My New American Life by Francine Prose

chin and let the hot steamy bubbles melt away the soreness. By the time she got out, it was like any other Sunday. Sunday with a headache.
    Lula threw on her jeans and a sweatshirt, then hurried downstairs, where she found Mister Stanley, drinking coffee at the dining room table, his back bowed over the Sunday paper. Lula made a quick tour, checking for shattered windows, busted doors, anything to track the route that Alvo, or someone, had taken. But there was only the usual mess, the usual sad Mister Stanley. How glad she was to see him. Mister Stanley wasn’t hurt or even, it seemed, aware that anything unusual had occurred.
    Maybe she could turn this into one of those cultural comparisons that Mister Stanley and Don so enjoyed. In her country, under Communism, if someone broke into your place and didn’t take anything, it meant you were in trouble. Whereas after Communism, no one would bother breaking in unless they were planning to take something. Under Communism, there had been nothing to take. Every night, she and Zeke watched a news story about the White House insisting there should be more spying on private citizens. People acted shocked, as they should be, even if it was naive. In Europe, people admitted that the desire to spy on your neighbor was basic human nature. . . . They could discuss this in the abstract, but it wouldn’t be long before Mister Stanley realized that Lula meant something specific.
    Mister Stanley said, “I’m sorry, Lula. I overindulged last night.”
    â€œSorry for what?” said Lula. “Nothing bad happened.”
    â€œThe drive home couldn’t have been fun,” he said. “I shuffer . . . Shuffer? I shudder to think what could have happened. I will never do that again, I promise, never—”
    Why was he looking to Lula, of all people, to absolve him? Because she was the only one here. She wanted to give him a consoling pat on the shoulder, but she never touched Mister Stanley, and she didn’t want to start now, both of them weakened in body and spirit, both perhaps seeking relief from the damage that alcohol had inflicted on their bodies. Mister Stanley wasn’t the type of guy to hit on the nanny, but every guy was a hangover away from being that type of guy. Even a friendly shoulder squeeze was a door best left unopened. Meanwhile, a surge of fondness almost persuaded Lula to tell him about her shower, the soap, her suspicions. It would be a relief to share her worries with him. And wasn’t it her duty, as his employee? The impulse hovered in the air, spinning like a smoke ring. Lula told herself: No one’s in danger. Relax and see what happens.
    â€œWe survived,” she said. “No one got hurt. The car didn’t even get scratched.”
    â€œI’ll never do it again,” Mister Stanley said.
    Maybe she had imagined the incident with the soap. Her father used to say, My daughter Lula has some imagination. He’d made it sound like a genial way of calling her a liar. Imagination was part of what had gotten her this far. It was a tool in the arsenal that armed you for survival.
    â€œDid you see this?” Mister Stanley slid the paper across the table. Another munitions dump had blown up near Durrës.
    â€œGreat,” Lula said. “My country is practicing for the future nuclear reactor.”
    Mister Stanley said, “You know what it was? A factory full of little kids some gangsters paid to disassemble Kalashnikovs and stockpile explosives.”
    Lula said, “I told you things are bad there. You think it’s all sworn virgins and blood feuds and paranoid dead dictators?” In case everything fell apart and she was deported for the crimes of her Albanian brothers, she wanted Mister Stanley to know what she would be going back to.
    Mister Stanley glanced up. His face reminded her of how Estrelia had looked when Lula marched her into the kitchen to taste Granny’s pepper