World in Between

by Kenan Trebincevic

  “I’ll take it,” Dad says, and I stare down at my sneakers, unable to watch him pleading with this guy for a position that’s so far beneath him. He agrees to bag groceries from four to nine p.m. during the week and from one thirty to six thirty on weekends. I don’t know how he’s going to juggle two jobs without a car.

  Late Monday night, after finishing both jobs, he comes home with a bag of stuff balanced on his handlebars. “Workers get a discount on food,” he tells us, unpacking half-priced, two-day-old bread and cheese. It isn’t as good as the Boston Chicken, but I break off a chunk of crust and eat it with a slice of cheddar, thanking him.

  The next morning, he leaves at six a.m. and doesn’t return until ten at night. He’s so tired, he falls asleep at the kitchen table, not even finishing the leftover spaghetti Mom kept warm for him.

  I miss having Dad home for dinner. In Bosnia, he’d get home from work at five thirty, full of funny stories about what happened at the gym, like the time a volleyball player’s teammates hid all his clothes while he showered. Or the tall, skinny guy who downed thirteen rice puddings to win the team’s contest to see who could eat the most. Now the only thing he says about his job is “a machine got jammed.” He never mentions bagging groceries. He just does what he needs to do to feed us.

  While Dad’s at work, Mom lets me stay up late to watch the news with her and Eldin. She needs us for translation. One rainy night, Dad’s late getting home. “I don’t like him riding his bicycle in the dark,” Mom frets. “That busy street is poorly lit and dangerous.” When he still hasn’t come home by eleven, we’re really worried. It’s pouring outside. I look out the window for the hundredth time and see my father getting out of a pickup truck, holding a wet, ripped bag. I run down to help him carry in the bruised tomatoes and soggy, smashed eggplants.

  “What happened, Keka?” Mom asks, helping Dad out of his soaking wet jacket. He’s drenched.

  “I had grocery bags on the handlebars,” he says, plopping down on the chair. “It started raining. My wheels skidded, and the bags fell. The groceries were all over the street. But this nice construction worker pulled over to help. He loaded my bags and bike in the back of his truck and drove me home.”

  I picture my father, helpless in the rainstorm, frantically picking up food that spilled on the road. In Bosnia, he was always in control, offering advice and assistance to everyone less fortunate. Now he’s the one who’s less fortunate. We all are.

  “I’ll work too,” I offer, feeling guilty and useless. “Nights and weekends.”

  “No! Your job is to do well in school,” Mom snaps. “I don’t like that B you got on your last biology test. If you don’t study hard and get As, you’ll wind up on the assembly line at a factory, like us.”

  * * *

  Jimmy and his pals aren’t bullying me anymore, but they don’t invite me to hang out with them outside of school either, so weekends are boring and lonely. I want to call Miguel again, but I’m not sure if I should.

  “Want to go visit Dad at ShopRite?” I ask my brother early one Saturday afternoon.

  “No. He’s working. He won’t be able to talk,” Eldin says. “Besides, I have to study for my SAT test.”

  He’s always busy now, working at the factory or meeting with Leah, the nice woman from Don’s church who tutors him in English for free.

  “Mom, can I ride my bike to ShopRite and see Dad?” I ask.

  “Don’t bother him,” she says.

  “I’ll just go to the bookstore next door.” I know she’ll like that. “And I’ll be back before dark.”

  She nods. “Okay, go read at Barnes and Noble. But be careful.”

  I’ve never biked three whole miles alone in America. I navigate the back streets to avoid traffic, remembering the route Dad and I took. It’s hilly, and my legs get sore. At last I turn onto the main road, Connecticut Avenue. There are no bike paths or sidewalks like in Bosnia, just two lanes with cars zooming by at forty-five miles an hour. I’m afraid a truck will hit me, and I veer into a strip mall parking lot. I’m the only bicyclist in sight. It’s scary but thrilling, weaving in and out of traffic, dodging potential dangers on all sides, like I’m starring in my own video game.

  At ShopRite, I stare into the window and catch sight of Dad in his navy blue uniform. He smiles at the customers as he puts their things into a shopping cart. I look around for anyone I know—if the kids at school learn that my dad is bagging groceries, I bet they’ll start making fun of me again. Then I lock up my bike in front and go inside.

  “Hey, Kenji.” Dad looks surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just riding my bike around. What’s up?” I ask him in our language.

  “I can’t really talk now,” he says, turning to put a lady’s eggs into a brown bag.

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” the lady sniffs, glancing at me. She has on a fur coat and a sparkly necklace.

  “You know I get off at six thirty,” Dad tells me. I look at the clock. It’s only four.

  “Be careful. They’re organic,” the lady says to him. “Last time, two were broken.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait—” I tell Dad as the manager starts walking toward us, looking annoyed.

  “You just had your break,” he interrupts.

  I stare at the rack of gum and LifeSavers. It hurts to watch Dad take orders from a young boss and snooty customers. How can a lifetime of respect vanish so quickly? I can’t wait to move back to our country and reclaim our real lives.

  “I’ll read at Barnes and Noble next door,” I tell him. “Will you pick me up when you’re done so we can ride home together?”

  He nods, then tilts his head toward the door to shoo me away as more people line up behind the egg lady.

  At the bookstore, I browse the shelves and choose a hardcover coffee table book on nature and a soccer magazine from the rack. I love sitting in their café, reading, looking at photos of forests, oceans, and mountains, saying the captions aloud to practice my English. I like the smell of the new pages and the hum of activity around me. With one eye on the clock, I wait for Dad. At ten to seven he comes in with a box of Entenmann’s chocolate éclairs.

  “They’re old, half price,” he says, opening the cover.

  I take one and down it quickly. It’s a little hard but still delicious. “You want one?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Have mine,” he offers. I eat a second. “But don’t tell Mom.”

  Then we bike back to the apartment together, Dad leading the way, signaling with his right arm when he’s going to turn, keeping an eye on traffic to protect me. It reminds me of when I rode bikes with him as a little kid back home.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, I get up the courage to call Miguel again. This time he picks up. “Hey, it’s Kenan. Vee got phone.”

  “That’s great. So how’s your new school?”

  “Rough time at Norvalk,” I tell him. “Got jumped by five kids the first veek. But I punch one back.”

  “Jeez, sorry, man. Everybody here’s been asking about you.”

  “Really? You still vant me to come play hockey and video games?” I ask.

  “Of course! But my mom told me to give you some time to settle in first,” Miguel says.

  So that’s why he wanted to wait a few weeks to call! What a relief. “How about this veekend?” I blurt.

  “Let me check with Mom. Hold on.” Moments later he comes back and says, “Okay, Emily will pick you up on Friday afternoon. You can stay the weekend.”

  * * *

  That Friday, I’m so pumped, I quickly pack clothes in my backpack as soon as I get home from school and then wait by the window for two hours. When their green Jeep finally pulls up at five thirty, I dash outside. Miguel spots me, rolls down the car window, and calls. “Hey, man!”

  Emily waves to me from the driver’s seat. “Hi, love. Sorry I’m late. There was traffic,” she says in her high, chirpy acc
ent as I jump into the back seat with my pal. We high-five.

  “Vhat should vee do over the veekend?” I ask.

  “Basketball, video games, catch, maybe work out some new soccer plays. And watch a movie,” Miguel suggests. “So, dude, you really punched someone out?” He looks impressed.

  I nod. “I miss Bedford,” I tell him. But I don’t admit how much I’ve missed him.

  * * *

  “We’re getting a car!” Mom announces when Nancie drops me off on Sunday morning. “Remember Laszlo, the Hungarian immigrant we met at Don’s church? He’s driving it over now.”

  A short while later, Laszlo pulls into our driveway in a slightly rusty blue four-door Pontiac.

  “It’s ten years old, with a hundred and sixty thousand miles on it,” Laszlo says. “But you should be able to get another year out of it.” He hands the registration and insurance papers to my father, saying, “I filled up the tank.”

  Mom insists on feeding Laszlo goulash, a Hungarian dish, to thank him. Then I go with Dad to drive him back to Westport.

  I remember cruising the Bosnian roads, Uncle Ahmet speeding like a race car driver, one hand holding a cigarette out the window, the other waving at friends and beeping. Now both of Dad’s hands grip the wheel. The car smells like mildew. He drives slower than the speed limit, leaning his head too close to the front window like an old grandma.

  When we get back, Dad decides to drive us to the Trumbull Mall for a family outing. Mom hangs a lavender air freshener from the rearview mirror, and we pile in. Dad’s worried about driving on the busy expressway, so he sticks to back streets, which takes an hour, but it’s worth it when we get to the biggest mall I’ve ever seen, with more than fifty stores full of clothes, shoes, furniture, toys, and music.

  It’s crowded, with tons of teenagers. At the food court, we each have a slice of salty pizza with mushrooms and a fizzy ginger ale. Then we look through the sale racks at Sports Emporium, and Mom finds us hoodies on sale for $8.99. I eye the price on the team jerseys all the guys at school have: $89. I really want a Chicago Bulls nylon mesh tank top with Michael Jordan’s number. If I save the dollars Mom gives me to buy milk at lunch and drink water instead, I can get a jersey like that in eighty-nine school days.

  “Let’s go soon,” Mom says as Dad pays for the hoodies. “I don’t want your father driving back in the dark.”

  We head out to the parking lot, pleased to be able to drive ourselves where we need to go at last. But when Dad turns the key in the ignition, the car shakes. Then it starts to slowly roll backwards.

  “What are you doing?” Mom yelps. “You’re going to hit someone behind you!”

  Dad shifts the gears frantically, but it won’t stop rolling the wrong way. “It’s in drive. It’s supposed to be going forward,” he says.

  “Great. How are we going to get home?” asks Eldin, sitting next to me in the back seat.

  “It’s okay,” Dad says with a shaky voice. “I’ll just . . . try this way.” He backs out of the parking lot slowly and onto a side street, then accelerates. I turn around to look out the rear window. It’s as if I’m sitting in the passenger seat, but with no driver.

  “You’ll get in an accident!” Mom screams. “Stop the damn car.”

  “Then how are we going to get home?” Dad shouts, and he keeps going backwards down the street.

  “You’re going to hit something. You shouldn’t do this,” I plead.

  “Everybody, calm down,” Eldin says, sounding not so chill himself.

  I picture the car veering into the wrong lane and somebody smashing into us. What if we get into an accident that winds up in the newspaper? I don’t know which scares me more: that we could crash or that everyone at school might see an article about my immigrant dad going the wrong way on a two-lane street.

  After about a mile of this, a police siren blares. Dad pulls the Pontiac over and puts it in park, then rolls down his window. Eldin, Mom, and I sit in horrified silence.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the policeman yells as he approaches our car. He’s a young, muscular guy with a crewcut. I’m afraid he’ll throw Dad to the ground, handcuff and arrest him. I flash back to all the times we were stopped at checkpoints during the war.

  Dad looks up at the policeman. “I’m sorry, Officer. The car won’t go forward.”

  “Let me see your license and registration,” the cop says sternly.

  Dad reaches over and pulls papers from the glove compartment.

  “I think the transmission’s blown,” Eldin says to the policeman. “We’re war refugees, new in Norwalk. A member of Don Hodges’ Westport church donated this old car to us. We didn’t know how else to get home.”

  “It’s illegal and unsafe,” the cop tells Dad in a softer voice. “But I won’t give you a ticket. I’ll call the nearest auto shop.”

  “How are we going to get there?” my father asks him.

  “We’ll get the car towed, and I’ll take you there,” he offers. I’m grateful this kind policeman seems to understand how hard things are for us.

  All four of us pile into the cop car. I feel cool riding with him, like we’re in a Law & Order episode, rushing to a crime. “Can we get him to turn on the siren?” I ask in Bosnian.

  “No! Don’t ask for or say anything,” Mom instructs, her teeth clenched.

  At Jon’s Auto Shop, the policeman speaks with the owner, a skinny guy who says, “Looks like I’ll have to replace the carburetor. It’ll take three days. Five hundred bucks.”

  “That’s too much. We can’t afford it,” Mom says, shaking her head. But we have no choice. We need a car that works.

  The policeman’s radio goes off, and he rushes back to his patrol car. “Good luck,” he says as he gets in. I can tell he feels sorry for us. I do too. It’s a twenty-minute walk to get back to our place.

  * * *

  The next day, Jon calls to say that the engine won’t start at all, and he’ll have to charge Dad an additional three hundred bucks to get it running. Then, on Wednesday, Dad pays Jon a hundred more to fix an oil leak, emptying our bank account.

  “He’s ripping you off,” Mom says.

  “No, Jon is a good guy,” Dad tells her. “I trust him.”

  I’m on Mom’s side here: Dad’s too trusting, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. We almost didn’t escape the war because he couldn’t believe our old neighbors would betray and steal from us. He never called out Barbara for stealing from us. And now he’s defending another thief.

  When we get the car back from Jon’s and it still barely runs, Dad gives in and calls Don to ask for advice.

  “Take the car to my place, Westport Getty. I’ll introduce you to my mechanic, Jay.”

  I ride there with Dad that weekend. It’s a half hour away, an automobile repair shop connected to a gas station. Don’s standing at the entrance, waiting for us. I hug him, and he shakes hands with Dad.

  “Sorry about this lemon.” He seems annoyed that his church member gave us such a clunker.

  “I’ll fix it on the house, since you’re a friend of Don’s,” says Jay. “And you come here from now on. Next time you have a problem, I’ll charge you for parts, no labor.”

  When we leave the auto shop a few hours later, the car drives smoothly. Jay’s kindness makes up for Jon’s price gouging, the way Don’s generosity balanced out Barbara’s stealing.

  I used to think all Americans were good guys. But now I’m learning it’s a crapshoot, just like in Bosnia: you never know who can’t be trusted and who will surprise you.

  Twenty-Nine

  Mom rushes into the apartment one evening after work, holding up a letter. “From my mother!” Eldin and I leap up from the couch and sit with her at the kitchen table. Dad’s not home yet.

  “Thank God she’s okay,” Eldin says as Mom carefully opens the light blue envelope. It’s postmarked from Austria. Hands trembling, she pulls out a wrinkled page.

  “How did it get here?” I ask, thrill
ed to see Majka Emina’s loopy handwriting, proof she’s alive. Two years have passed since we’ve heard anything from her directly.

  “Someone fleeing to Vienna must have handed it to Ahmet, who sent it to us,” Mom guesses. She reads Majka’s words aloud through tears, her voice shaking. “‘My dear daughter Adisa, I was so happy to get your letter, I cried.’” So she did get the letter Mom gave to a bus driver in Vienna ten months ago! I huddle closer, scanning the page, hoping she’s not writing to say someone we know is wounded or dead. My eyes skip ahead, eager to find out when we can return home.

  “‘I’m fine, living in a house in safe Bosnian territory with six other refugees. I’d rather be in my own home with no roof than here, where I have to ask to go to the bathroom, but I have no choice.’” Mom wipes her eyes.

  I’m crying from relief, too. Eldin leans in to take over reading aloud. “‘After the area was bombed, your sister Bisera came here on foot to bring me bread. She got shot at by Serb soldiers, but luckily they missed her. It gives me solace that you and your family and Ahmet and his family left. I was overjoyed you made it out safely. Ahmet is not coming back. Neither should you. Our economy is destroyed, schools are closed indefinitely. Nobody’s working, and we’re all hungry. Stay where you are. Even if we win, there’s nothing here for you to come back to. I wish I could join you. Love you always, Majka.’”

  “How much would plane fare cost to bring her here?” my mother asks.

  “We’d have to get her a visa and passport first,” Eldin says, standing up, pacing around the kitchen. “Maybe Dad should call Don to ask how to apply.”

  Mom nods, holding the letter against her chest.

  “I could call the Bosnian embassy here too.” He goes to get paper to write a list of what we need to do to bring Majka across the world. “We’ll save up and find a way,” he promises.