Afterlife - Julia Alvarez Page 0,9
Mario and José are recent hires. Antonia has no idea where their predecessors went. Now that she has stopped volunteering, she’s no longer in the migrant gossip loop. Maybe Roger’s former workers went to another patrón in Vermont? To Canada? Maybe back to Mexico? Everybody knows not to build a house on shifting sand. Good for temporary shelters, but a home needs a foundation.
It’s still dark. The sun is not yet up. The road is deserted; tall pines on either side make for creepy stretches. In a few hours, the sky will flood with that early-spring watercolor light that can bring tears to her eyes. The road will get busy with what passes for busy on a dirt road in backcountry Vermont: the school bus whose driver waves by lifting a finger; the newspaper delivery man who she has heard has a terrible stutter—she wouldn’t know, she has never spoken to him; the garbage truck driven by a guy with a shaved head, a leering look, who slows down, then floors the gas, probably in disappointment that the little lady turns out to be a little old lady. All these lives that are not her life. Bless them all, she thinks, even the garbage guy—before she can think again that she has no credentials for blessing anyone.
It’s chilly. She quickens her steps. In a break in the trees, she sees a few stars still shining. Have you ever noticed how the stars are brightest on the coldest nights?
You always say that, Sam would say, chuckling.
Remind me again, where is Burkina Faso?
That made him chuckle, too. It became their code phrase. A way of reminding each other to stay humble, as there would always be things they didn’t know.
The walk is invigorating. Maybe she’ll do this every morning. Instead of yoga. Take a walk. “Weather permitting,” Vermonters’ version of si Dios quiere. She’ll be one of those invisible people in the book she will never write. Not that she is doing anything useful to keep the world going. Except to keep herself going. The best thing she can do for the people she loves is to take care of herself. But what if that person she loves the most no longer needs her stoicism?
Her mind flashes back to the troubling talk with Tilly about Izzy—was it only yesterday? She wonders about Mona’s diagnosis that their sister is seriously ill. But then Mona is always diagnosing everyone—a professional handicap for a therapist, much like quoting is for Antonia, the teacher. Izzy is just being Izzy. Sure she’s made some poor choices, but then haven’t they all?
She’s used up all her savings, Tilly reported hearing through the grapevine. No, Tilly can’t say who told her. (Easy to do the math on that one: not Antonia, couldn’t be Izzy telling on herself, ergo Mona.)
Savings? Antonia challenged. Izzy has savings? That’s a total oxymoron.
Tilly’s feathers were ruffled. Who are you calling a moron?
She’s always saying she’s broke.
Well she gave a pile of money to that guy in Cuba—
Wait! She was in Cuba?
See what I mean? Tilly says triumphantly.
She’s having a good time anyhow, Antonia defended their sister. But was Izzy really enjoying herself? And what was going to happen when Izzy reached old age having burned every bridge to safety and solvency? Antonia knows what Izzy would say. How do you think most of the world’s viejitos live—if they even get to be old?
She recalls Mario talking about his frail mother, pobrecita, getting so old. She can’t walk anywhere anymore. How old is your mother? Antonia had asked. Cincuenta y cuatro. Fifty-four! Do you know how old I am, Mario? The young man didn’t dare a guess. No puede ser, do?ita, he exclaimed when she told him. Sesenta y cinco! Of course, one has to factor in other variables. Just as a year in the life of a dog is equivalent to seven human ones—so she has heard from Mona, the dog lover—poverty years have to be more aging than affluent ones.
How does the imagination of the poor age? Perhaps from much practice over the course of a lifetime—always having to imagine a better life—it stays vigorous. At a recent reading at the college, a guest lecturer spoke about the origins of Black English. This rich folk language is what occurred when African people with an intensely musical and oral culture came up against the King James Bible and the sweet-talking American South, under conditions that denied them all outlets for their visions and gifts