The Book of Unknown Americans(6)

We tried to give it time, but three years later we made the decision to leave. We never felt safe there again. We felt as if our home had been stolen from us. And part of me felt embarrassed, I think, that my country hadn’t been strong enough to resist what had happened to it. Maybe the way to say it is that I felt betrayed.

We’re Americans now. I’m a line cook at a diner, and I make enough to provide for my family. Celia and I feel gratified when we see Enrique and Mayor doing well here. Maybe they wouldn’t have done so well in Panamá. Maybe they wouldn’t have had the same opportunities. So that makes coming here worth it. We’re citizens, and if someone asks me where my home is, I say los Estados Unidos. I say it proudly.

Of course, we still miss Panamá. Celia is desperate to go back and visit. But I worry what it would be like after all this time. We thought it was unrecognizable when we left, but I have a feeling it would be even more unrecognizable now. Sometimes I think I would rather just remember it in my head, all those streets and places I loved. The way it smelled of car exhaust and sweet fruit. The thickness of the heat. The sound of dogs barking in alleyways. That’s the Panamá I want to hold on to. Because a place can do many things against you, and if it’s your home or if it was your home at one time, you still love it. That’s how it works.





Alma


Arturo started work a few days after we arrived. Before we came he had arranged a job at a mushroom farm, just over the state line in Pennsylvania. It was the only company near Maribel’s school that had been willing to sponsor our visas.

“How was it?” I asked, running to meet him at the door when he came home. He had dirt under his fingernails and smelled like rotten vegetables.

I pinched my nose. “Maybe you should take a shower before you tell me.”

But he didn’t laugh. He walked past me and sat on one of the chairs by the table. “How was it?” he said. “Well, I stood in a warehouse for ten hours and picked mushrooms out of the dirt.”

“So it was great.”

Arturo pushed his chin to one side, cracking his neck.

“Sorry,” I said, sitting across from him. He wanted to be serious, so I would be serious. “The mushrooms grow inside the building?”

He nodded. “In boxes. They’re stacked on top of each other with just enough space in between for us to fit our hands in. Everything is controlled. The ventilation, the humidity. And they keep it dark.”

“You work in the dark?”

“It doesn’t matter to the mushrooms whether there’s light.”

“But don’t you need to see what you’re doing?”

“I can feel when I’ve found one. Then I have to snap the stem, brush off the dirt, and toss it in the collection bin. Pero tan rápido. We have quotas to make.”

“But in the dark?” I asked again. I tried to imagine him standing in the dark all day. What kind of conditions were those?

“It’s mindless,” he said.

“Do they know about your experience? You could be a manager there.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Tell them that in México you owned a construction business.”

“They’re not going to care about that.”

“But you could do more than pull mushrooms in the dark.”

“We knew this was going to be the job, Alma.”

“Who knew? I didn’t know.”

“I told you.”

“You told me you would be working at a mushroom farm, but I didn’t think you’d be doing this.”

“Well, this is what I’m doing.”

“Why don’t you want to tell them about your qualifications?”

“I’m not going to make waves, Alma. I’m happy just to have a job.”

“I know, but—”

“Please!” Arturo snapped.

I felt my chest cave slightly, wounded by his tone.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just tired.”

“Let me get you a drink,” I said, standing up, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.

He took it greedily.

“When’s the last time you drank something?” I asked.

“Before I left this morning.”

“You didn’t drink anything else all day?”

“There wasn’t time.”

“Did you eat?”

Arturo shook his head. “No one eats.”

I was appalled, though I didn’t want to say so. What kind of place required a man to work all day without being allowed to eat or drink? There had to be rules, didn’t there? This was America, after all. I couldn’t help but think of how in Pátzcuaro Arturo used to come home at midday and sit at the kitchen table, eating the lunch I had spent much of the morning preparing for him. Soft tortillas that I had ground from nixtamal, wrapped in a dish towel to keep them warm, a plate of shredded chicken or pork, bowls of cubed papaya and mango topped with coconut juice or cotija cheese. On Fridays, we would eat vanilla ice cream that I spooned into dishes the size of small, cupped hands or pan dulce that I baked. The sunlight melting through the windows. The smell of wood and warm air. And now this? This was where I had brought him? To a windowless building where he stood in one place all day sifting through dirt without eating or drinking or seeing the sun? The thought of it cut through me. And guilt once again reared its head.