Behold the Dreamers (30 page)

G
ONE
WERE
THE
MOMENTS
OF
TENDER
EMBRACES
IN
THE
KITCHEN,
MIN
utes of stolen passion in the bathroom while the children slept. They were now in two separate universes, each certain of his or her rightness and the other's senselessness. Unwilling to fully embrace the new person she was becoming—it seemed so futile, being that the final decision wasn't hers to make—she could do nothing but engage in fraught conversations about their future, which ended in accusations from her and rage from him. We're going back home, he would say, and that is the end of that. How can you do this to us? she would screech. How can you be
so
selfish? If she spoke while he was eating, he would push away his food and jump into a rant about how she had been sold the stupid nonsense about America being the greatest country in the world. Guess what, he would say to her in mock instruction, America is not all that; this country is full of lies and people who like to hear lies. If you want to know the truth I'll tell you the truth: This country no longer has room for people like us. Anyone who has no sense can believe the lies and stay here forever, hoping that things will get better for them one day and they will be happy. As for me, I won't live my life in the hope that someday I will magically become happy. I refuse to!

Their worst fight happened four days before his court appearance, after she said to him, while he was groaning in pain on the living room floor, that his best chance at getting his back pain healed was to stay in New York, where the doctors were better than the ones in Limbe. She had spoken mindlessly as she massaged his back, thinking nothing of how a man in pain and four days away from standing before an immigration judge would react.

“Shut up,” he said to her between his groans.

A day later, she would look back and realize that she should have said nothing after this warning. But she did not consider doing so then: Her battle to help her husband recognize the folly of his conviction had not yet been won.

“Why are you so stubborn?” she said. “You know the doctors here can find a cure—”

He pushed her off his back and stood up, glaring at her as he tried to massage his own shoulders.

“I'm just saying—”

“Did you hear me say you should shut up?”

“This pain is never going to go away if—”

She didn't see the slap coming. She merely found herself stumbling backward and falling on the floor from the force and shock of it, her cheek burning as if someone had rubbed hot tar on it. He was standing over her, his fists clenched, screaming in the ugliest voice she'd ever heard. He was calling her useless and idiot and stupid and a selfish woman who would be happy to see her husband die in pain all so she could live in New York. She jumped up, her cheek still throbbing.

“Did you just hit me?” she shrieked, her hand on her left cheek. “Did you hit me?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes wide open. “And you dare open your mouth one more time, I'll hit you again!”

“Then hit me again!”

He turned around to walk away but she pulled him back by his shirt. He tried to shove her away but she wouldn't let him go, standing in his way and shouting in his face as her tears came down. “That's why you brought me to America, eh? To kill me and send my corpse back to Limbe. Go ahead and hit me, Jende … I'm begging you, hit me again!”

She pushed him with her palms, squealing like one of Ma Jonga's pigs moments before its slaughter. Why don't you just go ahead and kill me, she demanded. Why not? Hit me and kill me right now!

“Don't you make me hit you again,” he growled as he pushed her hands away and clenched his fist. “I'm warning you.”

“Oh, no, please hit me,” she said. “Raise your hand and hit me again! America has beaten you and you don't know what to do and now you think hitting me will make it better. Please, go ahead and—”

So he did. He hit her hard. One vicious slap on her cheek. Then another. And another. And a deafening one right over her ear. They landed on her face even before she was done asking for them. She squealed, stunned and pained; she fell on the ground wailing.

“I'm dying, oh! I'm dead, oh!”

Liomi ran out of the bedroom. He saw his mother balled in a corner and his father standing over her, his hand raised and about to descend.

“Go back to the bedroom right now,” his father barked.

The boy stood speechless, motionless, powerless.

“I say get back in the room right now before I box your face into pieces!” his father barked again.

“Mama …”

“If you don't—!”

Liomi burst into tears and ran back to the bedroom.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Is everything all right?” a man asked from outside.

Neni quieted her sobs.

Jende opened the door.

“Yes, sir,” Jende told the elderly neighbor, pushing his sweaty face through a small crack in the door. “Everything is all right, thank you, sir.”

“What about the woman?” the neighbor asked. “I thought I heard her screaming.”

“I'm okay,” Neni answered from the floor, her voice as counterfeit as a dollar bill made on checkered paper.

The man left.

Jende put on his shoes and left, too, slamming the door behind him. No other neighbors came. If they heard something, they did nothing. No police came to the apartment to question Jende about domestic abuse or encourage Neni to file charges. The thought of filing charges against him received no deliberation in her mind, even though she knew it was something wives in America did when their husbands beat them. Such a thing was unimaginable to her; she could never do anything like that to her husband. If he beat her a second time she was going to ask Winston to talk to him. If he did it a third time she was going to call Ma Jonga. Between his cousin and his mother he would be brought back to his senses. A marital dispute wasn't something to get the police involved in—it was a private family matter.

After twenty minutes of crying on the floor she stood up and went into the bedroom, wiping her tears with the hem of her dress. Liomi was sitting on their bed, whimpering. She hugged him and cried with him, both of them too scared to talk. They slept together on the big bed, Liomi taking the place of his father, Timba in the middle. Neni Jonga fell asleep with tears running into her pillow, convinced her husband had beaten her not because he didn't love her but because he was lost and could find no way out of the misery that had become his life.

Jende slept alone on the living room floor, partly in rage, partly for his back.

The next morning she woke up before him, as she often did, and made his breakfast, which he ate before heading off to work.

When he returned fourteen hours later he had a bouquet of red roses for her and a new video game for Liomi, who took it and thanked him without looking in his eyes because he was still scared of his father after what he'd seen him do to his mother.

“I will do everything I can to make you happy in Cameroon,” Jende promised Neni. “We will have a very good life there.”

Neni turned her face away.

He tried to pull her into his arms.

She resisted.

He went down on his knees and held her feet.

“Please,” he said, looking up at her face, “forgive me.”

She forgave him. What else was she supposed to do?

Three days later, he stood before the immigration judge.

“My client would like to request voluntary departure, Your Honor,” Bubakar said to the judge.

“Does your client understand what rights he is forfeiting?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge flipped through the papers in front of him and looked up at Jende. “Mr. Jonga, you understand that if I grant your request for voluntary departure, you have to leave the country before one hundred and twenty days?”

“I do, Your Honor,” Jende responded.

The judge asked the attorney for ICE if she had any objection to his granting voluntary departure to the defendant. She said no.

“Very well,” the judge announced. “I'll review the case and make a decision. My clerk will notify you, at which point you'll have to leave the country before your time runs out.”

Jende nodded, but the relief he'd thought he would feel did not come immediately. It did not come when he walked out of the court knowing that, in all likelihood, he would never have to walk into it again. It did not come when he arrived at work and changed from his suit to his work clothes, knowing he most likely would never again have to wash dishes to feed his children. The relief came only later that night, when Neni looked at him and, with tears in her eyes, said how glad she was that his ordeal might soon be over.

I
T
WAS
AN
INTERNATIONAL
CALL
BUT
SHE
KNEW
IT
WASN'T
FROM
C
AMER
oon because the first three digits on her caller ID weren't 237. For a moment she considered picking it up, but she and the children were running late for Olu's mother-in-law's seventieth birthday party in Flatbush, so she ignored the call and the voicemail notification. She threw the phone into her purse, hoping she would get a chance to check the message on her way to the party, but Olu's sister, who was giving them a ride, chatted nonstop about the five-hundred-guest wedding she and her fiancé were planning in Lagos in December. It will be beyond fantastic, oh, the woman said at least five times, to which Neni was tempted to say, yes, enjoy the fantastic wedding because when the dancing is over and it's time to get to the business of being married, you will forget the definition of fantastic. But she didn't need to say it—the woman would find out soon enough; she merely listened and nodded as if she cared. It was only the next morning, after a seemingly endless night of dancing to hits by musicians from Fela to P-Square with a roomful of Yoruba women in the most elaborate
gele styles
she'd ever seen, that she thought about the voicemail and drowsily reached over a worn-out Jende to get her phone.

Hey, Neni, it's Vince, the caller said. Hey, how are you guys? Hope everyone's doing great. I know, you're probably surprised to hear from me, but don't panic, it's all good. I'm doing good; great, actually. Just calling because I have a quick question for you. Actually, something I'd like to discuss with you. I wouldn't wanna be a pain 'cause I know it's a major imposition, but … you think you could call me back when you get this message? You could just call me for a second, let me know you're free and I'll call you right back. I wouldn't want you to spend your money calling me in India but if you could get in touch, I'd appreciate it. Okay, peace and love to my man Jende, and to Liomi. Thanks and … well, hope we can talk soon. It's Vince Edwards, by the way. Ha, ha. Just in case you know a couple of Vinces in India. Namaste.

She saved the voicemail and lay back on the bed. Outside, two men shouted at each other in drunken voices; beside her Jende snored befittingly for a man who had just finished a sixteen-hour shift at work. She closed her eyes, trying to resume her sleep, but Jende's snoring and the pile of laundry on the floor and Vince's out-of-the-blue voicemail had all combined to wipe off the last drop of sleep left in her eyes, so she climbed over Timba and Jende and went to the living room. There was only one thing Vince would want to know from her, she thought as she listened to the voicemail again: what had transpired between her and his mother. Anna must have told him. He must have been perplexed that someone he'd thought was a good person wasn't such a good person after all. He must have told himself he needed to know the truth, since he was all about Truth. If we do not live in Truth, he always said, we do not live. Good thing she had a phone card. She was going to call him, and if he really wanted to hear her side of the story, she was going to tell him.

“Wow, I wasn't sure you were going to call me back,” Vince said delightedly when he picked up the phone.

“Why would I not call you back?”

“I don't know, everyone's got so much going on you can't expect them to return your calls just because you ask them to.”

“I'm not like everyone.”

“No, you're not, Neni. No one is like everyone, and you haven't changed a bit,” Vince said with a laugh. “How are you guys? How's Jende, and Liomi? You've got a new baby, right?”

“Everyone is fine. How are Mighty and your dad?”

They were doing well, Vince told her, though he was a bit concerned about them now that it was just the two of them at home. Neni nodded as he spoke, but she said nothing. She was interested in knowing how the Edwards family was doing, though not at the expense of immediately learning the reason for Vince's call. With any other person, she would have asked within thirty seconds because she hated being kept in suspense by unexpected callers—especially if she suspected the call might be about a matter that would make for an uncomfortable conversation—but with Vince that morning, she had to be kinder and gentler. So she started asking him question after question, and, seemingly eager to share, he proceeded to tell her far more than she thought she needed to know, all while leaving her wondering the reason for his call.

His dad was doing pretty well, he told her, but he'd become such a worrier ever since his wife died. He couldn't stop checking in on everyone all the time. He called his parents at least three times a week, far more than the weekly calls they'd become accustomed to. He emailed Vince at least every other day, to learn about the latest places Vince had visited and to make sure he hadn't run out of money. He called multiple times a day to check on Mighty, though Anna and Stacy and the part-time chauffeur repeatedly assured him that Mighty was fine and promised him that nothing bad was going to happen on their watch.

“It's hard as a parent not to think about your child all the time,” Neni said.

Sure, Vince said, but it was really strange how his dad had suddenly become a man who made his life revolve around family. It would even be funny if it wasn't so sad. He appeared to hold nothing dearer than Mighty's well-being, rescheduling meetings to attend Mighty's hockey practices, turning down invitations to parties and dinners so he could stay home and play video games with Mighty, writing poems for Mighty while the boy slept.

“I called him the other day and he's coming back from taking a cooking class,” Vince said with a laugh. “He wants to learn how to cook the meals my mom used to make for Mighty.”

“I'm so happy to hear this, for Mighty's sake,” Neni said. “I'm sure you know more than me, but that child wanted nothing more than to spend time with his father.”

“Yeah, I'm glad for Mighty. But it's pretty sad whenever I talk to my dad about his day … he seems to be learning quickly and holding it together well, but the Universe has thrown him this heavy curveball, and he's struggling to carry it and walk on his path. And at his age, he still hasn't figured out his path, which is what happens when you go off pursuing illusions.”

“For a man to raise a child alone, it's not easy. Us women, it's in our blood.”

“It's definitely not in his blood, I'll tell you that. But I'm proud of him, how he's coping and doing his best.”

“You should tell him that, Vince. It will make him happy. What would make a parent happier than to hear their child say ‘I'm proud of you'?”

“I've told him how grateful I am that Mighty's doing well, and it's all thanks to him.”

Neni nodded but said nothing.

“It's going to be a long road for him,” Vince continued, “but he seems to have learned the importance of balance and recognizing that—”

“But Mighty,” Neni said, “he must still be struggling to understand.”

“Yeah. The good days are good, and once in a while he has a bad day when he doesn't want to do anything and poor Dad has no clue what to do. But overall, I'll say he's much happier than I thought he would be, and he gets to have something I never had. I was very worried for him when I left after the funeral.”

“You left right after the funeral?”

“No, I stayed for over a month, but when I came back here I thought about returning home a lot.”

“You? Returning? Don't you hate America?”

Vince laughed. “I don't love America,” he said, “but my family's there, so I have to find a way to at least be able to stomach it.”

“I still don't understand what is hard for you to stomach.”

“All the bullshit the masses are blind to … so much mindlessness. People sit on their couches and watch garbage interrupted by messages to buy garbage which will create a desire for more garbage. They go to their computers and order from incredibly horrible corporations that are enslaving their fellow humans and pretty much destroying any chance of children growing up in a world where they can be truly free. But hey, we have our material comforts and we're saving money and corporations are creating sixty-hour-a-week jobs with sick leave so what does it matter if we're complicit? Let's just carry on with our lives while our country continues to commit atrocities all over the world.”

“You want to give me your American citizenship and take my Cameroonian citizenship?” Neni said, laughing.

Vince did not laugh. “Anyway,” he said, “now that Mighty and my dad are mostly okay I'm probably never coming back for good. Maybe I'll visit once a year, I don't know.”

“Once or twice a year will be good for all of you.”

“Maybe. I had a really hard time saying goodbye to them after the funeral.”

“I cannot even imagine,” Neni said. “I am so sorry about everything that happened, Vince. Truly sorry. I wanted to email to tell you that the news made me very sad, but … I couldn't even—”

“Don't worry about it. I know it wouldn't have been an easy email to write.”

“No, it wasn't only that. I know how much you and your mother used to be really tight—Mighty told me that one time the two of you went on a vacation without him.”

It's true,” Vince said with a laugh. “We went to Fiji the summer before I started college.”

“I have heard of Fiji. Was it nice?”

“We had a blast—snorkeling and scuba diving everyday and feasting on some crazy delicious seafood at night; pretty much living right in the ocean.”

“That sounds like a very nice vacation.”

“It was awesome. I remember one morning, this guy on the beach tried to hit on my mom and I came over and pretended she was my girlfriend. It was hilarious.” He chuckled. “My mom used to be pretty cool.”

For a moment neither of them said anything.

“But what really happened between the two of you?” Neni asked.

Vince did not immediately respond. “She stayed the same and I became a different person,” he said. “I guess that's the long and short of it.”

“You miss her.”

“Yeah, but what can we do in life but accept?”

“I don't know, Vince. You like to talk about this acceptance thing, but it's just not easy to accept when bad things happen, I don't care what anyone says. All those people who walk around saying they accept their life as it is, I don't know how they do it.”

“I can't even believe how much I think about home these days. Obviously, it has to do with my mom not being around, but when I came back here, that first week, I called home way more than I promised myself I ever would.”

“Because you felt sorry for Mighty?”

“Yeah. I couldn't imagine what his life would be like, you know? My mom gone, my dad working all the time. Even if Mighty has my mom's friends and Stacy and Anna, I knew it wouldn't be the same.”

“Only your mother can love you a certain way.”

“Maybe. But the Universe gives us different kinds of Love to unite us all as One. Who are we to decide what kind of Love we need at any given time? Love is Love, and at any given point we have everything we need. Though, I must admit, Mighty does not like spending time with my mom's friends as much as he did with you and Jende.”

“Maybe if they give him fried ripe plantains and
puff-puff,
he will like them more,” Neni said, and they both laughed.

“Actually,” Vince said, his voice turning serious, “that's what I'm calling you about.”

“About fried ripe plantains and
puff-puff
?”

“No,” he replied with a little laugh. “About Mighty.”

“You know I'll do anything that I can do for you two, so please ask me.”

“Thing is,” Vince said, “Stacy is moving to Portland, and we need a new nanny for Mighty.”

“Okay?”

“I spoke to my dad a couple of days ago about it. He was going to call an agency to find someone else, but I thought about you, and we both agreed you'd be ideal for the job.”

“But I'm not looking for a job,” Neni hastily replied.

“I know—we're not asking you to take a full-time job. It would be awesome if you could do it full-time, but I imagine with two kids, you don't want to work full-time right now.”

“I don't.”

“I get it. It's totally cool. If you can't do it full-time we can make it work another way: We'll get Mighty someone else full-time and you'll only need to spend time with him a few hours a week.”

“Like how many hours?”

“Whatever works for you and my dad and Mighty.”

“I'm still confused. You don't think one nanny is enough for Mighty?”

“No, that's not the thing. Okay, here's the thing. We think it'll be good for him to have some kind of constant, nurturing mother figure in his life.”

Neni said nothing.

“His grief counselor agrees it might help him with his healing. He's a kid, he needs it. Not someone to replace my mom—no one can do that, of course—just a woman he loves and who he knows loves him very much, too.”

“But what about your father's sister?” Neni asked. “Or your mother's friends?”

“My aunt's in Seattle, and my mom's friends, don't get me wrong, they have their virtues, but it's not the same thing. It just isn't. You two had a special connection, and my dad and I … we really wouldn't mind paying you even if it's just to take Mighty and Liomi to dinner every so often or bring him up to Harlem and give him an evening like the one we had that night.”

“You told your dad about that night?”

“I did. Only recently, though.”