I scared you, didn’t I? he says, his smile making like it will chase his ears away. I don’t tell him that what scared me was my own daydreaming.
Do you want to work this weekend? Brian just called and canceled, no explanation whatsoever, Jim says. I am still thinking of my old self doing bottles so I say no inside my head, but then I hear my mouth say yes. It’s summer, so I have to pick up as many hours as I can; next fall I start at the community college and Aunt Fostalina is having me save for it. I don’t know, the way she talks about how expensive college is for foreign students and stuff, it’s like maybe you’re trying to buy a country or something.
Great, I’m gonna go ahead and put you on the schedule, he says, already walking back to the store. Then he pauses by the door.
You know what, Darling? You are a great kid. You are not like rest of them; you’re different, Jim says. The double doors open and close like a mouth, swallowing him.
Yeah, he’s right, Megan says. She has put the phone away again and is now just sitting there with legs crossed at the ankles, smoking and looking at the passing cars.
I mean, you’re like all the other kids and all but then you’re still different. You’re not full of shit. It’s an African thing, ain’t it? My cousin is dating this guy from one of them little islands in Africa and he is the sweetest guy I ever seen. Nothing like this son of a bitch, who can’t even keep a damn appointment, she says, kicking her purse.
Hmmn, I say. I’m not even listening to Megan; I’m thinking about how if I had a choice, I too would refuse to work on the nasty bottles. When Aunt Fostalina first talked to me about getting a job, I laughed.
You think it’s funny? she said.
I’m not even an adult, what will I be working for? I said. I remember she didn’t answer, how she just sat at the kitchen table sipping rooibos tea and poring over her bills, brows perpetually furrowed like Frida Kahlo had painted the frown there before she died.
I know we won’t be going straight home and I don’t ask where we are going. After TK was sent to Afghanistan, Uncle Kojo was fine at first, and then he wasn’t. Now he has this thing about traveling, about being on the road; whenever he gets behind the wheel, it’s like he wants to discover America. He went to the doctor and was told to take some time off, which he did, and to go home, which he couldn’t do; even though he went to college and has been here for thirty-two years and works and his son, TK, was born here and everything, Uncle Kojo still has no papers. So the best he can do is drive around, sometimes short distances, sometimes long ones, which is why we now call him Vasco da Gama behind his back.
We pull out of the parking lot, get onto Main Street. We stay on it for a while, drive past people sitting on their porches and staring expressionlessly at the road the way adults used to wait for the NGO people back in Paradise; past groups of kids who stand in the middle of the street as if they are goats looking for water, the boys shirtless and all shades of black and brown, jeans pulled so low you can see the brilliant colors of their boxers; past girls strutting up and down like they are walking somewhere better than these hard, hot streets; past older-looking kids standing under fierce green trees that never bear fruit.
Instead of proceeding to turn onto Third Street, which would take us home, Vasco da Gama gets on Lincoln. I watch the neighborhood recede in the rearview mirror, the plank houses looking like they are planning to slam themselves onto the ground and howl once we are out of sight. Now the car slows down because of all the potholes. We keep going down Lincoln, down Lincoln, and in my head I’m singing, Who discovered the way to India? Vasco da Gama! Vasco da Gama! Vasco da Gama! And when Vasco da Gama tells me to keep quiet, I realize I have started to sing out loud. I stop the singing just as he swerves to avoid hitting a pit bull wandering around on its own.
We move slowly now, past the old apartment buildings on our left, weeds growing all around. On our right is a baseball field, and these white kids with striped blue uniforms are running all over the place, throwing and catching the ball. The adults are standing in clusters, looking on, rows of cars surrounding the little ballpark like teeth. Now I’m watching it in the rearview mirror, and when it disappears, I realize that around us it’s become all jungle, carcasses of old cars drowning in tall grasses, abandoned old buildings with bashed windows and caved-in roofs and peeling walls. If these walls could talk, the buildings would stutter, wouldn’t remember their names.
I’m not even expecting to see a person in this jungle when the woman emerges. Vasco da Gama is surprised too because he brakes sharply, jerking us forward. We watch her, a tall, thin woman crowded into this tiny black leather skirt and this red tank top. Her hips are yo-yos and she’s walking toward us like she knew all along we were coming. Vasco da Gama has rolled down the windows, and outside, the heat is a steaming blanket; it is engulfing.
She peeks inside the driver’s window and somehow it feels like she has entered the car and filled it with even more heat. When she says, Hi, sugar, I don’t know if she’s saying it to me or Vasco da Gama. Her large eyes look like she could drop to sleep at any moment. I cannot decide if she’s beautiful or not, but she is nicely made up—eyebrows done, lips a light red, fingers painted to match her top.
You got a quarter? she says to nobody in particular, and I wonder what she’s going to do with a quarter in a place like this, what that quarter is going to buy for her. Her voice is hoarse, like she’s been singing at the top of Fambeki.
Then she looks at me and says, You’re so cute, what’s your name, sweetie? When I tell her, she smiles, and it’s when she’s smiling that I notice how beautiful she is, how really, really beautiful. Then the strangest thing happens—she just starts muttering my name like she’s praying it. When Vasco da Gama holds out a twenty-dollar bill, she doesn’t even take it—she’s just standing there saying Darling and Darling and Darling over and over like she’s crazy. It starts freaking me out and I am relieved when Uncle Kojo drives away. In the rearview mirror she looks like a chicken with the feathers plucked off.
When we get home Aunt Fostalina doesn’t ask us where we were. She gets up from the couch and goes to the kitchen, where she has rice and beans and fish waiting. These days she cooks, because of Vasco da Gama’s issue. What happened is that after TK left, Uncle Kojo stopped eating, and at first Aunt Fostalina laughed and said, in our language, Indoda izwa ngebhatshi layo, but when Vasco da Gama just kept on without eating and started losing weight, Aunt Fostalina went online and got recipes from his country because that’s the only food she could get him to eat.
I pick up my Mac and get online; Vasco da Gama picks up the remote and starts flipping through the channels. The good thing is he doesn’t watch that awful football anymore, with those giant men running and smashing into one another over a tiny ball. The bad thing, though, is that now Vasco da Gama watches nothing but the war—soldiers bombing things, soldiers walking streets carrying big guns, soldiers crawling on the ground, soldiers making things explode, soldiers smashing buildings, soldiers in big ol’ cars crawling all over, children trying to dodge the soldiers to play on the street like they are supposed to.
But I know that Vasco da Gama doesn’t really see all this, that he is busy scanning all those faces for TK, even the pretty faces of the Afghan kids. In the meantime TK just smiles his lopsided smile from the picture on the mantelpiece as if he is enjoying Vasco da Gama’s anxiety, as if he will burst out laughing and get out of the army uniform that doesn’t even suit him.
When TK said he was joining the army, I didn’t even think he was for real. He just came one day when we were all eating spaghetti and said, I’m joining the army. I remember Vasco da Gama saying, What did you say? I remember TK looking at him like somebody had told him he was a man or something and saying, I said, I’m joining the army. I remember Vasco da Gama standing up calmly like he was going to the restroom and, instead, slapping TK real hard. I remember the cracking of it, like Vasco da Gama had dynamite in his hands.
T
he dusting takes me too long because there are just so many things to dust and only one of me. Not only that, this house is such a monster; there is the ground floor, then the second floor, then the third floor. My problem is that instead of cleaning like I’m supposed to, all I ever really want to do is check things out—the large piano, the strange fish tank with the colored fish to match the furniture, the tall bookcases filled with rows and rows of unread books, the Buddhas, the masks, all the queer statues on the ground floor, the paintings and art thingies, the long couches, the fireplace.
Then there is the kitchen with the many counters, the interesting fridge and stove and all the gadgets. The winding staircases, more couches upstairs, long TVs and more gadgets, the many bedrooms with interesting furniture and built-in bathrooms, the dog’s bedroom, complete with a wardrobe full of dog clothes and things, the rooms stacked with shoes and shoes, the rooms that are just full of clothes, the gym with the many machines. I don’t know how many rooms are here, how many people live in this house, but if I had a house like this, I wouldn’t ever go out.
The woman who used to work here, Esperanza, left to see her sick mother in Mexico and did not return when she was supposed to, so that’s how I’m here, doing her job while they find somebody else. The owner of the house, Eliot, is Aunt Fostalina’s former boss. Aunt Fostalina says when she first came to America she went to school during the day and worked nights at Eliot’s hotels, cleaning hotel rooms together with people from countries like Senegal, Cameroon, Tibet, the Philippines, Ethiopia, and so on. It was like the damn United Nations there, she likes to say.
Two weeks ago, when Eliot called Aunt Fostalina looking for someone trustworthy, she said she had someone, meaning me, and afterward, she told me not to even think about touching anything because there were hidden cameras all over. When I’m not working at the store, I have to come here, even though I don’t like the idea of cleaning somebody’s house, of picking up after someone else, because in my head this is not what I came to America for.
After I have dusted the obvious things, picked up socks and T-shirts and underwear and towels and magazines left all over the floors, cleaned all the bathrooms and counters and made the beds and vacuumed, I go to the kitchen, load the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. A couple of hours later, when I have done almost everything I need to do and am doing the kitchen counters, the door opens and Eliot walks in with a skinny girl I’ve never seen before but who I think must be his daughter, Kate. Titi, the weird little dog, trots in after them, wearing a pink leather jacket and a yellow bandanna around the neck.
Other times I would have lied and said, Awww, that is so cute, which is the right thing to say in a situation like this, but today I don’t even try because this is too big for lies so I just do exactly what I am supposed to do, which is to shake my head. I mean, this is something else. Next time, I think to myself, this little dog will be wearing earrings and carrying a purse with an iPod and lip gloss inside. I watch it do rounds around the house like it is possessed. Finally, it circles around my legs, sniffing me, tail wagging and looking at my face like we speak the same language, but I just give it a talking eye and say, inside my head, No, dog, you don’t even know me like that.
The dog stands there, and I look at it coolly, to show it that no matter what it does, I will never be friends with an animal, even though that animal has its own bedroom and pink bed and a closet and drawers full of expensive clothes and leashes. Finally it takes off, and I am pleased with myself because I’m thinking it’s gotten the message, but before long it’s back again, this time with a yellow rubber duck in its mouth. It drops the thing at my feet and looks up to me with pleading eyes. When I refuse to budge, it nudges my left leg with its little head; I flinch and tighten my leg muscles to stop myself from kicking the dog. I’m not dealing with you, I say inside my head, and I busy myself with the counters even though I’ve already cleaned them.
Hey, there, the place looks great, Eliot says, coming into the kitchen. When he says the, it sounds like zee—Zee place looks good. Zee pizza is in zee fridge. He throws his keys on the counter, opens the fridge and fishes out an orange bottle of VitaminWater, unscrews the cap and aims it at the trash can at the opposite wall. When he misses, he shrugs, gulps down all the water, his Adam’s apple dancing with each gulp. He belches and sets the bottle on the counter; this man is not even ashamed of not picking up the top.
So how is it going back there? Eliot says. He means my country. He likes this stupid phrase, Back there, and I hate the way he says it, as if my country is a place where the sun never rises. Before I respond he says, Have you met my daughter, Kate? She just came from college. Kate, this is Darling, Fostalina’s niece. You remember Fostalina, don’t you? Used to work at the hotel, babysat you and Joey sometimes, he says. Eliot turns to look at Kate, who is standing timidly just outside the kitchen like she needs a visa to come in.
Hi, she says. I nod and watch her. She doesn’t know this but I already know all there is to know about her, know that two weeks ago she tried to kill herself at college after her boyfriend broke up with her because he said she was not sexy enough, but this is the part her parents don’t know. I know that when she looks in the mirror she sees an ugly fat cow and that she hates her body because it’s not what it’s supposed to look like.
This is why she is starving herself, which again her parents don’t know. I also know that if she cannot get out of eating she goes to the bathroom and vomits it all. It was all in her diary that I found hidden under the bed while I was cleaning her room; I read it because hidden things are meant to be discovered. I wonder how she lives, how she deals with the hunger, those long, terrible claws that dig and dig in your stomach until you can barely see, barely walk upright, barely think, and you would do anything, anything, for even just a crumb.
Kate is glistening with sweat, her long blackish hair sticking to her face. She is not ugly; in fact, I think she is very, very pretty, so I don’t know what her issue is. From her looks, I don’t think she can be that much older than me. She remains just standing there, looking like she needs my permission to move. The dog is now bothering Eliot, jumping around him and stuff, so he opens a cupboard, pulls out a bag of treats, holds one out in his palm. The dog picks it up and storms off.
Are you gonna get something to eat? Eliot says, heading for the stairs.
Yes, but I’m just gonna take a shower first, Kate says. Her voice sounds far away, like maybe it was detained at the border or something. She follows the father upstairs; I wonder where the mother is, but it’s not my place to ask. I watch Kate head up, her Invisible Children T-shirt sticking to her body, bones screaming through the fabric. I pause briefly and wonder what exactly she will do when she gets upstairs, whether she will indeed take a shower or perhaps go to the toilet and do something crazy. And if, before or after that, she will reach under the bed and write expensive nonsense in her expensive diary.
A little while later, I turn around from cleaning the doors of the fridge and she is standing behind me like a ghost. I wonder how long she’s been there. Her hair is wet now and she is wearing Bastard’s Cornell shirt.
You go to Cornell? I say. When I was thinking of applying to college, I was going to apply to Cornell because I felt like I already knew the place, like we had a connection, but then later I saw the tuition and almost died; if you are an international student like me, it is very hard to get scholarships. But still I am excited by the shirt, and I’m hoping Bastard will appear out of the air, that the whole gang will just appear. I start thinking of the things we would do in this neighborhood whose name I keep forgetting. I open my mouth, maybe to tell Kate about Bastard and the others and Paradise, but then I close it; there is nothing to say.
I watch her move around the kitchen like a cat, opening the fridge, opening cabinets and drawers. I busy myself with cleaning the sink, which I’ve actually already done; really, I’m looking to see what she is going to eat. When, at last, she has her breakfast arranged on
her plate—five raisins, one little round thing, and a glass of water—I burst out laughing.
She turns to me with this confused look and I double over. I mean, I can’t help it; I just kill myself with laughter. Because, Miss I Want to Be Sexy, there is this: You have a fridge bloated with food so no matter how much you starve yourself, you’ll never know real, true hunger. Look around you, and you have all these riches that you don’t even need; upstairs, your bed is fit for a king; you go to Cornell, where you can be anything you want; you don’t even have to clean up after yourself because I’m doing it for you, right now; you have a dog whose wardrobe I couldn’t afford; and, what’s more, you’re here, living in your own country of birth, so just exactly what is your real problem?
Later, Vasco da Gama comes to pick me up and I say good-bye to Kate, but she doesn’t respond, which is how come I know that she is mad at me, but I don’t really care because it’s not like I stole her guavas. And besides, I don’t work for her, I work for her father, and I doubt I’ll get fired if she told—next week, I’m supposed to start teaching him my language because he says he and his brother are going to my country so he can shoot an elephant, something he has dreamed of doing ever since he was a boy. I don’t know where my language comes in—like, does he want to ask the elephant if it wants to be killed or something? Anyway, I know I’ll get paid well. Eliot always pays me well, and ever since that Kony video came out, he’s been nice to me like I’m from Uganda, like I’m one of the heartbreaking kids in the film. He has traveled all over Africa but all he can ever tell you about the countries he has visited are the animals and parks he has seen.
We Need New Names: A Novel Page 20
