by Mbue, Imbolo
He placed the briefcase on the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. It was better he remove everything he owned from the car, he told himself. He wasn’t being fearful or pessimistic—it was just better a man be prepared for a meeting that could go either way. Mr. Edwards probably just wanted to talk, tell him something he needed to start doing, or stop doing. The meeting was most certainly going to end with him smiling, chiding himself for sweating even before he got out of the car. But what if it didn’t end happily? Of course it was going to end happily. It was probably going to … most likely going to … but it was best he took out everything he owned and tidied up the car. He searched in the glove compartment, but there was nothing of his in it, nothing he’d tossed in there and forgotten to take out. He’d always been diligent about that, keeping everything he owned, even his garbage, in his briefcase; even though he spent hours a day in the car, practically lived in it all day, he was constantly aware that it wasn’t his car and it would never be.
He turned around and checked the backseat. It was impeccable, as were the mats, thanks to his visit to a car wash just before Christmas. If he had to leave, he would leave everything in a good condition. But he wasn’t leaving. He was just going to have a talk with Mr. Edwards about something. A simple talk. Nothing more.
He put on his gloves and hat, picked up the briefcase, and stepped out of the car.
For the first time in his life he was grateful for winter, for its breath, which was taking away the sweat on his brow. He felt refreshed by the light wind blowing south as he walked toward Barclays in the early evening’s darkness, going past men in suits, some with briefcases, some with messenger bags, some with no bags, probably because they’d left them at their desks, certain of their return to work the next day.
In the Barclays lobby, the guard, perhaps ready to leave and start an early celebration of the coming New Year, distractedly nodded when Jende said hello, and did not ask for his ID. He misspelled Jende’s name and handed him a visitor pass without glancing at him, his attention on the woman he was chatting and laughing with, a female security guard who was swearing that 2009 would be her year, the year she finally got herself a real good man.
In the elevator he stood next to two men talking about their year-end bonuses. Mr. Edwards had mentioned a raise, but he’d said nothing about a bonus. Could that be what he wanted to talk about? That would be very kind of Mr. Edwards, but he didn’t think he needed a bonus on top of a good salary, a raise, and good treatment. If Mr. Edwards offered him a bonus he would have to do that thing American people do when they want something but are somewhat embarrassed to take it—he would protest lightly, saying, oh, no, sir, you don’t have to; really, sir, it’s not necessary; you really don’t need to, sir … and then he’d take the money.
“Good evening, sir,” he said as the receptionist closed the door behind him. Clark was sitting at his desk, writing on a legal pad. He lifted his head, smiled, and, without words, motioned for Jende to have a seat. He continued writing.
Jende sat down and told himself to breathe, because breathe was all he could do.
If there were lights sparkling outside the window adjacent to Clark’s desk, he did not see them. If there were any paintings on the wall, anything worthwhile about this new office, he didn’t notice. The only thing he noticed was his breath and his heart beating like the drums he used to play in his boyhood when the moon was full and children danced in the streets of New Town till midnight.
Clark put aside his writing pad, looked up at Jende, and clasped his hands together on the desk. “I hope you know, Jende,” he began, “that I think very highly of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve been by far my favorite chauffeur … there really isn’t any comparison, by any stretch of the imagination. You’re hardworking, you’re respectful, you’re a good guy to be around. It’s been really great.”
Please say what you want to say quickly before I die, Jende pleaded inwardly, even as he nodded, managed a half-smile, and said, “I am so glad you like my work, sir.”
Clark ran his fingers through his hair. He exhaled, shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. For a moment Jende wasn’t sure what the man wanted to say. Was he sick and wanted him to know what it would be like working for a sick man? Was he moving and wanted Jende to move with him? It seemed as if the discussion was going to be about him, not Jende. But then Clark looked at him, and Jende could see it in his eyes.
“I’m really sorry, Jende,” he said, “but I’m going to have to let you go.”
Jende bowed his head. So this was happening to him. It was happening.
“I’m really sorry,” Clark said again.
Jende kept his head bowed. He had been prepared for it, and yet unprepared. A hundred different emotions overcame him but he wasn’t sure which to surrender to.
“I know it’s a horrible time for something like this to happen, with the new baby—”
“Why, sir?” he asked, looking up.
“Why?”
“Yes, sir!” he said. “I want to know why!”
He couldn’t control himself. Anger had defeated the other ninety-nine emotions, and there was no use trying to contain it. The sweat on his palms was no longer of fear but of fury. “Tell me why, sir!” he repeated.
“It’s … it’s complicated.”
“Is it Mrs. Edwards, sir?”
Clark did not respond. He looked away to avoid Jende’s eyes.
“Is it because of Mrs. Edwards?” Jende asked again. His voice was loud—he couldn’t keep it down.
“There’s just too much going on now, Jende … I’m really sorry. I’m trying to do the best I can … I really am, but, apparently, it’s not good enough, and it’s … it’s all getting to be a bit too much.”
“You still have not told me if it’s Mrs. Edwards, sir!”
“I’m just … It’s a very complicated—”
“Don’t lie to me, sir! It’s her!” Jende said, standing up and pushing his chair back. He picked up his briefcase from the floor and slammed it on the table so hard Clark jerked backward.
“It’s the book, sir!” he said as he flipped open the briefcase and pulled out the blue notebook. He flung the briefcase back on the floor and held the book up in his hand, glaring at Clark as he shook the book vigorously. “It’s this stupid book, isn’t it, Mr. Edwards?” he shouted, his voice pained, angry, defeated, betrayed. “You told me what to write for her, and I wrote it. I wrote only what you told me to write. That’s what I did, sir! So, please tell me, sir! It is this book, isn’t it, Mr. Edwards?”
Clark did not reply. He did not ask Jende to lower his voice. He covered his face with his hands, rubbed his eyes again.
“I only did what you told me to do, sir! I do this for you, Mr. Edwards! But she doesn’t like it because she believes something else, is that not so, sir? She thinks I am a liar. She thinks I am a liar, right, sir? But I am not a liar! I swear by my grandfather that I would never do anything to cause trouble in another man’s house. What I did, I did so you will not have any trouble. And now you will punish me, sir? You will punish me and make my children suffer for doing what you told me to do?”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry for me!” Jende cried, slamming the book on the desk. “I don’t want sorry. I want a job! I need this job, Mr. Edwards. Please don’t do this to me! Please, I’m begging you, Mr. Edwards, for the sake of my wife and my children and my parents! For the sake of me and my family, please, please, sir, I’m begging you … don’t do this to me.”
He sat down, sweating and panting. His handkerchief was in his briefcase, but there was no use pulling it out to wipe his sweat.
Clark opened a drawer in his desk, took out a check, and handed it to him. “Your paycheck for the rest of the week,” he said. “Plus more.”
Jende took the check without looking at him, folded it without looking at the check. He got out of his seat and stooped by his
briefcase, picked up his lunch container and his dictionary, which had fallen out when he threw the briefcase on the floor. After slipping the check into the dictionary, he stood up, adjusted his suit, and lifted his briefcase.
Clark Edwards stood up, too, and offered him a hand.
“Thank you for everything, Jende,” Clark said, shaking Jende’s weak hand.
“Good night, sir.”
Thirty-nine
REJOICING WITH OTHERS IN THEIR TIMES OF JOY AND YOUR TIMES OF SORROW is a mark of true love, Natasha preached at Judson. It shows an ability to subjugate the ego and view one’s self not as a separate entity but as a vital piece of the Divine Oneness.
Neni wanted to tell Jende about Natasha’s message when she returned home from church. She wanted to say that in spite of their circumstances, they should be happy because there was so much happiness in the world and because all of humanity was one. She wanted to say all this and more, but couldn’t, because she wasn’t sure if she believed it. She was hopeless, and there was nothing anyone else’s happiness could do about it.
The Jende who had returned home to her on the night of his firing was a husband pitilessly bowed by life. She had suspected something was wrong that night but she did not deem it right to push an exhausted man to talk, so she let him be. He went to bed without eating, saying nothing to her except that he’d had a bad day and was very tired.
“I won’t be working for Mr. Edwards anymore,” he told her at five o’clock the next morning, when she woke up to feed Timba.
What happened? she wanted to know. Oh, God. What happened? How were they going to manage? How could this be happening now? With the court date only a couple of months away?
Nothing happened, he told her. Mr. Edwards is a good man and has been very happy with his service. He just did not need him anymore.
“But why!”
“He didn’t say why. He just thanked me and said he won’t be needing me anymore.”
“Oh, Papa God. Why, oh, Papa God, why?”
They would survive, he assured her. Mr. Edwards had given him a nice goodbye check which was equal to two months’ salary. By the time the money ran out, he should be back driving a cab in the Bronx. He only had to call Mr. Jones and get his old job back.
“Have we not come this far?” he asked her, holding her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “If someone had told us back when we were in Limbe and I was collecting garbage that we would be in New York City, would we have believed it?”
She shook her head and closed her eyes to release her tears. Timba was cooing on the bed next to them, still living in a perfect world.
“It’s Mrs. Edwards!” she said.
“It doesn’t matter, bébé.”
“It’s her!”
“Come,” he said, drawing her to his chest.
Forty
MR. JONES, THE OWNER OF THE LIVERY CABS, HAD NO SHIFTS FOR HIM. “People are lining up around the block to drive a cab,” he said. “Too many people. Don’t even got enough cars to rent to everyone.”
“Not even graveyard shift?” Jende asked. “I’ll take anything.”
“I only got five cars. Five cars and fourteen people who wanna drive them.”
Jende tried to coax him into taking shifts from other drivers to give to him. “But I used to take good care of the car, Mr. Jones, remember? No accidents. No scratches.”
“Sorry, bro. Ain’t no more shifts. Nothing for the next two months. I’ll call ya if someone calls to cancel, promise. Keep you on standby.”
Neni came into the bedroom as he was ending the call. His head hung so low it seemed in danger of falling off. She sat beside him on the bed.
“We still have a good amount of money saved,” she said, placing her hand on his lap.
“So what?”
“So, let’s not worry too much, eh?”
“Yes,” he said, standing up. “Let’s not worry until all the money is gone.”
He went into the living room, sat on the sofa, and turned on the TV. Less than a minute later he turned it off—he couldn’t watch. To be sitting at home jobless seemed the worst punishment of all. The idleness. The worthlessness. Watching television when others were at work felt completely profane—it was what little children and old people and sick people did, not able men.
“You want me to make you some fried ripe plantains and eggs?” Neni whispered, stooping beside him with her hands on his knees. She was trying too hard, he could tell. It wasn’t for her to save him. He had to save himself.
“No,” he said, standing up and walking toward the door. “I need some air.”
The next week, after a series of long restless nights, he got a job washing dishes at two restaurants. One of the restaurants he used to work for, when he first came to New York, back before he got a driver’s license and started driving a cab. On his first day back a colleague told him about an opening at another restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. He took the subway there right after his shift and got that job, too. With the two jobs, he worked mornings, afternoons, evenings. He worked weekends, too. For six days of the week he left before Liomi woke up and came back after he was in bed. For working all those hours, he got less than half of what he used to make working for Clark Edwards.
Better this than to be like all those people with no jobs in this bad economy, he consoled himself. Still, it was an undignified fall. To be wearing a suit and holding a briefcase every day, driving to important places, eavesdropping on important conversations, only to now find himself scraping leftovers from plates and loading them into a dishwasher. To once have driven a Lexus to executive meetings, only to now stand in a corner cleaning silverware. To once have had hours of free time to sit in the car and catch up on his phone calls, call Neni to check on her day, call his parents to check on their health, call his friends back in Limbe for the latest news, only to now have a mere fifteen minutes here and there to sit and rest his hands or have a free meal from the kitchen.
Three weeks into the jobs, his feet began to ache.
“Maybe it’s arthritis,” Neni suggested, since his father had the same condition. Pa Jonga’s fingers and toes had curled up and out from the disease, and Jende always feared it was inheritable. “You have to go see a doctor,” she said after he had spent a whole night groaning, unable to fall asleep.
He agreed, but where was he going to find the time? he asked her. Besides, he didn’t think it could be arthritis. He was not yet forty, he was young and strong; the pain would go away. A bit of massaging after work would be good enough. So she rubbed them with coconut oil and bound them up every night. In the morning they felt better, ready for twelve or more hours of dishwashing.
She begged him to let her go back to work.
She could call the agency and get another home health aide job really fast. Two incomes would be better than one at a time like this, she argued. He said no—he wanted her home. She was his wife; he would take care of her. He couldn’t imagine her leaving a newborn in a daycare they could barely afford and running off to work all day only to return home tired, overwhelmed, and guilt-ridden. And then, no matter how exhausted she was, she’d still have to cater to an infant, a boy, and a grown man. It was his responsibility to protect her from such a life. If he couldn’t then he wasn’t fulfilling his duty, which was how he felt on the nights he returned home to find her worried because the baby was running out of diapers and Liomi needed a new pair of shoes and there wasn’t enough money to buy beef so she could cook rice and beef stew. Whenever he saw her anxiety, he was tempted to take out some of the money from their savings, but he resisted. They would manage with the little he was making at the restaurants. She had to return to school in the fall. His deportation case wasn’t over. The worst might still be ahead.
On the day of his court appearance, he wore the black suit he had worn to work on his first day working for the Edwardses. Neni had washed and ironed it the night before, neatly placing it on the sofa for him to wear in the morning. Nei
ther of them ate dinner that night, their appetites having been vanquished by their fears. He stayed on the phone talking to Winston while she sat at the computer reading stories about individuals who lost their deportation cases and families who found themselves straddling two countries because one of the parents had been deported. Whatever happens, we will take it as it comes, he told her before they went to bed, and she nodded in agreement, her eyes filling up with tears.
“You’re sleeping?” he whispered to her in the middle of the night.
“No. I can’t sleep.”
“What are we going to do?” he asked her, his voice plaintive, clearly desperate to be reminded that they would be okay.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do … I don’t even know.”
They couldn’t move close to each other and fall asleep in a comforting embrace—the baby was sleeping between them—so they held hands around the baby.
In the morning he stood next to Bubakar as the lawyer answered most of the judge’s questions, speaking in an unquestionable American accent. Bubakar and the judge and the attorney for ICE took turns saying things Jende did not understand. The judge set a date in June for Jende to appear before him again. Bubakar thanked the judge. The judge called for the next case. The whole exchange had lasted less than ten minutes.
