Behold the Dreamers(59)

“How was your day?” she asked him.

“I thank God, madam.”

She nodded, picked up her coffee mug from the table, and, holding it with both hands, took a sip. “Your wife and son are well?”

“They are very well, madam. I thank you for asking.”

Cindy nodded again. She said nothing for ten seconds, maybe, and bowed her head while her hands remained clasped around the mug.

“I’m going to need you to do me a favor,” she said softly, lifting her head to look into Jende’s eyes. “A huge favor. I need you to start doing it tomorrow.”

“Anything, madam. Anything.”

“Good … good.”

She paused again, nodding with her head bowed. He waited, looking at the collar of her yellow cotton blouse in lieu of her face. She kept her head bowed. He glanced around the kitchen, at the bare countertops and the trio of glass pendant lights above the island. Just when it seemed she was going to remain with her head down for a full minute, she lifted it, pushed back her hair, and looked into his eyes.

“I want you to write in here,” she said, pushing the blue notebook toward him, “everywhere that you drive Clark to. Everyone you see him with. I want you to write everything, in here.”

Jende shifted in his seat and sat upright.

“You don’t have to tell him what I’m asking you to do, okay? This will be between the two of us. Just do as I say. Everything will be all right. You’ll be fine.”

Her voice was guttural, her nose reddish at the top. She pulled a tissue from a box on the table, wiped her nose, stood up, discarded it in the trash can, and returned to her seat. Jende picked up the notebook and examined it. He flipped through the empty pages, turned it around as if to make sure it really was a book. Carefully, he put the book down, took a deep breath, clasped his hands on his lap, and waited for courage to possess him so he could give her the right response.

“Mrs. Edwards,” he said, “what you are asking me to do is very difficult.”

“I know.”

“What you are asking me is … In fact, madam, I can lose my job with Mr. Edwards if I do something like this. Mr. Edwards made it very clear to me—”

“You will not lose your job,” she said. “I’ll make sure of that. You work for the whole family, not just him. Get me what I want, and I’ll make sure you keep your job.”

“But madam …” His voice trailed off; it had suddenly become too heavy to flow. “Madam,” he began again. “Surely you must know that this is a very difficult time for Mr. Edwards. I see how much he is working, madam. I can see how hard this time is for him. He looks tired, he is working so hard, always on his cell phone, always on his computer, one meeting after another.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what a hardworking man my husband is.”

“Yes, madam. Of course, madam.”

“There’s another woman,” Cindy said. She paused and turned her face away, as if ashamed of confessing her fear to a mere chauffeur. “What do you know?” she asked him.

“I know nothing, madam.”

“Where have you driven them to?”

“I swear to you, madam—”

“Do not lie to me!”

Her hands were shivering. His were cold; he couldn’t recall his hands having ever been this cold indoors. He yearned to reach across the table, steady her hands, tell her not to worry or fear. He couldn’t bring himself to do it—he had no right to touch the madam. Still, he had to caution her.

“Madam,” he said. “I hope you do not take this the wrong way, madam. But please, do not worry yourself too much.”

Cindy shook her head and laughed, a weak derisive laugh.

“I just think, madam, that whatever you think Mr. Edwards is doing or wherever you think he is, he is just working and working all the time. It is not easy for a woman, any woman, madam. It is hard for my wife, too, with me not coming home until late most of the time, and sometimes I have to work weekends. But she understands that I have to do this to take care of the family, just as Mr. Edwards has to.”

Cindy nodded. “Your wife is pregnant, right?” she said.

“Yes, madam,” he said, pushing out a flimsy smile. “The baby will be coming next month.”

“That’s nice. You still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No, madam, we still do not know. We will find out on the baby’s birthday.”

“Well, Jende,” she said. “Think about your pregnant wife and your new baby. Think about your family and your situation. Think very carefully, and let me know if you’d like to have a job to support them.”

She stood up, wished him a good night, and walked out of the room.





Thirty


HE RETURNED HOME EARLY THAT EVENING, AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK, TO find Winston eating kwacoco and banga soup at the table. Two blue enamel serving bowls were on the table—one bowl containing ten-inch-long sticks of grated and boiled cocoyams, the other holding palm nut soup with pieces of smoked turkey neck peeking from beneath the oil swimming on top. There was a plate of snails, too, fried in tomato, onions, cilantro, and shiitake mushrooms.

“You’ll never guess who I’m going to see next weekend,” Winston said as Jende washed his hands to join him at the table while Neni set up another plate.