My New American Life by Francine Prose Page B

didn’t have a contract. She could leave whenever she wanted, even if Zeke never left. Don Settebello and Mister Stanley had promised to help her become a citizen whether she worked here or not.
    Zeke said, “No insult, Lula, but it’s not like you know anything about the American college application process. You said Albanian girls got into the popular majors by blowing the professors.”
    When had Lula said that ? Probably during an evening of mojitos, junk food, TV, and Lula speaking too freely. It was fun, trying to shock Zeke. Fun, but not very smart.
    â€œYou said that? You told Zeke that?” asked Mister Stanley.
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Lula. “We had exams, like here.”
    â€œYou did,” said Zeke. “You told me that.”
    â€œYou must have misunderstood,” said Lula.
    â€œThese eggs are awesome,” Zeke said.
    â€œHave some more,” said Lula.
    â€œWatch the eggs, Zeke,” said Mister Stanley. “You’ll probably inherit my cholesterol numbers. It’s never too early to develop healthy nutritional habits.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean,” said Zeke. “This is exactly how Abigail got that way.”
    Mister Stanley said, “Mrs. Sullivan suggested we use the Veteran’s Day weekend to visit a few New England colleges. She wrote down the names and Web sites. We’re already late with this—”
    â€œNo freaking way,” said Zeke.
    â€œLula could come with us,” said Mister Stanley.
    â€œI’d love to!” Lula said. A road trip was a road trip. America awaited her out there. She’d never been farther than New Jersey. She’d never even been to Detroit, where she’d told the visa officer she was going.
    Mister Stanley said, “Come on, Zeke. We used to travel all the time.”
    â€œAll right, fine,” Zeke said. “Maybe we’ll have a car wreck, and I can miss the rest of school.”
    â€œKnock on wood!” cried Lula.
    â€œI thought Albanians weren’t superstitious,” said Zeke. “That’s what you’re always saying, but then you knock on wood.”
    â€œBe careful what you wish for,” his father said. “Even Protestants believe that.”
    M onday was cold but sunny, and Lula decided to take a walk. After a full weekend of Zeke and Mister Stanley, it would be pleasant to sit and read in the cozy library with the steam pipes clanking. And she didn’t want to stay home. She knew the feeling would pass, especially if nothing else happened, but for now the idea of a stranger using her shower had spoiled her pleasure in being alone at Mister Stanley’s. Most likely it was a one-time event.
    Yet if the intruder was Alvo, maybe he would return. What if he came back today, and she missed him again? She weighed the odds, and chose to bet on the chance that Alvo might reappear. If the psycho stranger showed up, she would have calculated wrong.
    Lula spent the day alternately looking out the window and trying not to look out the window. No one drove by, no one walked past but the mailman. The most exciting event was the plop-crunch of letters sliding through the slot.
    How much mail Mister Stanley got, and how much went into the shredder! The three envelopes that arrived today—two invitations to upgrade credit cards and a charity solicitation—seemed destined for the same fate, but another item whispered to her as it skimmed across the floor. On the thick, hand-tinted, old-fashioned postcard two sepia rock formations rose like craggy penises. The caption said, “Red Rocks National Monument. The Scout and the Indian Maiden.”
    The postcard was addressed to Mr. Ezekiel Larch. Lula knew she should leave it for Zeke. But postcards weren’t like letters or e-mail. Postcards dared you not to read them.
    Written in brown fountain-pen ink and chicken-scratch handwriting, it said: “My dearest darling Zeke, I