Becoming the Butlers by Penny Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

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    “Do you speak English?” I asked her.
    “Yes,” she answered in a slightly annoyed tone.
    “I need something for my father.”
    “Does he have a stomachache? Bowel problems?”
    “No, it’s in his head. Actually, his whole body. He has a hangover. Too much wine.”
    “Ah yes.” The clerk gave me a knowing smile. She disappeared from behind the counter, and returned with a glass bottle of white pills.
    “He must take two every hour. And not drink anything but water for twenty-four hours.”
    “I don’t know about that,” I said hesitatingly.
    “He must. Otherwise he won’t get well.”
    But my father was already into his second martini by the time I got back. A note on my pillow told me to find him in the Ritz bar. The bartender looked up when I walked in and then stared hard at my father, who was sitting at a back booth. He was the only one there at that early morning hour, and so absorbed in reading his guidebook that he didn’t even notice me sliding in the seat across from him. James had showered and his wet hair was parted neatly on the left side. For once he didn’t stink of cigarettes but smelled like soap and cologne and toothpaste. The bar was lit with a soft red light that seemed to make everything look innocent. My father’s martini looked like a raspberry soda, the crumpled cigarette wrappings pink like petals.
    “I thought you were dying,” I said.
    “A little hair of the dog can work wonders,” he told me, grinning.
    “Hair of what?”
    “Never mind. Did you get me my cigarettes?”
    “Yes,” I said, handing him his package. “And the aspirin which I guess you don’t need.”
    “Thanks honey. Keep the change and spend it on whatever you want.” He drained the remainder of his second drink and then daintily patted his mouth dry with a napkin.
    “Is this how we’re going to find Mom?” I asked loudly. “By hanging out in the Ritz bar?” My father shrank back into his seat and fumbled in the paper bag for his cigarettes.
    “Of course not, Rachel. Look, you must be hungry. Do you want anything to eat?”
    “No,” I said. “I hate Spanish food.”
    I was quickly slipping into one of my bad moods that always felt like stepping into a hot and sticky subway car. It was too crowded to get off and at each station more and more people jammed in. No one wore deodorant and it got so you couldn’t even breathe. Sometimes the train ride was short, lasting only a few minutes, and my bad mood would lift as suddenly as a cloud. Or it could go on for hours, even days, until I despaired of ever finding my right stop.
    “I’m not hungry either,” my father said, standing up.
    For a second he lost his balance, and had to hold on to my arm for support. “Let’s get out of here and see the town.”
    “I don’t want to go to any museums or bullfights,” I whined.
    “How about the Royal Palace? You always liked kings and queens and castles.”
    The morning was already hot and very dry, not like the humid summers in New York. My skin felt tight as if wrapped in a gauze bandage. My father didn’t seem to feel the heat and still wore his navy blue jacket, which was beginning to look a little shiny with wear. His hair dried quickly in the sun and shone like a golden helmet. He smoked slowly and carefully, making sure not to litter the Madrid streets with too many ashes. His composure surprised me. My father was usually an impatient man, anxious for things to be settled quickly. The martinis must have helped, but he also must have felt absolutely confident that our plan would work without a hitch.
    Drink always made my father generous. We took a cab to the Royal Palace, passing several sights which my father pointed out and and I ignored. There was already a long line in front and I stood at the end as James ran ahead to get tickets. Two girls passed by chatting away in English. I recognized the tallest as Cynthia Lime and turned away.
    “Hey!” I heard her call out.