Free Crossing the River by Amy Ragsdale Page B

favorite.” He gave the little white Mustang with the blue racing stripe a push with his index finger.
    He didn’t have much good to say about Brazil. I wondered if he felt ashamed of it, especially in comparison to the United States, at least the “United States” he knew from American TV and films. He’d watched more of those than I had, learning to speak most of his English that way.
    â€œI was born in the wrong place,” he sighed one day, although later he admitted anywhere would have its problems.
    I remembered the teenage boys in the village in Ghana, one of whom had bragged about a brother who, “born in the wrong place,” had “made it out”—to the South Bronx. I’d asked if the brother was happy. “Well . . .” he’d hesitated, and then he’d caught himself and listed all the things his brother had: a car, a job that paid ten dollars an hour. “A lot for Ghana,” I’d said, though it was not a lot for New York. “But is he happy?” I’d asked again. He’d conceded maybe he was a little lonely. Hmmm, and experiencing a little racism for the first time in his life, I’d thought. But his brother was adamant.
    One morning, I ran into Katia, the manager from the Pousada Colonial, on my daily trip down to the market. She mentioned that shehad spoken to her cousin. “Aniete is worried about you, Dona Amy,” she said, looking concerned. “She says you were crying on your bench by the window.”
    How could I explain to Katia in my stilted Portuguese that Peter (whose book contract had not materialized) was depressed, Skyler hated school, and even Molly, usually a stalwart, was demoralized? How could I explain that this had all been my idea and I wasn’t sure I could hold everyone up? How could I explain my growing feelings of resentment, vying with guilt, vying with sympathy for my struggling family—and my confusion about what to do? How could I explain this to Aniete? Although, given that she was privy to our every move, she could probably explain it to herself.
    Aniete completed our trio of guides. Like Zeca and Giovanni, she, too, was twenty-six and, conveniently for us, was in need of a job. We’d housed a Brazilian exchange student back home in Montana the previous spring, and she’d told us, “In Brazil, everybody has an empregada —a household helper.”
    Everybody with money, that is. Katia and her Aunt Laura clearly thought we belonged in that category. We agreed that Aniete would come in five days a week from seven in the morning until three and clean, wash clothes, and cook. It would cost us a mere $200 a month.
    Aniete had moved to the “city” from the family farm at sixteen, first to live with Katia and then Aunt Laura, with whom she still shared a bedroom. Under five feet tall, pretty and petite, she had a wide face and zipped lips that turned down whenever she felt uncertain, as when Peter was describing how to make something new for dinner.
    â€œ Hoje, vamos fazer comida italiana . . . de China . . . de Tailândia . . . França . . . Americana ,” he would say, flamboyantly waving his arms in our white-tiled kitchen as if to say, The world is at our fingertips! Aniete would look increasingly incredulous, raise a skeptical eyebrow, and turn her zipped lips down, but continue to listen.
    â€œ É diferente ,” she’d say, doubtfully eyeing another concoction of Peter’s, something exotic, like the pork chops in red cabbage he was holding out in the frying pan. How estranho! It became a daily what-wild-thing-are-we-going-to-make-next joke between them.
    When we said her cooking had been good, she’d light up with pleasure.
    â€œ Sim? É bom? ”—Yes? It’s good? her voice almost squeaking with relief.
    It would take months, but in time, adrenaline rushing, she would hold up yet another condensed milk pudding, just out of