Behold the Dreamers(68)
Jende took the tissue Mighty had in his hand. “Married people fight all the time, Mighty,” he said as he wiped the tears rolling down Mighty’s cheeks. “You know that, right? Just the other night me and Neni, we had a fight, but the next morning we were friends again. You know your mommy and daddy are going to be friends again, right?”
Mighty shook his head.
“I will not worry myself too much if I was you. They will become friends again, I promise you. You will go to St. Barths, and I will hear about all the fun—”
“It’s going to be the worst Christmas ever!”
“Oh, Mighty,” Jende said, pulling the child to his chest. He thought for a moment that someone might see him and call the police—a black man with a white boy against his chest, inside a luxury car, on the side of a street on the Upper East Side—but he hoped no one would, because he wasn’t going to push the child away as his tears ran full force. He was going to let Mighty have a good cry, because sometimes all a person needs to feel better is a really good cry.
“Can I come visit you and Neni this weekend?” Mighty asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand after he’d finished his cry and Jende had dried his eyes again.
“Me and Neni would be so glad to have you, Mighty. That is a very good idea. But your parents, we cannot lie to them.”
“Please, Jende, just for a little bit?”
“I am sorry, Mighty. I would really like for you to come, but I cannot do something like that.”
“Not even for one hour? Maybe Stacy could come, too?”
Jende shook his head.
Mighty nodded sadly, wiping the last of the fluids on his face.
“But you know what we could do?” Jende said, smiling. “Neni could make you some puff-puff and fried ripe plantains, and I will bring it to you tomorrow. Maybe you can eat some in the car going to school and eat the rest coming back home. Will that make you happy?”
The boy looked up at him, nodded, and smiled.
Thirty-five
THEY NAMED HER AMATIMBA MONYENGI, HOPING IT WAS THEIR DEAD daughter who had returned to bring them happiness: Amatimba for “she has returned” and Monyengi for “happiness,” both in their native Bakweri. They would call her Timba, for short.
She was born on the tenth of December at Harlem Hospital, two blocks from their apartment. On the twelfth of December they walked home from the hospital, father cradling newborn daughter in a carrier, mother holding firstborn son by the hand. In their apartment were their friends, who had come to celebrate with them. Winston was in Houston for the holidays, to continue wooing Maami back, but nine friends were packed in the boiling living room to eat and rejoice and welcome Timba to earth.
“Take as much time off as you need,” Clark said when Jende called to share the news. “Mighty’s going to be on his winter break soon, Cindy is taking some time off work. We’ll be fine.”
“Thank you so much, sir,” Jende replied, unsurprised at his employer’s generosity. “Merry Christmas to you and to Mrs. Edwards.”
Jende called Cindy, too, to personally tell her the news. She did not return his voice message, but Anna stopped by with a box of size-two diapers a couple of days later, which he and Neni assumed was from the Edwardses.
“How can we ever thank Mr. and Mrs. Edwards?” Neni asked him after Anna had cooed to Timba and hurriedly left to avoid missing her train home to Peekskill.
“We can’t ever,” he said. “Let’s just remember to always thank God for them and for everything we have.”
“Truly, we have to,” she said.
The next day a letter from Immigration arrived for him.
On the basis of being admitted to the United States in August of 2004 with authorization to remain for a period not to exceed three months and staying beyond November 2004 without further authorization, it has been charged that he is subject to removal from the United States, the letter said. He was to appear before an immigration judge to show why he should not be removed from the country.
The date was set for the second week of February.
“There’s nothing to worry about, my brother,” Bubakar assured him again when Jende called that evening to discuss the letter. “I have handled cases like this before. I know what to do.”
“What are you going to do?” Jende asked.
“There’s not much to do during this first hearing—it’s only a master calendar hearing. The judge just wants to verify your name, your address, ask us to admit or deny the charge against you; different kinds of protocol things like that. Then he’s going to schedule another date to see you again for who knows when. Like I told you before, my brother, between the backlog in the court and me filing one appeal after another if we need to, we’re going to buy you a whole lot of time in this country.”
How much was all this going to cost? Jende wanted to know. If they had to file appeals, one after another to buy time, how much would they each be?
“It’s going to cost good money, my brother. Immigration is not cheap. You just have to do what you gotta do and pay it. I know my fee is not as cheap as some of those nincompoops who go out there and stammer in front of the judge, but you stick with me and I’ll help you through this, that’s my promise. We are in this together, my brother. Step by step, together, eh?”