My New American Life by Francine Prose Page A

paste. Lula said, “Everywhere seems romantic until you actually—”
    Mister Stanley said, “One was never under the impression that Europe’s most repressive dictatorship was romantic.”
    â€œIt was the hangover talking,” said Lula. “Sorry.”
    Mister Stanley’s expression was uncharacteristically chilly and removed, as if he was looking at her and seeing someone else. Maybe Ginger.
    He said, “You women always come at things from a crazy angle.”
    You women? This conversation had to stop before their hangovers exchanged one more word. Lula was heading into the kitchen when Mister Stanley said, “Anyhow, it was fun last night. Don’s quite a guy. A hero.”
    â€œA hero,” Lula agreed. “I wouldn’t have the courage to do what he does.”
    Mister Stanley said, “I don’t know. People do what they have to.”
    Where had Lula heard that before? She’d said it to Mister Stanley. A ribbon of pain cinched Lula’s temples. She went into the kitchen and started separating eggs. The third yolk slipped into the bowl with the whites, and loudly, in Albanian, she cursed the eggs for fucking their mother.
    Through the door she heard Mister Stanley say, “Good morning. Finally, Zeke!”
    How could Mister Stanley and Zeke sit at the table without even making small talk? Maybe Ginger had been the talker. At La Changita, Lula had often seen mothers and girlfriends propping up the conversation, while the husbands and sons sulked or drank. It was easier in Albania, men and women divided, no one expecting the other sex to say anything much worth hearing. Lula brought in a bowl of Cheerios and an egg-white omelet for Mister Stanley, plates of scrambled eggs and toast for herself and Zeke.
    Mister Stanley chewed his cereal. Crunch crunch pause crunch crunch pause. He said, “I want my low cholesterol back. I want to be young again.”
    Zeke said, “Dad, don’t be depressing.” The eggs were runny and undersalted, but Zeke seemed to enjoy them. Lula made a resolution to cook more. Kids appreciated it when adults made the effort.
    Mister Stanley said, “Did you hear what Don’s doing, Zeke?”
    Zeke said, “I used to think Abigail’s school was cooler than mine, but now it sounds like it sucks.”
    Mister Stanley said, “Don pays a fortune in tuition. Here’s a guy who does nothing but good, who has nothing but decency in his heart, and that daughter of his, poor guy—”
    â€œAbigail’s awesome,” Zeke said.
    â€œWhat year is she in?” Lula asked.
    â€œShe’s a senior, like me.”
    Lula said, “I thought she was twelve.”
    â€œFood issues.” Mister Stanley contemplated his remaining Cheerios and wedge of egg-white omelet. “Tragic. Speaking of being a senior, Zeke, I got a call from a Mrs. Sullivan, the college counselor at your school.”
    Zeke said, “Do we have to do this now? I’m actually enjoying my breakfast. You want me to wind up like Abigail? I could quit eating too.”
    Mister Stanley said, “Not only have you not been to see Mrs. Sullivan, Zeke, but she thinks you haven’t applied to one college, nor have you handed in the list of colleges you plan to apply to.”
    â€œI forgot,” said Zeke.
    â€œNo one forgets something like that,” said Mister Stanley.
    â€œOkay, I was busy. Like you, Dad. And Mom wasn’t here to help.”
    â€œYou must be thinking of Old Mom. By the time New Mom left, she couldn’t have helped anyone much, including herself.” Normally Mister Stanley went overboard not to criticize Ginger. His tone made Lula suspect they might be headed for a dark place disguised as Zeke’s college plans.
    â€œI could have helped,” said Lula. The idea that Zeke might not go away to school filled her with claustrophobic panic. No one was holding her prisoner here. She