Becoming the Butlers by Penny Jackson Read Free Book Online

placed his napkin on his lap, and watched George’s abandoned wife fill his plate with chicken and beans. Then, after the meal, he went upstairs, and for the first time in his married life, fell asleep in the middle of his bed.
    I knew my father was lying about the last part. I had come home late because of a class outing. I shouted hello to my mother but no one answered. As I passed my parents’ bedroom, I saw through the half-closed door my father lying facedown on their bed, quietly sobbing. I was amazed; I couldn’t imagine why. The blades of his shoulders pulsed like the broken wings of a bird, and something about the hopeless sound his throat made warned me to stay away. Maybe things would have been different if I had been brave enough to go into his room and comfort him. But I stayed away, and later, when my father had recovered and told me the news, I remained dry-eyed in fear that he would not console me either.
    “Rachel, are you still awake?” my father called out from his bedroom.
    “Yup, and I heard every word.”
    “Thanks for listening. I always wanted to tell you that, but never found the right moment. I’m glad you came, Melody,” my father said, turning off his light.
    Did I have any choice? I wanted to ask. I only saw disaster looming ahead. My father and George slugging it out, spectators applauding each bloody blow. Or maybe an old-fashioned duel, each man defending my mother’s honor with a sword or a pistol. Or worse, my mother laughing at us, her face flushed with mirth. “Come back? But why?” she’d exclaim. But what frightened me the most was the thought that here in Spain my mother had completely forgotten us. That when we finally tracked her down, she’d squint at my father and me as if we were just a trick of light and walk away, never once glancing back.
    I soon fell into such a deep dreamless sleep that when I awoke I thought I was still back in New York. Someone was singing in Spanish outside my window and for a moment I thought the Puerto Rican Parade was marching down Riverside Drive.
    “Rachel!” I heard my father cry. “Rachel, wake up!”
    “What’s wrong?” I asked, slowly sitting up. Chips of dull gray paint had fallen from the ceiling onto my blanket and face.
    “I’m dying!” James moaned.
    I threw on my bathrobe, jumped out of bed, and ran into his room. A wet washcloth covered his eyes, and his feet were propped up high on the sofa cushions. He didn’t look like he was expiring, only a little green.
    “I knew I should have laid off the vino,” he moaned. “This is a real Rioja hangover. That’s why I drink vodka. You never feel bad in the morning.”
    “You get hangovers from vodka too.”
    “But it’s different. Vodka gently reprimands you, like a kind mother whispering, Naughty boy. This is a real sledgehammer, screaming at the top of its lungs: You stupid S.O.B.! ” My father sat up, and then with a gasp, dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Please don’t argue with me, Rachel. Each word is like a nail, pounding into my skull.” His hands, like a blind man’s, groped around his blanket. “Christ, I’ve run out of cigarettes too. What do they smoke here in Madrid anyway? Compost? Take my wallet, and go find a pharmacy for your poor dad. Ask if they have Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol.”
    “Do they have things like that in Spain?”
    “If not, ask for substitutes. Better yet, just explain about my hangover. Now, how do you say that in Spanish? Suspender means to hang, sobre means over, but that doesn’t sound right, Suspender sobre… Rachel, do you see my phrase book on the bureau?”
    “Yes,” I told him, picking up the paperback, Spanish In A Wink. On the cover a dark-eyed Spanish beauty batted her lashes; I wondered if she ever had a hangover.
    “Look up any words you don’t know. Don’t forget the cigarettes either. Look for a brand which doesn’t carry a skull and crossbones. And buy yourself a souvenir. I saw some very nice