Something She's Not Telling Us

by Darcey Bell

  Mom says, “Obviously I can’t go. My party’s the next day, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  They haven’t forgotten. Thirty friends will be assembling in her courtyard for champagne and street food made by everyone’s favorite vendors. Mom looks at Charlotte, imploringly. That is, imploringly for Mom. Would Charlotte go to Chef Basil’s with Ruth?

  “Sure,” Charlotte says, “I could use a few tips on how to cook great Mexican food.”

  “Not just great,” says Mom. “Fabulous. I can take care of Daisy. She’s always helpful. Right, honey?”

  Daisy nods without looking up from her Our Mexican Adventure notebook. She’s pasting in pictures she’s cut out of the airplane magazine, images of cathedrals nowhere near Oaxaca, of snorkelers diving in turquoise water, of tourists doing yoga on expanses of bleached sand. It’s never occurred to Charlotte to say: That isn’t our Mexican adventure. Daisy’s pasting the pictures in her book makes them part of their adventure too.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Ruth and Charlotte set off for Chef Basil’s house. Ruth prattles about how she adores Charlotte’s mother, what an inspiring example she is, what a great life she’s made for herself here. Ruth hopes she’ll be like Mom someday. No wonder Mom raised two such wonderful children.

  Charlotte decides that Rocco hasn’t told Ruth about their childhood, about Mom’s illness, the house fire, her hospital stay. Maybe if she knew the truth, she’d realize: The wonder is that Mom’s children still talk to her. The true wonder is that they are walking and talking at all.

  Oh, and Ruth admires Charlotte’s mother for being such a terrific grandmother. Daisy loves her to pieces! That’s how Ruth puts it: loves her to pieces. If there’s one thing Ruth knows about, it’s the importance of the love between grandparents and children. If it weren’t for Ruth’s grandparents, she’d be a total basket case.

  Something inside Charlotte curdles and shrinks. She hates it when Ruth talks about Daisy, that sugary note of fawning admiration and . . . fandom that creeps into Ruth’s voice.

  Ruth says, “I was nervous about meeting your mom. I’m so relieved that she seems to like me.”

  “I’m glad too.” None of this could be further from the truth. Does Ruth not see Mom rolling her eyes every time she opens her mouth? Charlotte hopes Ruth doesn’t notice, and that she’s oblivious to how much—and how guiltily—Charlotte enjoys her mother’s response.

  Ruth also doesn’t notice that Mom has been going out of her way not to be left alone with her, or talk to her for too long. Ruth prefers to think that she’s won Mom’s heart with her . . . what? With her energy, friendliness, pluckiness, with her having worked for the Baroness Frieda, with any of the qualities that Ruth thinks are her strong points.

  Ruth says, “Your mom is practically the queen of Oaxaca. She can make one phone call and hook us up with the coolest chef.”

  Charlotte stifles the impulse to say that the city has lots of cool Oaxacan chefs, and Mom is sending them to a gringo expat who gives lessons to tourists. What stops her is knowing how self-righteous she’d sound, how snobby and aggressive. Probably Mom is introducing them to the kind of guy she thinks Ruth deserves.

  A few blocks from the zocalo, behind an unassuming facade, a Mexican woman in a bright folkloric costume admits them to a colonial palace, an urban hacienda, its walls banded with murals of white ladies in long gowns parading around the zocalo trailed by indigenous people keeping the trains of the ladies’ dresses out of the dust.

  “Wow. Do you think those are hand-painted?” Ruth asks Charlotte.

  Charlotte can’t trust herself to answer, and the Mexican servant either doesn’t understand or pretends not to. Charlotte can see the staff through a set of French doors. A woman, a man, and a girl around Daisy’s age sit at a table, concentrating on some sort of food prep.

  Chef Basil vaults into the room and lands on both feet with a thump. His pudgy face is so shiny and pink it looks scraped. He sweeps off his chef’s toque, revealing a mesh of reddish hair pasted over his blotchy scalp. He’s wearing a white coat, navy-and-white-striped chef pants. He wipes his hands on a towel before shaking their hands—first Ruth’s, then Charlotte’s.

  “My God,” he tells Ruth, “you look just like your beautiful mother.”

  “I’m Ruth. Rocco’s fiancée.” Ruth looks nothing like Mom.

  Rocco’s what?

  “Ah, yes,” says Chef Basil. “Ruth. The cook. So you’re the beautiful daughter.”

  “Charlotte. I’m Charlotte.”

  “Of course. Will you ever forgive me?”

  Charlotte can feel her face contorting in a frozen grin that she hopes signals forgiveness. Chef Basil ushers them out onto the patio planted with flowering vegetation. He says, “Ruth and Carla—”

  “Charlotte.”

  “What’s wrong with me this morning? Ruth and Charlotte, this is Lydia, Ricardo, and Marisol, who is out of school on holiday. I wouldn’t want you to think we’re using child labor here.”

  The child giggles.

  But this is child labor, thinks Charlotte, even if it’s a school holiday. Thank God Rocco isn’t here.

  Lydia touches her daughter’s arm. The child smiles to show that spending her day off working in the gringo’s kitchen is fine with her. It’s fun! The child and her mother are shredding turkey. The man is peeling charred green chilies.

  “Wow, this is so beautiful!” Ruth’s face is shining, enchanted. Charlotte can see Chef Basil deciding that she is the audience he should play to. By now Rocco would have stalked out and left Ruth to patch things up with the chef, who, Mom warned them, will be at her party tomorrow.

  “Have a seat,” says Chef Basil, and they sit—awkwardly—at the table with the Mexican family. “Lydia will show you how to prepare the marvelous handmade tortillas we make in this magical region.”

  What do you mean we, white man? Charlotte’s determined to get through this without unpleasant thoughts. No judgment.

  Lydia pinches off a lump of dough, slaps it between her palms, and motions for them to do the same. Lydia’s tortillas are as thin and soft as handkerchiefs. Ruth’s and Charlotte’s have tiny cracks around their thick, lumpy edges.

  “Good try!” crows Chef Basil, returning from the kitchen. The Mexican family’s smiles are kindly. Good try, señoras.

  “Onwards,” says Chef Basil. “I warned your adorable mother that I only have a little time. I’d love to give you my whole day. But I have students coming, clients who signed up months ago.”

  “We understand,” says Ruth. “We’re grateful.”

  The kitchen is a paradise of copper cookware and gleaming tile, the heartbeat of a hacienda in another century, updated with a Thermador range, a Sub-Zero fridge, an electric pizza oven. A pizza oven in Mexico?

  “In a regular class, we’d grind the mole, but in a pinch, ha-ha, I’ll give you each a packet of the most extraordinary mole you can find in the market. I love taking students to our mercado, teaching them how to shop—and bargain. So many gringos can’t even tell when an avocado is ripe! But that’s another treat we’ll have to put off till next time.”

  Ruth looks as if she expects Chef Basil to set a date. Her face darkens slightly when he rattles on.

  “I’ve made a fabulous turkey mole for my afternoon class. Obviously no Oaxacan in his right mind would eat this for breakfast. But since we’re together such a short time, and since a big part of the expat lifestyle is escaping those no-fun rules we left behind . . . what would you ladies say if we tried some mole with Lydia’s fabulous tortillas?”

  “That would be excellent,” Ruth says. Charlotte tries to look excited, though Luz made them filling fruit smoothies just before they left.

  Chef Basil fills three small bowls and sets them on the counter, where three elaborate place settings make the occasion seem not quite so spontaneous, so spur-of-the-moment. He sits at the counter and invites them to join him.

  The mole is so good that it’s easy to eat even on top of
a fruit smoothie. Its deliciousness does a lot to dispel Charlotte’s reservations about Chef Basil, and she says yes when he asks if she’d like more.

  “We should have had beer,” Chef Basil says. “Or tequila. What the heck? It’s cocktail hour somewhere.”

  In Mongolia, Charlotte thinks.

  “I don’t know . . . ,” says Ruth. “I don’t drink . . . I gave it up for my fiancé, who’s in recovery . . .”

  “Good girl,” says Chef Basil. “Not many ladies would do that. And no men would. Anyhow, I was kidding. Do you ladies know how you can tell the real alcoholics? They wait for cocktail hour. Not a drop before. The amateurs hit the bottle first thing in the morning. Would you like a cup of Mexican chocolate?” There’s chocolate in the mole, and Luz’s smoothies were sweet, but again Chef Basil makes it impossible to refuse.

  “So what do you do, Charlene?” he asks, more relaxed now that he can see the light at the end of the tunnel of their visit.

  “Charlotte. I run a flower shop in Manhattan.”

  “We love flowers down here. As you can see—”

  “It’s not just a flower shop,” says Ruth. “Charlotte is one of the most successful florists in New York City.”

  “Well, then,” says Chef Basil competitively. “I wish I’d known! I would have asked our gardener to stop by. The man is a genius. We owe all this to him. Ernesto and I would have killed every green thing long ago . . . And you?”

  “I work for a start-up,” Ruth says. Chef Basil nods. Start-up could mean anything, but he doesn’t care what.

  “Ruth used to work as the personal assistant to the Baroness Frieda of Norway. Who, as you probably know, has a cooking show.” Charlotte wants to think she’s inspired by the same generous desire to praise—to shine light—that has made Ruth rave about Buddenbrooks and Gladiola.

  Chef Basil puts down his cup. “Is this the world’s most amazing coincidence, or is this the world’s most amazing coincidence?”

  Chef Basil was on the Baroness Frieda’s show just a few months before.

  “That would have been ages after I quit working for her,” says Ruth. Some new tension in her face makes Charlotte wonder if the circumstances under which she’d left the baroness were even worse than she described.

  “Wise move,” Chef Basil says. “I mean, your quitting. The lady is a piece of work, am I right?”

  “That . . . you . . . are,” says Ruth, whose lips are so tight she seems to be squeezing the words out, one by one. “She is one of the world’s biggest pieces of work.”

  Chef Basil says, “She was here for two weeks. The longest two weeks of my life. She expected me to wait on her, to be her slave, to be in constant touch with her assistant, that guy with the satellite-dish ears.” He waits for some sign of recognition from Ruth.

  Ruth says, “Poor guy. That was me. I mean, that was my job.”

  “Poor you. What’s your last name, Ruth?”

  “Seagram. Why?”

  “I was curious. Your boss—”

  “Former boss.”

  “Your former boss, Queen Frieda, would call me at three A.M. with some teensy request or complaint. Ernesto threatened to divorce me if I didn’t set some limits. And for what? So she could haul her entourage down here, the makeup and hair people, the tech crew—”

  “Tell me about it,” says Ruth. “No, don’t tell me. I’ve been there.”

  “All crowding into this kitchen. I could hardly breathe, let alone work. Yet somehow I managed to cook her spectacular food. And Princess Frieda doesn’t even thank me. She barely tasted it. She divided it in half and ate half.”

  “That’s her MO,” says Ruth. “Her brand. She wanted to call the show The Baroness Frieda Goes Halfsies until the network talked her out of it.”

  “The Baroness Frieda Goes Halfsies?” says Chef Basil. “I wish I’d known. I would have been less insulted. Anyhow, I shouldn’t complain. That show got us tons of new students.”

  “That’s great,” Charlotte says weakly.

  “My oldest friend is her accountant. I suppose that’s how we got the gig, and I am endlessly—endlessly—grateful.”

  “It aired already?” Ruth says.

  “Three months ago,” says Chef Basil. “You would not believe the spike in traffic to our site. Who would have thought that an anorexic Norwegian could have such an enormous following?”

  “Modern life,” Ruth says.

  “Speaking of,” Charlotte says. “We should get back. Mom has a lot for us to do. The party is tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see you there,” says Chef Basil.

  Ruth says, “¡Muchas gracias! Your house is so beautiful, the food was scrumptious, I love what you’re doing here. This is going to be the highlight of my stay in Oaxaca.”

  “Thank you,” says Chef Basil. Something in his expression softens, and his pinkish skin turns a shade redder. “That means a lot.”

  “No, thank you,” says Ruth.

  What does Rocco see in her? Except maybe that she’s pretty, and so ferociously nice?

  “Wait! One more thing,” says Chef Basil. “Can Lydia take a photo of the three of us together? I like to have a record of my students and new friends.”

  “Sure,” Charlotte says, though she hates the idea of having her picture taken with Ruth and Chef Basil. Relax. A few more minutes and they’ll be gone.

  “Sure . . . but . . . I have conditions,” Ruth says.

  The way she says conditions makes everyone, including the Mexicans, pay attention.

  “This cannot go online. I’m very protective about my privacy. I always say no if someone plans to post it—”

  “No worries!” says Chef Basil. “This is for personal use only.” And he giggles, almost lewdly.

  “All right then,” agrees Ruth.

  Chef Basil stands on tiptoe to drape his arms around their shoulders while Lydia photographs them against a grouping of potted palms.

  “Would you ladies like a copy?” he asks.

  “No thanks,” says Ruth.

  Charlotte shakes her head, though she instantly wishes she’d said yes. She could show it to Eli when she tries to describe this.

  “See you tomorrow,” Ruth says.

  “I love endings like this,” says Chef Basil. “Not having to say goodbye.”

  15

  Ruth

  Obviously I planned to tell Rocco that I no longer worked at STEP. But first I had to process the shock. I told myself to be grateful I hadn’t known what was really going on, grateful that the frat boys excluded me from their inner circle. I didn’t have to disappear or go to the dark side or underground—or wherever they went.

  One day my boss and coworkers were there; the next day they weren’t. One day STEP was up and running; the next day it wasn’t.

  I didn’t care if I ever saw them again, except that I wanted to ask, What the hell? Also I missed the paycheck, tiny as it was.

  There was a new doorman on duty that day. That last day. Gus, the regular doorman, had been there forever. I knew people left jobs, quit, and got fired. But Gus would have said goodbye. We’d been friends.

  The new doorman asked me to sign into the visitors’ log. He was new. I wasn’t a visitor.

  I explained that I worked in the building, on the sixth floor. He said there was nothing on the sixth floor but empty office space. I explained: That wasn’t possible. Friday I’d gone to work there, and it was only Monday morning. He said he didn’t know about that. He’d started on Sunday. The previous doorman had a health emergency. Something crazy happened in the building. Some cops and an ambulance came.

  A chill ran down my spine. What kind of a bullet had I dodged?

  “What happened?” He had to tell me. “I mean, what happened to Gus? What kind of health emergency?”

  “Gus? I’m sorry. I don’t even know the dude’s name.”

  He’d started work on Sunday. We’d never had a Sunday doorman before.

  I said, “Can I go take a look?”
>
  “Go ahead. Be my guest. But do me one favor. Two favors. One: Don’t tell anybody I let you up there. And two: Don’t steal anything. Anyhow, there’s nothing to steal, which is the only reason why I’m letting you do this.”

  The glass door to the office was locked. I saw cubicles and a few desks, overturned chairs.

  A ghost office.

  Where was the African violet I’d kept on my desk? It looked as if no one had been there in ages, as if no one had ever been there. My head was starting to ache in a way that felt like the start of a red-alert, heavy-duty migraine.

  I thanked the doorman as I left. He didn’t even look at me.

  I sat on a bench in the park. I put my head (seriously hurting now) in my hands.

  I should have called Rocco. I should have begged the doorman to let us back in and taken Rocco up to the sixth floor and asked him to help me figure it out.

  I don’t know what stopped me. Maybe I didn’t want to admit how out of the loop I’d been.

  The guys didn’t trust me. They didn’t like me. No maybe about that. Would this be an unsolved mystery? It made me look so flaky, so naive. So stupid!

  I needed to think of the least embarrassing way to tell Rocco.

  Maybe I was stupid. Rocco found out on his own. All the time I’d worked there, he never once came to see me at work, though it would have been helpful to let those frat boys know I had a cool boyfriend who had my back. And now he decided to drop by and . . . surprise! No more frat boys. No more office.

  I gave myself a few days to rest and recuperate with Granny Edith and Grandpa Frank. I stayed in my old room and cried. Every so often Granny Edith would knock on my door and ask if I wanted something to eat. I could smell the delicious food she’d brought to tempt me; I could hear Grandpa Frank telling her to leave me alone.

  They’d seen me melt down before. They weren’t worried.

  When I finally ventured out to the TV room, Grandpa Frank turned off the TV, maybe to spare me the news about the ongoing investigation—no suspects so far!—into the murder of that young mother who’d been renovating the brownstone near my grandparents’ house.