The Problem with Being Slightly Heroic

by Uma Krishnaswami

  Dad calls to see how Dini is doing. She tells him the dreadful news about Maddie’s foot. He is sorry, he says, and do they need any help?

  Well, they need Maddie’s toe to be fixed, but there is nothing Dad can do about that, so Dini says, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Too bad about Maddie’s accident,” Dad says. “Just have to tape it up and let it heal.” Then he tells her that the people at the B&B could use some help with their satellite connection, so he may be spending the morning on their roof. Fixing wires is Dad’s idea of fun, and the fineness of the day has inspired him. If Maddie’s foot had wires in it, Dad would probably leap to the task.

  Maddie’s mom gets on the phone and tells Dad that everything is under control and he should go ahead and make his plans. What on earth can she mean? Nothing is under control. Nothing!

  In Dini’s opinion, it should be cloudy and rainy. Cloudy and rainy would fit the mood better. All that happy-chirpy blue sky, it’s a big fraud.

  Back in the family room that also doubles as random storage space, Maddie’s mom fusses over Maddie.

  “Mom,” Maddie says, “you checked that tape already.”

  “Does it hurt?” Gretchen asks.

  “No,” says Maddie, clenching her teeth as she puts on the ugly, square black orthopedic shoe with the hard sole and Velcros it in place. Dini finds her own teeth gritting in sympathy.

  Maddie’s mom leaves with a last rush of concern.

  Dini picks up the X rays from the end table and holds them up to the light. Maddie looks away.

  X rays are so weirdly spooky. Dini shivers at the thought of pictures that cut right through the outside and go all the way to the bone. This one shows the bones of Maddie’s right foot. The smallest one on the very end has a fine thread of a crack zigzagging across it. The toe is sticking out a bit, which is why it has to be taped up to the rest of Maddie’s foot.

  Dini considers the informational sheet that accompanies the X ray. It labels the bones of the foot. They look all Halloweeny and skeletal, which of course they are. “It’s called a distal phalanx,” she says. “That bone in your little toe.”

  Maddie groans, as if the technical name of her bone is a source of distress. “I feel so dumb,” she says. “If you’re going to break something—a toe? I mean, really.”

  “Want to watch the KHSV video?” Dini says, trying to cheer her up.

  “It’s humiliating,” says Maddie.

  Dini puts the DVD in and clicks to the right place. She is glad to see Maddie brighten up just a little as the trailer comes on.

  Look at those tea-gardens! Hear the silvery chan-chan-chan of jewelry falling to the ground. And the music, fading away: “Haan-haan-haan, nahin-nahin!” Dini hums along and Maddie manages to join in. A zigzag crack in the distal phalanx of the little toe can’t stop you from humming.

  Maddie clicks forward to the rough cuts of the title song. There are three versions: one with a couple of stanzas missing, one with some extra musical to-ing and fro-ing, and one that is close to the final scene. Here Dolly drops her cell phone while she’s getting out of a little yellow electric car.

  “Look,” says Maddie. “What’s she doing?” They rewind Dolly and there goes that phone again.

  “That’s pretty much what happened in real life, too,” Dini says. So much of this movie is based on things that happened to Dolly in real life. Dolly’s life. But also Dini’s life, when they met in faraway Swapnagiri.

  In that song sequence Dolly’s phone falls right out of her generously sized purse. It falls into the car. It slides under the seat and out of sight. Dolly proceeds to sing her song.

  Dini and Maddie look at each other. A real-life scene zips into focus in Dini’s mind, a scene with a different setting, another car. A taxi, right here in Washington, D.C. Outside the Promenade Hotel in this quick flashback, the cab stops. The luggage quits slamming into Dini. Everyone gets out. Dolly. Dini. Maddie. The cabdriver.

  “Did it fall out of the taxi?” Dini says.

  “Could be,” says Maddie.

  They play the movie scene again. The image of the filmi car, with something falling out of the purse, slip-slides over the memory, so that real real and movie real—call it surreal—are all mixed up. Two minds trying to focus on the same shared memory. Isn’t that what friendship is about?

  “So maybe that Ollie guy picked it up,” Maddie says. “And is trying to sell it?”

  “Maybe,” says Dini. But that doesn’t sit right somehow. That Ollie guy, tripping over his feet and gargling, couldn’t audition for a villain role to save his life. “I’ll go call him,” Dini says.

  “Taste,” says Chef Armend. “Tastetastetaste.” An array of miniature cake samples are laid out on elegant platters upon the kitchen counter. “Come on, come on. Tell me what you taste.”

  He has worked on these samples for hours. He has tried many different recipes. Now he is practically prancing around the kitchen of the Urban Delight.

  Ollie is staring at the cakes as if he expects them to get up and start walking around. “Come on, Ollie,” Alana prompts him. “Dig in!”

  He does, but he seems preoccupied.

  Those samples look delectable. They taste every bit as fine. The cake is moist. The chocolate flavor is rich and smooth. And what is that undertone? “Lavender?” says Alana cautiously.

  The chef nods. An unaccustomed grimace spreads over his face. Chef Armend is smiling a lot today.

  “Rinse. Spit,” he orders, pushing a bucket toward them. “You want to cultivate your palate, my young barbarians!” Alana obeys, getting one flavor out of her mouth before sampling another.

  Ollie’s still staring off into space. She nudges him and he snaps to the task.

  “Pineapple?” Ollie ventures.

  Alana tries some. “Yes, and a touch of vanilla. Wonderful, Chef. I never would have thought of combining those with chocolate.”

  Chef Armend rubs his hands.

  “Jasmine,” says Alana, trying the next one. “And green tea? It’s divine.”

  “Very good, my fine people,” proclaims the chef. Who knew they were ever his fine people? He draws a final platter out from the array behind him. “Now this one.”

  Forks clink. Eyes widen. Taste buds dance in delight. “Mmm,” Ollie and Alana say together.

  “Rose petals,” says Alana. “With something else—lemon verbena, I think. Brilliant!”

  The chef clears his throat. “Whywhywhy not?” he says. “Have to move with the times. No harm being a bit . . . experimental.” He picks up a sample and pops it into his own mouth, chews, swallows, and there is that grimace of happiness again. “I,” he says, “will bake this cake for that movie star’s grand opening. You can tell her that.” He kisses his fingertips. “And for my Nona,” he adds.

  The phone rings, making Ollie jump.

  Chef Armend answers it himself. Remarkably, he says “yes” many more times than “no.” The only time he says “no,” in fact, he follows it up with, “I don’t mind. Why would I mind? Goodgoodgood.”

  Something is happening to our tyrannical chef.

  Chapter Fifty

  Tell Her!

  “OLLIE,” SAYS ALANA AS THEY’RE measuring and mixing. “I need to talk to you.”

  Ollie drops his spatula. “What? About what?”

  “About you,” says Alana. “Why are you acting like a quivering soufflé?”

  “Who, me?” says Ollie, looking around nervously.

  “Yes, you. Fess up. What’s on your mind? You’ve been acting so guilty, anyone would think you’ve stolen the Washington Monument. Oh, stop wringing your hands like that, you’re making me dizzy.”

  Ollie stops, mesmerized. Alana’s so efficient. She’s as sharp as a set of good knives. But she’s kind. He’s never noticed that before. That, right there, is a kind look.

  Kind looks have a way of making the truth come bubbling up. It does so now. Ollie tells her all. His Internet search, his discovery of the websi
te selling the passport, and the nasty people whose Tweets gave him the screaming heebie-jeebies.

  “And the worst thing is,” he concludes, “that I looked up that website on my cell phone. On my break just now.”

  “Yes? And what did you find?” She taps her foot impatiently.

  “It’s sold, Alana!” he wails. “They sold it in an auction on that movie website. Someone’s bought Dolly’s passport! And I sent the website an e-mail protesting, you know, because I couldn’t stand that they’d sold it—and oh, Alana! They yelled at me.”

  “In an e-mail?” she says, puzzled.

  He nods miserably. “All caps,” he whispers.

  Alana looks as if she wants to say something more, but the phone rings, so instead she answers it. “Yes,” she says. “Well, okay, but you’ll have to make it quick. We’re very busy right now.” To Ollie she mouths, “Two minutes.”

  He nods humbly. Two minutes? He could wait for her for hours. If she told him to leap off a cliff, he’d gladly leap.

  Thankfully, no leaping is required. She’s off the phone faster than Ollie can say “panini press.” What is she going to say? Will she think he was snooping? That it’s none of his business what happens to Dolly’s passport? That he should quit wasting his time?

  But Alana doesn’t say any of those things. Instead she bursts out laughing! She doubles up from laughing. She has to clutch at her side.

  “What’s so funny?” says Ollie, affronted.

  “You!” Alana gasps. “The kids thought it was you who stole the passport!”

  “Me!” says Ollie. “I would never . . .” He stops, because who knows, really? If he’d found it, what would he have done? Who knows?

  She calms herself. “I wouldn’t have picked you to play virtual gumshoe. Ollie, I swear, you surprise me.”

  “I do?” says Ollie, shocked.

  She wipes her eyes. “Of course, you’ll have to tell her what you’ve found out,” she says. “I don’t know why you didn’t say anything. To me? To her? To anyone.”

  As if it were so easy. What will Dolly say to him? How long have you known about this? And you’re coming to me now? Are you sure it wasn’t you? Did you steal it? Or did you buy it?

  He laughs what he thinks is a bitter laugh, but it comes out in an anguished gurgle. It is one thing to be yelled at by your boss, quite another to be the target of a famous movie star’s wrath.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Alana says.

  He stares at her. She repeats, “You didn’t. Do anything wrong. Just remember that.”

  That is true. He didn’t, did he? So why is he acting guilty? Get a grip, Ollie, he tells himself. Alana’s right! Her words sink in. He didn’t do anything wrong. He wants to shout for joy.

  “Thank you, Alana, oh thank you,” he says in a rush of gratitude. “You’re so clever.”

  “Oh no,” says Alana modestly.

  “And so good . . .”

  “Oh well,” says Alana.

  “And did I tell you . . .?”

  That is how, when Armend Latifi returns to the kitchen, he finds his sous-chef and line cook cooing at each other like a pair of dyspeptic pigeons.

  “Toworktoworktowork!” he growls. “We have a cake to bake.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Sold!

  “THAT WAS FAST,” MADDIE SAYS. “What happened?”

  “So I called the restaurant,” Dini says.

  “Was it him? Did he steal it? Did you confront him? Was he stunned?”

  Dini shakes her head. “I didn’t talk to him,” she says. “I talked to Alana. And no, he didn’t steal it.”

  “What do you mean? Who did? Did you find out? Can we get it back?” Maddie must be feeling better. Sleuth stuff has revived her.

  Dini looks at the floor. She looks at Maddie’s orthopedic shoe. She looks out the window and sees Brenna getting off her bike. She’s coming to the door. She’s going to ring the doorbell.

  “It’s been sold,” Dini says.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Terribly Sorry

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” BRENNA says upon seeing Maddie slumped on the sofa with her foot propped up. “Whoa! Guess you won’t be dancing, huh?”

  “Not me,” says Maddie.

  “Uh-oh,” says Brenna, doing a distressed handstand. “Now what do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” Dini says. She tells Brenna about the passport, which Ollie found for sale on the Internet, and how he tracked the person down who was selling it, and that person yelled at him, which was not at all good for Ollie’s self-confidence, and anyway, the passport’s sold.

  “Well, that’s that,” says Brenna. “Nothing more we can do.” Which is true, but not very helpful.

  “You guys,” Maddie says, trying to fix her pillow and sending it toppling to the floor instead, “will just have to do the dance without me.”

  “If we can make it work,” says Brenna briskly.

  “You’re better off on your own,” Maddie says. “I wasn’t that great anyway.”

  “You were fine,” Dini protests.

  It’s true, she thinks. Maddie was fine. Well, she was mostly fine. A small pang of guilt turns inside Dini and prods her sharply.

  “Oh, come on, Dini,” says Maddie. “You know I’m a klutz.”

  “How are we going to do it without you?” wails Dini.

  “It’s one thing to dance for fun,” Maddie says. “But this performance stuff—that’s different.”

  “Look, I know it won’t be the same,” says Brenna, “but I do know the steps.”

  “I know them too, but that’s not enough,” Dini says. Which may be true, but it sounds mean. Did she mean to be mean? She didn’t and she did, all at once. No-no-no, yes-yes!

  “Oh, forget it,” says Maddie.

  Brenna looks hurt.

  “Forget what?” says Dini. “The dance?”

  “Whatever,” Maddie says, and closes her eyes.

  “She doesn’t mean that,” Brenna says.

  Maddie opens one eye. “I do too,” she says.

  “Maddie,” says Brenna, “I’d be feeling sorry for myself too if I broke my toe.”

  “I am not feeling sorry for myself!” exclaims Maddie, and now both her eyes are wide open. “Anyway, who cares?”

  And that is when Dini loses it. “It’s not about who’s a great dancer or not, Maddie!” she cries. “This is not a competition. It’s about doing stuff together. Don’t you get it? And doing something for Dolly for the opening. That was the whole point, and now it’s all fallen apart.”

  Maddie glares at Dini. “It’s not my fault I broke my foot,” she says.

  “Toe,” Dini says. “It was only a toe.” What is she saying? What does she mean to say? Why can’t she stop herself? It’s bad enough she has to think mean little thoughts. Does she have to say them out loud, too?

  “It’s part of my foot, isn’t it?” Maddie says, and snaps her eyelids shut. Exit Maddie, for all practical purposes.

  “Well,” says Brenna. “I guess there isn’t going to be a dance, so I’ll just go on home.” Exit Brenna.

  Dini is sorry, so terribly sorry. For what she said and what she didn’t say. And for herself. In fact, she is about up to her ears in sorriness when the doorbell rings.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Hard to Believe

  DINI IS GRATEFUL TO BE out of that room with the bad feelings swirling around. She runs to the front door and peers through the peephole. And she stops. Looks again. And again.

  She’s heard about people who have trouble believing their eyes. She’s never quite understood the concept. If you see something, it’s there, surely. What’s all the fuss about not believing your eyes? Belief is about things you can’t see, isn’t it?

  Now, through that peephole, she sees who just rang the doorbell. She sees who’s standing on the recently painted green-and-silver steps of Maddie’s house. She sees a whole lot of people right behind that person.

&nbs
p; The doorbell rings again, and again. Dini has recognized that fabulous face, of course, even in the fish-eye view through the peephole. Yet she finds her logical mind doing a double take, and she herself is doing what she thought was impossible. Refusing to believe her eyes.

  It’s Dolly! The real Dolly, not a movie image, not some made-up idea of heroes and rescues and dances through tea-gardens. Not that there’s anything wrong with those, but this is really real.

  “I got it!” she calls to Maddie’s mom, who has emerged from her office room with an inquiring look. “It’s Dolly!”

  Dolly is thrilled with the steps “Glorious!” she exclaims. “Specially for me?” She enters, follows Dini in. Then she spots Maddie. “Haddie!” cries Dolly. “Dini’s dear papa rang to tell us about your terrible, terrible accident. I was so upset and unsettled to hear about it! So I said to Chickoo at once, I said, ‘Chickoo, my dearest, never mind all our other commitments. The press conference, the plans for the opening, the photo op at the embassy. We must drop everything we’re doing and go at once to see this poor, dear girl.’ Didn’t I say that, Chickoo?”

  “You did, Dolly,” says Chickoo.

  “It’s Maddie,” Dini says.

  “Of course, that’s what I said.” Dolly plants a smacking great kiss on Maddie’s forehead. “So unfortunate. You poor, dear child. What a crying shame to be so felled by fate!”

  “It was a backpack, actually,” Maddie murmurs, but she’s grinning. In fact, she can’t stop grinning. She’s cheered up really fast. She doesn’t even seem to mind Dolly mangling her name.

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” Maddie says.

  “My delight,” says Dolly. It’s a lovefest.

  Dolly bears treats. To be precise, Soli Dustup is carrying the box. He sets it down on the couch. He unties the ribbon (green and silver, naturally). He lifts the lid. “Have a go, dear young ladies,” he says, waving his hands gleefully. “Just a few samples from my good friend Chef Latifi. He has settled on that one for the final cake.” He jabs at a luscious-looking confection, a perfectly moist square topped by a single red rose petal.