My New American Life by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page B

Lula.
    Mister Stanley said. “My life is very expensive, as my wife was quick to point out before she made it more expensive. One only hopes she’s getting the help she needs, though she never seems to stay in one place long enough to . . . Well, on a brighter note, how’s Zeke?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œHomework?”
    â€œDone.”
    â€œDid you read that article?” Mister Stanley said. “About those Albanian women dressing like men? Imagine wanting to—or being forced to—live like that.”
    â€œPeople do what they have to.” It was the kind of gloomy statement Lula counted on to silence Mister Stanley when she was tired of talking. But why was she feeling sullen? She’d had an interesting day! She briefly considered mentioning the sworn virgin in Shkodër who was a Party official responsible for the deaths of many innocent people. But it was a long ugly story she didn’t feel like telling. She said, “My granny was a ball buster. Except that she got married and had kids and wore a dress.”
    A smile wobbled on Mister Stanley’s face. “Where did you learn an expression like . . . ball buster ?”
    Lula knew some English expressions that Mister Stanley probably didn’t. It was touching that he’d found it hard to say. But how could he work on Wall Street and be so clean? She’d learned the phrase at La Changita, from young guys who were probably angling for Mister Stanley’s job. You learn a word the first time you’re told not to be that word, implying you already are.
    â€œI don’t remember,” said Lula.
    Mister Stanley said, “You were saying about your grandmother?”
    â€œShe loved pro wrestling. She made my grandpa get an illegal TV antenna so she could watch the matches from Bavaria. He could have gotten sent away for that.” That part at least was true.
    â€œWrite it down,” said Mister Stanley. “Another terrific story. I’ll pass it along to Don. Speaking of which, I almost forgot the most important thing. You and I and Zeke are having dinner with Don on Saturday night to celebrate your work visa coming through.”
    Lula said, “Don’t you think that’s bad luck? Can I get you a snack? I made this delicious red pepper paste my granny used to cook.”
    â€œNo thanks,” said Mister Stanley. “I’d love to, but red peppers give me heartburn. What’s bad luck?”
    â€œCelebrating,” said Lula. “Celebrating anything.”
    Mister Stanley said, “Lula, when you apply for citizenship and you go for your interview, do me a favor. Don’t say you think it’s bad luck to go out to a pricey restaurant in Manhattan and raise a glass to a positive change in your immigration status. And have someone else pick up the tab. It’s deeply un-American.”
    Lula said, “Sorry. I know. I’m grateful. I can’t believe that you and Mr. Settebello would do this. I mean, in addition to—”
    â€œPlease,” said Mister Stanley. “We’re happy for you. In fact, what about a little bonus in case you want to buy something to wear to the dinner? Only if you want to . . . only if . . . I wouldn’t—”
    â€œThank you,” Lula said. “That’s so nice of you. I’ll go into the city this week.”
    â€œBe careful,” said Mister Stanley. “Watch out.”
    Had Mister Stanley gotten a secret tip from Don? Was there some kind of crime wave? Had the code level been kicked up to red in honor of Halloween? Lula and Zeke had watched the terror threat level rise before each holiday, as if suicide bombers thought that blowing themselves up on Presidents Day would put them on the fast track to the Garden of the Martyrs. Lula often told Zeke how governments loved keeping people scared, how Enver Hoxha had built all those bunkers for people to defend themselves