Title Redacted
Normally, this would be the spot for introductory details about place and time. Can’t tell the players without a program and so forth. But nothing is normal anymore. All that information has to be scrubbed, because of the immigration police hassling foreign visitors like Rosa (not her real name).
Let’s just call this the Upper Midwest. Halfway through the school year, a young foreign exchange student made the mistake of attending a rally on the courthouse square. A classmate handed her a sign, and a photo of them appeared on the front page of the newspaper.
“What’s the big deal? We’ve all been to rallies on the square,” said Denny Crane, veteran barber and social commentator. He laughs when people call him a ‘stylist.’
“Right, exactly,” said Tom Hartz, climbing into his tall chair, “but Rosa wasn’t wearing a mask. She’s easily identifiable, with that toothy smile, and the powers-that-be can try to revoke her student visa.”
“I’m sure they’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Denny said, studying Tom’s thick mane and eyebrows. He revved his clippers, angling for an entry point.
“Yeah, one would think,” Tom said.
Tom Hartz was Rosa’s ‘American dad’. He and his jangly-bracelet wife, Michelle, had been recruited by the Rotary Club to be a host family. They’d hoped it would be a good experience for their eight-year-old twins. And so far, it was. Personable and capable, Rosa volunteered to babysit when Tom and Michelle went out to play bridge or golf with friends. Rosa taught the twins how to pronounce phrases in her native language, such as, “everyone has a tail to step on.” And she baked breakfast goodies from her country’s cuisine.
“Your boy certainly likes her,” Denny said. “Mom brought him in for a trim last Friday and all he could talk about was his new big sister.”
Tom said, “We schedule a family activity with her every weekend, like bowling or biking or fishing.”
“Does Rosa ever get homesick?” Denny asked.
“Not that I can tell, despite the situation in her own country. Things are getting dangerous everywhere.”
Nights in her attic bedroom. On her knees praying. Lights from the corner gas station flashing across the ceiling. Thunder and volleys of rain on the roof. Stifling sobs with a pillow. Grabbing for her phone again, unable to contact anyone back home. The news sounding worse and worse. Her relatives, all university professors, possibly disappeared. Going through a lot of lipstick and make-up to hide her tear-streaked fear.
“Good morning, Rosa. Did you sleep well? That was quite a storm last night.”
“Yes, thanks, Mrs. Hartz, I am becoming awake.”
“Please call me, ‘Michelle.’
Tom poured her a cup of coffee and asked, “Ready for your math test?”
“My favorite subject,” Rosa answered, with a jittery smile, “because, as you say in English, ‘the numbers don’t lie.’”
Tom Hartz, a bank teller at the mall branch, laughed and said, “Unless they’ve been cooked.”
“Cooked? What’s that?”
Tom struggled to explain the phrase clearly. Michelle coughed and pointed to the wall clock. They were running late for school. She and Rosa hustled the twins into the car with their backpacks and lunchboxes. First stop was Buffalo Elementary. After a requisite round of have-a-good-day hugs and kisses, Michelle and Rosa proceeded to Central High, home of the Trojanettes, where Michelle worked in the administration office.
*
The previous afternoon, just before closing time, the principal had received notice of an impending police raid. Plainclothes thugs with masks and no warrants. Michelle had not informed her husband or Rosa. Concerned they might freak out, and that Tom would insist that Rosa stay home, and she would miss her math exam. On second thought, as Michelle pulled into the parking lot and saw the spinning lights of the official vehicles, avoidance was perhaps the better course.
“Rosa, wait, don’t get out of the car,” she whispered.
“Why…what is this?”
“The police are looking for undocumented students.”
Turned out Michelle was the one who lost it, head collapsing into her arms on the steering wheel. “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”
Rosa reached over to comfort her. “I have my passport and visa in my purse.”
“That’s good, but better safe than sorry,” Michelle said.
Rosa said, “I like that one. Tell me again.”
“We’ll go back home. I’ll write you a note, saying that you were sick today.”
“What about my test?”
“I can talk to the principal,” Michelle said.
Pacing the attic bedroom, windows propped open. A leafy oak dropping acorns on the roof. A loud cardinal outside. Birdsong, at least there was birdsong. Rosa tried the phone again. No luck. She chewed off another fingernail. She dropped to her knees. Squeezed her eyes shut against more tears. Opened her notebook and wrote a letter that would probably be intercepted. Ripped it up and pounded the mattress.
“Supper is ready!” Tom called up the stairs.
“No, thanks. I am not hungry.”
“But you have to eat something.”
“I am too upset,” she said.
“Please, come to the table. The kids are asking for you. They’ll be racing up here in a minute.”
Rosa said, “First, I wash up my face.”
*
At the monthly Rotary Club lunch, Tom Hartz considered raising the question of legal support for their foreign exchange students, both here and if conditions in their own country made it difficult for them to return. He hesitated. It was hard to read the room. Apparently, the group would prefer to discuss the weather. And then someone brought up Rosa’s photo in the newspaper and the ensuing debate made it sound like Tom and Michelle should have been more responsible and prevented Rosa from attending the rally.
Michelle was pissed. Screw that. They visited the campground at the state park. Enough wind to fly a kite. The kids throwing rocks in the creek. Tom gathering kindling for a cook-out. Rosa and Michelle teaching the kids how to crumple newspaper and lay the fire. A breeze fluttering Michelle’s apron. The kids showing Rosa how to slide a hotdog onto the end of a pointy stick. Honks from the parking lot. A leather-clad guy on a motorcycle waved and whistled.
“Wanna throw the football?” he called.
“Do we know that guy?” Michelle asked.
Tom squinted and said, “Looks like Denny Crane’s errant nephew.”
“Isn’t he in rehab?”
“I guess not anymore.”
“Why is he waving at us?”
Rosa groaned. “It’s me. He wants me to go on a date. He is the one in the school cafeteria who says if I don’t go on a date, he will report me for calling your president a bad name.”
“Is he for real?” Michelle asked.
“Probably not, but we can’t take that chance,” Tom said grimly, “I’ll bring it up with Denny at the barbershop.”
“Just ignore him. Let’s eat our hotdogs,” Michelle said.
It was supposed to be another night out to play bridge. That’s what they told Rosa. Ordered pizza and a gallon of ice cream. The twins, of course, were giddy. They wanted to play hide-and-seek in the basement. They wanted to watch an episode of whatever cartoon show Rosa picked, as long as it was their favorite.
Tom and Michelle drove to the brew pub by the lake and scored the last open table. The owner came around from behind the bar and shook hands with them and said, “We haven’t seen you characters in here since you got married and became all mature. To what do we owe this occasion?”
“A meeting of the minds,” Michelle said.
“What can I bring you to help that along? It’s on the house.”
“A beer and a bump,” Tom said.
“Same,” Michelle said.
They drank together in silence for five minutes.
“Are we really going to do this?” Tom said.
“Do we have a choice? You’ve heard her up there, crying at night. She hasn’t had any contact from her parents in a month.”
“What about the kids?”
“They are the weak link in our plan.”
“Not necessarily. They do understand the concept of keeping secrets. They brag about secrets that can’t be tickled out.”
“It’s going to be character building, for sure.”
“We can threaten them with no dessert for the rest of their lives, if they blow it,” Michelle said, tossing back her shot.
*
Wielding a broom as deftly as his clippers, Denny Crane swept up clumps of hair from the floor of his barbershop. He gathered the hair in a pillowcase that he delivered to the church ladies at St. Paul’s twice a week. They used it to weave wigs for cancer patients. The front doorbell clanged, announcing a customer. Tom Hartz pushed through and marched directly to his regular chair. Denny paused his sweeping and came over and stood beside Tom in front of the mirror. The two men stared at each other in the glass.
“Do we have an appointment?”
“Consider me a walk-in.”
“Are we having an issue with those bangs?”
“No, but I have an important message for you to deliver to your nephew.”
Denny winced and nodded and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve been hearing from several sources that he’s on the loose again. I hope this has nothing to do with Rosa.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, it does,” Tom said. “You can tell him that Rosa is no longer in town. She’s gone. He can stop lurking in the cafeteria. We drove her to the airport yesterday and put her on a plane back home. Things here are just getting too out of hand. She pleaded with us to send her back.”
“Tom, last time you were in here, you mentioned a consultation with your lawyer about Rosa applying for refugee status.”
“He advised against it.”
Denny turned and stood beside the chair, facing Tom in the mirror. Maybe it was something in his tone of voice. The wizened barber squinted and said, “I’ve known you and your family for a long time. Are you being straight with me?”
“As straight as I can be,” Tom said.
The window shades up in the attic stayed closed all day. Tom and Michelle stopped going to bridge club, or anywhere else that would require a babysitter. The kids were under strict orders not to play hide and seek with friends in the house. No more sounds of crying at night. Occasionally, a faint thump of floor twists and exercising. Books and magazines and plates of food and water bottles ferried up and down the narrow stairs.
Parked across the street in his van, Denny Crane, of course, saw right through it. He worried that he was not the only one. But, as he prayed daily, we just have to hold on and make it to the next election.
~