Pish Posh (16 page)

“This splinter, for example. It's made of the same stuff as the rest of the chair—same molecules, same atoms. Look, it even has the black paint along one side of it, like the paint on the chair. When it's attached to the chair, it shares the chair's strength and abilities: it can hold a person's weight, it can rock back and forth. But when it splinters off from the chair—as you have from Theodosia—it can't function in the same way. It still exists, but it is very much weakened. I think, Audrey, that's what has happened to you.”

“Then what can be done?” she asked.

Mr. Arbutnot nodded, expecting the question. “Well, it's only a guess. but I'm thinking that we have to find some way to reattach that splinter to Theodosia. ”

“But Theodosia is long dead by now,” Audrey objected.

“She may have had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on. Her descendants would be a part of her, too.”

“But how on earth would we find them?” Audrey asked.

“Oh,” Clara piped up confidently, “that won't be a problem. ”

“G
ood afternoon,
Hither
&
Thither.”
The receptionist answered the phone on the first ring.

“I would like to speak to Ms. Mandy, who writes the Ask Ms. Mandy column, please,” Clara said. She had gone home and was sitting in her living room, eating a tuna-fish sandwich cut into four perfect triangles.

“Get in line, honey,” the receptionist said dryly. “Half of New York wants to speak with Ms. Mandy. ”

“This is Clara Frankofile.” She waited a second for this information to have its intended effect.

“Really? No kidding?
The
Frankofile, of Pish Posh? Hang on a sec, honey, I'll put you right through.”

Clara took a bite of her sandwich while she waited. In another minute, a man's gravelly voice came on the line.

“S'up?” he said.

“I'm trying to reach Ms. Mandy, of the Ask Ms. Mandy column. ”

“Speaking.”

“You're Ms. Mandy?”

“Only in the column, sweetheart. Now, what do you want, and make it quick. I'm investigating some joker who claims he's the freakin' long-lost brother of the crown prince of Spain. Looks like he actually owns a deli on Long Island. Now, who are you, and what's the question?”

“I am Clara Frankofile and I need you to trace someone's descendants.” There was a marked pause at the other end of the line.

“Frankofile, huh? This the daughter of
Pierre
Frankofile?” Ms. Mandy said her father's name with a kind of sarcastic sneer, which she found offensive.

“Yes, he's my father,” she replied briskly. “Now, here is my question: I would like to know the descendants of a woman who lived in New York City until 1812. Her name was Theodosia Pender.”

“Yep, yep, Theodosia Pender, sure. And your phone number ... yep, yep, got it ...” She could hear Ms. Mandy typing information into a computer. “You know, I don't usually do this for people on demand,” he said. “Most people have to write in and wait their turn. But I'll do this for you on account of your father. Me and your dad go way back, kid. We were childhood friends, back in the old neighborhood.”

“You're from France, too?” Clara asked incredulously. The man had absolutely no trace of a French accent.

“France? Are you kidding?! In Brooklyn, sweetheart. Good old Avenue U and Seventh Street. He grew up one house down from me. And his name was Marvin Bumf, not Pierre Frankofile. We used to flip burgers together at the local diner when we were teenagers. Matter of fact, you could say I owe my career to your father. A few years ago I ran into some of our old buddies in Brooklyn, and they told me how Marvin Bumf had changed his name to Pierre Frankofile, and that he was saying he was some rich guy from France. It was then I got to thinking that maybe there were lots of other characters running around New York who were big phonies, too—no offense, kid. And bang! Ask Ms. Mandy was born! Anyhoo, I'll check out this information for you and call you back. Good to talk to you, kid. And tell your dad Larry Broccoli—that's me, doll—says, ‘Nice goin', Marvin! Your secret is safe with me, pal!'”

Clara hung up the phone, blinked down at the sandwich in her hand, then put it back on the plate. Marvin Bumf? From Brooklyn? It was impossible ... and yet, now she remembered something.

She got up and went to the Neighborhood in Brooklyn Room. She flipped on the light and waited while the Brooklyn morning began to dawn. As the room grew brighter, she saw what she was looking for: the street sign said AVENUE and 7TH STREET. The same street that Larry Broccoli had mentioned on the phone. The street on which her father had grown up.

It suddenly occurred to Clara that she had never wondered if her parents were Somebodies or Nobodies. The question had never crossed her mind. What if her own parents were Nobodies? The thought was so alarming that she immediately tried to decide which they were—Somebodies or Nobodies—in the same way that she decided about everyone else, through clues and logic and gut instinct. But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't decide. It was as if she had a blind spot when it came to them. They were simply her parents. And for that moment she caught a glimpse of what life must be like for most people, who walked around not knowing how to judge anybody.

Then, quite suddenly, she realized the most extraordinary thing: I am Clara Bumf.
I am a Nobody.

The thought literally made her legs buckle, and she had to hold on to the signpost to keep from falling. She felt like a tight ball of string that had been suddenly and violently unraveled. There was nothing left of her but loose ends and insubstantial bits and pieces.

The smell of pizza and the shouts of Brooklyn children were too much to bear. She left the room and shut the door firmly. Then she went to her bedroom, crawled into her bed, and pulled the covers all the way up to her nose.

For a full twenty minutes, she stared up at the ceiling and thought, I am the most pathetic human being on this planet. I am the most pathetic human being on this planet. I am the most—And she would have gone on for hours more if the phone by her bed hadn't rung. She didn't answer it. But she did stop thinking long enough to listen to the gruff male voice on her answering machine.

“Hey. You there? No? Well, this is Ms. Mandy. I found the answer to your question. Yoohoo ... you there? Going once ... going twice ... ”

Clara picked up the phone.

“I'm here,” she said.

“Boy, you sound crummy. What, did your hamster just die?”

“Yes. ”

“Oh, boy. Me and my big mouth. I'm sorry, kid. Okay, so, here's the story. Theodosia Pender moved up to Rochester, New York, in 1812, and got married to some old, rich dude a few months later. She had one son. He wasn't too healthy, apparently, but he lived long enough to get married and have a few kids of his own. As a matter of fact, all of Theodosia's descendants were pretty sickly types—it's amazing that there are any of them left today. And there
ain't
many. Actually, there's just one. Her name is Fiona Babbish, and she's the end of Theodosia's line. No husband, no kids—”

“Fiona Babbish! I know her!” Clara cried. She was the young, frail-looking heiress who came to Pish Posh every night, alone, to eat her bowl of soup.

“Well, she's your gal. Best of luck, kid! And condolences about the hamster. ”

T
he Pish Posh restaurant was busy as usual that evening. Clara sat at her little round table in the back. She did not have the waiter bring her a tuna-fish sandwich—she was far too agitated to eat—but she did take periodic sips from her tomato juice as she watched the front door.

She had seriously debated whether or not to go to Pish Posh at all. Now that she knew she was Clara Bumf, the daughter of a burger flipper from Brooklyn, she felt like one of those phonies Ms. Mandy investigated. And her parents were phonies, too, bigger phonies even than she was, because they had lied about themselves all these years.

In the end, however, Clara put on simple black dress #103 and her black sunglasses—which now seemed like merely a silly costume, meant for Clara Frankofile, not for Clara Bumf—and went to Pish Posh.

“Feeling better?” her mother asked when she walked in.

“Much,” she muttered. Under her breath, she angrily added, “Lila Bumf.”

Seated at her table, Clara looked around at all the fabulous, glittery customers. They were chitter-chattering and laughing, and they all looked glowingly confident in the fact that they were, indeed, Somebodies. And hard as she tried, Clara could not detect a single customer who was becoming a Nobody. Not one. She examined what they were eating, and she checked their shoes for scuff marks and their fingernails for bite marks. But she found nothing. She wondered if she were losing her ability to detect a Nobody from a Somebody. It was an unnerving sensation, like pawing around in an unfamiliar, darkened room.

Finally, at half past seven, Fiona Babbish walked in, her shoulders slightly slumped as usual. She sat at her table, and Lila did not bother to put a menu down for her. She always ordered the same thing—a bowl of the daily soup.

Clara stood. Everyone in the restaurant turned to watch her as she headed for Fiona Babbish's table.

“Looks like Fiona is getting the boot,” Prim LeDander said to Bitsey. Both were wearing belts with SASSY LADY printed across them.

“My eyebrows itch!” Bitsey complained as she rubbed at the stubble over her eyes, where her eyebrows were growing back.

“Stop that! You'll give yourself a rash,” Prim said severely, and she scratched a little at her own eyebrow stubble when Bitsey wasn't looking.

When Clara reached Fiona's table, Fiona turned her gaunt, colorless face up to her and said, “Oh, dear, you're going to ask me to leave, aren't you? May I finish my soup first?”

Clara signaled to the busboy to fetch a chair, which he did, and she sat down opposite Fiona.

“Ooh,” Ms. Babbish moaned mournfully, staring down at her soup as if she were about to say one last fond farewell to it.

“Ms. Babbish, I'm not going to throw you out,” Clara assured her. “I'm coming to you with an idea.”

“Oh ... must I make a decision of some sort? I'm not very good at that. It always makes me feel a bit light-headed. ” And in fact, poor Fiona Babbish had already begun to turn even paler. Clara thought about what Ms. Mandy had said, that all of Theodosia's descendants were very sickly and frail.

“Ms. Babbish.” Clara lifted her glasses and propped them up on her head, then leaned across the table confidentially. “What do you think of the soup at Pish Posh?”

“The soup?” Her expression perked up immediately, and Clara noticed for the first time that she was actually quite pretty. And did she imagine it, or was there a small bit of Audrey in her eyes and the set of her cheekbones? “Oh, the soup is divine!”

“How would you like it if the person who makes the soup at Pish Posh became your own personal live-in chef? She could make soup for you every day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Any soup you wanted. What do you say to that, Ms. Babbish?”

“Well, that would be ... oh, certainly it would be ... I would have to meet her, of course ...”

“Of course,” Clara agreed. “Stay put. I'll be right back.” Clara got up and rushed into the kitchen. Pierre was whipping a pan of mushrooms across the flames on the stove and simultaneously screaming, “If you burn that fish, I will pull out all your molars, string them up, and use them as a door chime! Ah, Clara,
chéri!”

She ignored her father, whose use of French now infuriated her, and marched through the kitchen to the back, where Audrey was ladling soup into bowls that were lined up by the stove. Clara went behind the serving counter, snatched the ladle out of Audrey's hand, and put it down on the stove-top. “Come with me.”

“I can't,” Audrey protested. “I'm in the middle of—”

“I've found her,” Clara interrupted. “Theodosia's great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter. She's right outside, in the dining room.”

“Are you sure?” Audrey looked at Clara in disbelief.

“Absolutely sure. ”

Audrey wiped her hands hastily on a rag and rushed out from behind the counter, blindly bumping into the busboy, before Clara grabbed her elbow and guided her through the kitchen.

“What do you think you're doing, you
petite cochon,
you nearsighted little pig!” Pierre bellowed at Audrey. “Keep serving that soup, you
grande
nitwit, or I will—”

“I have a message for you, Papa.” Without letting go of Audrey, Clara stopped right in front of her father and faced him squarely, looking right into his pink, damp face. “Larry Broccoli wanted me to tell you this: ‘Nice goin', Marvin!'”

Pierre Frankofile blinked twice. For the first time in twenty years he was at a loss for words, an occurrence so extraordinary that the entire kitchen went silent—the dishes stopped clattering, the waiters stopped shouting their orders. Even the pans seemed to stop sizzling.

“Let's go. ” Clara's grip tightened on Audrey's elbow, and she led her out the kitchen doors and into the dining room.

The customers had never seen a cook in the dining room before, and they stared aghast at her soup-splattered apron. Up front, Lila looked as if she thought her daughter had gone completely mad, and dashed back to the kitchen to consult with her husband (who was not much help, because he had shut himself up in the kitchen pantry, where he was sweating profusely and rocking back and forth on a twenty-five-pound sack of rice).