They came at night. They wore odd clothes. Uncle Sal dressed all in black—a colossal medallion of Jesus’s face strung from a gold chain and submerged in a tuft of chest hair. Junior wore a red suit with flame-licked shoes one night, a pink one with white snakeskin boots the next. They smoked in the house. Laura gritted her teeth each time they flicked back their lighter caps. They brought Rahela and me presents: gold wristwatches and pocketknives that Laura put on high shelves to “keep until you are old enough.”
The Uncles convened standing up, forming a horseshoe around the kitchen table, half-joking about how no one could stand with his back to the door. They spoke a miry blend of English and Jersey-accented Italian and laughed too loud. Every night, the conversation ended the same way: one of the Uncles would say, “I’ll take care of it for ya,” and clap Jack on the back. They’d go out the front door, which no one else used, slip into their Cadillacs, and drive down the hill with their headlights off, leaving silvery oil stains on our new driveway.
When they were gone Laura would fling open a window to let out the smoke and Jack would sit on the edge of the couch, remove his glasses, and run his hands over his reddened face. Then he’d reach for his guitar and play until he returned to his normal color. Laura, who usually managed to put Rahela to bed sometime during the visit, would shoo me upstairs. I’d climb the stairs halfway, then sit and watch through the slats in the banister, trying to decipher the meaning of the visits, but all I could ever discern was an ongoing debate between Jack and Laura about whether or not asking the Uncles for help was a good idea.
I didn’t say a word for the first month of school, sat staring through class and spent recess trolling the perimeter of the blacktop until a piercing whistle demanded our return. Sometime in October, after weeks of patience, my teacher called on me to read out a paragraph from the chapter book we’d been studying. I produced a halting string of unrecognizable words and my classmates snickered. When I got home I ripped all the pages from the book and tried to flush them down the toilet.
Laura and Jack asked me if I wanted to join a soccer team. I didn’t know what soccer was but was pleasantly surprised to find out it was football when I arrived at my first practice. The excitement was short-lived, though—Americans had somehow managed to ruin the game with all sorts of rules: the coach put me on defense and told me I wasn’t supposed to cross the halfway line or try to score a goal. The neatly manicured lawn and fixed nets made my favorite game unfamiliar.
“I think I don’t like the soccer,” I told Laura.
“That’s okay,” she said. She leaned in, secretively. “I hate sports, too.” I thought about telling her that I actually liked sports but didn’t want to hazard a return to the soccer team, so I gave her a thumbs-up and we never went back.
I spent my free time writing to Luka. I told him about the strangeness of English and the desecration of football. I jotted notes on the backs of homework assignments during recess and sat in bed with sheets of loose-leaf paper, leaning on outdated volumes of World Book Encyclopedia. I couldn’t remember Petar and Marina’s address, so I wrote letters to them and sent them to Luka, too. I never heard back. Still I wrote and licked airmail stamps and pretended that Luka’s prolonged silence didn’t mean anything was wrong.
My teacher began sending home reports of my every move at school—how I spent my recesses scribbling, that I refused to socialize with other children and didn’t raise my hand in class. She sent me to the guidance counselor. Jack and Laura worried, and I felt awful, too, the sleepless nights getting me nothing but bluish circles under my eyes. Laura offered to take me to a doctor who she said could “look into my head” and help me feel better, but my grip on English figures of speech was tenuous and the thought of a doctor opening my brain was terrifying.
I knew my time for grieving was running short. People were getting impatient. It wasn’t their fault. It was near impossible, even for me, to contain Gardenville and Croatia in the same thought. So a few weeks later, when we were assigned a project about hometowns, I made a poster of New Jersey, transplanting the least offensive of my childhood memories into the apartment where I’d first lived with Jack and Laura, before the new house was finished. My teacher, who knew better, rewarded the lie with a good grade.
The more I lied, the closer I came to fitting in. Sometimes I even believed myself. People assumed I was just bookish or shy, and I was, or had become so. Nobody in the new neighborhood had ever seen Jack and Laura without Rahela and me, and had no reason to think we were anything other than a biological family. I threw out the book of news clippings. I stopped writing to Luka.