Behold the Dreamers(72)
When Jende came home from work at close to midnight, she hurriedly dished out his food and sat at the dinette as he took off his jacket, unable to wait any longer to tell him the amazing news of how the people of Judson would help them stay in America.
“I went down to the church in the Village today,” she began after he’d had a few bites of his dinner.
“What for?”
“It wasn’t for anything. The pastor sent me an email to welcome me and said I should come for a visit, so I went.”
“You didn’t think you should tell me before going?”
“I’m sorry. You were angry the last time I went. I didn’t want you to get angry again.”
He glared at her and returned to his potatoes and spinach. She pretended the look wasn’t half as nasty as he’d intended it to be. She had to forgive him easily these days or her marriage would be doomed. She just had to, because he hadn’t been the same man since the day the letter for the deportation hearing arrived. The weight of the letter was crushing him, she could see; he was now a man permanently at the edge of his breaking point. No longer did he reach over to stroke her hair while she nursed the baby. He did not care to playfully punch Liomi in the ribs. The husband who seldom uttered words like “stupid” and “idiot” was now throwing those words left and right, in moments of rage and frustration, directing them at nameless Immigration officials, his lawyer, his family in Cameroon, his son, and, most of all, his wife. He scolded his mother for asking for money to patch the kitchen wall and barked at Liomi when the child asked if his father could take him to an arcade. He pushed his food away if he thought it didn’t have enough salt or pepper, and ignored phone calls from his friends. It was as if the letter of his court appointment had turned him from a happy living man to an outraged dying man intent on showing the world his anger at his impending death.
“The pastor told me that the church will help us stay in the country,” Neni said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Our papier situation. I told the pastor about it—”
“You did what!” he said, banging the table.
She said nothing.
He pushed his food aside and stood up.
“Are you crazy?” he said, pointing to his temple. “Are you losing your mind, Neni? Have you lost your mind? How dare you discuss my papier situation with those people without asking me first? Have you really lost your mind?” He was fuming and breathing heavily. Beneath him, she sat like a lamb before a teeth-baring lion.
“What’s wrong with you? What is wrong with you these days? You think you have the right to go about discussing something like that with other people without asking me first? Do you know who these people really are? You think because you go to their church for one day you can tell them my private business? Eh, Neni? Are you crazy?”
She did not offer an excuse. She knew she had gone too far—Bubakar had warned them to guard their immigration story and share it with no one. You tell person say you no get paper, the lawyer had said, the day you get palaver with them, they go call Immigration, report you. “No one except me, you, the Almighty, and the American government should know how you entered this country and how you’re trying to stay in it,” he had cautioned them repeatedly. He knew of the consequence of their scheme being leaked to the government by a hateful individual: It could spell the end not only for them but for him, too.
Neni had agreed with the lawyer’s advice; she believed in the value of keeping certain matters private to protect from negativity and malice. To her, it was not only wise but easy—keeping crucial facts concealed was as effortless to her as singing. Back when she was a teenager, she had told no one besides Jende about her pregnancy with their deceased daughter. She had waited to tell even her parents until she was five months along, tactfully hiding her growing belly with oversize kabas and handbags. It was equally easy for her to hide their immigration travails in New York. Except for Betty and Fatou, she told no one. When asked by other friends about her family’s legal status, she dodged the question by casually saying that their papers would be arriving very soon.
Despite her shame, she had told Natasha about their plight because she believed there were Americans who wanted to keep good hardworking immigrants in America. She’d seen them on the news, compassionate Americans talking about how the United States should be more welcoming to people who came in peace. She believed these kindhearted people, like Natasha, would never betray them, and she wanted to tell Jende this, that the people of Judson Memorial Church loved immigrants, that their secret was safe with Natasha. But she also knew it would be futile reasoning with a raging man, so she decided to sit quietly with her head bowed as he unleashed a verbal lashing, as he called her a stupid idiot and a bloody fool. The man who had promised to always take care of her was standing above her vomiting a parade of insults, spewing out venom she never thought he had inside him.
For the first time in a long love affair, she was afraid he would beat her. She was almost certain he would beat her. And if he had, she would have known that it was not her Jende who was beating her but a grotesque being created by the sufferings of an American immigrant life.
Thirty-seven
ON CHRISTMAS MORNING THEY ATE FRIED RIPE PLANTAINS AND BEANS but exchanged no gifts since Jende did not want Liomi believing that the giving and receiving of material gifts had anything to do with love. Anyone can go to the shop and buy anything and give to anyone, he told Liomi when the boy asked him for the umpteenth time why he couldn’t get even a little toy truck. The true measure of whether somebody really loves you, he lectured, is what they do for you with their hands and say to you with their mouth and think of you in their heart. Liomi had protested, but on Christmas morning, as on all the previous Christmas mornings of his life, he got no gifts.