Liberating as it was, though, the new life had come with its share of new pains. It had wrought new forms of helplessness he hadn’t considered, like the dread and despair he’d experienced when Neni and Liomi were both in the hospital after the bus accident. Although their injuries were not critical (a black eye and swollen face for Liomi; a sprained neck and broken wrist, plus cuts and bruises, for Neni), he couldn’t stop thinking that he might have gotten a different kind of call from Neni’s sister, a call not to inform him of their injuries and ask for money for their hospital bills but to tell him that they were dead and ask for money for their funeral expenses. The thought of them dying while he was stuck in America had turned his blood icy, so as often as he could, he had told himself to think of good things and good things only.
Which was what he was now doing in the car with his eyes closed. He thought about Mr. and Mrs. Edwards reconciling and being happy again, the way Vince had told him they were back when they lived in Alexandria, Virginia, before his father began working eighty hours a week at Lehman and traveling four, five times a month, and before his mother stopped smiling as much as she used to, except when she was with her sons or her friends or when she was at an event where she felt compelled to pretend to the world that she was a happy woman in a happy marriage. Jende was not sure the Edwardses’ marriage would ever return to those happy days long gone, when there was less money and more togetherness and Vince was an only child, but that was okay, because some marriages did not need to be happy. They needed only to be sufficiently comfortable, and he hoped the Edwardses would at least find that.
He thought of Vince in India and wished him success in his pursuit of Truth and Oneness. He hoped the family would be together again one day and he would continue driving them for years. He loved his job, and if God willed, he would be happy to do it for as long as he lived in New York. There were hard days, but Mr. Edwards was a good man, the boys were good boys, and Mrs. Edwards, even when she acted as if the whole world had let her down, was a good woman.
His phone rang as he was opening his eyes. He looked at his caller ID. It was Mr. Edwards. He smiled. He had just thought of him and now he was calling—that meant Mr. Edwards was going to live a long life.
“How was your Christmas?” Clark asked him.
“Very good, sir. I hope you had a good one, too, sir?”
“Good enough,” Clark said. He paused, then cleared his throat. “Are you waiting for Mighty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Listen, do me a favor, will you? After you’ve dropped off Mighty, can you come down to the office?”
“You are at the office now, sir?”
“Yeah, just got in, I took a cab. I didn’t want to take you away from Mighty.”
“I understand, sir. I will come down the moment I drop Mighty at home.”
“Good, great. And … can you park the car and come upstairs? I need … we need to talk.”
Thirty-eight
HE FOUND HIMSELF IN MIDTOWN NOT KNOWING HOW HE GOT THERE. HE might have run a couple of red lights without realizing, changed lanes without signaling, stayed too close to the car ahead of him. He might have driven on the curb and he wouldn’t have noticed, because he certainly didn’t notice any of the thousands of people on Broadway. He was that dazed.
When he got to the garage he pulled out his briefcase from beneath his seat and held it on his lap for a full minute. Owning the briefcase and carrying it every day to work—that was one of his greatest career prides. It made him feel accomplished, like he was a sort of big man himself, not just a little man driving a big man around. Two months after he began working for the Edwardses, he had gone shopping for the perfect briefcase and found this one in a store on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, a black faux-leather rectangular box with a nickel-plated handle. It looked like the ones the white-collar workers at Limbe Urban Council used to take to work, the ones he’d admired as their bearers strode into offices while he remained outside, cleaning streets and emptying garbage cans. With his own briefcase, he’d become a white-collar professional, too. Every morning, before leaving for work, he packed his lunch inside the box, next to his dictionary, a map of the city, a handkerchief, a pack of tissues, pens, and old newspaper and magazine articles he hoped to read. On the downtown subway, dressed in his suit and clip-on tie, he held it firmly, looking no different from the accountants and engineers and financial advisors sitting next to him.
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.”