Chapter 7
It was her second day in America and her first day working with André’s Grandmother Teresa. Despite being tired from the journey, everything excited her, even her work. There were so many pretty things in the houses Teresa cleaned, but it was not like on the islands, where they all said, “What’s mine is yours.” In these homes, she could only touch what she had to dust or scrub. The beautiful bowls of fruit that made her mouth water and the shiny computer screens were only for the people who lived there. They were not an invitation.
It was like being an actress on a television show, only she couldn’t taste the beautiful food in the refrigerator or operate the fancy machines.
No one minded her touching the trash, though, and boy did they have trash. They had so much trash, they divided it up into categories—paper trash and plastic trash, plant trash, and wet trash. She gasped to see the treasures they were throwing out—colorful magazines, plastic bottles, and empty cans. “I can use all of this for my crafts,” she told Teresa.
Teresa handed her a sack. “Take all you want.”
After Teresa showed her how to put the garbage in the big bins outside, she learned how to vacuum the enormous rugs in perfect, straight lines and how to use the spray bottles—one for windows, one for bathrooms, one for wood furniture, and one for electronics. If she saw money, she had to leave it. Clearly, these people had more money than they needed if they could leave coins lying around in dishes and jars.
Every house they cleaned was as beautiful as a palace—flowers in vases, shiny wood tables and chairs, fabric-covered sofas, gleaming white sinks in the bathrooms, and shiny metal sinks in the kitchen.
Teresa chuckled as she watched Celia run the water in the sink, using only a few cups to wash the dishes. “I remember how it was thirty years ago when I first came. That was back when Cape Verde had a drought. It seemed so wasteful to let any of the water go down the drain when the farmers in Fogo didn’t have enough for their crops.” Those had been poorer times when the people struggled to provide food for everyone. Many people emigrated during those years.
“I’ll use what’s left over to water the plants,” Celia said as she finished scrubbing a pot.
Teresa clucked her tongue and shook her head. “It’s been raining like crazy here. Nothing needs watering.”
Celia had never seen a place so green and lush as North Carolina. Grass, flowers, bushes, and trees grew in abundance. “So, what should I do with this water?”
“Let it go down the drain. There’s plenty more. You’ll get used to it.”
After work, Teresa took her to the grocery store, which was as big as the soccer stadium in her home village. Compared to this store, the shops in São Filipe were like minnows to a whale. They stocked so much more than bananas, rice, and beans. Holding her hand over her mouth in awe, Celia laughed and cried all the way through the aisles as they bought the ingredients for cachupa—a nice big piece of pork, hominy, sausage, carrots, cabbage, and tomatoes.
Teresa’s kitchen was small compared to the houses she cleaned, but it was just as nice. It had a clean tile floor that felt cold and smooth on Celia’s bare feet. The faucet at the sink provided both hot and cold water. The stove included an oven, where they could bake cakes or breads. Plus, there was another oven called a microwave that baked things faster and a big box that washed your dishes for you.
She and Teresa danced around the kitchen for hours, singing along to Cape Verdean music on the stereo.
But that all stopped when André sulked into the house, tired and sweaty. “Is the air always so wet and hot here?”
Teresa handed him a towel to wipe his face and gave him a hug. “No. July and August are always the hottest. It should start to cool off in a few weeks.”
Noticing that it was dark outside now, Celia ran to turn down the volume on the stereo. Their neighbors liked to go to bed early. “How was the dishwashing job?” she asked, kissing his cheeks. He smelled of sweat, and she tried not to wrinkle her nose as he brushed past.
He collapsed onto the sofa. “My boss kept pointing at the clock and yelling. I heard there was prejudice in the South, but I didn’t believe it until today—the way they never let me take a break.”
Teresa sat beside him and laid a hand on his knee. “It’s not prejudice, my dear grandson. It’s called the American work ethic. They expect you to be on time and to work all the way through your shift. Not like in São Filipe where you show up when you want and stay until you’re tired. Maybe you’ll feel better after a big bowl of cachupa.” She handed him a fistful of dollar bills. “Here’s your share of what we made today.”
Watching, Celia stiffened, but André only nodded, stuffing the bills into his pocket. He never questioned that he should be the one to receive the money she earned.
After Teresa poured his soup into a bowl, he sat quietly at the small wood dinner table, spooning it into his mouth. He did not smile.
Celia could tell there was more to the story of his first day at work. He had lost the relaxed grin he wore all the way across the ocean on the airplane. Something had gone wrong, but she waited until Teresa had gone to bed to ask about it.
“I’m sorry it was so bad,” she said, taking the cushions off the sofa so she could lift the fold-out bed.
André lay down on the floor, resting his head on one of the cushions. “I’d rather sleep like this. It would be more comfortable than that sofa bed.”
Celia laughed and lay down beside him. “Maybe there are a few things that aren’t as great as we thought they’d be.” She rubbed her hand across his chest, holding him tight. “Do you want to talk about your day?”
He rolled away from her. “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like. Your skin’s too light.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he slapped it away. He was in one of his grumpy moods. When he got this way, nothing she could say would soothe his temper. It was like trying to pacify a storm at sea. Best just to wait it out and try not to take it too personally.
Only she couldn’t think of any excuse to leave the house. She didn’t have to go get water—it was right there in the faucet. And the refrigerator was full of milk and meat. The shelves were stocked with flour and beans. “I think I’ll take a walk,” she said. “Do you want to come?”
“It’s not fit for a woman to go walking around here at night.”
Celia pursed her lips. On the island she had left the house multiple times a day, going to Dona Maria’s for bread, to Luis’s for beans, to the market for fish and potatoes, to the well for water, and to her mother’s house to talk. How she missed her mother! Tomorrow she would ask Teresa if she might send her mother a message on the computer.
She walked across the room to the bag of bottles, boxes, and magazines she had collected from the houses they cleaned that day. Laying them out on the counter, she began to imagine how they could become necklaces, vases, and flowerpots.
“What are you doing?” André called.
“I’d like to make a few things to sell.”
He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Don’t waste your time. Americans won’t buy stuff like that.”
Celia knew that wasn’t true. Plenty of American tourists bought the paper flowers she had sold as a child. She would just have to do her crafts when André wasn’t home. She shoved the bag of recyclables back under the counter behind Teresa’s little bucket of garbage, which happened to be full. “I’m just going to take this outside,” she told André. She gathered the garbage out of the bucket, and before he could protest, she opened the door and escaped.
It was quiet on the veranda. No one stood around talking in front of their houses like they did on Fogo. They stayed in their apartments with their doors closed and their curtains pulled shut, the little air conditioning units humming. She heard no music while she walked to the huge metal box where the people in the apartment building put their trash. The box was as large as four oil barrels, and she was tempted to grab a few bags of trash out of it to look inside, but instead, she threw in her bag. Then she wandered around to the other side of the parking lot, where she sat down on the curb to figure out what she could do to make André happy.
There wasn’t much else he could desire. They were in America, living in a beautiful home with rich food, running water, and electricity. All that was left was to start a family. André had said so himself. He wanted to wait until they got to America to have his children, so they could be born American citizens. She remembered hearing once that a man wasn’t really a man until he had become a father. Did André feel that way? She had always wanted to be a mother, to have a baby in the house. Maybe that’s what was missing in their life.