresso to help her wake up, and glanced down at a newspaper left on the table. Somalia Faces Serious Food Shortages as Civil War Rages. She saw the word Somalia. She had heard it at the Royal Lion during the late news broadcast. The other patrons’ eyes would find hers. They’d jerk their liquor-logged heads in the direction of the TV on the wall behind the bar when a green spot on a map of Africa appeared for thirty seconds, as if to say, Here you go, Fatma. You’re on. This is about you.

  Somalia. The word wandered around her brain like a nomad roaming the dry plains. Her throat became parched; she took a sip of the coffee – no relief. She tried to focus on the narrow column and she read slowly, syllable by syllable:

  A major humanitarian crisis has arisen in rural Somalia, especially around Bardera and Baidoa in the south, largely due to the destruction of relief food stocks in April of this year by the remaining forces of former President Ahmad Siad Adan. The number dead from starvation is already estimated at 300,000. The escalation of fighting between ruling clans continues to keep the country in a state of anarchy. The UN’s slow response to the crisis and failure to stop the fighting has been widely criticized ...

  She couldn’t read any more because her Mombasa eye was tearing all over again and the print blurring. In fact, both of her eyes were tearing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to Auntie. How sad and disappointed in Fatma Auntie must have been not to hear from her. She tried to recall her brothers and sisters: there were twelve – no, thirteen. She counted them on her fingers as she named each one. She tried to imagine the lives of those left in Somalia.

  Three women around Auntie’s age were sitting at a table behind her. She watched their images in the smoky mirrors on the wall supported by marble arches while she listened to their conversation. They had probably just been to Stella’s Beauty Salon up the street for their weekly wash and set, because their blond, red, and black hair looked like lacquered helmets. Dyed helmets, of course: had to be, at their age. Each picked at pastry, poking their forks into the sfogliatelle or cannolo or rum babba in front of them as though searching for a hidden prize. “I like Gloria. She’s nice. You think she ever calls me?” the redhead said. “She goes to Friendly’s. You think she ever asks me to come along?”

  “I used to see her in church at confession on Saturdays,” the blonde said. “That’s when confession meant something. Now they’ve made it so easy no one wants to go.”

  “Nancy Reagan was on Charlie Rose the other night,” the brunette said.

  Fatma had trouble following their conversation. She blamed her less-than-perfect English, never considering that the enormous amount of alcohol she consumed each night was slowing down her brain.

  “They say Reagan has Alzheimer’s,” the redhead said.

  “That’s tragic,” the blonde said. “To lose your mind. A lot of things happen to us when we get old, but to lose your mind ...”

  Maybe I have Alzheimers, Fatma thought.

  “At least she’ll have help to take care of him,” the brunette said. “What would we do?”

  Who would have help? Gloria?

  “Imagine, a president! With such a sharp mind! It’s a pity.” The redhead shook her head.

  “I write everything down now,” the brunette said. “Everything. And I take vitamin E.”

  Fatma wondered if vitamin E would sober her up faster than a cup of coffee.

  “What time is it? We’re missing the parade,” the blonde said, and they began to gather sweaters and large leather pocketbooks.

  A smiling man strolled in. He was fair, in his mid-to late forties, with wavy brown hair flecked with silver combed carefully in place. Fatma could smell his musk cologne from where she sat. Not as tall as Daniel, he was much more muscular, his upper arms bulging out of his short-sleeved polo. The shirt was lavender. She remembered this because it was an unusual color for a man to wear, and because he was the first man she’d been attracted to since – maybe forever. He was a clean-looking guy, the kind who wouldn’t tolerate wrinkled garments or loose buttons, whose clothes fit him like those of a mannequin in a good men’s shop, who sucked on breath mints all day. She didn’t notice much else, since she was holding a napkin to her right eye to catch the tears. He kissed one of the old men on the cheek, sat down, and ordered an espresso. When he smiled at her, she became self-conscious. She got up to leave, remembering she and Elsa had talked about meeting up for the parade.

  “Buongiorno,” the old men said as Fatma passed by.

  She nodded, trying not to meet the gray eyes of the younger man. “Miss!” one of the women called out. She was pointing

  to the leopard-print shoulder bag Fatma had left hanging on the back of her chair, and Fatma’s armpits tingled with embarrassment. The younger man’s smile broke into a grin; he had enjoyed unner ving her.

  *

  “I don’t like the way you sound,” Auntie said when Fatma phoned. “You sound tired. You are working too hard. Are you sick?”

  Then she told Fatma that Uncle Ahmad’s government had collapsed. That the Somali embassy in Washington had closed. That Ahmad, having been refused asylum in Kenya, fled to Nigeria. And that Somalia – and her family – was starving.

  “Come home, binti,” she pleaded. “Soon, Mama.”

  *

  Elsa and Fatma were eating fried dough later that afternoon, just enjoying the crowd, when a Jamaican man in khaki slacks and a crisp white-collared shirt approached them. Blacks in Rockfield believed that Jamaicans were after their jobs, so they treated them badly. But Fatma got along with Jamaicans, because she was also a foreigner who didn’t feel accepted by the other blacks in Rockfield.

  “How are you, Elsa?” he asked in a heavy Jamaican accent. “Who’s that?” Fatma asked after he’d passed.

  “A friend.”

  “Why you don’t introduce me?” “I forgot.”

  “Who is he, Elsa?”

  “You remember when you did me that favor when you were working with the airlines? Well, that’s who paid you.”

  “You never tell me what’s in package.”

  “Ay coño, sometimes you really are a stupid African. I don’t know why I even bother with you.” She took a drag on her cigarette, threw it down on the sidewalk, and left it burning.

  On a good day Elsa was full of compassion. On a bad day she could slice you like a switchblade. Relationships, Fatma was learning, were like that, with many turning points – little sparks of truth – that bring two people closer together or drive a stake between them. Either way, from that moment on, everything is different.

  “He’s a dealer,” she said. “I used to work for him. But then

  I got into trouble. Where do you think I was when I was away?” “I think – ”

  “You thought I got mad at
you for feeling me up.” She laughed. “I kind of enjoyed it. But we’re done with that, right?” she quickly added, her expression sober. Fatma wouldn’t have minded being intimate with Elsa again, but it had been more important to keep her friendship. What interested her now was the fact that this good-looking, polite Jamaican was working a job that made a lot of money. She often believed that what Elsa liked about her was the fact that she knew her way around better than Fatma did, that she could speak English better, and that she could be the leader. But even though Fatma couldn’t express herself as well as she would have liked, there were things she understood that Elsa could never begin to comprehend. Daniel had appreciated this quality in her and sought to cultivate it, but she was looking for someone who wanted to be with her, not someone who wanted to make her better.

  It seemed to Fatma that this might be a way to make more money – to bring her son back sooner, to help her family in Somalia, she rationalized, knowing full well that Iblis was surfacing again, bringing out the greed in her and filling her with false pride, the belief that she was ever so clever, cleverer than Elsa, clever enough to get away with something in America.

  “Can you introduce me?” she asked Elsa.

  *

  The moment Fatma met India, she knew she wanted her as a friend. She was different from Elsa – different from the rest of the women she worked with at Juicy Burger, different from the crowd at the Royal Lion. She was tall and straight, thin and elegant, and she was black like Fatma.