Becoming the Butlers Page 10

  “Mrs. Rosen, why didn’t you come through the front door?”

  “I didn’t want them to see me,” she whispered.

  “Well he’s busy,” I told her. “Can’t this wait?”

  “No. Just tell your father it’s a special delivery,” Mrs. Rosen ordered. “I’ll wait here and make myself some tea.” She took the kettle off the burner as familiarly as if she were at her own stove. “Your mother and I spent many an afternoon over a cup, discussing her problems. I hope you realize I was the first to know about George.”

  “Did my mother really tell you about George?” I asked in disbelief. I knew the two were friends, but I didn’t think they were confidantes. My mother was the only one allowed to call Mrs. Rosen by her first name, Marta, and had heard all about her supposedly steamy past as a cabaret singer in Berlin. According to my mother, Mrs. Rosen was a Marlene Dietrich look-alike, with American boyfriends and black-market stockings. Mrs. Rosen’s stockings now sagged at her ankles, and her legs were streaked with varicose veins, but her voice still had a commanding lyricism, and even I could imagine her crooning to lovesick soldiers beneath the purple spotlight of a cellar café.

  “Of course,” she cried, turning on the faucet. “Elizabeth told me everything. She valued my experience and advice. She asked me what to do.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I said, does your husband know? She said your father had no idea. I asked her how long she and George were carrying on. A year, she said.”

  “A year!”

  “I told her if any husband couldn’t tell, after twelve months, that his wife had been sleeping with another man, then he wasn’t a real husband. The only one holding her back was you, Rachel.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” I begged Mrs. Rosen. “He’s still in love with her.”

  “Then you must save your father.”

  “Me?” I whined. “What can I do?”

  “You’re his daughter.”

  “Not anymore,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s got a whole new family there in the dining room.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rosen.” My father, pale and frowning, securely closed the door behind him.

  “Professor Harris!” Mrs. Rosen stood erect and tried to make her four-foot-eleven frame as imposing as possible. “I must talk to you. In private.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Rachel can hear anything that has to do with me. Now what’s this all about?” James asked, casting a suspicious look in my direction.

  “All right then. But I’m not sparing any words.”

  “Please don’t, Mrs. Rosen,” James said with mock sincerity. “I’d hate to force you to spare anything.”

  “What,” Mrs. Rosen began, ignoring the still running water, “is going on? Just who, Professor Harris, do you think you are? You can’t do this!”

  “Do what?” my father asked, looking mystified.

  “You are taking advantage of them. Tell me, will she cook for you?”

  “Are you referring to Mrs. Vasquez?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then yes.”

  “And clean the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the marketing?”

  “Why, she might volunteer.”

  “And do the laundry?”

  “What does this have to do…”

  “And sleep with you?” Mrs. Rosen asked.

  “No! I mean of course not,” my father stuttered.

  “Do you give her money?”

  “Why should I…”

  “Then she is an unpaid maid and an unpaid cook.”

  “You’re not being fair,” my father said weakly. The water ran on and on as cups and plates bobbed up and down in the flooded sink. My father reached back and almost savagely turned off the spigot.

  “Well, she certainly keeps house better than Elizabeth ever did,” Mrs. Rosen added dryly, running a finger over the top of the kitchen table. “Maybe you can recommend her to me. At least I’ll pay wages.”

  “I’m only helping the Vasquez family, Mrs. Rosen. This apartment’s too big for just Rachel and me. If they didn’t want to stay here they could leave. No one is forcing them to do anything.”

  “That’s what you think. She feels indebted to you. Her husband left with your wife. She must compensate for the gaps. Let them go,” Mrs. Rosen pleaded. “They’ll lead a new life, somewhere else.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rosen, for this essential information. Now please get the hell out of this kitchen!”

  Mrs. Rosen wobbled a little, and then clutched the refrigerator handle for support.

  “Sometimes you are very stupid, Professor Harris. Don’t you see who you are trying to be?”

  My father, now speechless, shook his head.

  “George, of course. You want to be George.”

  That night I locked my bedroom door and did what I do best: I cried. I was the only person in New York dumb enough to lose a mother and a father and still not technically be an orphan. My father didn’t need me anymore, he had the Vasquezes. At one point I heard knocking on the door, and hoped to hear, “Melody, what’s wrong?” But it was only Pilar asking me if I wanted the last slice of birthday cake. I shouted something about being poisoned by the Paella, and I heard Pilar scurrying away. A half hour later I unlocked the door to go to the bathroom, and when I returned Pilar was already turning down her sheets.

  “What time is it anyway?” I asked her.

  “Nine o’clock,” Pilar answered. “Do you mind if we go to bed now? We get up for church very early.”

  “Sure,” I told her. I had nowhere else to go. I certainly wasn’t going to join my father and Mrs. Vasquez in their celebration. Pilar, apparently shy, said she was going to the bathroom to change into her nightgown. I took off my clothes and slid into an old T-shirt. Pilar noisily brushed her teeth for at least fifteen minutes, protecting herself against dreaded gingivitis. After a cycle of vigorous gargling, Pilar returned in one of my mother’s nightgowns.

  “What are you wearing?” I cried.

  “A nightgown.”

  It was supposed to have been a joint Christmas gift to my mother. My father and I bought our present from Victoria’s Secret, a sachet-filled shop on Madison Avenue. The peach silk gown had been one of the more conservative items in the shop. My father said my mother would look like a rose in the outfit. She never even saw our gift. By Christmas my mother was in Madrid.

  “Who gave that to you?” I demanded.

  “James. That’s what your father told me to call him,” she quickly added.

  “Did James say anything special about the nightgown?”

  “Not really. He just told me it was on its way to the incinerator, and I might as well use it. Is anything wrong, Rachel?” The nightgown was too small for Pilar and she looked more like a weed than a rose.

  “No,” I said after a moment. I leaned over and turned off the light. “Well, good night.”

  Canned laughter filtered through the wall: a commercial for Ford; a snow update. Outside my door George Jr. tearfully pleaded to stay up till nine-thirty so he could watch Mr. T. Pilar was so quiet that for a moment I thought she had stopped breathing. Then I heard her tossing and turning, throwing her blanket off, then pulling it back, fluffing up her pillows, rearranging her sheets. Paradoxically, she cried: “This bed’s so much more comfortable than my old one; I could stay here forever.”

  I put my sheet over my head and groaned. Forever. I knew then that Pilar would never leave, that the Vasquezes would stay on and on, the children growing older, getting married, having their own children, who would also move in. Our apartment would be overrun by hundreds of Vasquezes. Relatives too would visit and stay and Paella would be served every night.

  “Rachel, do you ever wonder how it happened?”

  “What happened?” I asked, rolling over.

  “My father and your mother.” Pilar spoke slowly, patiently, and could have been explaining an easy equation.

&n
bsp; “Why?”

  “I think about it all the time. I never had a boyfriend so I really don’t know how these things work. Maybe they were meant for each other all along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well you know, the stars.”

  “You don’t believe that crap!”

  “Why not?” Pilar asked defensively. “The stars have to be up there for some reason. Maybe they had to fall in love. Couldn’t help it. I bet it happened at the Hanukkah party two years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “My father and your mom! Aren’t you listening? Mrs. Cohen in 7D was the hostess. I remember your mother with my dad in a corner.”

  “She was probably complaining about the radiator.”

  “Maybe not. I bet they were already planning things. Come on Rachel, don’t you think about it too?”

  “No. And I don’t care.”

  “Not once…,” Pilar pressed on.

  “No,” I repeated, the lie making my skin break out in hives. “Not even once.”

  That morning the Vasquezes went to a six A.M. Mass. I feigned sleep while Pilar quietly dressed. After her departure I pretended that the Vasquezes had only been a dream, and when I awoke, the room would be mine again. But Pilar remained in spirit if not in body: a steady presence that pushed against me like a wall of hot air. My room smelled like Listerine. I had to admit that she didn’t take up much space, except for her books and that pathetic small pile of clothes. Pilar had neatly made her bed and kept all her toiletries on a bathroom shelf in a plastic traveling case, as if she were checking out the next morning. If I were in boarding school, she would be considered a perfect roommate, unobtrusive, clean, even willing to rewrite your papers. She let me sleep with both windows wide open, even though snow blew in all over her pillow. But Pilar made me nervous. Very nervous. I was terrified she’d ask about George. I looked at her and remembered I wasn’t a very nice person. I lied to her, I lied to my father, and would probably keep weaving my web of lies until I became stuck.

  My situation was getting desperate. I could not give up on the Butlers yet. There was no reason I couldn’t just telephone Olivia and speak to her directly. They were listed in the telephone book along with everyone else. The directory was in my father’s bedroom. To my surprise his room was empty. “James!” I called out, my voice echoing in the stillness. I couldn’t believe he would still be out on the town. I thought the Vasquezes had sobered him up, or at least encouraged him to moderate his lifestyle. My father’s curtains were drawn, and the humid darkness made me feel clumsy. I tripped over a typewriter in the middle of the floor, then bumped into a wooden night table before turning on a lamp. My mother’s side of the bed was covered with school papers, yellow notebooks, old magazines, and my father’s ties crumpled in soiled balls. James had done his best to eradicate all traces of my mother, but the sheet that peeked out from the clutter looked rumpled, and when I touched it, it felt warm.

  The Butlers were listed at the very bottom of the page, and my shoulders shivered as I dialed the number. I steadied myself against the wall, and firmly pressed each button. I imagined that the Butlers’ telephone, a distasteful yet necessary item, was hidden behind a houseplant in a dark corner. The bell would shriek through the dim light, the shrill sound unsettling the perfect calm of the Butler household.

  Someone finally answered with a cough. In the background, I heard the roar of what was either a vacuum cleaner or a hair dryer. I hadn’t expected this cacophony from the Butlers, and certainly not at that early Sunday morning hour.

  “Hello, is anyone there?” a voice cried. A door slammed, another bell rang. I was sure I had the wrong number.

  “Sorry,” I cried. “I must have misdialed.”

  “What phone number did you want?” The voice was hoarse yet gentle; I couldn’t tell if I was talking to a man or a woman. “That is the correct number,” the speaker informed me. “Do you wish to speak to someone in the Butler household?”

  “Yes, I would like to speak to Olivia, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Monica Sands,” I abruptly answered. I expected the speaker to hesitate and then carefully say: “You’re not Monica Sands. Why are you pretending?” But instead the speaker cried: “Hello, Monica. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said, amazed how easy it was to lie.

  “Well, Monica, she was on her way to Mass at St. Vincent’s but let me see if she’s still in the hall.”

  I heard a sound like wheels rolling across the floor, a radio announcer predicting a stormy morning, and then the clear, melodious voice of Olivia Butler that made the hairs stand on my arm.

  “Monica?” she asked hopefully.

  At first I couldn’t speak, and pressed my hand against my mouth.

  “Monica?” Olivia asked again. “Are you there? I thought we were going to the movies last night. Don’t you feel well?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  “What was that? I can’t hear you very well.”

  “Olivia,” I began, “this is not Monica Sands.”

  “Then who is this please?” she said impatiently.

  “It’s me, Rachel,” I whispered.

  “Who? I don’t know any Rachel. Is this a joke…” I never answered because I heard the front door slam. I quickly replaced the receiver in its cradle before my father walked in. His umbrella was slick with rain. He grimaced at me and wiped his wet face with his sleeve. Outside, faint thunder slightly shook the tasseled drapes.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom?” he asked.

  His voice sounded more curious than cruel, and at least he was sober.

  “I was looking for the take-out Chinese menu,” I told him.

  “At nine o’clock in the morning?”

  “Where were you?” I asked defensively.

  “Just out to get the morning paper and a few cleaning items. Our toilet paper supply was sure to run low with so many guests.”

  “When’s Pilar going to move out? I mean, when is this slumber party over?”

  “What was that, Rachel?” my father said, taking off his dripping coat.

  “You heard me.”

  “I thought we went through that yesterday.”

  “You can’t just adopt a family! It’s like you’re trying to decide when to celebrate your birthday all over again.”

  “The Vasquezes might stay twenty years, or maybe they’ll leave tomorrow. I’m happy, Rachel.” My father turned to me and his eyes looked a clear glassy blue. “Considering the circumstances, I’m as happy as I can be.”

  “So that means when it was just you and me everything was terrible. Boy, I had no idea you were so miserable.”

  “Rachel, you misunderstood me.”

  “Did I ever. Just forget it!” I yelled. “Just forget everything!” I stomped into my room and slammed the door. My head reeled and I sank down onto my bed. There were just too many families: the Butlers, the Vasquezes, my mother and George and their new baby, and my father and me.

  A long shower made me feel better, and then I blow-dried my hair, which was getting a little brown at the roots. I took out my red wool dress from the back of the closet and ran a lint remover up and down the front. My black velvet pumps still fit me, and I managed to find a pair of black tights that weren’t too raggedy.

  “Well, don’t you look smart,” my father exclaimed as I walked out of my room. “Where are you going this early Sunday morning?”

  “To church. Where else?”

  “Really? I could have sworn you considered yourself Jewish. Did the Vasquezes invite you to attend Mass with them?”

  “I’m not going with the Vasquezes. I’m going with the Butlers.”

  My father’s eyebrows met in one line. “The Butlers?” I heard him murmur as I walked toward the back door. The kitchen sink was filled with dirty glasses foamy with old beer. I looked at the untidy scene and felt almost nostalgic, knowing that from now on my life would be a
s neat and straight as the perfect part in Edwin Butler’s hair.

  Most people were surprised that the Butlers were Catholic, and the rumor was that Dr. Butler had converted after being saved in Vichy France by a Roman Catholic priest. St. Vincent’s, to which all the Catholics in my school belonged, was just a block down from the Winfield Academy. A few parishioners were also straggling in late, shaking their wet umbrellas in the damp outer hall. Organ music swelled behind the heavy doors, and the soft murmuring of prayers leaked through like escaped light. I walked slowly down the aisle, trying to find the Butlers, but the church was too dark and the parishioners all looked the same with their bowed heads, stooped shoulders, and downcast eyes. I had no idea what to do at a Mass. I had hoped for printed instructions as clear and direct as opera supertitles. My father was raised as a Presbyterian, my mother’s maiden name was Klein; and although my Grandmother Klein once whispered to me at the nursing home that even if my father was goyim I was still one hundred percent Jewish, the first time I set foot in a house of worship was at the synagogue for her funeral.

  “Sit down,” someone whispered. An elderly woman in a stole tugged at my coat sleeve so hard that I fell into the seat next to her. The priest’s voice rose and fell amidst the steady current of murmured prayers. I picked up the book in front of me and balanced it on my knees. On the leather cover was a damp impression of a large hand. I felt like a trespasser. Suddenly the whole congregation rose and started filing out to the aisles. I stood up and saw, three rows ahead of me, Edwin and Olivia Butler. A great ocean seemed to separate us, the rows of heads swaying like a wave.

  “Aren’t you going to take Communion?” my neighbor asked, pushing me with her right elbow.

  “I suppose so,” I answered.

  “You suppose so?” she asked, lifting her painted brows. Olivia stepped wordlessly in front of her brother and started walking toward the priest. She wore a simple yellow dress which was the same shade as her hair. I knew something about the ceremony, but was confused about whether you were actually eating the body of Christ. I pushed through the procession to follow her, and soon found myself standing so close to Olivia that my lips could brush against the back of her neck.