Please Repeat My Name

María Brito, El Patio de Mi Casa, 1990, mixed media, including acrylic paint, wood, wax, latex, gelatin silver prints and found objects, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Museum purchase through the Smithsonian Institution Collections Acquisition Program. © 1991, María Brito. Reproduced courtesy of Museum of Fine Arts, St. Petersburg, from “Our America: The Latino Presence in American Art.”

The refrigerator arrived as a belated birthday present from an uncle who usually sent nothing. Audrey had to wait at the post office to claim it, after a series of notices were left on her door. She stood in line one morning in her strangely colored winter coat with all the people buying money orders. She held the latest notice.

WE HAVE MADE SEVERAL ATTEMPTS, it read. WE ARE UNABLE TO DELIVER YOUR PACKAGE. WE WOULD LIKE TO CONTINUE ATTEMPTING. BUT WE CANNOT. WE ARE LEGALLY UNABLE TO PROVIDE APOLOGIES ALTHOUGH WE WOULD LIKE TO. IN THE MEANTIME YOUR PACKAGE IS BEING HELD AT THE POST OFFICE.

She tore off the wrapping. Personal refrigerator, the box said. Fits one six-pack, the box said. Convenient handle. Fits just right at desks, no more sharing with co-workers and putting your leftovers at risk. It was glossy and new, like the ones in the appliance department at Sears. Only miniaturized. She thought of the uncle, who wasn’t even her real uncle; he’d been married to her mother’s sister—he was fusty, never listened. Even though her mother had died, sometimes he’d appear out of the transom as though nothing had changed. She pictured her father in the house in the suburbs, grinding his teeth while holding the cordless telephone, listening to him talk. Right, her father would say. I see.

Someone bumped her elbow trying to get to their post office box, inserting the key, opening that little door. The fridge: obviously a regift. Presented to him by some colleague in the Department of Political Science at last year’s Christmas party. She winched it out of the box, stuffed all the ridiculous packaging into the trash can. Out fluttered a note, an ecru envelope with her name written in immaculate handwriting. Was that her uncle’s handwriting? She slid the note into her coat pocket and left for the office, exiting onto the noisy street, carrying the fridge by its handle.

I shall chalk this up to a good day, Audrey said.

But: the twig. In addition to the refrigerator, there was the twig to consider.

She kept the twig in her right-hand pocket, touched it with her fingers. It was shaped like a Y, like a divining rod, a wishbone. The twig was worn soft from her touch. She liked to imagine it became softer each time she ran her fingers across it, until one day she would have held it long enough that it would in fact become a divining rod, and she would be able to find water beneath the concrete.

But the refrigerator. The personal refrigerator. It had a handle. It was substantial and rectangular, and so smooth and dustless. At the office, she unwound the cord from the convenient slot and slid the silvery prongs into the electrical outlet. A serene humming rose up. Its door made a satisfying bump when it closed. Now she could get to work. She sat at her desk with her strangely colored coat on. It was there humming when messages appeared in her inbox. Email was about to go down! Please use the fax machine instead.

While she tried to write the weekly status report, listening to people talking in the hallway, about this TV show, that boyfriend, it was humming. What did all these people have to talk about? Hey Audrey, Jameel said, you wanna try some of this candy I brought from Thailand? Hmm, she said, and she declined by saying actually she didn’t much care for candy and really what she would like was a cigarette. Jameel laughed, thinking it was a joke. I’m emailing you the status report, she said, and she could...