Becoming the Butlers (22 page)

“How do you know?”

“I seem to remember Olivia drooling about him over the phone. I’m curious to meet him, but of course I’m forbidden ever to enter the Winfield Academy.”

“Why?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re ashamed of me. Even before my accident they never invited their friends over. But I doubt Olivia and Edwin have any close friends. Too risky. Like that boy in the plastic bubble: even a second of exposure could be fatal. They’re probably very lonely. So am I.”

“But you have to be happy,” I insisted. “If you’re not, how can I—how can anyone hope…”

“I think the best one could hope for is mutual respect,” Mrs. Butler told me, watching a spiral of smoke evaporate in the air. “And patience. Patience is so important. Oliver, my husband, didn’t have any patience. He believed my accident was intentional: As I already felt inadequate in comparison to such splendid-looking kids, I decided to make my metaphorical state reality. He’s a shrink, of course. He’s living with his receptionist in her god-awful apartment in Flushing. I think if he still lived on the Upper East Side the kids would consent to talk to him. But Flushing,” she said with a tight smile, “never. Such snobs. Luckily Oliver has loads of money and will keep paying for the apartment and the kids’ tuitions. Can you imagine if we had to move to Queens? Olivia and Edwin would perish instantly, like a pair of hothouse flowers.”

A door slammed in the front hall. Mrs. Butler quickly stubbed out her cigarette and glanced at the clock. “They’re back,” she told me. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite. I’m still their mother and I’ll make sure they behave.”

Mrs. Butler wheeled over to the stove and pretended to be busy as her daughter walked into the kitchen. A canvas bag brimming with heavy books swung from Olivia’s right shoulder, and she slouched in a lopsided, ponderous way, as if the books weren’t the only weight she had to carry. Olivia wore a butter-colored suede jacket, and a striped red and black scarf that trailed to her knees. Gold flashed from her ears, and silver bangles clattered from both wrists. Softly grunting to herself, Olivia leaned against the wall and struggled to take off her heavy boots. If she moved her eyes an inch, Olivia would be staring directly at me.

“I knew these darn boots were a size too small,” Olivia mumbled. “But the guy wouldn’t believe me. Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Olivia lifted her eyes and I held my breath. She shook her head twice and would have lost her balance if she didn’t steady herself against the wall. “It’s you,” she exclaimed in wonder.

The front door slammed again. “Mom,” I heard Edwin shout. “Did my shirts from the dry cleaners come back?” Edwin walked into the kitchen, his bright blue basketball jacket slung over his right shoulder. He looked pretty ragged, especially for Edwin Butler. His chin had broken out in small pimples, and his nose was raw and
red. His shirt was wrinkled and an unruly cowlick stuck out to the left of his part, but his hair was still that lovely lemon color which made my mouth ache so. As our eyes met a streak of magenta moved up his face, starting from his neck to his cheeks and then his forehead. I felt so dizzy that I almost fell into a chair.

“Do you know who this is?” he said, slowly turning to face his mother.

“Yes, Rachel Harris. I believe she’s in Olivia’s class.”

“This is the girl who broke into Olivia’s locker.”

“And followed me into church,” Olivia added. “She’s a nut.”

“A real crackpot,” Edwin declared, circling a finger around his ear. “She ought to be locked up. What is she doing here?”

“She’s not crazy, only lonely,” Mrs. Butler said softly. “You two owe Rachel an apology. She’s my guest, and I won’t abide any discourtesy.”

“Wha?!” Edwin shouted. “This girl practically committed a felony. Why don’t you invite Charles Manson while you’re at it?”

“Edwin…,” Mrs. Butler said in a low steady voice.

“I can’t believe this. All right then, if it makes you happy. I’m sorry, Rachel.”

“Your turn, Olivia.”

“Me? But why should I apologize? This girl stole my things!”

“Rachel realizes it was a very silly thing to do. But you made it difficult for her.”

“Difficult!” Olivia protested, rolling her eyes. “Was I supposed to leave my locker open so she could help herself?”

“Granted,” her mother answered, “the theft was silly. But Rachel felt she had to go to extreme lengths to get
your attention. Talk to her, Olivia. I think you’ll be able to forgive her.”

Olivia turned stiffly toward me, her eyes averting my gaze. “I don’t know why I’m saying this, but I’m sorry, Rachel.”

“And I’m sorry I stole your things,” I told her. “Your mother’s right. I did want your attention. And I did it in a very stupid way.”

“But why?” Olivia asked, her voice now gentler. “I just don’t understand.”

“Rachel wants to become a Butler,” her mother explained. “She wants to join our family since her own proved inadequate.”

“Really?” Olivia asked, looking puzzled. She pulled out a chair and sat next to me. My idea obviously intrigued her. “How were you going to do it, Rachel?”

“I wasn’t really sure. Once I thought I looked like a Butler, but it didn’t last too long.”

“I knew you had your hair done at The Cutting Edge. Tom told me. He thought I was going into the movies.”

“Were you hoping we’d adopt you?” Edwin asked reluctantly.

“I guess. Now it seems such an impossible thing to wish. But it helped me.”

“How?” Olivia asked, peering at me closely. Her eyes looked warmer, even green.

“It helped me to deal with my father, and my mother, and all the craziness that’s happened this year.”

“Cheaper than a shrink,” Mrs. Butler remarked.

“Now if
I
could be anyone in the world,” Olivia announced, stretching out in the chair and propping her stockinged feet up on the table, “I’d be Barbra Streisand.”

“Barbra Streisand?” her mother asked. “Why on earth…?”

“I guess because she has a big nose and frizzy hair
and can act rude and loud but still look beautiful. You see, she never has to try. She’d look beautiful slipping on a banana peel.”

“How about you, Edwin?” Mrs. Butler said to her son, who was grimacing.

“I don’t feel like playing this game.”

“Just try.”

Edwin shuffled his feet and cracked his knuckles.

“Johnny Cash,” he admitted.

“That’s who my friend Nicole wants to be too,” I told him.

“Why Johnny Cash?” Mrs. Butler asked, her mouth open in amazement.

“Because he could fall asleep in his clothes and wake up and go out looking like hell and not care that he didn’t brush his teeth or shower. He doesn’t have to say a word and everyone’s still impressed. And he’s always so sure. It must be great to be that sure all the time.” Edwin’s hand had somehow worked its way to his mouth and he nervously gnawed at a thumbnail. He really was a very insecure person. I wondered how many hours he had spent staring at a mirror, trying to figure out how to become Edwin Butler.

“I only came to say I’m sorry,” I told the family. “I’ll go now.”

“I’ll show you to the door,” Edwin said, moving toward me.

“Good-bye, Rachel,” Mrs. Butler called out. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Surely you must have been disappointed,” she said, frowning.

“No. Surprised. In a nice way.”

Edwin wouldn’t look at me as we walked down the
long hallway. I grabbed my beret and opened the door myself. “Bye now,” I murmured, heading over to the elevator. I rang the buzzer and tapped my foot nervously.

“He’s deaf.”

“Who?” I asked, surprised that Edwin was still watching from the door.

“Simon. The elevator man. He lost his hearing aid. I’ll have to ring the doorman.”

“Don’t bother,” I said quickly. “I’ll walk down the stairs.”

I had opened the stairway door when I heard Edwin ask, “Rachel, do you still want to be one of us?”

I stopped and looked at him. A shimmering piece of hair, like a golden leaf, had fallen in front of his right eye. I wanted to push it back and let my hand rest on his cheek.

“I don’t think so,” I told him.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I liked the idea.”

Then Edwin did something very strange. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders in a self-embrace, as if reassuring himself that he was still there. My answer seemed to threaten him, as if I were denying his very existence. The elevator abruptly swung open. “Simon,” Edwin said in surprise, dropping his arms. “I thought you wouldn’t hear the bell. Did you get a new hearing aid?”

“Had to, Master Butler,” the little elevator man with the basset hound face answered. “They would have fired me.”

“I wouldn’t have let them, Simon,” Edwin declared gallantly.

“Well thank you, Master Butler,” he said, bowing so low that his hat slipped off and onto the floor. Edwin sprang forward and picked the hat up before Simon could take a step. “Why, thank you,” Simon said gratefully as Edwin fitted the hat on his head.

Edwin gravely watched us as we boarded the elevator. I remembered my mother once saying how very hard it must have been for Cary Grant to be Cary Grant. “Just imagine,” she said as Cary Grant’s face flickered on the TV set, “the whole world watching you every minute. He couldn’t afford to make a single mistake. In the end he probably detested Cary Grant. But there was no one else to replace him.”

I wondered if this would happen to Edwin too. As Simon swung the door closed, Edwin gave us a salute. He seemed so dignified and pathetic that I wanted to cry.

THIRTEEN

My meeting with the Butlers had left me feeling curiously empty and light. They had been a type of anchor for me, and now, understanding who they were and who they couldn’t be, I felt as if any moment I could just drift up like a balloon, toward the sky and out of sight. Hunger was the only thing that weighed me down. I had not eaten since the night before, my dinner a package of macaroni and cheese. Back home I couldn’t even find a spare onion. I picked up the phone and dialed a number I had known I would eventually call again.

Luckily she was home.

“Nicole,” I said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t rebuff me. “I got a big problem. I’m dying of starvation and I can’t even find five cents. Do you think Bronoski at Twins can spare a donut?”

“If he doesn’t, I guess I will. My shrink says I’ve been missing you. Meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

Nicole bought me eggs and fries and a huge cup of coffee. She must have told Bronoski something about my
predicament, for he presented me with a bag filled with donuts he said were leftovers.

“Don’t believe him,” Nicole whispered. “They’re fresh from the oven.”

“Why’s he being so nice?” I asked.

“Because I told him to. By the way, I think I should move in with you for now. I hope your shower has strong water pressure and the kitchen’s got a microwave.”

“What?” I said. I had noticed Nicole had brought along a very big bag, but didn’t think twice about it.

“My mom’s still in France and only the Pentagon knows what Dad’s up to. The maid is driving me crazy and I hate eating dinner alone. It got so bad I had to watch Dan Rather. Mr. Gregory asked me to bring you some homework, so I decided to bring my suitcase too.”

Nicole was a perfect roommate. Like me, she didn’t care about cleaning, so we let the dust accumulate and the dirty sheets and towels and crumpled clothes grow into four-foot piles. “Chaos is the natural order of the world,” Nicole informed me. “When God or whoever else created the earth, He or She didn’t plan on Electrolux vacuums. You have to learn to like litter, cultivate clutter, make peace with mess.” The dirty apartment got even filthier, dust claiming absolute victory. We didn’t cook either, and alternated between calling in Chinese and Mexican deliveries. Mr. Bronoski at Twin Donuts also helped us out; frying us eggs in the back kitchen, heaping our plates with donuts, pouring cup after cup of coffee as he gazed dreamily into Nicole’s eyes.

“Doesn’t he get to you sometimes?” I once asked as he stared longingly at Nicole from a crack in the kitchen door.

“This is how I see it, Harris,” Nicole answered. “The one thing they don’t teach you at the Winfield Academy is
kindness. It’s free, it’s easy; so how come no one wants to give it away? Bronoski lost his whole family to the Germans. If he wants to play footsies with me beneath the table, who am I to say no?”

At night Nicole and I loved to watch old movies. She was crazy about Leslie Howard and Jimmy Stewart and Clark Gable. My favorites were Laurence Olivier, Orson Welles (only when he was thin), Gregory Peck, and, of course, Humphrey Bogart. Our favorite leading ladies were Ingrid Bergman, Ingrid Bergman, and more Ingrid. We couldn’t get enough of her. Nicole and I actually had an argument that lasted over an hour about whether she was more beautiful in
Casablanca, Gaslight,
or
Intermezzo.
We finally decided that she was really, truly gorgeous in
Notorious,
and I told Nicole about how I imagined my father and mother reenacting that last scene.