Across The Pond, page 2
My Ggod, Catalina! It makes so much sense! Dad rarely ever goes out on dates. I thought all these years it was because he still misses my mom! No doubt he still does! But wait a minute! Then how did he manage to make me!?
But sexuality is mutable, isn’t it? I read that somewhere once, when I found out that Tanner, my next door neighbor since forever, came out of the closet to his parents. I had a crush on him, too. Eight years my senior, I used to ogle him every chance I got. Then last year, he came home and spilled the beans.
He used to date so many girls! Rumor even has it that he knocked one up. That puta who moved over here from the Bronx… the one who came from Guadalajara, originally… what’s her name? Sheesh, who cares!? Yeah, I remember that! She had to leave for a vacation, they said, but rumor has it that she had to get an abortion, and that Tanner was the father. Then again, what puta can really identify her child’s father, huh?
Catalina! Stop being so judgmental! Stopping.
Still, I have seen my dad ogle women. Especially good-looking ones with big tits. Maybe he’s gay with a breast fixation? And he has been on a few dates over the years, few being the operative word here. With women, that is.
Ooh, I’m so confused now.
Nah. My dad’s not gay. Not that I’d love him any less if he were, as I’ve already established. But he has been alone for way too long. It’s time. It’s time he settled down! Besides, I want a mommy. I don’t remember my original mommy anymore, just bits and pieces here and there, but what I do remember, I like.
I want my dad to be happy with someone, and I want to be happy with my dad and a mommy.
Silly, isn’t it?
***
~ Daniela
It has been about a fortnight since my divorce, and I am back at MacGilvy, Xavier, and McGuire. This time, however, I am dealing with Xavier, not McGuire, because my gran has died.
Now this may sound callous of me, but I honestly feel very little. I remember my gran, of course, but never really got to spend time with her or with my grandfather, as they moved to America years ago. I think I was two or three -years -old at the time. They would visit us here in London every once in a while, and whenever we could spare the time (and the money), we would fly there to be with them. ‘Max,’ as everyone called my granddad, is short for ‘Maximus,’ while my gran’s ‘Jennifer’ was shortened to ‘Ginnie.’
But such visits were few and far between, and most of the impressions I have of both came through the brief letters, postcards, and phone calls we exchanged during Christmases and birthdays over the years.
Some time ago, my gran finally got herself a computer, got over her technophobia, and even emailed me on occasion – though such were few and sporadic. Weeks would pass before she’d reply to a message of mine.
“You are her last surviving relative, you see?” Xavier says to me, trying to muster up some fake sympathy ‘for my loss,’ as he put it.
“You alright, Danny?” asks Angie beside me.
“I didn’t even know she was sick, Angie,” I reply. “’fraid I never really got to know her. I feel awful now. She spent the last years of her life alone after my gramps died, didn’t she?”
“I guess.”
“I really should have put in more effort in trying to reach out to her…”
“Oof, stop beating yourself up over the head about it, luv. You had your life, she had hers. On the plus side, you’re no longer homeless!”
“Ms. McGuire!” gasps the shocked Xavier. “Some respect, please!”
“Oh can it, Steve,” she waves a dismissive hand at him. “This is my best mate I’m talking to here, remember? Look, luv, what Steve’s saying is this: in America, people who don’t leave wills get their stuff taken away by the government – nothing for their next of kin.
“Fortunately for you, your grandmamma left one behind, leaving you as the sole beneficiary. If you decide to give that up or sell it from here, you’ll be at the mercy of whoever does the selling there for you. So Steve here suggests that you take some of the cash your granny left you, fly there, assess the property she left you, and then come back.
“Personally, I think flying across the pond would be a good thing for you. I’m getting tired of waking up and coming home to your sorry face, I am. Too much moping!”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Mr. Steve Xavier working to keep a straight face.
“How do I know this isn’t some elaborate plot to kick me out of your house, Angie? I mean you barristers have such an awful reputation for deviousness, you know?”
But I had to go. Not just to deal with my gran’s property, but to sort my life out, as well. And I can’t continue to live rent-free in Angie’s house much longer. Plot or not, I had to get out of London for a while.
I couldn’t just pack up and leave, of course. Time was not the issue, since my barristers have already informed my gran’s trustees that I was on my way to settle things. They had already chucked her into her grave, of course. No sense in waiting, as they saw it.
They informed me that a number of friends and neighbors attended, as well as her entire church. My, but she must have been quite popular there. Except for Angie, I don’t know who’d attend mine when I plop dead. I really don’t. Knowing her, though, she’d probably drag the entire staff of her law firm along, just to make it seem like I actually had friends in life (besides her) – yet another casualty of my marriage with Damien.
Once I had made up my mind to leave, however, it actually took only another fortnight before I was on the plane. As a relatively successful graphics designer, I am able to work anywhere, so as long as I have a computer and internet connection, so thank God for that.
“As a British national, you can stay in America for three months without requiring a visa,” Angie says beside me as she drives me to the airport. “But be sure you take on no contracts from clients based on US soil, or they’ll accuse you of working illegally. You understand?”
“Of course, I do. Angie, are you crying?”
“I suppose I bloody well am, aren’t I? Damn it, Danny! I’ll miss you so much!”
“Oh Angie, you know you’ll be glad to see my backside! Think of this as a vacation. My first in three years.”
We hug at the airport, unmindful of the stares coming our way. Angie and I have known each other since we were children, and have been best friends for the longest time. Strange as it may sound, she’s really been the only friend I’ve had over the years, though I don’t lack for plenty of acquaintances.
As I cross the entryway to my boarding gate, I look back and realize that she’s about the only person who’s made the last three years bearable. I wave, fighting back the tears, but I am eager to get away, as well.
***
Whenever I watch American television shows and movies that depict New York City, the characters always speak so disparagingly about New Jersey,: the state separated from New York by the Hudson River.
So since my gran lived in Hoboken, New Jersey, I wasn’t expecting much. Whoever calls something “Hoboken?” The very name alone is so uninspiring, to say the least. My paternal grandparents used to live in Pennsylvania, and only moved to Hoboken right around the time I turned eleven or twelve -years- old. I visited them only once, shortly after they moved in, but remember nothing of the details. After that, it was they who’d fly to England to visit us.
After college, there was work, and then marriage. After my wedding, I never got to see my grandfather again, though my parents flew over for a number of years before the car accident that got them both shortly after my second year of marriage. My gran had been widowed by then, and flew over to attend their funeral. It makes me feel even worse for not being able to attend hers.
I am surprised to discover, therefore, that not only is Hoboken a rather desirable address, but that the part of Hoboken my grandparents spent the last years of their life in, is top- notch. Hudson street (or at least the part of it that I was handed) is lined with beautiful brown and red- stone houses, some dating back to the late 1850s.
Mere minutes away is the river itself, as well as several parks. Across is Manhattan, crammed with its high-rise towers of glass and steel. The home my gran left me is a beautiful, white and red brick Victorian-style house, though her barristers (or lawyers, since I’m now in America) claim it was built at the start of the 20th century. It had clearly seen better days, though it's no less gorgeous in its slightly decayed state.
“She didn’t neglect it,” says my grandmother’s lawyer, a Mr. Chase,: slightly tubby and balding, reminding me a little of a comical math teacher I once had back in grade school. “The roofing, walls, and insulation have been maintained. It’s just that she felt no need to do more for the house after Mr. Sorensen died,” he finishes with an odd note to his voice.
I look at him more closely and realize that he is holding back some strong emotions.
“You knew my grandmother, didn’t you, sir?”
“Mm-hmmm. Ginnie and my wife, Claudine, were good friends. Your grandfather and I were close, too. They were not just my clients, t. They were good friends of mine.”
I feel shame at my previous, callous regard of the man, and melt before his obvious affection for my grandparents. To atone for it, I encourage him to tell me about them as he takes me on a tour throughout the house, which he does with gusto,: making the entire building come alive as he describes the drama that occurred here for over a decade.
“The estate includes enough money for renovations should you want them done, Ms. Sore…”
“Daniela, please.”
It was the right thing to say, apparently, for he beams with delight as he describes my other options. For some reason I’m not willing to explore at the moment, he seems to believe I'm either penniless or on the verge of bankruptcy.
While I walked away from my divorce with nothing from my ex, penniless is the last thing I am. As to bankruptcy, that’s Damien’s problem, not mine, fortunately.
Not that I’m rich, but let’s just say that with the estate, the properties, and the monies that first my parents, and now my grandparents, have left me with, I can afford to take a long vacation,. One thing is perfectly clear, however,: Mr. Chase wants me to keep the house. First, I have to refurbish it, though, since it clearly needs it. Then, I can rent it out while still living in London.
Beautiful though it is, I wish it were back in London so I could live in it back there. Living here in America is out of the question, of course. Whatever would I do here? Mr. Chase has already come to the conclusion that I want to return home as soon as possible, and while he is right, the house is starting to grow on me. Not that it matters, for I do have to go back.
“I know a local contractor who’s done a lot of work for clients of mine. Even did work here for your grandparents, mi… Daniela. He has a good, solid reputation, and a long list of references. You could, of course, search through the Yellow Pages on your own… that’s a directory of businesses printed on yellow paper, hence its name, but I thought a recommendation could save you time and money.”
So with that, I go back with him to his office to sign yet more paperwork, agreeing to see this contractor some daysomeday soon.
***
~ Rigoberto
“Hey dad, you got a new client?”
“Now how would you know that, mija?”
“’Cuz you always do a little jig whenever you get a new client. Kinda like what you’re doing now.”
“I do a jig?”
“Yup.”
My Catalina looks more and more like her mother with each passing year, that it sometimes breaks my heart just to look at her. With my beloved Rosaria gone all these years, though, I don’t know where my daughter gets her spunk, for it, too,, is so much like her mother’s.
My mother believes it’s because Rosaria’s spirit still lives in my baby. She’s probably right. As to this match-making business, however, that comes purely from my mother. Catalina thinks I don’t know about her schemes to hook me up with someone, but I do. Like her precious mother, she’s never learned the art of subtlety or tact.
Perhaps one day, when she is all grown up and no longer needs me, I will consider looking for another woman, but I seriously doubt it. Rosaria was, and is, my only love. I knew it the day I first saw her, and know it every day that I look at our daughter, the living proof of our love.
‘Till death do us part, we vowed to each other. But my wife is not yet dead. She still lives in our baby, who brings me so much joy it makes my heart burst.
I can’t possibly consider other women, though I’ve been on a few dates over the years. Aside from the physical, however, none are a match for my Rosaria. And how can that possibly be fair to those women?
“Ooh, I hope it’s some vast mansion with acres and acres of lawn so I can come over to visit, and…”
“Mija,” I interrupt before my daughter gets too caught up in her fantasy. “It’s just over on Hudson Street, a bare twenty-minute drive away.”
“Hudson Street, huh? Blah!”
I ruffle my daughter’s hair and bend down to kiss her forehead as I drop her off at her piano teacher’s house. My heart soars as she giggles at me and gives me a hug. In a few more years, she will fly the coop, and then… and then, what will be will be. For now, we have each other, and that is more than enough.
“Rob,” Mrs. Agnes Ching, the piano teacher, calls out to me as my daughter gets off. “I hope you will be attending Catalina’s performance next Friday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Agnes. Count me in for two tickets, a’ight?”
“Excellent. We’ll be expecting your mother, as well, then.”
As I drive over to Hudson Street, I wonder what my new client will be like, this Daniela Sorensen.
CHAPTER 2
~ Daniela
“Of course, I’m not staying, Angie, don’t be ridiculous,” I say over the phone, feeling a pang of homesickness at hearing her voice. “But I just can’t see myself selling this house off. I cCan’t rent it in its current state, though. And now that it’s mine, I also have to pay taxes on it, ugh! As if I don’t pay enough back home.”
“You’ve been there a little over a monthmonth, and it’s only now that you’re going to work on it?”
“A lot of paperwork, I’m afraid.”
“How bad is it, then? The house, I mean.”
“It’s actually quite livable, as far as I can tell. And beautiful! The barrister tells me my gran maintained it quite well, and it certainly looks it. In her last years, however, she basically just stayed in the rooms on the ground floor.
“Not that I blame her. It’s a three-storeystorey house, as we would say, excluding the ground floor. Oh, Angie! The more I realize how alone my gran was, the more guilty I feel that I didn’t reach out to her more when my gramps died.”
“Oh please, enough with the guilt. You’ve got your hands full enough as it is, I imagine. If you insist on feeling awful, remember the last three years, and what you had to walk away from. Presto! Karmic burden paid off and then some. So how much longer do you think you’ll stay there?”
“Not sure. Mr. Chase is sending over a contractor to give me an assessment, but he’s confident that it won’t cut into my pocket too deeply. He said the guy coming over used to do stuff for my grandparents, so maybe he’ll give me an honest assessment.”
“Hah,” she snorted. “They’re not better than us here, I assure you. Ooh, I miss you already, but I’ve got to run. Court case to deal with. Call you soon. Ta!”
