Chapter 22
Manny caught sight of Celia every day as she walked to her job at Della’s apartment. He didn’t mean to watch her. Their table just happened to sit beneath their tiny window, so every morning at ten o’clock, he saw her pass by.
Her belly was larger than he’d noticed at first, and she had a new tendency to keep her head down as she walked. But from the distance between their apartment and the sidewalk—a distance of ten meters or so—he saw a remnant of her old self, wearing a purple dress with a matching headband. He could tell from the frills along the edge of the sleeve that she’d sewn the dress herself.
It brought back childhood memories of the way she’d skipped along the road by his house on summer mornings, barefoot and carrying bouquets of paper flowers to sell to tourists. Back then, he could hear her singing through the open window as she approached, and he’d run out to meet her, grabbing a pile of his mother’s totes to sell.
Now, every day, he fought with his desire to run out of the apartment and talk to her. He had to remind himself that she was married to André. He had no business getting involved with a married woman. Besides that, Della was watching out for her. She would tell him if Celia needed anything.
But as Celia’s belly grew larger, and the days grew shorter, he noticed the way she folded her arms across her chest. The navy-blue coat she wore didn’t seem thick enough to shield her from the cold, and temperatures continued to drop. He’d seen it in the forecasts. Within a week, snow would fall.
Together, he and his mother had scraped together enough money to buy a thrift-store coat for Flora, who was now living at home again and going to school. Isobella had given his mother one of her old coats, and Manny found himself a coat that had sat in the lost and found at the convenience store for over a year. But what could he do for Celia? After all she’d been through, she deserved something beautiful and warm.
His first thought was to ask Della for help, but she’d already done so much. He stared at the piece of bread in his hand, his breakfast. He would gladly give it up for a few weeks to save the money. There just wasn’t time for that. The storm would arrive in five days. He needed extra cash, and he needed it now.
If they had still lived in the islands, he would have taken some of his mother’s homemade tote bags down to the market to sell. Here, there was no market, where individuals sold their goods. People bought from stores, and the stores bought from manufacturers.
Since he knew no other way, though, he set his mother’s sewing machine on the table, found her bag of fabric and began to sew. Within an hour, he’d made two bags, and by the time he needed to go to work, he’d made five.
He folded up four of the bags inside the largest one to take along with him, knowing his boss wouldn’t approve of him selling his own wares at the store. The manager had already warned him against that, but he saw no harm in carrying them around or placing them where the customers might catch a glimpse. Sometimes, at home, his mother had made sales this way, simply by carrying her bags along everywhere she went.
When he arrived at work, he hung the bag near the cigarette display behind the cash register. Then he waited. When, after a few hours, no one commented on the bag, he unfolded one of the smaller bags and hung it up near the biggest bag. Still nothing.
Every store in America gave away free plastic bags, and some gave away more substantial bags for just a few dollars. There were so many bags here that he’d seen empty ones floating and rolling down the street as if they were the city’s native creatures.
The whole idea of selling totes had been a waste of time.
But when Della came to eat her sandwich, she walked straight to the orange bag, lifting it off the knob to examine it. “I adore this. Where did it come from?”
Manny grinned as he made change for a customer. “I made five of them, but you’re the first one who’s said anything about it.”
Della sat down beside him and spread her napkin on the counter, making a place for her sandwich. “You should try selling them online. That’s where people go to buy things like that.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said, unwilling to tell her more about his plan. Selling them online would take too long, and he didn’t want to admit that. Not only was he embarrassed to be thinking of Celia, he didn’t want Della to offer him money. He already owed her so much.
He took the orange tote bag from where it was hanging and handed it to Della. “I want you to have this, as a token of thanks for all you’ve done for me.”
Della’s mouth rounded into a circle and then spread to a grin. “Thank you, Manny. That’s so sweet.”
“It is nothing compared to the kindness you have shown my family and me.” He had not expected tears to come to his eyes.
A line of customers formed, giving him all the more reason to blink away the moisture as he hurried to scan their purchases and make friendly conversation. Beside him, Della examined the bag inside and out, remarking on the tight stitches and strong handles, but none of the customers seemed to notice. He would have to try a different strategy.
When the store emptied out again, he returned to the subject of the bags. “Is there any place I could sell the bags offline?”
Della chewed her last bite of sandwich as she contemplated the question. He was beginning to conclude that selling online must have been the only option when she finally answered. “I’ve seen handmade items in some boutiques in the bigger city, and sometimes, like on Mother’s Day or Valentine’s Day, people sell flowers and gifts on street corners. I’m not sure about the laws, but I’ll look into it for you. It’s something I should know since I’m studying business at school.”
“Thank you,” Manny said, acting as if he’d wait patiently for the result of Della’s research. Inside his head, though, he already knew what he’d do.
The next morning, before sunrise, he caught a bus to Boston. He’d studied the route maps and got off at the historic district, where tourists congregated. In the middle of all of it was a public garden, a green oasis of trees and flowers surrounding water. It was windier than it’d been in Brockton, and the bags twisted and turned behind him as he walked. He watched the tourists floating around in the famous swan boats, as he stood on a bridge, trying to decide where he could set up his display. The wind kicked up tiny waves in the water, jostling the tourists on the boats.
“Are you selling those?” someone asked.
He startled and turned to see a tiny blonde woman, pointing to the bags he had slung over his shoulder. The little white tags had done their job. This would be easier than he thought. “Yes,” he said, preparing to haggle over the price as he’d done on the islands. “Twenty dollars.”
“Oh,” she said, “that’s nice. They’re beautiful.”
As she turned and walked away from him, he called after her. “I’ll give it to you for fifteen.” It was just as he’d learned to do on the island as a child, but the woman kept walking. “How about ten?” he shouted.
He felt a drop land on his head. Then another. It was raining, and he didn’t have an umbrella. Realizing that no one would buy a wet bag, he tucked them one by one under his shirt as he ran for shelter.
He joined a group who’d gathered under a pavilion, where the people waited in line to get on the boats. As the winds continued to blow and the rain pounded down on the green rooftop, the boats returned to shore, and people squeezed together in the shelter. He saw no street vendors here, and he thought back to what Della had said about laws preventing people from selling their wares. He pulled out his bags, displaying them casually, with the tags visible.
These were a different sort of people than he met at the convenience store. Here, most had lighter skin, making him feel blacker than ever. The sweet smell of American lotions and deodorants wafted through the air, and he reminded himself not to stand too close to anyone. Americans had different standards for proximity.
He found himself watching an Asian family—a mother, father, and their young son. The boy wore shoes that squeaked with every step, and his mother kept him on a red leash, as if he were a pet. It was a good idea, he had to admit. The boy could hardly get lost that way.
Rain dripped off the sides of the roof and ran in currents along the edges of the sidewalks. Just like the tropical storms Manny had experienced on the islands, this one showed no sign of letting up. It was growing colder too.
Now was the time Celia would be walking to work. He hoped it wasn’t raining on her in Brockton, and he visualized the kind of coat he wanted to get her, a red parka with gray fur edging the hood. He’d seen one just like it on one of his customers, and he knew its rich color would bring out the glow of Celia’s skin. She had always loved red.
He would have to sell his four bags quickly. Only one more hour, and he had to catch the bus back to Brockton. “I’m selling these bags. Twenty dollars each,” he called.
A few of the tourists turned to stare at him while most continued doing whatever they’d been doing before, mostly staring at their phones.
He swallowed hard. If he was going to get Celia a coat, he had to be bold. He held the bags over his head. “They’re made with good quality fabric from Africa.”
He realized this wasn’t the ideal time to be selling anything made of fabric. Anyone who bought a bag from him today would likely return home with it sopping wet. But he couldn’t give up, not when Celia needed him. He raised his voice once more. “I’ll give you a special deal. Fifteen dollars, and only because I need to buy my friend a coat before it snows.” If he sold all four for fifteen dollars each, that would leave him with sixty dollars. He hoped that would be enough.
A woman in a blue baseball cap pushed her way through the crowd. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her hands on her hips. “But there’s no soliciting here.”
He bowed his head. Soliciting? He wasn’t familiar with the word, but he guessed what it meant. “I apologize.” After the rain let up, he’d try selling the totes somewhere else—if the rain ever did let up.
The woman in the baseball cap kept her eyes on him as she returned to her post near the water.
“Did you say you’re trying to buy your friend a coat?” a young man beside him asked, keeping his voice low.
“Yes,” Manny answered. “This is her first winter in Brockton.”
“She’ll definitely need a coat. I thought I’d freeze to death my first winter here.” The boy dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty. “I’ll take that red and black one for my mom. Keep the change.”
“I want one too,” the girl beside him said. She wore an Emerson College hoodie, so Manny guessed they were college students. “Do you take credit cards?”
Manny had learned to run credit cards at the store, but he’d never considered that he’d need to process them as a street vendor. One more thing to ask Della about. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“No problem,” the girl said, “I think I have money.” She opened her wallet, and pulled out a fifty.
Thankfully, Manny was prepared with change. That was another thing about Americans—they rarely gave you the correct change. While the woman in the blue hat glared at him and pulled out her phone, he handed the girl thirty-five dollars in change.
The girl followed his gaze as she took the green bag from him. “It looks like you’d better get going before you get in trouble. I hope you can get your friend a coat in time.”
He hoped so too.
The rain still pounded down on the roof above him, and it didn’t look like it was going to let up any time soon. He’d just made thirty-five dollars within a half-hour! Thinking that might be enough to get Celia a thrift-store coat, he tucked the two remaining bags under his shirt and raced back for the bus stop.
He stood still and composed with the other passengers on the crowded bus, but inside his head, he heard music and his heart danced. His plan had worked! Now to find a coat.
He got off the bus a few blocks early to check out the thrift store, where he found a few women’s coats still on the rack. Using his mother’s measuring tape, it didn’t take him long to narrow down the selection to two coats in his price range—a multi-colored polyester zip-up and a purple wool button-up. He’d never been good at fashion, but the wool coat looked more like Celia to him.
After buying the coat, he borrowed a permanent marker, some tape, and a scrap of paper from the cashier. Using only capital letters so she wouldn’t recognize his handwriting, he wrote, “For Celia” on the paper and taped it to the bag.
He ran through the rain for several minutes before arriving at the house where Celia lived. It wasn’t hard to do. With the excitement he felt, he could have run for hours. She may have rejected him, but she still needed him, and he planned to continue helping her, though, for now, he could only help from a distance. If only he could see her face as she opened the bag, but he had barely enough time to drop the bag on the front porch before turning and running back to his job at the convenience store.