Becoming the Butlers Read online

  I decided that if I was going to become a Butler I had better start acting like one. So instead of taking the cross-town bus I hailed a cab and left the driver a generous tip. I went to the East Side for school but rarely hung out in the neighborhood. My father always said even pigeon crap was neater on the East Side; all I knew was that the drunk I saw sleeping on a park bench on Fifth Avenue had spotless white socks and his head rested on a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal. A small and tidy porter with a little broom patrolled the sidewalk in front of the Butlers’ building. When he wasn’t hailing cabs he’d sweep the pavement furiously; a truly hopeless task, for whenever a bus rolled by, bits of paper, like grimy confetti, showered the cement. In the early morning sun the building’s crisp white awning looked as if made of lamé, but then, all of Fifth Avenue looked gilded to me. I looked up and down the gold windows, trying to figure out which belonged to the Butlers. I gathered up the nerve to ask the doorman what floor the Butler family occupied.

  “Good morning,” I said nervously. The doorman, who was a formidable six-foot-five, brought his silver whistle to his lips and blew so loudly that a nearby cluster of pigeons took flight. Terrified, I ran down the block, waiting for the police cars to catch up to me. But the doorman was only helping an elderly man into a cab, and I realized the whistle was for the taxi, not for me.

  I decided to go home before I got myself in real trouble. The cab ride had depleted all my money and I would have to walk home through Central Park. The park would be deserted that cold morning, but I wasn’t worried. My mother would have died if she knew how I sometimes walked through the park from school. I liked that half hour of privacy, and deliberately avoided the open paths favored by joggers and bicyclists. But I never met a mugger or a rapist, and didn’t mind the few amorous male couples who, when I passed by, discreetly buried themselves beneath the leaves.

  My father made fun of dirty yellow New York snow, but the hills always looked as white as talc to me. A few hearty sleigh riders whizzed past on new-age silver disks. The fantastic palaces of Central Park West towered over the bare trees, their names like lost kingdoms: Eldorado, San Remo, Beresford, and Majestic. I walked by an umbrella frozen upright in a block of ice in Bethesda Fountain, and past the Bandshell, where a drunk was singing to himself on the stage. Then I turned left, and headed toward Wollman ice rink.

  “Don’t you want to rent a pair of skates?” the man asked me at the ticket counter.

  “No,” I said. “I just want to watch, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Well there’s not much to watch today, with such nasty weather. Would you like a cup of hot cocoa?”

  The drink, more minty than chocolate, warmed my face. Only one family glided by in the rink. I watched them from behind a foggy window, my face pressed against the heated glass. Obviously tourists, they had dressed all wrong for the weather. The father wore a hooded Georgia Tech sweatshirt and khaki pants, and his bare hands, clutching the icy railing, looked gnarled and red as lobster claws. The mother, a cheerful, round woman in powder blue corduroy overalls, hugged her arms together and wouldn’t stop sneezing. The daughter, about my age, wore a short skating skirt with striped tights that made her thin legs look like candy canes. Mother and daughter practiced figure eights while dad, jumping up and down for warmth, took photographs with a camera so tiny it could have been a toy. “Beautiful! Fantastic!” he’d shout, and you could hear real pride in his voice.

  The music changed to Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” and the family all clasped hands and skated at a dizzying speed around the rink. I held my breath, terrified they would trip and fall. The trio skidded to a somewhat clumsy stop, and embraced each other at the song’s rousing finale. My eyes felt wet; I wasn’t used to seeing happy families. I wondered if they would be willing to take me back with them to Georgia. I stepped back and saw my face in a nearby puddle. Again, I didn’t recognize myself, but this was much different. I was turning into a Butler; cheekbones rising from the thick planes of my pudgy face to sharp angles, lips slowly narrowing into an elegant sneer, my bushy eyebrows thinning to questioning arches. My hair no longer looked pink but was as golden and straight as Olivia’s. If someone stopped to talk to me, I was sure my voice would be changed to the slightly Europeanized and breathless tone of the Butler siblings. I whispered: I will become a Butler, and the words became a part of me and pulsed regularly like a heartbeat. My breath seemed to evaporate, and for a moment I thought I’d lose consciousness.

  Nicole was right: I hadn’t made things very easy for myself. But I would be patient. My plan was to enter the Butlers’ lives slowly, stealthily, announcing myself with only a whisper. At first I wouldn’t be more than a shadow that occasionally tinted their days. I’d grow steadily brighter, and the Butlers would notice the new light, a gradual warmth. Like déjà vu, they would believe I was someone they had met before even if they couldn’t name the time or place. When they finally recognized me, they would feel the same admiration as when they looked at their reflections in a mirror. I wouldn’t even recognize myself. As a Butler I would forget all about my mother, George, and my bitter, self-pitying father, and for once be surrounded with so much love that I would never have to cry again.

  The door was unlocked when I returned from Central Park, and I slowly made my way to the kitchen. My father sat, grading exams at the kitchen table that was usually sticky with jam or spilled juice. A neat circle of cigarette stubs surrounded a half-empty vodka bottle. The dim flickering kitchen light bulb made his face look hollow, his eyes sunken, the skin bleached as white as a bone. Almost like a skull, I thought, almost as if he’s dead already.

  “Is that you, Rachel?” he asked.

  “Yes. Who else could it be?”

  “You’re right. Excuse me for asking such a stupid question. Who else could it be indeed?”

  Our first words since Madrid and already we were at war. My father was in his ratty, old blue smoking jacket, and the forehead bandage looked even filthier.

  “Rachel, can’t you close the door? We don’t want Mrs. Rosen ogling our domestic bliss.”

  I did as I was told and when I returned James was tapping a cigarette carton against the table with one hand and massaging his temples with the other.

  “I’ve got a unique migraine that even grain alcohol couldn’t cure. I shouldn’t have looked at these exams until school started again.”

  “I’m going to become a Butler,” I suddenly declared. My oath was like a balloon that was impossible to keep from soaring away.

  My father filled the page with angry-looking red ink and then pushed it distastefully with his hand; “How are we ever going to beat the Japanese if Jonathan Winthrop the Third of Park Avenue and Palm Beach can’t divide five into forty-five?” He then scratched his ear and shook his head. “This migraine is making me hear funny. I could have sworn you said you wanted to become a butler. I don’t know how you’re going to do that when your room’s such a mess!”

  “Never mind,” I said quietly. Then I left my father and went to my room to begin preparations for my departure. I took my photograph album from my desk and shook out the pages. A book of matches was stored in my pocket and because of the smoke detectors I placed the pile on the ledge outside my window. Before the pile caught fire, I examined the various shots and didn’t recognize a single person. In the heat the paper curled and swayed, edges white-hot. A breeze suddenly stirred and several photographs slipped away, tumbling through the air like large black-and-white cinders. The flames rose and then my family was gone: only ashes on a ledge eleven stories above the world.

  SEVEN

  The first thing I had to do that morning as a Butler was to rid myself of all my un-Butler impurities. That meant taking a long, hot shower, shampooing my hair until my eyes burned and my scalp sang. Toweling myself dry, I felt as if a grimy hard shell had finally been worn down, and I was now pink, shiny, and new. When I looked into the mirror after dressing, Olivia Butler didn’t stare
back at me, nor did I see the same reflection as at Wollman’s rink. But my hair glistened with golden highlights and fell straight across my shoulders in one wave. A green sweater brought out the green in my eyes, and I brushed jade shadow over my lids to emphasize the color more. I was ready to go to school and see her.

  The Winfield Academy is famous for being the school for children of diplomats, movie stars, investment bankers, and best-selling writers, yet the physical grounds don’t reveal the glitter inside. The school had always been a shabby brownstone located on a tree-lined block between Park and Lexington Avenues in the upper Eighties. If you missed the slightly tarnished sign, you’d think perhaps it was a discreet home for seedy alcoholics still supported by obscure family fortunes. Mr. Gregory, the principal, liked to say he invested in the teachers, not in interior decorating. I guess he messed up with my father. The gorgeous students were like dazzling Christmas ornaments embellishing a shriveled pine tree.

  Although it was about fifteen degrees outside, almost everyone, back from their Christmas vacation at homes in Martinique or Montserrat, wore short-sleeved white T-shirts that showed off their deep tans. Several heads turned as I walked down the hall, and Lucy Ludlow came up to me and then ran back to her friends to confirm that the new blonde girl was, get this, Rachel Harris! I am a Butler, I repeated to myself as the laughter swelled behind me. My cheeks were flushed in my locker door mirror. When something shimmered in the upper right hand corner of the glass, I pulled the door slightly in and nearly gasped out loud.

  Like a small television screen, my mirror reflected Olivia and Edwin Butler. Olivia wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater so soft that it almost floated about her shoulders. A gold locket in the shape of a heart nestled at the base of her long, pale throat, and her thick bangs were swept up with bows of pink satin that looked like chrysanthemums. Edwin was just as beautiful. His mouth was more sensuous than his sister’s, his features softer. If Olivia was finely etched, then Edwin was smudged in charcoal. He wore sweaters in shades of the ocean: aquamarine, baby blue, and indigo, with little white wool nubs that looked like sea foam. Edwin always carried change in his pocket, and you could always hear him walking down the hall, the quarters and dimes and nickels clattering like a signature tune.

  Sister and brother leaned together in confident laughter. Their voices sounded remarkably the same, Edwin’s only an octave deeper, Olivia’s softer. I couldn’t make out any of their words and for a moment imagined that they were conversing in their own Butler dialect. The wall of lockers behind them seemed to recede, the floor buckle beneath their legs. Edwin’s lips brushed against his sister’s ear, and as if to hear what he was saying, I placed my own ear against the cold mirror glass.

  “Well, Harris, don’t look behind you or you might turn into a pillar of salt.”

  Nicole’s grinning face had dislodged the Butlers’ images.

  “It’s a pretty picture isn’t it?” she exclaimed. “You can’t still be stuck on your plan.”

  “Shh… Nicole, not so loud,” I whispered.

  “Okay. But I just want to do a little experiment. Don’t worry, you’re not involved.”

  “Nicole, please…”

  “Ever heard of The Invisible Man?” she asked. “Well you’re going to see the female version right now.”

  Nicole walked directly up to Olivia and Edwin. I watched the scene from my mirror, unable to stare directly. The brother and sister continued whispering to each other. Their eyes didn’t even flicker as Nicole took three steps toward Olivia. If they both had been inclined to bow, their foreheads would have met.

  “Hello, Olivia. Hi, Edwin,” Nicole gaily greeted them. “How was your Christmas vacation?”

  Maybe Edwin’s left shoulder moved slightly, and Olivia blinked twice, but that was all. Edwin admired a new silver bracelet on his sister’s wrist; Olivia folded down her brother’s shirt collar.

  “Well, I guess you didn’t hear me,” Nicole announced in a booming voice. “So I’ll repeat my friendly question. Hello, Olivia. Hi, Edwin. How was your Christmas vacation?”

  She may not have been able to catch the Butlers’ attention, but she had everyone else’s. What finally happened was that Edwin said a short, “Fine, thank you” and walked away. I wanted to fold over and slide deep into the security of my school locker. For a moment the two looked as if they would walk right through Nicole, but they separated at the last minute. Edwin disappeared into the library as Olivia went into a rear classroom. Someone started a game of jacks, and the patter of the red rubber ball bouncing against the tiled floor matched the beat of my heart.

  “See what you’re up against?” Nicole declared. “I mean talk about ironic names. Why should they be the Butlers when everyone wants to be their slave?”

  “Don’t you dare do anything like that again.”

  Nicole’s mouth dropped open. “I was only trying to prove a point, Harris.”

  “You’re not my father and we’re not in a classroom.”

  “You’ll only get hurt.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Fine. But you saw them. You know what they’re like. If that’s what you want to become, you’re welcome to it.”

  Nicole clomped away with her heavy clogs. The bell rang twice before I could get myself to shut my locker door. My first class was History. Olivia always sat in the front row. I always sat in the back row.

  That morning ambulance sirens wailed outside the window, the unrelenting noise shaking the panes. Our teacher, Miss Hellman, should have worn darker blouses to hide her amoeba-shaped perspiration stains. Unable to compete with the racket, Miss Hellman told us to write an essay comparing the Fall of Rome to New York City’s past bout with bankruptcy. No one lifted a pencil. Across from me, Monica Sands stared down in delight at her newly polished loafers with shining pennies. She would flex her ankles and swing her feet to catch the light that made the pennies sparkle. Her short red hair was the color of the pennies, and cut in a bob. Lovely but utterly nasty, Monica was Olivia’s constant companion and, some said, Edwin’s girlfriend too. I looked at Monica, who glanced disdainfully back at me with heavy lids. My stomach heaved as if the wind had been knocked out of me, and suddenly I wasn’t so much scared of Olivia or Edwin but of the Monicas, those guardians of the inner circle, who would stand in my way.

  My eyes focused on the back of Olivia’s head, willing her to look at me. She sat very straight, her head cocked to the right, as if she didn’t trust Miss Hellman or anyone else. Her black patent leather shoe impatiently tapped the floor. Miss Hellman walked up and down the aisles, noisily cracking her knuckles. Olivia Butler audibly sighed, lifted up her silver pen, and began scribbling. Her action launched fifteen other pens in motion, as Miss Hellman gave Olivia a heartbreakingly appreciative smile.

  Nicole Rudomov and I ignored each other, and didn’t even speak in Bio lab, where as partners we had to dissect a frog. I realized I shared my father’s abhorrence of failure, and Nicole’s glittering eyes, which I imagined signaled “Surrender!” only strengthened my resolve.

  Yet I didn’t have much luck with Olivia that day, or for the rest of the week. She was constantly accompanied by Monica, and surrounded by the next circle of almost-friends: Dorothy Houghton Wells, who lived at the Pierre Hotel, and Sissie Saunders, the Listerine heiress, who supposedly barfed at the smell of her family’s mouthwash. Even if I had a chance to speak to Olivia alone, I wouldn’t know where to begin. There was the question of legality, for example. I would need to change my name and inform my father of my new status. But I couldn’t very well ask Dr. and Mrs. Butler to adopt me. And what about money? Since I was no longer my father’s daughter, I could no longer receive free tuition at the Winfield Academy. The Butlers were loaded, but it was unfair to ask them to support me all the way through college. I could get a job after school, but Butlers didn’t work at Burger King or sell T-shirts at South Street Seaport. Where would I live? I would be willing to share the maid’s quarters, but
then, as a Butler, that wouldn’t look right. And what would I tell the post office? My mother, one day, might decide to finally write.

  Perhaps if things had improved at home I might have lost my conviction. But the battle seemed intensified. My father went out every night and didn’t return home till late: the jangle of his keys, muttered curses, and heavy footsteps awakened me in the early morning. I nightly microwaved for myself a frozen meal intended for single men too busy with corporate takeovers to cook. Table for One featured lots of white things, like runny potatoes, turkey, corn kernels, and bleached-looking carrots. I was sure my father ate dinner at Tom’s Restaurant, his favorite Greek coffee shop, and then drank dessert at the West End bar. Miraculously he got himself up at seven and no longer waited for me. We used to take the bus together every morning. If I weren’t on my way to becoming a Butler, I wouldn’t have been able to stand the definitive way he slammed the door on his way out: a bang as loud as a gunshot.

  Though I took Geometry with Mr. Bourne, I still ran into James in the library, at the water fountain, standing in line at the cafeteria. Even when he hid in the teacher’s lounge I could still see him through the square plate of smudged glass on the door, smoking, morosely marking exams, his crumbled face a public emblem of our disaster.

  Then, one Saturday morning a week after our return, my father actually looked happy. He was flipping pancakes in the kitchen and whistling “When the Saints Go Marching In” through his teeth. Both my mother and father were terrific whistlers, and often gave impromptu concerts ranging from Beethoven to the Beatles. Alone, his whistle usually sounded stranded, as if searching for a partner.

  “Hello, Rachel, where have you been?” my father asked.