The woman wobbled, and it occurred to me that she might be on drugs or maybe Resistol. Finally she said mournfully, “I have no one on the other side.”
Despite my circumstances, I felt blessed at this moment, thinking about my mother safe in Austin, Texas. Yearning rose in my throat.
“I know what I’m doing,” the woman said. “I send money to my children, you know. They have a better life because of me.”
“Yes,” I said. I thought of my dresses, my shoes from Old Navy. For a moment I felt confused. But my mother worked at a restaurant that served chicken, I told myself. “Do you serve chicken here?” I asked, my voice low and frightened.
“Are you hungry?” said the woman. I nodded. She went around the corner and called for food. Another fichera emerged, carrying a plate with chopped beef and a bowl full of soup. I rushed toward her, my mouth filling with saliva, my worries about my mother momentarily forgotten.
“Okay, little girl,” the second woman said, laughing. “Sit down, sit down!” She was younger than the woman in the gold dress and wore very short shorts and a T-shirt that was very tight and ended before her stomach began. She placed the food on a table and handed me utensils that seemed clean enough.
Before I ate, I gathered my courage and said, “I do not want to be a prostitute.” I hoped I was not rude, but wanted to be clear. The young fichera laughed, her earrings jangling. “Nobody wants to be a prostitute,” she said. “Go ahead, girl, eat.”
The food was hot and filling. I ate more quickly than was polite. When I emptied the soup bowl, the ficheras refilled it. “Thank you,” I said when I was done. “Thank you so much. God will bless you both.”
The woman in the gold said, “Now listen. You can waitress here, and there’s no need to do anything you don’t want to do. We’re happy.” She said the last with a steely glint in her eyes. She patted my hand forcefully.
“I need to find my brother,” I said.
“Ah, let her go,” said the woman who had given me food. “Horace isn’t here yet, he’ll never know.”
The older woman frowned, but did not object.
“I will take you to a shelter for migrants,” said the younger woman. “It’s run by a priest. It’s for people like you.”
“Thank you,” I managed, tears of relief making my voice watery. “Thank you very much.”
“Enough,” said the young fichera. “I’ll return soon,” she told the woman in gold, but that woman was already back at the jukebox, her eyes dreamy.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding. We took a right turn, then a left. After a while, we reached a high fence lined with barbwire. “The priest who runs this shelter has been threatened many times,” said the woman. She put her hands on her hips. “I wish you luck,” she said, and added, “You know, your body is a credit card no matter what choices you make.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, but I thought of the men who had attacked me, how the pain had earned me a place on the top of the train, how I was still alive.
“Ah, little girl, you will,” said the woman. She looked at me for a moment, touched my cheek. Then she turned and walked back toward La Bambi.
The building was painted white, the bars on the windows a tomato red. A large mural of Jesus welcomed me. In front of the shelter, a group of men and boys listened to a soccer game on the radio. They looked freshly washed, their hair wet, and I closed my eyes and prayed that this place was safe. A few dogs lay at their feet.
I glanced at the clothing line strung along the side of the building. A dozen shirts and pairs of pants hung limp in the morning sun. And then I saw it, a beacon, a promise of joy: Junior’s blue shirt, held tightly by wooden clothespins.
32
Alice
BY FOUR THAT afternoon, I began to fret about Evian. I texted her, asking if she needed to be picked up at school, and she responded: I’m fine. I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, but by seven, she had not returned. I ate alone in front of the television, watching a Canadian couple search for an apartment in Beijing. One apartment had pool access, but the bathroom was very small. The next, in a gated community near the husband’s new job, had a huge kitchen and room for parties, but it was kind of isolated and had a garden neither husband nor wife wanted to maintain. The wife was not the gardening type, she said, smiling nervously. The husband nodded wryly at her admission. He was the business type, it was clear, but what type was the wife? What was she going to do all day in Beijing? The couple had just had a “dream wedding” in Toronto.
I refilled my plate during the commercial break.
The last apartment was located near restaurants and coffee shops. It was small, with a weird contraption that looked like a metal drawer but was used to “make dried vegetables and fruits.” The couple appeared unimpressed. The wife noted that she didn’t really cook, and again the husband nodded by her side. “I really like the balcony!” the woman yelled as she took in the busy streets below the third apartment. The husband said it was pretty loud.
I was worried for the couple from Canada. None of these apartments would work, it was clear. The problem was not Beijing. I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Bridge. I thought about me and Jake.
The phone rang during the next commercial break. It was Jake, back in Austin, calling from Conroe’s. “Hey!” I answered, my voice false and wrong.
“How did everything go today?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m just sitting here eating spaghetti. Want to join me?”
“Lainey wants to watch prep,” said Jake. “She wants to follow the whole process.”
“Oh,” I said, imagining Lainey in a lawn chair next to Jake, how romantic the flickering light would be on her smooth visage. “That sounds really fun,” I said. “I can come, too.”
“Are you insane?” said Jake.
“Slightly,” I said.
“Is she gone?” said Jake.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“Evian,” said Jake.
“Oh, Evian!” I said. The television was muted, but I could see that the Canadian couple had chosen the gated community. On the screen, the wife appeared with a watering can and trowel, smiling unhappily in her huge new garden. “She’s not here now,” I said cagily.
There was silence on the line. “I need you to take her home,” said Jake finally. “We need some time to find ourselves again. Okay? We’ve been through a lot, honey. I’m asking you for this, and it’s important to me. I just want to come home to my wife. Please.”
I didn’t say anything, remembering how good it had felt to put clean clothes in the drawers of the bunny bureau. “Hello?” said Jake. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said.