Anastasia at Your Service (13 page)

"Nope. He could never afford a car. But he sent all five sons to college," her father said proudly.

"And then two of them died," Anastasia prompted him. "I remember you told me that."

"Right. My brothers Joe and Ben. Both of them killed in the war."

"That is
so
sad," said Anastasia. "When I thought
my
brother was going to die, I couldn't stand it."

"But there's still my brother George, in California."

"Uncle George. He and Aunt Rose always send me neat stuff on my birthday. An Indian necklace once, remember?"

Her father nodded. "And then, of course, there's Irving."

Anastasia groaned. "The doctor. He is so boring, Dad."

"Anastasia!"

"I'm sorry. But he is."

"I guess you're right. Irving was always boring, even when he was a kid."

"But you liked him anyway, didn't you, Dad?"

"Sure I did. I still do. He's my brother."

"Like me and Sam. Even when Sam is boring, I still like him," said Anastasia.

Her father began to laugh. "Anastasia, Sam is
never
boring!"

"True," she acknowledged. Then she said, "You know what, Dad? I know someone who hates her whole family."

"Extraordinary," said her father. "Extra-absolutely-ordinary. Unless her whole family are ax murderers or something."

"No. They're just your basic family types. They do some dumb things, though."

"We all do. I remember just last week I blew up at you because you used all the ice cubes and didn't put the ice trays back. That was a pretty dumb thing."

"Which was? Not putting the trays back? Or blowing up about it?"

"Both, in fact. But we didn't hate each other because of it. I think your friend must be just
pretending
to hate her family."

"Why would she do that?"

"Beats me. Hey, you hungry yet? Want some chow?"

"
Ciao!
" said Anastasia.

"
Ciao
to you, too!" said her father.

Two nuns walking past looked at them curiously, nudged each other, giggled, and walked on.

"In here okay?" asked her father. Anastasia nodded, and they entered a small Italian restaurant.

"I'm glad the Italians didn't scrimp and save and move away, like the Whatchamacallits," said Anastasia, after two mouthfuls of spaghetti. "I'm glad they stayed here."

"Well," said her father as he ate his antipasto. "Lots of Italians moved away to the suburbs, too. But some of them chose to stay here even after they could afford to move."

"They stayed because they liked it, I bet."

"Sure. They made it into something like a part of Italy. A little bit of Naples or Florence. It felt like home."

Anastasia slurped a long piece of spaghetti when she thought no one in the restaurant was looking.

"Dad," she said slowly, "I was really mad at you this morning."

He poked in his antipasto with his fork. "You want an anchovy?"

"Yuck," said Anastasia. "Blecchhh."

"A simple 'No, thank you' would be sufficient," her father said, and ate the anchovy himself. "I was pretty mad at you, too."

"I know you were. But the reason I was mad was that you didn't even give me a chance to explain."

"There isn't any explanation for bigotry," he said. "Not ever."

"I know that. I really do. But I wasn't even thinking about
what
I was saying. It was the way I was saying it. I was imitating Mrs. Bellingham. Mrs. Bellingham is so
awful.
"

"You know," said her father, "I agree that Mrs. Bellingham did a pretty thoughtless thing when you applied for one job and she sort of tricked you into another. But on the other hand, Anastasia, I've decided that she's not such a bad person after all."

"Dad! She made me be a
maid!
"

"You didn't let me finish. I read in the local paper that she's giving a party next week. Did you know about that?"

"Did I
know
about that? Who do you think is going to be a maid at the party?"

He poked at the last bits of lettuce in his salad. "Oh. I see. Well, let's try looking at it in a different way, Anastasia."

Now Anastasia was getting mad. "There isn't any other way. No matter how you look at it, a maid is a maid is a maid is a maid."

"Not always. How about being a maid for a very worthy cause?"

Anastasia made a face. She couldn't think of a single cause worthy enough to justify Anastasia Krupnik's being a servant. A scullery maid. A slave.

"The paper said that it's a benefit. People are paying enormous amounts of money to go to that party," her father said.

"I know. A hundred dollars apiece," said Anastasia, almost smiling as she thought of the wonderful disaster that she and Daphne were going to cause.

"And all of that money," her father went on, "probably twenty thousand dollars, is going to go to the pediatric section of the hospital. The same place that saved Sam's life."

Oh, no. Oh,
no.
Anastasia's heart sank. Her heart sank and her stomach churned. A whole plateful of spaghetti began to
move
inside her stomach. She felt first hot and then cold. Her hands began to sweat.

"Holy Moley," she said under her breath. "Excuse me, Dad."

She ran to the ladies room. Four dollars and ninety-five cents' worth of spaghetti with sausages and mushrooms. Right down the drain.

It was too late. It was just too late, and Anastasia knew it, but she called Daphne anyway, on Sunday afternoon, after she had recovered from being sick.

She had thrown up four times on Saturday. Her parents blamed it on the sausage in the spaghetti. You could never tell, her mother said, what people put into sausage. She had heard rumors about dead cats and ground-up tennis shoes. Anastasia's father threatened to call the Board of Health, but he couldn't remember the name of the restaurant.

Anastasia knew it wasn't the sausage anyway. The sickness had started in her brain and her heart—and in her conscience—and had worked its way down, very
quickly, to the sausage, which was an innocent bystander.

By Sunday afternoon her stomach felt okay. But her conscience was terminally ill.

"Jeez," said Daphne on the phone, after Anastasia had explained, "there's nothing we can do now. I don't even know the names of any of the people I gave invitations to. The only thing I can think of is to call in a bomb threat so the party will be cancelled."

"No good. I think that's a federal offense. If we got caught, we'd go to prison. I'm already nervous enough about making friends in seventh grade. Imagine what prison would be like. I can't think of one single thing to say to a bank robber or an ax murderer."

"Anyway," Daphne pointed out, "we don't want the party cancelled. Then the hospital wouldn't get the twenty thousand dollars."

"Right," said Anastasia. "The party has to be held. But we'll have to try to keep it from being a disaster. Forget about humiliating your grandmother."

"Yeah. We'll just keep an eye on all the weird guests. Keep them from making awful scenes. If the drunk guy starts getting drunk..."

"Or the dope dealer starts trying to sell drugs..."

"Or if that crazy lady comes with her bag full of dog food..."

"We'll just ask them to leave," said Anastasia.

"Politely," said Daphne.

"But firmly," said Anastasia.

"And quietly," said Daphne, "so my grandmother never knows what's going on."

"Then the party will be a success," said Anastasia, beginning to feel relieved.

"And the hospital will get its money," said Daphne, "and we won't get into trouble."

"Daphne," said Anastasia, "I really wish we hadn't dreamed up this idea in the first place."

"I know the feeling," said Daphne. "I feel that way about most of my crazy ideas. Usually by then it's too late."

***

Sam's homecoming on Monday was something of a disappointment to Anastasia. She had expected to meet the car when her mother drove in, to help carry Sam up to his bed, to sit there with him and read him stories, to feed him custard—maybe even soft-boiled eggs—and say soothing words. But she should have known better. Sam had been driving the nurses crazy for two days now with his high spirits, good health, and energy. Ever since his mother brought him the feather, he had worn it Scotchtaped to his bald head and had pulled Bald Eagle commando raids in the hallways of the pediatric ward. There had even been, the nurses told Anastasia's mother, a terrible collision involving a bedpan.

They all adored Sam, they said at the hospital. But they were awfully glad he was well enough to go home.

Now he climbed exuberantly out of the car, wearing his little blue jeans, with a baseball cap on his head, and
carrying an armful of airplane books. So much for Anastasia's fantasy about having an invalid for a brother. The invalid came noisily through the back door, dropped his books on the kitchen floor, and demanded a SpaghettiOs sandwich for lunch.

Anastasia had seen too much of spaghetti in various stages of digestion lately. She didn't think she could survive watching a SpaghettiOs sandwich being eaten.

"Welcome home, Sam," she said. "I cleaned up your room for you."

"Did you mess up my stuff?" he asked.

"Nope." She had left a pile of blocks and a half-constructed castle on the floor, some mysterious Tinker Toy objects that might have been airplanes on his little table, and a long line of Matchbox cars running from one side of the room to the other. "I should have, though," she said. "You've messed up
my
stuff often enough."

Rats, thought Anastasia, and felt guilty. She had made a solemn vow that if Sam got well, she would never be mad at him again. Now he hadn't been home five minutes, and she had already made a grouchy remark. In her entire life, she thought, she had probably made at least four hundred solemn vows, and she had never been able to keep a single one of them.

I am definitely Lacking in Character, thought Anastasia.

Then and there she made a solemn vow that she would keep Mrs. Bellingham's party from turning into a disaster so that the hospital where Sam had been fixed up would get its twenty thousand dollars. Never before
had she made a solemn vow involving so much money. This solemn vow she would keep, she thought, and the size of it would make up for the four hundred others.

Still, she was not about to watch Sam eat a SpaghettiOs sandwich. It was almost time to go to work, anyway.

"See you later, guys," she said to her mother and to Sam. "I'm off to wax the Bellingham antiques."

***

By seven
P.M
. on Wednesday, the antiques were waxed, the rugs were shampooed, the books were dusted, the silver was polished, the caterers were busy in the kitchen with the food, and the orchestra was tuning its instruments on the terrace. Anastasia had been picked up at home by the chauffeur, because she wasn't allowed to ride her bike at night. Daphne was there, wearing a blue silk dress. There were no deviled eggs. Chinese lanterns were hanging outside, lighting the terrace and the gardens. A photographer from the newspaper was loading his camera with film, and in the study a bartender had set up a bar with so many bottles that it looked like the Ritz.

Mrs. Bellingham came down the staircase dressed in a flowing gown sewn with tiny pearls, and her hair piled on top of her head.

"Anastasia," she said. "You—"

"I know, Mrs. Bellingham," Anastasia interrupted. "I'm to pass the hors d'oeuvres, and ask people if they would like another drink, and pick up empty plates and
glasses and take them to the kitchen. Mrs. Fox already told me."

Mrs. Bellingham smiled. "I'm sure she did. And I know you'll do everything perfectly, because you've been very conscientious about every job you've been given, ever since you began work. I'll miss you, after this evening."

Tonight was to be Anastasia's last night of work. School would begin next week.

"Could you stop by tomorrow, Anastasia, to be paid? Things will be so hectic this evening," Mrs. Bellingham went on.

Anastasia nodded.

"As it happens, dear, you interrupted me," said Mrs. Bellingham. "I wasn't going to tell you what to do tonight. I was going to tell you that you look beautiful. Very grown up."

"Oh," said Anastasia, startled. "Thank you." She was wearing her very best dress, new shoes, and tiny silver earrings. She had
felt
beautiful, at home, when she got dressed. Her mother and father had said that she looked beautiful. But it was kind of nice to hear Mrs. Bellingham say it. Parents always said stuff like that even when it wasn't true, so you couldn't entirely trust them. She smiled after Mrs. Bellingham, who had gone on into the living room to rearrange the cushions for the millionth time, and made the solemn vow again that she would keep the party from being a failure.

***

Two hours later, the party was not yet a disaster. But Anastasia's nerves were. Things weren't going the way she had expected them to.

First of all, she hadn't been able to recognize any of the special guests that she and Daphne had invited. She had thought that they would be very visible because of their clothes. The invitation had said "black tie." She knew that, because Daphne had told her. That meant that the official guests—the rich guests—would be wearing tuxedos, at least the men would, and the women would be wearing evening gowns.