A few minutes later, his pickup turns into her driveway then heads down to the back of the house. She hears him unloading the ladder—presumably by himself. Easier unloading than loading it. Sounds like a rule of life, she would have noted to Sam. She loved it when ordinary observations or a string of simple words suddenly opened up to reveal some profundity. You don’t say, Sam would often respond to her insights. She was never sure what to make of that expression. It was one more of those Americanisms that would sometimes ambush her, and she would feel all over again that there was some deep core in English that she couldn’t access.
When he shows up, Mario has already called around. On what phone? she confronts him, startling him. José’s and mine, doñita. They bought it together. But they don’t have a plan. No permanent address where the bills can be sent, no credit card, no credit. They buy phone cards, save up their minutes for calling Mexico. And knowing English, la doñita could help in making any travel arrangements.
Mario goes on to report that his paisanos have all agreed to help. To the tune of several hundred more. There is only so much they can spare. Everyone has to budget. Antonia calls the Colorado number but hands the phone over and leaves Mario to his negotiations. She is not getting in any deeper. She has decided. This weekend, for her birthday, she’ll be in Chicago.
In her bedroom, Antonia phones Vivian on her cell, too late remembering it is too early. But Vivian is already up. Really looking forward to tonight. We also invited Wendy and poor Jim Blake. Does Vivian refer to her as poor Antonia when talking to Wendy and Jim Blake?
How to wiggle out of it now? Antonia could plead illness, but then Vivian will insist on coming over. A dinner party you can leave early, but a friend at your door with a container of bean salad and a plate of brownies is harder to get rid of. She could tell Vivian the truth: I’m overwhelmed, didn’t sleep last night or the night before or the night before. No, it’s not just grief, it’s me. She read the book her therapist recommended, The Highly Sensitive Person. She found it in the college’s science library, which gave the book a certain legitimacy, not just a feel-good self-help flash in the social-science pan. The author outlined how certain organisms are highly reactive, get easily overwhelmed, require a different ecosystem to thrive. Not a pathology, a type. It was reassuring to read the book. An earlier patron had marked it up, inked notes in the margins, passages underlined, highlighted—in a library book, imagine! A highly sensitive person overreacting.
So, how are you? Vivian wants to know, her voice tinged with concern.
I’m okay, Antonia replies, a tad too quickly to be totally convincing. But Vivian doesn’t probe further. The landscape of grief is not very inviting. Visitors don’t want to linger. The best thing you can do for the people who love you is to usher them quickly through it. She does not want to become “poor Antonia.”
Thanks for asking, Antonia says, closing the subject. This would be the moment to say she won’t be coming tonight. But Antonia can’t bring herself to do it, bailing out of a dinner party she knows damn well has been assembled to support her.
She and Franklin are so looking forward to tonight, Vivian says brightly. Antonia doubts Franklin is looking forward to all of his wife’s poor friends at his table. Franklin never says much, until a remark triggers him and he is launched. The discovery of gravity waves. The inaccuracies of historical fiction. Solar eclipses and how long they will have to wait until the next one. (This one she has heard several times and she still can’t seem to remember how long.) The wines of Chile.
And here she used to worry about Sam going on and on about universal health care. At least Sam only had one bone to pick in public. But maybe diversity is better if you’re going to be a bore.
Just checking in. What time tonight and what can I bring?
Six-ish? And not a thing, just yourself.
When people say not to bring something, do you still bring wine? When they add -ish to the hour, when do they really want you at their door? She should know these things, as she and Sam often had people over. Will she be entertaining now that she is alone? She misses it, guests around the table, chili made with ground beef from Roger’s honor store, cornbread made with Sam’s blue corn.
Back in the living room, Mario is standing at the window looking down at the ladder.
He sighs in response to her questions. El coyote requires three hundred more dollars just to release Estela. Mario can cover that amount with what he has borrowed. But he also has to come up with the money for Estela’s bus ticket to Burlington.
They’re using you, Antonia fumes, shaking her head at Mario. They’ll never be satisfied.
Puede ser, Mario nods. But what choice does he have but to keep the one he loves safe? What would you do if it were you, doñita?
She should take him to tonight’s dinner party. Poor Mario has a question for our group.
She knows what her friend Vivian would do. Vivian supports worthy causes, just as she does her poor friends. She would write a check. No questions asked. But then Vivian can afford casting her bread upon the waters. She married the bakery owner, so to speak. Franklin’s surname is a famous brand name. Yes, that family. He doesn’t have to work for a living, which is why he went into teaching, he explained at one dinner party. Didn’t even register that there were teachers present, the kind who needed to work to pay their property taxes, health insurance, their kids’ college tuitions.
Ay, doñita querida, Mario says, in the cajoling voice of a young man flirting with an older woman. He knows it is a lot to ask—but would Antonia be willing to loan him the money to buy the bus ticket? Loan, a way for the poor back home to save face. A loan, not a handout, which the gracious and generous always forgive.
She gives him a nod of consideration, not a yes, but not a no. Highly sensitive people need time and quiet as they are easily overwhelmed, especially when they are grieving. Who is she kidding? She has already decided. Of course, she will buy Estela’s bus ticket, but she will make the arrangements herself to ensure the money goes where it should go. The charitable gesture, hemmed in by suspicion. Not Izzy’s way or Sam’s. Sam, who got taken left and right, so that she always had to be the vigilant one, the bad cop. Don’t you think I’d like to indulge myself for once, she complained to him. Be my guest, he said. Why not two good cops?
Mario is beside himself with gratitude. He grabs her hands, kisses them, a nearly extinct gesture only seen these days on stage, Shakespearean plays at the college, and in telenovelas.
¡Ya, ya, ya! she says, dismissing his lavish response. She knows what she has been thinking. Thank God people can’t see inside each other’s heads.
While he waits beside her, she checks online for tickets. Several options are available. The northern route goes through Toronto, then drops back down to Vermont. Best not to cross an international border with no passport or papers. The southern route is better, but it will involve a number of transfers. Estela might have trouble finding her way. Maybe Greyhound has a service? How does Antonia find out? Call the 800 number and ask the rep if they can help transfer an undocumented person from one bus to another? She notes the different time options. Meanwhile, Mario is to let her know when he has wired the money to the coyote, so Antonia can finish booking the ticket for Estela to pick up at the station in Denver. Mario provides all of Estela’s information. The full name. Estela Adelia Cruz Fuentes. For home address and number, Antonia will have to use her own. God forbid Greyhound should contact Roger.