My New American Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

And nothing else remotely this interesting was going to happen today.
    The men brushed past her, then turned and, one by one, shook her hand. Two of the handshakes were ceremonial. The Cute One’s was a caress. How long had it been since anyone touched her, not counting the restaurant customers grabbing her ass? She could always tell which guy it would be, and after how many mojitos. The last time she’d had sex was with a waiter, Franco, who took her to his loft in Long Island City, which he shared with three roommates. He’d showed her the sculptures he made from mattress springs he’d found on the street. She’d said they looked like space aliens, apparently the right answer, and then he told her he called it his Bedbug Launching Pad series, very nice considering that they were about to get in his bed. Mostly she remembered her surprise that a guy that drunk could get it up at all. She’d drunk quite a bit herself, or she wouldn’t have been there.
    â€œI thought you guys were brothers,” said Lula. “Up close not so much.” The same way of muscling into space was the main resemblance.
    â€œYou think I look like this guy?” said Hoodie. “Are you kidding me, or what?”
    â€œBrothers with different mothers and fathers. Blood brothers.” Leather Jacket slashed a finger across his upturned palm. “No joke.”
    Hoodie said, “Every Albanian is related by DNA.”
    â€œSo we’re family,” Lula said flatly. Then she waited to find out what her three long-lost brothers wanted.
    The Cute One hung back, scanning the living room as if searching for a place to hide something or a place where something was hidden. Only when Lula looked through his eyes did she see what a dump it was. Heaven, compared to Albania. All the creature comforts. Still, it was sad to have come this far and to have wound up here.
    She could have made the house more pleasant, or at least less musty and smelly, but Lula wasn’t the type to redecorate someone else’s space. Everything from Ginger Time remained as Ginger left it—the puffy grandmother furniture, the piano no one played. Lula had developed a wary and disapproving relationship with Ginger, based on her examination and appraisal (negative) of Ginger’s stuff, and on what little she’d heard (more negative) from Mister Stanley and Zeke. One bleak morning, Lula had gone through Ginger’s dresser, holding the baggy cargo pants and roomy dashikis up against her body. The stretched-out granny underwear explained a lot, though not the question of why Ginger had been the one to leave. How could a woman—a mother—walk out on two helpless babies like Zeke and Mister Stanley? Mental health issues. What did that mean? Mister Stanley hadn’t said.
    The Cute One looked around and sniffed. What was he comparing it to, his sumptuous walk-up in downtown Bayonne? Or maybe some shack in Durrës? Why should Lula feel protective of Mister Stanley’s home?
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” said Leather Jacket.
    â€œThe grave, I think,” Hoodie said.
    â€œIt’s my boss’s house,” said Lula. “My job is watching his kid.”
    â€œWe know that,” said the Cute One.
    Lula hoped he wouldn’t go over to the fireplace. She hoped he wouldn’t look at the family photos. If she couldn’t change the lamps or move the end tables, what were the chances of her saying, Mister Stanley, Zeke, are you sure you want to keep a mantelpiece full of mementos of your life with a lunatic who left you for a glacier?
    The family had traveled a lot. Many of the snapshots were posed against natural wonders, mountain peaks and canyons. Their smiles were frozen, and they always looked cold, even in the desert. Apparently, they weren’t the type to ask strangers to snap their photos, which showed Mister Stanley and Ginger, Zeke and Ginger, but never Zeke and Mister Stanley.