My New American Life Read Free Page B

about.”
    Mister Stanley often said “we” or “one” when he meant “you” or “I.” Sometimes Zeke imitated him, but only under his breath, so his father could pretend not to hear Zeke say, “One would one might one should,” in Mister Stanley’s voice. At first Lula wondered if this usage was correct, if there was something wrong with her English. None of the younger Wall Street guys talked like that. The mystery of Mister Stanley’s career was solved when Zeke explained that his father used to be a professor of economics until he let himself get recruited by a bank, which he seriously regretted, even though he made lots more money than he had as a teacher.
    Maybe nobody else applied for Lula’s job. Maybe no one wanted to live with the sad-sack father and son. Maybe Mister Stanley thought Lula was a war refugee, which strictly speaking was true, and that he was doing a good deed, which strictly speaking was true. Lula wouldn’t have hired herself to take care of a kid. She would have asked more questions, though Mister Stanley asked quite a few. It was unlike him not to require notarized letters of reference. But she had turned out to be good with Zeke, so maybe Mister Stanley had sensed some maternal feeling burbling up inside her, or the decency that Lula prided herself on maintaining despite her many character flaws and the world’s efforts to harden her heart.
    Lula was twenty-six. Old, she thought on dark days. Only twenty-six, on bright ones. She had time, but she had more time if she stayed in this country. She wanted to learn that American trick, staying young till forty. Some American girls even got better looking. Not like Eastern Europeans, who started off ahead but fell off a cliff and scrambled back up a grandma. Maybe the pressure to marry aged them before their time. But there was no pressure on Lula. If her ancestors wanted grandchildren, they were keeping quiet about it.
    To make everything official, Mister Stanley had taken her into his so-called library, the dank, mildew-smelling, manly lair where he hardly ever went except to pay bills. The shelves were empty but for a few rows of dusty books that Mister Stanley must have used in his university courses. He said, “ ‘Come into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly. I suppose we should talk about terms.”
    Over Mister Stanley’s desk was a framed antique print of an exploding volcano. Lula had watched its sparks fly as Mister Stanley spelled out the rules. Be there when Zeke got home from school. No drinking or smoking in the house. No driving in bad weather. In fact no driving anywhere except to The Good Earth. Make Zeke eat an occasional vegetable. No overnight guests, except relatives, with Mister Stanley’s approval. Always lock up when she left. Mister Stanley used to subscribe to a burglar alarm service, but he’d had it discontinued when it turned out that the service was robbing houses.
    When she’d asked Mister Stanley to pay her in cash, he assured her banks were safe. She’d said she was sorry, but Albanians had such bad history with banks . . . her voice trailed off into the economic catastrophe and massive social unrest that came after Communism, like those last scenes in the horror films when the maniac pops from the grave. “You’ve heard about our pyramid scheme? Offering investors fifty percent. What was anyone thinking? The government was in on it, too, everybody got wiped out.”
    Mister Stanley had nodded tiredly. He said, “Of course I remember. Scary stuff. It could happen anywhere. Sure, we can do this in cash.” Probably it was wiser, seeing as how Lula didn’t yet have a work visa, though Don Settebello would fix that. Mister Stanley said, “If I ever get tapped for a government job, you’ll have to deny you know me.”
    â€œSure,” said Lula. “We never