by Ruth Reichl
“The Archive is not going to let her in free anymore,” said Chrissy. “So she has no reason to be here.”
Michael stood up. He was agitated. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this, man,” he said. “What is this, a police state? Are we seriously talking about banning someone?”
“I don’t see you talking to her,” I pointed out.
“Hey, I can’t stand that crazy old bag,” he said, “but I support her right to eat where she wants and say what she feels. Even if I don’t like it.”
“You sure wouldn’t like to hear what she says about your poetry,” I told him. He was not fazed.
“At least she came to a reading,” he said, “which is more than any of you have done.”
Judith stood up. “Could we please stick to the subject,” she implored.
It was a typical Swallow meeting; everybody had an opinion, nobody had a solution. We talked for four hours and we did nothing. The only decision we made was to add Antoinette’s new chocolate-pumpkin cake to our repertoire.
Rachel started coming in every day, sitting at her corner table and following me with her eyes. She wouldn’t let anyone else wait on her; she said that she was afraid of being poisoned. She would sit there all afternoon, slowly picking at a piece of quiche, eating it in infinitesimal bites to make it last. Sometimes when I was doing dishes I would sense her eyes on me until I turned around and found her, standing in the kitchen door, still staring.
Things got eerier and eerier. Rachel Rubenstein was everywhere. When I walked into the stacks in the Berkeley Public Library I would find her there, waiting for me. If I went to Monterey Market she would be there too, skulking near the peaches. I changed my shifts at the restaurant to avoid her, but somehow no matter when I worked, she found me.
“Just wait,” she always said ominously, “the voices will come to you too.” It was frightening.
I gave up most of my shifts at the restaurant and replaced them with catering; the restaurant had a thriving business in private parties, and I specialized in wedding cakes. The hours were irregular and Rachel Rubenstein never knew when she would find me. But one night, when I was taking the last layer of a cake out of the oven, Rachel Rubenstein materialized. She was outside, knocking on the big picture window. I stayed in the kitchen, pretending not to hear, but the knocking grew more insistent.
Finally Michael went to investigate. He opened the door and I heard the murmur of voices. Then he came into the kitchen.
“Rachel says she won’t go away until you talk to her,” he said.
“Don’t let her in!” I said. “Please!”
“Well, go talk to her at least,” he said. “I’ll come with you.” The two of us went to the door and opened it a crack.
It was a clear night. The moon was full. Rachel stood proudly in the garden. When I opened the door she put her face right up to it and said, “You can’t run away from me. We are the same person. I am you and you are me.” And then she turned and walked away.
“Scary, man,” said Michael.
“Yeah,” I said. “What do you think I should do?”
Michael looked at me a long time, shifting from foot to foot as if he were arguing with himself. His hands twitched with agitation. He had finally understood that she might be dangerous. And he hated the implication.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Maybe you should just find another job.”
ANOTHER PARTY
In the summer of 1977 the city of New York was plunged into darkness by the worst electrical failure in the country’s history.
Aunt Birdie turned a hundred.
And Doug got his first big break.
He was invited to Artpark, a former waste dump near Buffalo now transformed into an outdoor museum. It was a great honor: each year a handful of artists were asked to create temporary works. To keep the public entertained, there was also a theater, an opera house, and craft workshops in everything from pottery to cooking. I was invited along as an afterthought, a wife; I became chef-in-residence.
While I rummaged through the ill-equipped kitchen, Doug roamed the park, seeking the perfect site for his sculpture. As I washed rusty pots and pans he chose the steep path that wound along the river gorge. I wrote recipes and scoured markets while he constructed a wooden arch bending gracefully toward the Niagara. The piece was beautiful. And sneaky: Doug laced the arc with strings to capture the wind as it raced to the water, plucking music from the air. You heard the sound before you saw the sculpture and the effect was magical, as if the wind were whispering in your ear, drawing you to the river.
My cooking classes began just as Doug finished constructing the first sculpture and began work on an adjacent piece, a series of pipes stuck jauntily into the ground. When the wind was strong enough I could hear the pipes tootling merrily, even from the kitchen. It was a fine counterpoint to the ethereal sound of the strings, and Doug’s musical path became the most popular spot at Artpark.
SCULPTOR FINDS SONG IN THE WIND gushed the Buffalo Courier-Express. The wind harp was such a hit that gallery owners who wouldn’t look at Doug’s slides before began begging him to come see them in New York.
“And what do you do, dear?” the gallery guys would ask politely as they courted my husband. Crafts didn’t count for much in the Artpark pecking order. I began to pout. I hated my behavior, but the more attention Doug received, the grumpier I became. I couldn’t help it. And then one day a reporter from the Courier-Express came looking for me.
It must have been a slow news day because they teased the story on the front page. GYPSY CHEF A BARONESS TO ARTPARK AUDIENCES read the headline. “She looks like a beautiful exotic Gypsy,” the reporter began, “her long black hair blowing in the wind.” I read it over and over again, hugging the word “beautiful” to myself. I stared into the mirror. But then, the reporter had exaggerated everything. She talked of my “strong arms, used to kneading bread dough” and mentioned that although Doug and I were camping in the van I had been bred to a different sort of life. My “flawless French,” she said, was the result of my father being a diplomat. Well, I understood that; why let the truth ruin a good story?
The reporter said my food was superb and that I baked the best brownies she had ever tasted. People, she said, clamored for my recipes. She had made that part up too, but now it became true: people poured in to watch my demonstrations. I was in my element: the Superstar had taught me how to teach cooking and now I was having a wonderful time.
Or I would have been, were it not for my parents. But I was on the East Coast, unprotected by the great land mass of the United States. And my mother had decided to celebrate Aunt Birdie’s hundredth birthday.
ARTPARK BROWNIES
⅔ cup butter
5 ounces unsweetened, best-quality French chocolate
2 teaspoons vanilla
4 eggs
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
1 cup sifted flour
Preheat oven to 400°.
Butter and flour a 9-inch square baking pan.
Melt butter and chocolate in double boiler, over boiling water. When melted, add vanilla and set aside.
Beat eggs and salt in mixer. Add sugar and beat at high speed for about 10 minutes, or until the mixture is quite white.
Add chocolate and butter mixture and beat at low speed, just until mixed. Add flour and combine quickly, until there are no white streaks.
Pour batter into baking pan and put in oven. Immediately turn oven down to 350° and bake for 40 minutes. (The normal toothpick test will not work on these brownies, but if you want to try pricking them with a toothpick, it should come out not quite clean.) Do not overbake; these brownies should be fudgy.
Makes 12 brownies.
“You can’t imagine what it’s like here,” said my father.
Oh yes I could. I stood in the pay phone at Artpark thinking of the chaos my mother could create. I remembered the way our old house had looked two weeks before Bob’s engagement party, a
nd tried to picture how the new house might be.
“Has she started cleaning out the closets?” I asked.
Dad groaned. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “Your mother has decided to use the garage for the party, so she’s emptied it out. The driveway is filled with debris—broken furniture, old tools, spare tires. It looks terrible, of course, and the neighbors are starting to complain. Then she decided that we need a new lawn, so she hired some men to come in and dig everything up.”
“You do need a new lawn,” I said.
“Maybe so. But the gardeners hit one of the drainpipes and both the bathtubs have backed up. Have I mentioned that the dishwasher is filled with sewage?”
“Has Mom been taking her lithium?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. In his heart my father never truly believed in chemical solutions and he treated my mother’s illness as if it were his cross to bear. “Your mother just keeps saying that everything is fine and I shouldn’t worry. But everything’s not fine. I don’t know what to do! The party’s only twelve days away. Couldn’t you come early?”
“No,” I said. “I have obligations here. I’m giving cooking lessons.”
Dad clucked impatiently. “Cooking lessons …” he said. “This is important. You should see the food your mother’s been collecting.” Knowing my weak spot, Dad cried out to the guardian of the guests. And she fell right into the trap.
“It can’t be Horn & Hardart,” I said, “they’ve gone out of business.”
“She’s found some wholesale food place in Bridgeport,” he said. “She drives up there every day. She’s bought so much food that we’ve had to start stacking the cartons in the driveway along with the junk.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a small party,” I said.
Dad sighed. “It’s been growing.”
“But who could Mom possibly invite? Aunt Birdie’s a hundred. Her friends are all dead.”
“Oh, she’s made new friends. You know Birdie. And then your mother began thinking up people who might like to be her friend.”
“The newspapers?” I asked hesitantly.
“That goes without saying,” said Dad. “A hundred-year-old woman living alone makes a good story.”
“I’ll get there the night before the party,” I promised. “That will give me a whole day to pull things together.”
“It’s not enough time,” said Dad. He sounded desperate.
“It’s just a party,” I said.
“I know,” he replied in a small voice. I pictured him, slightly stooped now, his hair thinner, staring glumly out at the water. I felt mean and guilty, but I wanted to be left alone.
Fat chance. My mother started calling. Frequently. Each time the director’s secretary had to come and find me in the vastness of the park, and with each call she looked more annoyed. “This is the twelfth call in three days,” she said one day as she led me to the small, crowded trailer that housed her office. “It’s not even fun to eavesdrop anymore.”
“Aunt Birdie’s not related to me,” my mother began. “She’s your grandmother, and you’d think you would care enough to come and help with her party.”
“Mom,” I said, “the party wasn’t my idea. Aunt Birdie probably doesn’t even want it. I don’t understand why it’s suddenly my responsibility.”
“Because I need you,” said my mother. “I don’t ask you to do very much for me. You’d think you’d be glad to help me out once in a blue moon. I don’t know what I did to raise such a selfish child, a daughter who thinks only of herself. I don’t ask for much!” And Mom slammed down the phone.
“Good riddance,” I said, but I was shaking.
“You know she’ll call back,” said the secretary. “Couldn’t you just stick around so I don’t have to come looking for you when she does?”
“I have work to do,” I said, making my exit.
When she called back it was the director himself who came to find me. He stood listening as I argued with my mother. When I finally put the phone down he said, “You’re doing a wonderful job here and I couldn’t be happier. But if you have to leave a week early, go ahead.” It was kindly meant. “It sounds as if your mother really needs you.”
“She DOESN’T,” I yelled at him. I wished I was back in California.
“Please,” said Dad.
“You owe it to me,” said Mom.
“Your father sounds terrible,” Doug chimed in. “She must be making his life miserable. Maybe you should go.”
“Oh, swell,” I said. But by then I had accepted the inevitable. I threw myself into the final cooking classes, savoring the end of freedom.
The morning I left Artpark I looked in the mirror. In the dim light of the public bathroom I found my first gray hair. “It’s her fault,” I said to myself; Mom was completely gray by the time she was thirty.
I had a year to go.
I was shocked by my father’s appearance. He stood hesitantly on the railway platform, peering at everyone who passed. He had lost a great deal of weight and was now so tall and thin that the white hair springing from his scalp gave him the air of an anxious crane. For the first time I could remember he actually looked his age. It was easy to calculate: Dad was born at the turn of the century.
“Are you all right?” I asked, linking my arm through his.
“Oh yes,” he said, “there’s nothing much wrong with me. Besides, it makes your mother so angry when I say I don’t feel well. She says she’s the sick one.” He led me to the car, opened the door for me, closed it carefully, and then went around and slid behind the wheel. “She’s picked another fight with Bob,” he said as he started the engine.
“Is she disinheriting him again?” I asked. When my mother was manic she regularly rewrote her will. I think it made her feel rich.
Dad sighed. “Yes,” he said, offering me the current list of dangerous subjects. It was not safe to mention my father’s health, my brother, Mom’s friend Estelle, or the mess in the house. I nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t really matter what I said: peace was impossible when my mother was manic.
As we drove I wondered what Dad and I would be talking about if Mom were a normal person. If she were normal, of course, I wouldn’t be here in the first place: in her own strange way she was the glue that kept us together. Being a family meant dealing with Mom.
The driveway was even worse than Dad’s description. Since there was no room for the car he just dropped me at the end of the driveway, turned around, and went to catch his train. He was going to work. I didn’t blame him. I picked my way through the boxes and broken chairs and stood at the door. Through the glass I could see that the living room looked a lot like the lawn.
I pushed the door open and hesitated, dreading the moment when I would lose myself. Crossing the threshold, I had a falling sensation, as if I were careening backward in time. I tried desperately to grab onto the Gypsy chef, but she was gone, along with the restaurant owner and wife. All that was left was a little girl.
“Pussycat!” cried Mom, throwing her arms around me. “You’re here! Let’s have a cup of tea!”
She pushed things aside to make a path through the mess and led me to the dining room. All the silver was set out. “We have to polish it,” murmured Mom, shoving it to the far end of the table. She went into the kitchen and returned carrying a platter covered with items in various states of decay.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, just a few leftovers I thought we’d finish up for breakfast,” said Mom, helping herself to some creamy thing with a suspicious blue tinge on the top. “This is rice pudding. Have some, it’s very good.”
“I ate on the train,” I said hurriedly. “I think I’ll just have some tea. Have you decided what to serve for the party?”
“Oh, there’s plenty of time to think of that later,” said Mom. “I thought today I’d take you shopping. I’m sure you can use some new clothes.”
“Mom,” I said, “the party�
�s in a week. I didn’t come home to go shopping. We have to make a menu. We have to clean up the house.”
“I don’t want to think about that now,” said my mother petulantly. “Let’s have some fun! We’ll spend the day shopping and when Daddy comes home we’ll go out to dinner. Tomorrow will be plenty of time to think about the party.”
I was supposed to take charge but she was too strong for me. I didn’t have the energy to resist. I followed my mother out to the car and spent the day staring into mirrors, trying on clothes I didn’t like and didn’t need. “It’s such fun to buy you clothes now that you’re thin!” cried Mom, walking out of the store, laden with boxes. “I’m having such a good time!”
When we stumbled through the front door burdened with purchases, Dad was there. He looked at me and pulled a dismayed face. I knew I had let him down, but all he said was, “I’ll just wash my hands and we can go to dinner.”
“You take Ruthie,” said my mother, “I think I’ll just stay here and start cleaning. I’m not feeling very hungry.”
“Oh, darling,” said my father, falling into the old ritual, “it won’t be any fun without you.”
“No, dear, you go without me. You’ll have a better time,” she replied.
“Please come, dearest,” Dad began. We were in for ten minutes of this. Suddenly I couldn’t stand it. I put my hand on my father’s arm and turned to my mother. “Of course we understand if you don’t want to come,” I said. “It’s been a long day.” And, jingling the car keys, I led my startled father down the path my mother had made through the living room, through the mess in the driveway, and to the car.
He stood hesitantly with his hand on the handle of the car door, reluctant to get in. He looked miserable. “Do you really think we—” he started and then stopped in mid-sentence. Framed in the doorway was my mother, shrugging on a sweater. “I think I’ll come after all,” she said gaily, picking her way through the broken furniture.