Becoming the Butlers (6 page)

“I knew I should have laid off the vino,” he moaned. “This is a real Rioja hangover. That’s why I drink vodka. You never feel bad in the morning.”

“You get hangovers from vodka too.”

“But it’s different. Vodka gently reprimands you, like a kind mother whispering,
Naughty boy.
This is a real sledgehammer, screaming at the top of its lungs:
You stupid S.O.B.!
”
My father sat up, and then with a gasp, dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Please don’t argue with me, Rachel. Each word is like a nail, pounding into my skull.” His hands, like a blind man’s, groped around his blanket. “Christ, I’ve run out of cigarettes too. What do they smoke here in Madrid anyway? Compost? Take my wallet, and go find a pharmacy for your poor dad. Ask if they have Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol.”

“Do they have things like that in Spain?”

“If not, ask for substitutes. Better yet, just explain about my hangover. Now, how do you say that in Spanish?
Suspender
means to hang,
sobre
means over, but that doesn’t sound right,
Suspender sobre…
Rachel, do you see my phrase book on the bureau?”

“Yes,” I told him, picking up the paperback,
Spanish In A Wink.
On the cover a dark-eyed Spanish beauty batted her lashes; I wondered if she ever had a hangover.

“Look up any words you don’t know. Don’t forget the cigarettes either. Look for a brand which doesn’t carry a skull and crossbones. And buy yourself a souvenir. I
saw some very nice flamenco dolls in the tourist shop across the street.”

Didn’t James know I was too old for dolls? I took out several bills from my father’s wallet and said good-bye. In the lobby I stopped at the tourist shop and bought two packs of cigarettes along with a postcard and stamp. Even though I knew my father was suffering I had the immediate urge to tell someone about our trip. The problem was I had no one to write to. My ex-school-friends would be insulted that I had left without telling them, and then wonder why I was in Spain. I could write to Nicole Rudomov, my closest friend, whose mother had also run away. But her mother left her father for a very famous French actress and the story was written up everywhere. Nicole now had celebrity status: there would never be a photograph of George and my mother in
Vanity Fair.
Nicole was a little flaky and I wasn’t too sure she’d keep her mouth shut. Pilar Vasquez was really the only person I could trust. She had said good-bye to me the morning before our departure, standing shyly in the doorway. Her mother had sent her with a note we were supposed to read to George once we found him. Pilar had translated the letter and read it to me in a quavering high voice:

George—

Stop this foolishness now! Come home or the baby will grow up without remembering her father. A temporary man who cannot fix anything comes twice a week, but never picks up the garbage. Mr. Oakes in 9C is still waiting for you to install his air conditioner. It’s been nearly a year. The priest is willing to hear your confession.

Your grieving wife

I didn’t think George, hundreds of miles away, would give a fig about Mr. Oakes’s air conditioner. Pilar had given me the letter and let her hand brush meaningfully against my own.

“You’re very brave, Rachel,” she told me in a quaking voice. “My mother prays everyday that your trip will be a success.”

“Oh, well…,” I began, backing away. Pilar scared me with her shiny eyes burning behind her thick glasses. Her long, oily hair dangled before her eyes, and she kept yanking the stringy strands behind her ears. Pilar was six inches taller than me, and looked thirty years old. Her large hands were always chapped and smelled like dishwashing detergent. I was nervous then that someone would see us together and wished she would leave. Although we were the same age, Pilar had never been my friend; Pilar was the super’s daughter, and even liberal Upper West Siders abided by faint but still distinct class lines. The other kids in the building always taunted Pilar and George Jr. on their way to school, calling them “Rag Dolls,” because they always wore our old, cast-off clothes. The only reason the Vasquezes lived in our Riverside Drive building was that George knew how to fix toilets.

The card I bought depicted a little girl in a flamenco dress holding a bouquet of yellow and purple flowers. I borrowed a pen from the reception desk and wrote this short message:

Dear Pilar,

We just got here and not much has happened. Your great uncle thought my father was a famous writer and acted pretty funny. He didn’t know anything about your dad and my mom, but keep the faith, we’ll find them.

Yours truly,

Rachel Harris

Keep the faith—I was beginning to sound like my father. But I had a feeling Pilar would find the slogan hopeful. Before we left, Mrs. Vasquez was worried that their family would be evicted. Maybe they were already gone, and my postcard would be lost, “Address Unknown.” If my mother and George ever married, Pilar would be my sister.

The drugstore was easy to find
(Farmacia,
with a little red cross) but I couldn’t find any of the words I wanted in my phrase book. The only ailments listed in the “At the Pharmacy” section were indigestion, diarrhea, nausea, and constipation. I was not looking forward to Spanish cuisine. A young girl in a pharmacist’s uniform saw me poring over my book, and stepped away from her counter.

“Do you speak English?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she answered in a slightly annoyed tone.

“I need something for my father.”

“Does he have a stomachache? Bowel problems?”

“No, it’s in his head. Actually, his whole body. He has a hangover. Too much wine.”

“Ah yes.” The clerk gave me a knowing smile. She disappeared from behind the counter, and returned with a glass bottle of white pills.

“He must take two every hour. And not drink anything but water for twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said hesitatingly.

“He must. Otherwise he won’t get well.”

But my father was already into his second martini by the time I got back. A note on my pillow told me to find him in the Ritz bar. The bartender looked up when I walked in and then stared hard at my father, who was sitting at a back booth. He was the only one there at that early morning hour, and so absorbed in reading his guidebook that he didn’t even notice me sliding in the seat
across from him. James had showered and his wet hair was parted neatly on the left side. For once he didn’t stink of cigarettes but smelled like soap and cologne and toothpaste. The bar was lit with a soft red light that seemed to make everything look innocent. My father’s martini looked like a raspberry soda, the crumpled cigarette wrappings pink like petals.

“I thought you were dying,” I said.

“A little hair of the dog can work wonders,” he told me, grinning.

“Hair of what?”

“Never mind. Did you get me my cigarettes?”

“Yes,” I said, handing him his package. “And the aspirin which I guess you don’t need.”

“Thanks honey. Keep the change and spend it on whatever you want.” He drained the remainder of his second drink and then daintily patted his mouth dry with a napkin.

“Is this how we’re going to find Mom?” I asked loudly. “By hanging out in the Ritz bar?” My father shrank back into his seat and fumbled in the paper bag for his cigarettes.

“Of course not, Rachel. Look, you must be hungry. Do you want anything to eat?”

“No,” I said. “I hate Spanish food.”

I was quickly slipping into one of my bad moods that always felt like stepping into a hot and sticky subway car. It was too crowded to get off and at each station more and more people jammed in. No one wore deodorant and it got so you couldn’t even breathe. Sometimes the train ride was short, lasting only a few minutes, and my bad mood would lift as suddenly as a cloud. Or it could go on for hours, even days, until I despaired of ever finding my right stop.

“I’m not hungry either,” my father said, standing up.

For a second he lost his balance, and had to hold on to my arm for support. “Let’s get out of here and see the town.”

“I don’t want to go to any museums or bullfights,” I whined.

“How about the Royal Palace? You always liked kings and queens and castles.”

The morning was already hot and very dry, not like the humid summers in New York. My skin felt tight as if wrapped in a gauze bandage. My father didn’t seem to feel the heat and still wore his navy blue jacket, which was beginning to look a little shiny with wear. His hair dried quickly in the sun and shone like a golden helmet. He smoked slowly and carefully, making sure not to litter the Madrid streets with too many ashes. His composure surprised me. My father was usually an impatient man, anxious for things to be settled quickly. The martinis must have helped, but he also must have felt absolutely confident that our plan would work without a hitch.

Drink always made my father generous. We took a cab to the Royal Palace, passing several sights which my father pointed out and and I ignored. There was already a long line in front and I stood at the end as James ran ahead to get tickets. Two girls passed by chatting away in English. I recognized the tallest as Cynthia Lime and turned away.

“Hey!” I heard her call out. “Rachel!”

I tried to study a crack in the sidewalk as she waved her hand frantically in front of my face. “Rachel…Earth to Rachel. Remember me? Cynthia. We met yesterday on the plane.”

Cynthia and her friend both wore black sleeveless dresses and black headbands and black flat ballet shoes. Even in Madrid the two still hadn’t left Greenwich Village.

“Are you going on the tour?” the other girl asked.

“We just finished. The clock room’s neat. But the world’s largest sangria bowl’s the best.”

Cynthia glanced around and quickly pulled a mirror out of her bag and smoothed back her hair. Then, after applying some red lipstick which I thought was too bright for her pale face, she turned to me and nonchalantly asked, “So where’s your father?”

“Yeah,” her friend added. “The Robert Redford look-alike.”

I saw my father six yards away and tried to get to him before Cynthia. Too late. She had spotted him and was by his side before I could take a step.

“He’s divorced, right?” her friend asked me, raising a brow.

“Is that what she said?” I asked indignantly.

“But I thought your mother ran away…”

“Did he tell her that too!” I said.

My father eventually returned with Cynthia and said since the line was so long why didn’t all three of us go out to lunch? Cynthia pointedly ignored her friend, who eventually walked away with a sulky expression. My father, now more sober, looked up budget restaurants in his guidebook and found one only a block away. I told him I wasn’t hungry, and besides, I thought we were going on the tour. My father gave Cynthia a look that meant “adolescent” and said we would go on the tour after lunch. The two spoke Spanish all the way to the restaurant. I thought I’d go crazy if I had to listen to any more of this, and said I’d wait outside for him to finish.

“Wait outside?” my father cried. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll look at postcards.”

My explanation seemed to satisfy him and the two went inside and sat at a table by the window. I watched Cynthia fix her gooey eyes on James and saw her blush up
to her earlobes when he leaned over to light her cigarette. I quickly walked away and headed toward a tourist arcade down the street. My father had let me keep a lot of money and I felt a vengeful urge to spend all of it. The postcards bored me, and I didn’t want the stuffed bull the store proprietress kept pushing in my arms.

I stopped in front of a beauty salon, and stared at my reflection in the polished glass. Why did everyone think my father was the movie star? For once I wanted people to look at and admire me. A pretty girl in a smock smiled and gestured for me to come in. Because she didn’t speak English, she gave me a book of photographs. Most of the women were blonde and when I pointed to one photograph she cocked her head and asked,
“Rubia?”
I realized that
rubia
must mean blonde and thought, why not? The two most gorgeous kids in my class, Olivia Butler and her brother Edwin, were both blonds. My father probably wouldn’t be confused with Robert Redford if he were a redhead. Nothing very good ever happened to me and it was easier to blame it on the color of my hair than anything else. As a blonde, people might even think I was a different person. Which was all right with me. Almost anyone else was better than Rachel Harris with her crazy mother and father.

FOUR

My father later claimed that if Cynthia hadn’t been with us that afternoon, I wouldn’t have bleached my hair. My act was childish revenge, a cheap way to get his attention. I wasn’t too thrilled with the results either. In a brownout, or at night, beneath a dimly lit streetlight, I might look blonde. But in the sun my hair was light pink, like cotton candy, and the dye had left a sweet, burnt sugar smell.

Cynthia saw me first.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?” my father asked, turning around. A violin player hovered about the entranced couple, hoping for a tip. He must have noticed my father’s expression too because his bow slid down the strings, making a sound like a cat’s strangled wail.