Becoming the Butlers (14 page)

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 as 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.

“Olivia,” I whispered, then “Olivia,” somewhat louder.

“Shhhh…,” she whispered, “I’m next.” She stepped forward, raised her head, and turned around. The priest then deposited a wafer in my upturned palm. I looked at it and then looked at him. The priest seemed slightly befuddled, as if I were the odd guest no one knew at a housewarming party.

“Sorry,” I whispered, and quickly turned and followed Olivia down the aisle. This time she waited for me.

“Olivia,” I said bravely, “I’m sorry I called you before and said I was Monica Sands.”

That did it. Olivia stopped, and turned around. Her eyes were the iciest blue I’d ever seen.

“So you’re the one. I called Monica back, and she told me she never phoned.” A flicker of recognition crossed her face. “Aren’t you Mr. Harris’s daughter?”

“No,” I mumbled.

“Yes, you are.” Her eyes narrowed as if she couldn’t quite see me. Then, with a start, Olivia exclaimed, “What’s that in your hand?”

“It looks like a cracker to me.”

“That’s the Host,” she said in a low, shocked voice. “You’re supposed to swallow it!” She began to smile, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “You just can’t hold it like that,” she admonished. “Have you got a tissue? A purse? We’ve got to hide it.”

We
. Olivia had said we.

“I have a pocket,” I told her. “In my skirt.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t make it too conspicuous.” She glanced behind her, and smiled again. “What if ol’ Father Finley knew?”

“I think he does,” I said.

“That’s even better. All right, ease your hand down. There. That’s good.” She sighed in relief. “This still doesn’t
make sense. Why are you here? And why did you say you were Monica?”

Someone called out Olivia’s name. Edwin, standing behind the last pew, glared at his watch, implying they were late.

“My mother…,” she cried with a start. “I forgot…” Then the other Olivia Butler began to settle in, her features hardening like clay. “I think it’s despicable that you lied like that,” she hissed. For a moment she looked ugly. “Monica will be furious. You’re a real weirdo. Don’t you ever call me again.”

I stood rooted in the middle of the aisle, not even bothering to move as parishioners jostled me on their way back. I remained in place even when the priest lowered the lights and disappeared behind the altar. Rain slashed against the stained glass windows and water, like runny oil paint, ran down the red, green, and blue panes. My hand searched for the wafer in my pocket, which had now crumbled into a powder as fine as dust.

NINE

Although we were sitting next to each other in Bio, Nicole scribbled me a note and passed it surreptitiously behind my back:

Dear Rachel,

Please meet me in the back of the cafeteria so we can
talk. This is getting ridiculous. You’re acting more
friendly to the formaldehyde frog than to me.

Shalom

Nicole stood up after class and I nodded and followed her. I desperately needed a friend. That morning, in the school lobby, I had another miserable encounter with Olivia Butler. Like me, Olivia was late for homeroom, but not late enough to run up the stairs. She paced by the elevator, furiously jabbing the button and knocking on the door. I suspected her fury wasn’t so much directed toward Manny, the school elevator man, as her sopping wet clothes and shoes. Olivia had not worn a raincoat or
even carried an umbrella, and as she paced I could hear the water swishing in her loafers. Her wet hair, tucked behind her ears, looked as transparent and shiny as plastic. A bedraggled Olivia was much less intimidating than yesterday’s self-righteous church Olivia. I took two steps forward, determined to explain everything, when Olivia turned around and saw me. Now when I think about it, I’m sure there were three or four other latecomers, also waiting for the slow elevator. But the other students faded away, and I felt like Olivia and I were in some old Western movie, two gunslingers facing each other in a dusty, empty square, a faint drum roll in the background. Olivia looked up at me, and then, with a visible shiver, bolted up the staircase, her dripping skirt leaving a small puddle on each step.

Olivia Butler always took the elevator. The last time I remembered seeing her on the staircase was for a fire drill. It wasn’t that she was lazy: Butlers simply preferred limos to taxis, elevators to stairs. Yet I had repelled her so much that she preferred climbing five flights to homeroom than risk speaking a word to me. I had always believed that any emotion, even hate and disgust, was better than apathy. As her hurrying footsteps rang in my ears, I suddenly craved a little indifference.

“I’m sorry, Harris,” Nicole told me at lunch. “And you know I never apologize. I thought about this Butler business all weekend, and it started to make sense. Other people want to be doctors, lawyers, get into Princeton, be on the cover of
Vogue.
You want to become a Butler. Kind of the same thing.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “I need the encouragement. I haven’t had much luck lately.” I told Nicole about our disastrous meeting in church, and she listened carefully, tapping her right temple with her index finger as if to keep my story intact inside her head.