Behold the Dreamers (11 page)

S
HE
STOOD
AT
THE
DOOR
KNOCKING
LIGHTLY
AND
INSISTENTLY,
DETER
mined to wake her up.

“What is it?” she heard Cindy groan.

“It's me, madam,” Neni replied.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, madam, about your breakfast. If you would like me to bring it in there or set it out for you by the pool.”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven o'clock, madam.”

“By the pool,” she said after a pause. “Set it in an hour.”

When Cindy came out of the bedroom just before noon, after showering and putting on a purple-striped halter-top dress, Neni was at the kitchen counter, slicing up pineapples. “Almost ready, madam,” she said. “Good morning.”

Cindy nodded and went to the table by the pool. Through the window Neni could see her staring at the pool water, which was blue and still except for a lone leaf causing frail ripples at the center. Neni picked up the tray and hurried outside.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, madam,” she said, placing the tray on the table. “Would you like anything else?”

“Where's Mighty?”

“He went to the water, madam, with the neighbor and the neighbor's son. He said it would be okay with you. I gave him a sandwich and a banana.”

Cindy picked up a glass pitcher to pour milk into her coffee. Neni turned around and started walking back to the kitchen.

“Neni?” Cindy called, just as Neni was about to reenter the house.

“Madam.”

“Pull up a seat and sit right here.”

Neni looked at Cindy, puzzled, but she returned and obeyed.

For the next minute, Cindy took little bites of her egg-white omelet, her sliced pineapples, and her blueberries. Neni sat across from her and stared at the concrete.

“Thank you for helping me yesterday,” Cindy began, setting her coffee mug down and dabbing her lips. She picked up her sunglasses and put them on despite the cloudiness of the day.

Neni watched her and smiled, a smile tightly bound by nerves and discomfort. “It was nothing, madam,” she said in the slow, delicate manner in which she had been training herself to speak whenever she spoke to non-Africans. “You were a little sick, madam. I am glad I was able to come in and help you.”

“But I wasn't sick,” Cindy said. “I know you know that.”

“I only thought—”

“It's okay,” Cindy said, raising her palm to silence her. “You're a grown woman. There's no need to lie. I know you saw everything on the nightstand, and you didn't think I was just napping. You're smart enough to put two and two together. I could see in your eyes how scared you were.”

“I did not see anything, madam.”

“Yes, you did. And I'd rather you don't try to take me for a fool.”

Neni put her hands together on her lap and began rubbing them. She moved her eyes from Cindy's face to her own widening feet piling out of her blue flip-flops and back to Cindy's face. “I did not, madam, I swear … I only thought you were sick, that is why I came this morning to wake you up when you did not wake up at your normal time.”

Cindy snickered and shook her head.

“I am truly very sorry, madam,” Neni continued, looking pleadingly into Cindy's eyes. “I did not mean to find out anything.”

Cindy stirred her coffee with a silver spoon and set it down. The ocean breeze which Neni had enjoyed that morning was no longer relaxing—it'd become a nuisance as it gained force and blew her braids into her face.

Deliberately, Cindy took off her sunglasses, put them on the table, and looked into Neni's eyes. “You probably look at me,” she said, “and think I came from a life like this. You probably think I was born into this kind of money, right?”

Neni did not respond.

“Well, I wasn't,” Cindy went on. “I came from a poor family. A very, very poor family.”

“Me, too, madam—”

Cindy shook her head. “No, you don't understand,” she said. “Being poor for you in Africa is fine. Most of you are poor over there. The shame of it, it's not as bad for you.”

Neni closed her eyes and nodded as if she completely understood and agreed.

“Over here, it's embarrassing, humiliating, very painful,” Cindy continued, looking into the distance beyond the trees. “Waiting in lines with homeless people to enter food pantries. Living in a poorly heated house in the winter. Eating rice and SPAM for almost every dinner. Being laughed at in school. Having people treat you as if you're some sort of …” A lone tear dropped down her right cheek. She brushed it off with her index finger. “You have no idea how much I've endured.”

“No, madam.”

“I won't ever forget the night I told my mother I wanted shrimp and vegetables for dinner. Such a luxury, how dare I ask for it? She slapped me and sent me to bed hungry. That was her thing. A slap or a reminder that I was just a piece of shit.”

She cleared her throat.

Neni looked down at her hands, then Cindy's face.

“But I came away from all that, as you can see. I worked my way through college, got a job, my own apartment, learned how to carry myself well and fit effortlessly in this new world so I would never be looked down on again, or seen as a piece of shit. Because I know what I am, and no one can ever take away the things I've achieved for myself.”

“It's true, madam.”

Cindy picked up her teaspoon, stirred her coffee again. She put down the teaspoon and looked at Neni, whose eyes were now lowered.

“Why am I telling you all this, Neni?” she asked.

“I don't … I don't know, madam,” Neni replied, her voice low and loaded with fright.

“I'm telling you this because I want you to know where I came from and why I fight hard every day to remain here. To keep my family together. To have all this.” She spread her arm and motioned toward the house and the pool and the yard. “I'm telling you this,” she said, her eyes fixed on Neni's face, “because I want you to never tell anyone what happened yesterday.”

“I swear to you, madam, on my grandmother's grave, that I will never tell anyone.”

“You are a woman, Neni. A wife, a mother, like me. I am asking you to make this promise to me not as from an employee to an employer but as from one woman to another, as from one who knows how important it is to protect our families.”

“I swear to you, madam. I promise you, from one woman to another.”

Cindy laid open her right hand on the table, and Neni put hers in it.

“Thank you,” Cindy said, smiling her first smile of the day and squeezing Neni's hand.

Neni smiled back.

“You're a good woman.”

Neni bowed her head and nodded. Cindy released her hand. Neni stood up and began walking back to the kitchen.

“By the way,” Cindy said, “what size clothes do you wear? When you're not pregnant, that is.”

Neni took a few steps back toward Cindy. “Size eight, madam,” she replied.

“That's bigger than me,” Cindy said, the smile still on her face, “but I think you can make do. I have a few things I was going to send over to the thrift store.”

“Oh, madam, yes, thank you. I'll take it. I know how to alter clothes. Thank you—”

“They're real designer goods,” Cindy said, crossing her legs and picking up her iPhone. “Dresses and stuff. I'm not sure if it's your style, but you can have it all.”

“Thank you, madam! I'll take it all. I'll make it my style. Thank you so much.”

“I'll have some things for your son, too. Mighty's old clothes and toys. You can take it all when you leave.”

“Oh, madam, I am so glad. I don't even know how to thank you.”

“And remind me of your bonus before you leave. You'll need some extra money to prepare for the baby.”

“We will, madam, I will!” Neni sang, placing her hand on her chest, then over her belly. “Thank you so much, madam. I am just so grateful.”

Cindy looked at the gleeful woman and smiled again.

Neni smiled back at her.

They had found a win-win solution.

L
IOMI
SAT
NEXT
TO
HIM
IN
THE
PASSENGER
SEAT,
SLIDING
TO
THE
FLOOR
whenever a police car came in sight. When a white woman pointed out one morning that it was illegal for a child of Liomi's age to sit in the front seat of a car, Jende graciously replied that yes, it was, he knew, thank you so much, madam.

Father and son went to sleep together every night in their bedroom facing a funeral parlor, sometimes to the sounds of curses and scuffles among the grieving. They woke up in the morning with their bodies covered in sweat, the weak fan having brought little relief from the midsummer heat. After bathing, they ate fried ripe plantains and eggs, Jende always forcing Liomi to eat at least a whole plantain and two eggs, and drink a full glass of orange juice. They dressed for the day together, donning jeans and T-shirts, Liomi always making sure he wore the same colors as his father. Their bellies full and lunch bags packed, they walked to the subway station hand in hand and took an uptown subway to pick up the cab in the Bronx. In the subway, they sat close to each other, Liomi's hand always in Jende's. After four hours of picking up and dropping off passengers, they took out their lunch—food Neni had cooked and frozen—and ate in the backseat of the car. For dinners they went every other day to one of the African restaurants on 116th Street, where they ordered
attiéké
with grilled lamb, their favorite meal in all the restaurants there. Sometimes, after they were done eating, they bought ice cream at a shop on 115th Street and walked down Malcolm X Boulevard holding hands and licking ice cream. The days were perfect for Jende, almost heavenly, and even though he missed his wife, he was happy to be alone with his son.

“Papa?” Liomi said to him as they dined at a restaurant adjacent to the 116th Street subway one evening.

“Eh?”

“Is it true that we're going back to Cameroon?”

Jende stopped chewing. He put down the ball of
attiéké
he had in his right hand. “Who told you we're going back to Cameroon?” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to pull attention but widening his eyes to show Liomi how much he had aroused his anger.

“No one, Papa,” Liomi replied, averting his eyes.

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Nothing, Papa,” he replied. “I only heard Mama saying it on the phone.”

“Mama said it, eh? To who?”

“I don't know, Papa.”

“When did she say it?”

“Papa, I don't—”

“You don't what? Why were you listening to your mother's conversation?”

The boy went mute, his small mouth covered with the white granules of
attiéké
. Beside them, the bald man eating
thiebou djeun
had paused eating to watch the father, fists clenched on the table, and seven-year-old boy who appeared ready to run in terror.

“We're not going back to Cameroon, you hear me?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“You're never going back to Cameroon, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Papa.”

“Finish your food.”

Back at the apartment, Jende called Neni and, without asking questions, mercilessly scolded her for exposing Liomi to their pain. “How dare you mention it in front of him?”

“I didn't know he was listening.”

“You don't need to know anything, Neni. You don't have to know who is listening to what you're saying. You only need to learn how to shut your mouth sometimes.”

“But what if he knows? If the immigration judge decides to send us back home are we going to shut his eyes so he doesn't know we're taking him back to Cameroon?”

Jende slapped the frame of the bed and stood up, unable to believe his wife's words. “Eh, Neni!” he shouted. “Is that what you think? You think we should tell a child his father might be deported? You want Liomi to know what's happening to
me
?”

Neni did not respond. It was the first time he had screamed at her so loudly, the first time in almost twenty years, from when they were teenagers at National Comprehensive.

“Bubakar has promised us that we will be here for years even if things don't end up the way we want them to. You know that! You know we still have many years in this country. Don't you know that?”

“I know what he said.”

“Then why are you going around talking as if we're leaving next month?”

“No one knows the future. Anything can happen. You know that.”

Jende sat down and closed his eyes, shaking his head. For a moment he didn't know what to say to his wife. “Are you saying this because you think I'll be deported?” he said. His voice was low and woeful, saturated with anguish. “Eh, Neni? Is that why you're talking to me like this?”

“No,
bébé,
please,” Neni said, embarrassment at the misery she was mindlessly causing him suddenly obvious in her voice. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I'm not saying anything,
bébé
. I'm sorry. I don't even know what I was trying to say.”

“Why are you making me feel so bad?”

“I'm really sorry,
bébé
. You know what is best for us. I won't talk about it when Liomi is home anymore.”

“Just stop talking about it! There's nothing to talk about. I'll get a green card!”

“You will,
bébé
,” Neni responded, her voice cracking. “It's just that I'm so afraid sometimes, and I want to talk about it with my sister. I don't want to go back to Limbe,
bébé
. I don't even want to imagine what is going to happen if …”

“I'm afraid, too, Neni. You think I'm not afraid? But what has fear ever done for anyone? We have to be strong and protect Liomi.”

“You're right.”

“We cannot go around worrying about what the judge is going to decide. We just have to keep living.”

“Yes. And we're doing that, aren't we?”

“So what's your problem then?”

“Nothing … nothing. I will remember not to talk anymore. We will be fine. I'm sorry I angered you,
bébé.
Please cool your temper and rest. And please, let's not talk about it over the phone. You know what Bubakar said about the government listening.”

Jende went to bed that night bitter in spite of Neni's apologies, angry at her for recklessly exposing their child to harmful untruths and angrier at himself for all the failures of his life. He made Liomi sleep alone in his cot that night, wanting nothing of cuddling with a child he might one day disappoint. But the next morning, when he awoke, Liomi was at his side, his small hands on his father's belly. Jende looked at the round sweat-covered face and knew he had no choice but to snuggle close to his child and enjoy the rest of their father-and-son summer.

That evening they attended a classical music concert in St. Nicholas Park and listened as a quartet of violinists performed a piece so sorrowful it briefly clouded Jende's eyes. The next afternoon, eager to experience more of what a New York City summer had to offer those unable or unwilling to leave the city, he ditched the money he could be making in the Bronx and took his son for a swim at the public pool in East Harlem.

“Papa, show me how you and Uncle Winston used to swim at Down Beach,” Liomi said, and Jende did, flaunting the backstroke he and his cousin used to do in the waters behind the Botanic Garden. After completing two laps while a giggling Liomi watched, Jende lifted the boy and positioned his back against the water to teach him the strokes. Watching Liomi laughing and flapping his arms in the water, Jende saw, for perhaps the first time, his son not only as a child but also as a man in the making, a young man watching and learning from his father, a boy who wanted to follow in the footsteps of his papa and become a man like him in disposition, if not in possessions. That night they slept together as usual, Liomi's arm around his father and his head on Jende's chest. Never much of a praying man, Jende said a minute-long prayer for his boy as they lay, that Liomi would live a long happy life.