“How does it end?” asked Mister Stanley.
Don said, “What are you thinking, Stan? Never ask a writer a question like that.”
“I don’t know yet,” Lula said.
“See?” said Don Settebello. “I hate to imagine what would happen if that story got out. Can you picture FBI agents shaking down therapists?”
“Hell, yeah,” said Zeke. “That shrink Dad sent me to would bend over for anybody with a badge.”
Don said, “I never trusted those prying bastards, all that money changing hands, a whole economy based on helping the comfy middle class deal with their comfy middle-class problems.”
“Not always so comfy,” said Mister Stanley. “Ginger’s doctor seemed like he was doing her a lot of good until she decided he wasn’t.”
Don said, “After the divorce, when I had that little fling with a younger, not that much younger woman, Betsy said it would impact Abigail. But I don’t think it has. Do you? Anyway, that’s all I need, some nervous-nelly doctor blabbing my secrets to some FBI goons who could then spread the lie that the country’s ballsiest immigration lawyer is in treatment for pedophilia. It’s sort of like what Lula said. I mean, the plot of her story. I bet Dick Cheney insists on personally vetting the videotapes of sessions with hot young starlets in therapy for sex addiction.”
“Poor Lula,” said Mister Stanley. “We shouldn’t joke like this around her until she’s got her green card.”
“Who’s joking?” said Don.
Mister Stanley said, “Let’s leave her with a few illusions about the country where she’s trying to stay.”
“If I get my green card,” Lula couldn’t help saying.
“You will,” Don said. “Trust me. Meanwhile you can think anything you want. But just to be on the safe side, you should probably watch your mouth. Do I sound paranoid? I am paranoid. We’d be insane if we weren’t. By the way, how is Ginger? Excuse the mental leap.”
“Better, I think,” said Mister Stanley. “She called from Arizona. Only once did she allude to hearing holy messages from the red rocks in some canyon.”
Lula and Zeke exchanged quick looks. Mister Stanley hadn’t mentioned that part in the car.
After a silence, Mister Stanley said, “It must be tough for Lula. She sees what’s happening to this country. But she comes from a culture where America is God.”
In one corner of Mister Stanley’s garage, two John Kerry/John Edwards placards leaned against the wall, and several times Mister Stanley told Lula that he’d donated serious money to get Bush out of office. Lula was impressed by his freedom to say this. She was impressed by the freedom of the American press to tell the world that their vice president accidentally shot his friend in the face. At home, it wouldn’t have been accidental. And he would have succeeded. Still, you had to watch out and not criticize, same as anywhere else. You could never predict when Americans, even Mister Stanley and Don, would get all defensive and huffy.
“It’s hard for everyone to see what’s going on here,” said Don.
Lula said, “Everywhere it’s common sense to keep your mouth shut. Growing up under Communism wasn’t such a picnic.”
“Amen,” said Mister Stanley.
Don said, “I promise you, Lula, this is a free . . . My God, I almost said free country. Knowing what I know.” Staring into his wine glass, Don said, “The thing that kills me is . . . the beauty of the U.S. Constitution. I love that fucking document, it still makes me cry, the sheer goodness and purity of the Founding Fathers’ hopes and dreams, their ideas about what humans deserve and how they should be treated. The way these guys in Washington are trashing it . . . Christ, I’ve got to quit drinking. Every night’s the same. The fourth glass of wine, I’m crying about the Bill of Rights and ruining everyone’s fun—”
Abigail said, “Oh? Were we having fun? I must have missed the fun part, Dad.”
Lula said, “Mister Stanley’s house is a wonderful place to write.”
Don said, “It’s adorable, Stan, the way Lula calls you Mister Stanley. Like some servant girl from the nineteenth century.”
Mister Stanley shook his head. “I’ve begged her to call me Stan.”
Lula shrugged. She didn’t know what to call Don Settebello, so she didn’t call him anything.
They went back to tearing at their steaks. Abigail ate one last dab of spinach and pushed her bowl away so hard it spun. The others watched till it stopped.
Don said, “It’s a miracle when the system functions. More often it’s like with my Salvadoran client—all your ducks are lined up, actually your clay pigeons, one of them gets shot down, and it’s back to square one, the poor guy is sent back to wherever. If he’s lucky. And then you have a case where it works, and a person with Lula’s brains and heart and talent gets to live here.”
Mister Stanley said, “Here’s to Lula. And Don.”
“And Stan.” Don’s swallow of wine lasted so long that even Zeke and Abigail watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
Lula said, “Thank you. I’m happy and grateful to be here.”
“We want you here,” said Don Settebello. “Fresh young blood. You’re what keeps our country young.”
Zeke stage-whispered to Abigail, “Fresh blood? That’s so vampiristic.”
Abigail said, “Are you actually listening to Dad?”
“Shut up, young lady,” Don told her. “Okay, here we go.” Don clinked his spoon on his glass, and half the restaurant turned. Don waited till the eavesdroppers went back to their meals.
“Dear friends, I’ve got an announcement. This is a celebration for me, too. Just because my life isn’t already busy and difficult and frustrating and overextended enough, I’ve decided to take on a new project. I’ll be doing some Guantánamo work, going down there and trying to get those guys to trust me. Do whatever I can. Not that I have high hopes, or any hopes at all, but I can’t just sit back and watch. Plus to be honest with you I was flattered. They’ve got the top guys on this. The sharpest habeas corpus guys, the heavy-duty death penalty guys, famous law professors from Germany and France. And who am I among these superstars? Don from immigration—”
“You’re hardly Don from immigration,” Mister Stanley said. “Not for ten, fifteen years now. You have a very public career. You’re a hero.”
“Stan,” said Don. “Are you listening? Did you hear one word I said?”
“I’m still processing,” Mister Stanley said. “Guantánamo. Jesus Christ, Stan. I don’t know what to say. I mean . . . how did all this happen?”
“Actually, I was recruited. This old friend of mine from law school—”
“Amazing.” Mister Stanley didn’t want to think about Don having other old friends besides him.
Abigail said, “Don’t do it, Dad. Don’t go. We all know you can’t keep your big mouth shut. They’ll probably keep you there. They’ll lock you up in one of those orange suits and say you’re Osama bin Laden.”
“Darling!” said Don. “It makes me so happy that you not only know where there is, you know what goes on there. Stan, Zeke, Lula, do you realize that this . . . child understands more than most adults. It makes me want to keep doing it, to preserve the beautiful country in which my daughter is growing up.”
Abigail said, “Think about me for five minutes.”
“And what’s more,” said Don, “she seems genuinely concerned about my welfare.”
“God,” said Abigail. “Do you think I’m stupid? If you get sent to jail, it goes on my permanent record. Fat chance of my getting into boarding school and getting away from Mom once they find out my dad is a terrorist.”
“Let’s raise a glass to Don,” said Mister Stanley. Everyone’s glass was empty. Mister Stanley waved over the waiter, who was so perturbed to be getting instructions from him instead of Alpha Don that he filled Mister Stanley’s glass to the top. Mister Stanley spilled a few drops. Lula watched red flowers bloom on the white cloth as Mister Stanley said, “We’re grateful to you,
Don. As your friends, as Americans, as citizens of the world!”
Lula lifted her glass to Don Settebello, then to Mister Stanley, then Zeke. Abigail wouldn’t look at her.
“Cheers,” said Lula. “G’zoor.”
Now that Lula’s big night was over, Zeke grabbed the passenger seat, and Lula climbed in back. A few blocks from the restaurant, Mister Stanley ran over a curb on which, miraculously, no one was waiting to cross. Furious honking pursued them, but Mister Stanley didn’t notice. Zeke turned around to Lula and pantomimed pouring something down his mouth. Wasn’t he worried that his father would see? It worried Lula that his father didn’t see.
“You want me to drive?” asked Zeke.
Mister Stanley said, “Are you kidding, Junior? Your learner’s permit specifies no night driving.”
“What learner’s permit? I’ve got a license,” said Zeke.
“No night driving,” said his father. Lula was reassured that Mister Stanley was sober enough to remember. If only she could drive! But that was the red wine talking. Even if she had a license, she’d drunk twice as much as Mister Stanley and was probably half his weight. Drunk or sober, her father was always a terrible driver. He’d learned too late to have the reflexes. His whole generation had. And soon it would be too late for her as well. Lula fastened her seat belt and braced herself as they sped toward the tunnel.
“Dad, that’s a red light!” Zeke cried.
Mister Stanley slammed on his brakes and fell silent until they’d passed the Newark exit, when he said, “Do you think Don could be developing a tiny bit of a drinking problem? Poor Don. Who could blame him for tying one on, with that daughter? All that great work he’s doing, and that girl treats him like . . . Jesus, I hope we don’t get stopped. I should have stuck to club soda. Let this be a lesson to you, Zeke.”
Zeke said, “What lesson would that be?”
“I don’t know,” said Mister Stanley. “Maybe about the downside of living in the moment.”
Again Zeke wheeled around in his seat. “Did you hear that?” he asked Lula. “Dad thinks his problem is too much living in the moment.”
“Fasten your seat belt,” said Mister Stanley. “Or I’m pulling over.”
Zeke said, “This kid in my school wound up in the ICU because someone told him if you eat mothballs you can pass the Breathalyzer test.”
“That’s a myth,” said Mister Stanley. “Deadly deadly deadly.”
“Concentrate, Dad,” said Zeke.
Lula shut her eyes and thought of everything she’d ever done wrong, sins against her parents, boyfriends, girls whose boyfriends she’d slept with, every lie she’d ever told Mister Stanley, Don, and Zeke. She decided to count her sins, starting from the first, but she kept losing track and having to go back to the neighbor boy whose hand she purposely stepped on and broke his pinkie and almost got her whole family sent away because the kid’s dad was secret police. Then Lula gave up counting and apologized for each one. Sorry, Granny, for not returning the change when you sent me to buy butter. Sorry, Papa, for telling Mama we used Madonna for target practice. Underneath were the real sins. The time she chose to play with her friends and refused to visit her dying grandpa. The secret gladness she’d felt when her parents left for Kosovo, and then after graduation when there was so much more room for her in Aunt Mirela’s apartment. But why was she even thinking this way, when there were monsters at home who’d sent innocents to their deaths during Communism and never apologized, never felt guilty? What about the Dictator? Had he woken in the middle of the night, worried he’d hurt someone’s feelings?
Against all odds, Mister Stanley seemed to be parking in front of the house.
“Thank you, Mister Stanley,” she said. “Thank you, Zeke.”
“Why are you thanking me?” said Zeke.
“Because we’re alive,” said Lula. “Safe.”
“No one’s safe,” said Zeke. “Full moon.”
Lula had to grab the banister on her way upstairs. Maybe that was why the wine cost so much, for waiting politely until you got home to slam you against the wall. Lula sat on the edge of her bed. Beyond her tented fingers, the revolving room picked up speed. A bath would feel nice, a cold bath, shocking the dizziness out of her, boiling off the alcohol just to keep warm. Hand over hand, she made her way to the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid.
Something was wrong. Out of place. The shower curtain was drawn. Lula never took showers. Could Estrelia have left it that way? Lula had taken several baths since Estrelia cleaned. Why would Zeke or Mister Stanley rearrange her shower curtain? Was that a shadow moving behind it?
Lula pulled back the curtain. She must have closed it and forgotten. She was turning the knob that stoppered the tub when she noticed that her soap was not in its dish. Now that was strange. Lula was obsessive about her soap, hand-milled in France by monks consecrated to silent prayer and shampoo. The soap lay beached against the drain, in a milky puddle. A sudden rush of nausea felt like a new kind of thirst that could only be slaked by immersing her body in water. But how could she bathe in a tub in which a stranger might have been? Might have? The tiles were wet.
And what was this? A curly red hair inscribed in the gooey lavender skin of the soap. Oh, hideous. Disgusting! Lula grabbed a swatch of toilet paper, and, averting her eyes, swabbed the soap with the paper, which she flushed down the toilet. Pretend it was one of the Lower East Side water bugs, puny wimps compared to the roaches that used to chase her around Aunt Mirela’s apartment.
She would have been more frightened if she hadn’t been drunk. Alcohol was so skillful at widening the distance between the self that knew what was happening and the self that felt compelled to do something about it. This was not her imagination. Something had to be done. Lula flung open the closet doors, then crouched and looked under the bed. What about Zeke and Mister Stanley? What if the red-headed serial killer had showered as ritual preparation for stabbing them in their beds? It would be her fault. Those guys with the gun, who were they? She had no idea. But she’d let them into the house.
She stepped into the silent hall. Propping herself against the wall, she listened and heard nothing but the distant buzz of Mister Stanley snoring.
A sense of peace overcame her, a feather quilt of fatalism. Let what happens happen. Most likely, it would be nothing. She was tired. She needed her rest. Things would sort themselves out. If she was murdered in the night, it would mean she’d made a mistake. Just before she fell asleep, she had a disturbing dream in which she saw Don Settebello, blindfolded and in shackles, his head gleaming behind the window of a plane painted camouflage green and black, bouncing over the ocean.
Chapter Four
The burning coin of pressure glowing between Lula’s brows made it hard to remember why she was supposed to feel grateful to be waking up at all. Maybe because she hadn’t been bludgeoned in her sleep by the killer who’d left his hairy signature scrawled across her soap. That is, she hadn’t been murdered yet. It was only 4:00 a.m.
In the darkness, Lula ran her hands along her arms and legs. Unhurt, but for the hangover. Maybe the so-called intruder was a wine-fueled hallucination, a byproduct of rich beef protein and the frightening drive home. But she could picture the red hair, the winking copper wire. Someone’s hair was that red.
Alvo’s. It was Alvo’s.
The possibility that Alvo had sneaked in and showered in her tub seemed marginally likelier than a quick cleanup by some random psycho. So it wasn’t so scary. But troubling, she had to admit. And weirdly, sort of hot. It was foolish and stupid to have feelings for your stalker. As Lula got older, she seemed to be growing less mature about boys. At university in Tirana, her sensible younger self ended a brief romance with a guy just because she didn’t like something she saw in his eyes during sex. Later Dunia’s cousin went out with him, and he held a rotisserie skewer to her throat in bed.
Unless Alvo’s late-night visit had nothing to do with her . . . Lula switched on the night lamp and v
aulted across the room.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Thank you? The gun was still in her underwear drawer. Then she remembered her money, and a fresh surge of adrenaline propelled her to the desk where—thank you again!—the envelope of cash was where she’d left it. She was deranged to think first about the gun and only then about her money.
They needed to put new locks on the doors. If something happened to Mister Stanley or Zeke, Lula would never forgive herself. In the morning she would have to figure out what to say. Mister Stanley, I made some new friends. I was so happy to meet Albanians, and one of them was cute, so I agreed to keep their gun. And now there’s this little detail, they’re breaking into the house when we’re out. Showering in my bathroom. Bye-bye job, good-bye green card, farewell new American life.
She rolled onto her side and crossed her arms over her chest like a mummy. Both arms were numb when she awoke again at seven-thirty.
In the morning light, her imported soap was dry and smooth, her shower curtain open. Maybe she had dreamed it. No need to alarm Mister Stanley, especially if the hair belonged to Alvo, which it probably did. It was definitely his hair color. Maybe stalking was a courtship thing for him, a New World improvement on the old-school bride kidnap. She wondered if she could ever ask Alvo about it some day, or even make a joke. If she ever saw him again, unless she caught him creeping around.
It was Sunday, her day to cook breakfast for Zeke and Mister Stanley. She stripped off her slept-in party clothes, scrubbed the bathtub, rinsed it, and filled it again. She slid beneath the water to her chin and let the hot steamy bubbles melt away the soreness. By the time she got out, it was like any other Sunday. Sunday with a headache.
Lula threw on her jeans and a sweatshirt, then hurried downstairs, where she found Mister Stanley, drinking coffee at the dining room table, his back bowed over the Sunday paper. Lula made a quick tour, checking for shattered windows, busted doors, anything to track the route that Alvo, or someone, had taken. But there was only the usual mess, the usual sad Mister Stanley. How glad she was to see him. Mister Stanley wasn’t hurt or even, it seemed, aware that anything unusual had occurred.
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