Becoming the Butlers (23 page)

“Your dad’s too smart to have let things go that far,” Nicole told me. “He would have put his foot down the minute his boss told him about Ingrid marrying Claude Rains. As for George, the worst he did was to make your mom pregnant.”

Nicole knew everything now: my father, my mother, the Vasquezes, and my meeting with Mrs. Butler.

“Were you surprised when you saw Mrs. Butler?” Nicole asked me one night. She was lying down on our couch with her coffee cup resting precariously between her knees. Ashes from her cigarettes freely spilled all over an embroidered pillow.

“Of course. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes. But I knew. My father saw her in a wheelchair. But I didn’t want to tell you. It would be kind of like sticking a pin in your balloon.”

“I felt sorry for her,” I said. “Everything would be so much easier if she just wasn’t…”

“A Butler. I know. But all families have problems. They have to. Look at our country. What do Americans like to do best? Go shopping. You pick, compare, find a good price, and then buy. But you can’t pick your parents. You can’t even trade them in. Dr. Golden explained this to me after my mom left for France. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Nicole,’ she said. But you want to know something? I think that even if we did have a chance to purchase our parents, we’d still end up buying the same ones. Sometimes you buy a perfect tomato only to find a bruise later. But that doesn’t mean you have to throw the tomato out. It’s still good. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re no bargain either. Your dad drinks and you bleach your hair. I know they’re not the same thing, but it’s a kind of balance.” She sat up suddenly and slammed the cup on the table. “No, it’s worse for Parallel Lines. Your hair is already growing back brown. But a broken heart never mends. Cripes! I sound like some top-forty pop song. But your dad kind of inspires that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.

“He looks like Robert Redford.”

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on him too?”

“He makes it hard for anyone to like him. But I do.”

“How come everyone’s in love with him except me? He drives me crazy!”

“He’s supposed to. He’s your dad.” When Nicole was at school, I would leave the apartment and go searching through the Upper West Side for James. Nicole had heard in the cafeteria that my father was on “official leave,” probably because of my suspension. She even had the nerve to ask Mr. Gregory, who informed her my father’s absence was a confidential matter. I first went to Tom’s Restaurant, where all the men wore my father’s gray, stained raincoat and slowly spooned
pea soup into their trembling mouths. The waiter behind the counter flashed his gold teeth and said he missed Jimmy. My father had ordered a double cheeseburger but barely made a dent in the roll.

“When I asked him if he was sick,” the waiter explained with a frown, “Jimmy said he should be so lucky.”

“Oh,” I answered, figuring out that this is where my father must have headed immediately after our scene.

At the West End I spoke to Raffles, the skinny black bartender who wore two diamond studs in his left ear. He told me the last time he saw my father was on New Year’s Eve, when James passed out at a front table in the jazz room. “Right in the middle of Hep Jackson’s sax solo!” Raffles hooted. “When you find your dad, remind him that he owes me taxi fare. And about six Monk records too.

“He’s a cool guy, your dad, take care of him,” Raffles then said, and gave me a free Pepsi and a bowl of popcorn.

On to Papyrus Bookstore, another of my father’s hangouts. The cashier, a Columbia dropout with a straggly ponytail and a Stones T-shirt, thought he saw my father just yesterday with a girl with long hair.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he told me as he rang up a sale. “Like I said, she had long hair.”

“I’m his daughter,” I said impatiently. “Did the girl look like me?”

“Can’t say. But I know your dad ‘cause all he buys is Spanish books or actors’ monologues.”

“Actors’ monologues?” So my father hadn’t given up his dream after all.

“Yeah, you know, ten-minute speeches for auditions. Hey,” he cried as I headed toward the door, “when you find your dad, tell him Harvey says ‘hang cool.’”

One morning I was able to discover the date of my father’s return flight from Madrid. In the mail I saw a bill from Liberty Travel and I tore open the envelope. The day and time of the Iberia flight was clearly marked on the receipt. He would be back tomorrow evening. I began to make plans for getting to the airport early enough to see him. I imagined myself back at the airport souvenir shop, hiding behind the rack of magazines, peeking out now and then. I would have to approach him cautiously, wait for a moment when he wasn’t checking his bags or ordering a vodka from the bar. Maybe I’d find another
Anthropology Today
magazine and give it to him as a peace offering. I saw him smiling that brilliant white Cinescope smile, his blond hair tousled in front of his eyes. He’d be wearing his trench coat unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up à la Bogart.

“Dad…,” I’d begin, and my father would be pleased, since I rarely called him Dad.

“Yes, Melody?” he’d ask, not at all surprised to see me, almost as if he expected me to be there too.

“Dad,” I’d repeat, and that’s when the scenario stopped. Like a movie reel that suddenly stops in the middle of the most important scene I couldn’t envision what would happen next. How could I convince him to stay? What could I say? And why should he trust me? Maybe Cynthia Lime would be with him. Or another girl. The scene was fraught with too many risks. And I couldn’t stand being abandoned again.

On the morning of my flight to Spain, I stayed in bed even though Nicole had brought bagels and lox from Zabar’s and made cappuccino.

“Come on, Rachel,” she yelled from the kitchen. “I got to get to school.”

“Just store it in the freezer and I’ll have it later.”

“You can’t freeze cappuccino!” Nicole shouted. Several moments later she was at my door. “What’s wrong?”

“My father left for Madrid. Not that I care,” I protested. “I mean, maybe he’s better off seeing my mother and the baby and George. Can you keep the coffee hot while I take a shower?”

“Cappuccino, Rachel. Not coffee. I made it the way a waiter in Florence showed me, with just a sprinkling of cinnamon.”

After my shower I carefully combed out my nearly brown hair. Then I slipped on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed toward the kitchen. Nicole, ashen-faced and visibly trembling, met me in the hall.

“He’s here,” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked, shaking water out of my ears.

“Your father.”

“Is this a joke? I told you he left for Madrid last night.”

“That’s what I thought! He even brought a suitcase with him. He’s in the living room waiting for you.”

“He can’t be here for me,” I told her, my head spinning.

“How do you know, Rachel?” My father stepped out of the living room and into the hallway. He carried a battered leather suitcase: the same one he had used when we went to Madrid. His clothes looked unfamiliar: a brown wool jacket, beige trousers, and a white fisherman’s sweater. His hair was cut short again and combed flat with some kind of hair tonic. I looked at his face, which was unblemished; no scars or marks. Wherever he had been, the place had helped him to heal. My father stared at me unsmiling, his hands folded at his sides.

“Where are the Vasquezes?” he asked. “And what
happened to the apartment? It looks like a Blitzkrieg hit it. The dust is remarkable. At least your hair’s back to normal.”

“You’re supposed to be in Madrid now,” I said, trying my best to sound cold.

“How do you know?” James asked, his face still expressionless.

“I saw the bill for your tickets. You were supposed to leave at eight o’clock last night.”

“I know. I even went to the airport. Here.” My father withdrew a white envelope from his jacket’s breast pocket. Nicole nodded at me to go forward. I took four careful steps and gingerly took the envelope. “Go ahead,” he said gently. I unsealed the flap and saw the familiar Iberia Airlines ticket.

“Do what you want with it, Rachel. Cut it up and use it as a doily. It also makes a great bookmark. It seems the only place I need to go is right here.” James dropped his suitcase and kicked it clear down the hall.

“I got to run to school,” Nicole exclaimed, grabbing her books and flying toward the door.

“Wait, Nicole!” She stopped and looked at me helplessly. “Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you are, Nicole,” my father insisted. Nicole was so relieved that she let go of her schoolbooks, which crashed to the floor. “I’m taking you and Rachel out to dinner tonight. The Russian Tea Room.”

“The Russian Tea Room! Oh, but I couldn’t…,” Nicole stammered. My father crouched down and gathered the books for her, an action so similar to Edwin picking up the old elevator man’s hat that it struck me as significant.

“I promise we won’t be upstairs in Siberia,” he told Nicole. “The maître d’ knows me from Andover and always gives me a decent table.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” Nicole said with a shy smile.

“You can call me Parallel Lines.” Nicole’s mouth flew open. “Don’t worry,” my father reassured her. “I’ve heard some of my students use that name and you know what, I like it. I sound like a lead singer in a new wave band.”

My father and I didn’t speak as Nicole collected her coat and hat and quietly closed the door. I stepped away from my father and stood halfway in the door. Although he looked sober, I had learned never to be too sure.

“Was your flight canceled?” I snapped.

“Yes, I canceled it myself.” James leaned against the wall like a man waiting for a bus: his hands behind his head, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “Oh, I wanted to go all right; I even got to the airport three hours early. I had my passport and ticket, packed suitcase, Dramamine, and your mother’s address drilled in my head. I had just lit my last Marlboro when I thought I heard someone page Rachel Harris over the terminal speakers. Now, of course, you’re not the only Rachel Harris in the world, but I stood up and began to walk about, checking every bench and seat. It suddenly didn’t seem right for me to go to Madrid alone, and I was so sure, Rachel, that you were there too. I left my luggage and coat in a chair and went to the airport shop. Remember the time we fought about the sweatshirts? Well they were still for sale, and I also saw that silly Empire State Building lighter you lost. Well I bought you another.”

My father pulled from his pocket the silver chrome lighter and placed it gently in my hand. I closed my fingers and felt it, cool and smooth, resting in my palm.

“After I bought that lighter, I knew I couldn’t go to Madrid. I had to give it to you first, Rachel.”

I saw my father in blurry vision awkwardly try to embrace me. Our elbows knocked together and I may have even hit him in the nose with my left arm. More bruises. But these were well-earned.

“Where were you?” I murmured, blinking back tears.

“Cynthia.” My father surprised me by blushing. “Cynthia Lime from Madrid. Nothing happened between us,” he added.

“That’s none of my business.”

My father looked startled. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I was staying in her dorm up in Morningside Heights. I needed to go to a place that wouldn’t remind me of Elizabeth.”

“So the whole time you were only a couple of blocks away?”

“That’s right. When I got that letter from Elizabeth, I felt exactly the same as when Pilar first told me about the two running off to Spain. Everything just went blank. After I left you, I walked for blocks and blocks uptown until I reached Fort Tryon Park. I was so tired that I fell asleep in a bush. At one point I rolled over, and felt an arm, and then a leg. I didn’t know if the guy next to me was alive or dead, but I wasn’t waiting to find out. I got the hell out of there, started walking again, and found myself on the street where I knew Cynthia lived. I wasn’t drunk anymore, just hungry and hungover. God knows why her roommate let me in, I looked like a bum. Cynthia showed up after lunch, and I can’t say she was happy to see me. Anyway, I took a shower, drank three cups of black coffee, and phoned the school. Hank wasn’t very pleased about my vanishing act, and I had to do a lot of explaining in order not to get fired. I told him I was going to A.A. and I needed a medical leave of absence. Cynthia was the one who convinced me to get some help.”

“Were you…” I took a deep breath. “Helped?”

“A.A.’s not too bad if you ignore all the religion stuff. But I had no choice. I was terrified, Rachel, when I woke up beside that body. Whoever he was, he could have been me. The choice was either Stoli or yours truly, and I don’t think Russian vodka makes for a very good father. So where are the Vasquezes?” he asked again.

“They’re gone. They didn’t feel right being here and went to live in Queens.”

“You mean you were all alone!” my father gasped. “I would never have left if I knew that. I thought Isabel would take care of you.”

“But I wasn’t alone. I had Nicole. She helped me. And I can’t just forget her.”

“Don’t worry,” my father said, patting my shoulder. “We’ll take care of Nicole. I’m relieved I wasn’t the one to tell the Vasquezes to go. But I know I’ll miss them.”