October 2002

Caitlin

RICHIE WENT TO VISIT TEMPLE UNIVERSITY in Philadelphia that September and decided he wanted to transfer there in January.

“It seems like a super-fun school,” he said.

“Fun does not necessarily mean good,” my mom said.

“Or pay the bills,” my father added.

“Jeez,” Richie interjected. “I was also going to say that they have all the marketing courses I need to finish my degree.”

“That sounds more like it,” Mom said.

Ever since Richie got pulled out of college for choosing partying over studying, my parents had been giving him a hard time. The rule in our house was that you get one opportunity to screw up. Richie was still living at home because he had not figured out his best next step, and he knew he couldn’t mess that one up.

I kept quiet. It irked my brother that I was taking freshman classes at the same community college where he had just finished his sophomore year. Earlier that week I teased him that if he didn’t focus, I’d graduate before him.

“That will never happen,” he said through clenched teeth. I knew better than to push any further.

A few days later, my mom finally got an e-mail from Wallace. Neither of us could believe where he was studying: Temple University.

“Richie was just there,” my mom said excitedly. “He could have taken him out to lunch if we had known.”

“He may have walked right by him,” I said, getting goose bumps at the thought.

It felt like a sign, and we needed one. Mom was still gunning for Villanova for Martin but had also sent at least a dozen requests for scholarships to nearby schools. One had offered fourteen thousand dollars, half of what Martin needed. This was promising—colleges were at least interested in sponsoring Martin—but we needed a full ride.

“Maybe Wallace will have ideas,” I said to my mom as she was going down her list.

“My thought exactly,” she said.

She was planning to visit him the very next day. I was sad I couldn’t join her. My schedule was so full, I barely had time to see her, let alone drive back and forth to Philly in the middle of a school week. We already agreed that this would be the first of many visits. My best friend lived ten thousand miles away from me, and his close friend just happened to get in to a school forty-five minutes away from our house.

The next night, I was up in my room studying when I heard my mom’s car pull into the driveway. I ran down the stairs. She had barely opened the door when I started pummeling her with questions.

“How was it?” I asked. “Did you take any photos? What’s he like? Did he tell you about Martin?”

“Why do you want to know?” she teased.

“Mom!” I said. “I need to know everything!”

She told me that she arrived at his dorm room and was stunned to find his side practically empty.

“His roommate had a comforter and matching sheets, posters on the wall, and a computer set up on his side of the room,” my mom said. “And Wallace had nothing—not even a pillow or sheets.”

Her description reminded me of the photos Martin sent of his family. I wondered if Wallace’s family was too poor to buy him things as well.

“I don’t think he knew what he was getting himself into,” my mom said. “So I made a list.”

My mom spent a week gathering things on her list and by Friday morning had several shopping bags brimming with linens, clothes, and toiletries. We’d deliver them that night.

That day dragged on. My last class ended at 3:15. I watched the clock throughout the ninety-minute lecture, convinced it was broken. It took forever for the bell to ring.

Damon wanted to come as well. I wish I could say it was because he was sincerely interested in meeting Martin’s dear friend. Honestly, I think he was just being protective and even a bit jealous.

Dad came home early from work and we all piled in Mom’s Jeep Cherokee. My family rarely went to Philadelphia, so it always felt like an adventure. Temple was like a mini city itself. As we walked toward the dorm, we saw college-aged kids hanging out on building stoops smoking cigarettes, or playing Hacky Sack. It was Friday evening, so everyone was in a good mood. The security guard called up to Wallace’s room to say he had visitors, and within minutes Wallace emerged through a door tentatively. He walked toward us with his shoulders hunched around his ears, his neck disappearing into his polo shirt like a turtle about to retreat.

“How do you do,” he said, extending his hand toward me.

“I’m Caitlin!” I said, bursting inside, like I swallowed a firecracker.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Martin has shown me your photos.”

I couldn’t contain myself: I threw my arms around Wallace and said, “It’s so amazing to meet you!”

I felt his body stiffen, so I pulled back to introduce him to Damon and my dad, each of whom were holding two huge shopping bags.

“We’ve already met!” my mom said, opening her arms to give Wallace another hug.

She must have felt his body tense up, too, because she said, “Wallace, one thing you’ll learn about us quickly is that we’re huggers.”

His eyes grew wide and he let out a nervous laugh before saying, “That is fine. Would you like to see my room?”

“Lead the way,” my dad said. “And Wallace, I’d like to clarify, the women are huggers in my family. When I set these bags down, I’ll give you a proper handshake.”

“Good,” Wallace said, sounding relieved.

We entered his room to find his roommate lying on his bed listening to his Discman. He barely acknowledged us, or Wallace, as he rolled off the bed and walked out the door. I could tell from that short interaction that he was a total jerk.

Mom wasn’t exaggerating: His side of the room was totally set up. He had tapestries on one wall, and photos of his grungy friends back in Seattle on his desk. His closet door was open, and stuffed with clothes. I opened Wallace’s closet and saw that he had exactly two pairs of pants neatly folded on a shelf, and two hanging shirts.

My mom started unpacking bags.

“Damon, unwrap the comforter,” she said. “Rich, the rug goes there. Wallace, this is an alarm clock. Do you know how to use one?”

I started hanging up the new clothes she bought for him, and was relieved to see that she had brought hangers as well.

Meanwhile, Wallace stood in the center of the room saying “Thank you, thank you” over and over again.

“You don’t need to thank us!” my mom said. “Martin is like our son. And since you’re his friend, that means you are part of our extended family as well.”

Wallace bowed his head and said thank you again.

“How are things going at school?” I said, hoping to get him to open up.

“Fine,” he said.

“Have you made any new friends?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said.

The entire conversation consisted of me asking questions and Wallace offering one- and two-word answers. At least I was trying. Damon stood in the corner of Wallace’s room with his arms crossed. I wished he had just stayed home.

Within thirty minutes, Wallace’s side of the room felt at least lived in, and my mom was making him try on the winter coat she found on sale at Ross.

“It snows here, you know,” she said.

“Have you ever seen snow?” Damon finally asked a question.

“No,” Wallace said. “But I’m very excited to do so.”

An eight-word answer, I thought. He’s opening up.

“I’m starving,” my dad announced. “Let’s go eat.”

We had already chosen the Hard Rock Cafe in downtown Philly because it was typical American food, and only a short distance from the campus. I had never been, so I was excited. We walked to the car, where I squeezed in the middle between Wallace and Damon.

On our way to the restaurant, I interrogated Wallace about Martin.

“He’s very smart,” Wallace said. “And so funny.”

“I knew it!” I exclaimed. “I can tell from his letters.”

“Did you know Martin is from the bush?” Wallace said.

“I thought he was from Mutare,” I said.

“He grew up there, but his people are from very rural areas,” Wallace said. “Mine are, too.”

Just then, my dad pulled into a parking lot by the historic Reading train station where the Hard Rock Cafe was located. As we got out of the car, I wondered how many other things I did not know about Martin.

Inside the restaurant, “Hot in Herre” was blaring on the speakers so loudly that the crystal chandeliers shook above us as we followed the hostess to the purple leather banquet reserved for our party. I slipped in first and told Wallace to sit next to me. Damon made a sour face, like he’d bit into a lemon. I didn’t care. I could talk to him whenever I wanted. Wallace was the only person I was interested in that night.

Our waitress appeared with menus. She was wearing a short-sleeve shirt, which exposed the elaborate artwork that covered both of her arms.

I noticed Wallace’s eyes widen as she passed him a menu. I leaned in and explained, “Those are tattoos.” The space between his eyes crinkled. He then opened his menu and looked startled. I understood why. There were three columns of different dishes per page.

“Order whatever you want!” Damon said, finally trying to be nice.

“Do you like cheeseburgers?” my dad asked.

“I’ve never had one, sir,” Wallace responded.

Everyone laughed at our table—except Wallace.

“Well, there’s a first time for everyone!” my dad said.

I pointed at the list of cheeseburgers—there were more than twenty to choose from.

Wallace’s eyes grew glassy.

“Do you want me to order for you?” I asked.

“Actually, I’m not very hungry,” he said. “I had a late lunch.”

“We’ll order a bunch of different things, and you can try whatever you want.”

“That sounds fine,” he said, closing the menu.

After we placed our order, I continued grilling Wallace.

“How tall is Martin? What’s his best subject? Does he have a girlfriend?” Wallace knew all of the answers.

“Quite short, math, and no, not to my knowledge,” Wallace said. “Nyanga is an all-boys school.”

Our food order covered the entire table. The cheeseburgers took up half the plate, and the French fries spilled over the sides. A slice of tomato was as large as the hamburger patty itself. Even I was shocked by the excess. Wallace had a bite of a cheeseburger, and tried a French fry and an onion ring. I think he liked all of it, but I could not tell if he was just being polite. My mom asked for all the leftovers to be boxed.

“You can take it back to your dorm room,” my mom said.

“That’s not necessary,” Wallace said.

“I insist,” my mom countered.

“I don’t have anywhere to keep it,” he responded.

“That’s why we’re going get you a mini fridge after dinner!” my mom said. That was news to all of us, including my dad. We got back into the car and drove to the nearest Sears, where we purchased a refrigerator the size of a large TV set.

Back on campus, we set up Wallace’s new fridge and then filled it with food once it was plugged in and humming.

Just then his roommate walked in.

“Whoa,” he said.

“Yeah, whoa,” I responded. Then I turned to Wallace and said, “Anything you need, just call us.”

My mom added, “In fact, we already set up the spare room in the basement and would love for you to come spend a weekend.”

“I’ll come pick you up,” my dad said.

I gave Wallace a hug good-bye and then glared at his roommate as I walked out the door. I was so angry that he had not done more to make Wallace feel welcome. But then I heard my mom behind me, and my heart swelled.

“We’ll see you soon, Wallace,” she said. “Just think of us as your American family.”