by Tikiri
“You?” Mrs. Rao said. “What about you?”
“Who’s going to make our Saturday evening suppers now?”
“Yeah, where are we going to go for a good meal, wine, and card games?” someone else piped up.
“I hate going to Queen’s Street. Last time I had to wait for a table for fifteen minutes. Ghastly,” the Proboscis Man said.
“And don’t get me started on the service. It’s not like how it used to be.”
“I like coming here because it’s private. I can say what I want without worrying about gossipy ears.”
“Me, too. I can sit back and have a cigar and no one will notice. No annoying journalists to worry about.”
“Mrs. Rao, you must do something for our sake.”
“Look, my priority is to get out of this sinkhole.” Mrs. Rao sounded irritated. “Once this man gets what he wants, he’ll discard her, and she’ll be back in my kitchen in no time. She’ll be thankful to me then, I tell you. She’ll be begging me to take her in and I can pretend to save her.” She laughed a throaty laugh.
“That’s true,” a woman’s voice said. “All he wants is a visa to Canada.”
“Plus a young girl in the sack,” Proboscis Man said, chortling through his nose. “One that can cook well, too. What a bonus for this guy!”
Raucous laughter all around.
Leaving the dirty rag on the carpet and the vacuum still plugged into the socket, I walked down the basement stairs to my room.
I opened my clothes drawer and picked up my school bag.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The next day, when the school bell rang to signal the end of the last day of exams, I stayed inside.
Everyone was in a tizzy about the upcoming prom. It had been the only topic of the week. Everywhere I turned, I heard what someone was going to wear, who was taking whom, whether they were going in a limousine or a car, and where the after-parties were going to be. I had major plans too, but of a different kind.
I climbed up the fire stairwell so no one would see me, and slipped into the empty art classroom on the top floor of our school building. There, I walked into the large art supply closet, found a painter’s stool and took a seat between the canvasses, paintbrushes, and rolls of paper. I leaned against the back wall and closed my eyes, thankful to have finished my last exam. I was officially done with school. Just as I’d promised myself and my parents.
Preeti’s letter was inside my pocket. I carried it everywhere I went. I desperately wanted to see her, hug her, cry with her, and ask about Aunty Shilpa’s final days. After reading her letter, my mind had been humming, trying to figure out how to contact her. There were no telephones or mailboxes in Grandma’s apartment complex. Any messages, letters, or parcels had to be delivered care of a business nearby, like Franky’s office. I couldn’t risk him finding out I knew about his lying, scheming games. I also had no idea who else was working for him in Goa. No, I couldn’t risk writing to Preeti and getting her into more trouble.
After fifteen minutes in the closet, and when things had quieted down in the building, I opened the wooden door slowly, making sure no one was in the room, and walked over to the window that overlooked the parking lot.
The stragglers were getting into waiting cars, or riding away on their bikes. But there, parked right in the middle, was Ashok in the white Land Rover, waiting for me. What’s he doing here this early? I told him school was going to finish an hour later that day due to exams—an excuse to give me time to escape before he came to pick me up. Did he forget? I wondered if he knew of Franky and Mrs. Rao’s shady business. He must, if he’d come with the moonlight crowd. Did Franky or Mrs. Rao warn him to be on the lookout?
I stared at the Rover wondering what to do. The cleaners didn’t come till later in the evening, so I could stay here for the next few hours, undiscovered. The school building had a back door, but it was locked by the caretaker at four every afternoon. I had no choice but to wait for Ashok to get fed up and leave. I took a seat at the art teacher’s desk, chin on my hands, hoping to hear the sound of a Land Rover engine roar to life. For the next half an hour, I stared at the paintings on the walls, looking at the squiggly lines and abstract cubes done by budding artists, not seeing, not thinking, just waiting, counting time.
After fifteen minutes, I looked out the window once again. The Jeep was still there. It was more than half an hour since the school bell had rung, and everyone had gone home. Ashok had more grit than I thought.
I watched in surprise as he opened the driver’s door and gingerly stepped out of his car. I quickly drew my face away from the window and peeked from a corner. He walked up to the windows on the first floor and peered in. He began to rattle every doorknob he could find. I watched him, anxious, but knowing, thankfully, the school doors automatically locked from the inside when school was over. Realizing he couldn’t get inside the building, he began to investigate the yard. He poked his head around concrete walls and walked around the maple tree. He even peeked around the cedar bushes in front. Did he think I was hiding behind a bush?
He cut a strange figure in his gray, baggy clothes and open-toe slippers, stepping this way and that, hesitating, fearful, like a lost dog seeking its master. Even from the fourth floor, I could see his face lined with worry, and I felt sorry for him. I knew how deathly afraid he was of Mrs. Rao. He was, without doubt, anxious about returning home empty-handed.
It was five thirty in the afternoon when Ashok finally drove away. As soon as the Rover pulled out of the parking lot, I opened the classroom door and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time. I opened the main door slowly, heart pounding, wondering if Ashok could have turned around and come back.
But the parking lot was deserted. I stepped out to a cool breeze and stood on the stone steps of the main entrance, taking in deep breaths of the chilly air. The sky was painted a forlorn gray. The sun had disappeared for the day, but there was still some light left.
When I had mapped my escape the night before, it had sounded easy. All I had to do was tell Ashok to come later than usual, leave the school grounds with the rest of the stragglers, and hop on the first bus that came my way. Once I got some distance from the school, I’d find the main airport bus and get myself to the airport, where I’d find a way to Goa. Simple. If they stopped me and told me my visa was fake, I’d tell them I hadn’t known, that I hadn’t meant to break the law. I’d think of something. Anything was better than hanging around Mrs. Rao’s house waiting to be married off to another Kristadasa—a much worse fate than any prison cell the police could put me in.
But now, standing alone on the front steps of my school, I felt like a fool. Did I really think this half-baked plan would work? I had a total of seven dollars and fifty-three cents in my purse, saved up from coins left over on Mrs. Rao’s kitchen counter. How much did a ticket to Goa cost?
I felt utterly alone. Working for Mrs. Rao meant I’d been grounded indefinitely since day one. I’d never been able to go to parties, hang out with classmates, or make friends. I kept to myself mostly, purposefully alienating myself, to the point I think my classmates found me a bit strange. Tim had moved on quickly, to several other girls. The only person who talked to me was Katy, but we didn’t hang out much anymore. We couldn’t, because I had to run home as soon as classes ended, and she had to get to work. But she always found time to ask how things were, and I’d always reply with “fine.”
A gust of wind swooshed around the maple tree that stood proudly at the school entrance. I stared at it mindlessly through the dimming light, watching the leaves whirl around, dancing to a song I couldn’t hear. Katy drove her company van to school every day and parked it under that tree. She said her boss allowed her to drive it because she worked early mornings, and she had to make deliveries during lunchtime some days.
“Company van” was a fancy term for the ancient VW camper Katy drove. It had green and yellow psychedelic paint that had faded decades ago, now overtaken by rusty splotches. T
he van had a large decal on the side that read, “Next Day Catering Company. Call 1-800-522-6969, 4 Avenue de Libre. We’ll be there when no one else will.” Even Katy agreed it was the lamest slogan ever.
Standing alone on the school steps with the wind whipping my hair and the night growing around me, it didn’t sound so lame anymore.
Chapter Thirty-nine
“Katy!”
A dog barked in the distant neighborhood. Night had set in fully and I couldn’t see much. I threw another pebble at the window.
“Katy!” I hollered as loud as I dared. I didn’t know when Katy’s shift ended or who else she’d be with. All I knew was she was working that evening and missing the pre-prom party everyone else was going to.
The front of the store was dark except for the dimmed security lights outside. There was a faint light at the back where I guessed the kitchen was, and that was where I was throwing my pebbles.
I waited a few minutes and tried again.
“Katy! It’s me, Asha.”
Not a flicker of life inside. I wondered if she’d finished her work and gone to the party already. I walked up the back stairs and knocked on the door. Not a peep. After waiting a minute, I tried the door, but it didn’t budge. I jiggled the handle, like Ashok had done at the school an hour ago, and just like him, I had no luck.
I looked at the windows. They were similar to mine in Mrs. Rao’s home, close to the ground and large enough for someone small to sneak through. I tried the first window. It didn’t move. I tried the second window. After some rattling, it slid open an inch. If Katy or anyone else was inside, she’d get a fright, so I knocked gently on the pane. Not a sound from within. With my heart beating fast, I pushed the window as silently as possible, parted the curtains, and slipped inside one leg at a time, like how Tim used to enter my basement room.
A flickering fluorescent light hummed above me. I sneezed. The place reeked of cigarette smoke.
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light. It was a kitchen, but what a kitchen. A vast, industrial-sized kitchen. The counters, the stoves, the double-door fridges, the two oversized ovens, and the massive microwaves were all made of stainless steel. The biggest cake mixers I’d ever seen sat on the counter, calling out to be tried. I stepped toward them and peeked inside. Gross. They still had leftover batter mix in them.
I looked around. On the shelves lining the walls were rows of see-through plastic containers with all kinds of cake toppings—stars, hearts, balloons, baby shapes, glittery balls, snowflakes, and more. The containers were dusty, like no one had touched them for a while. Watermarks and dirty spots made the counter look like it hadn’t been wiped in days, if not weeks. I’d been so impressed by the mammoth size of this place I hadn’t noticed the fingerprints and splotches of dried goo everywhere.
I rotated slowly in one spot, careful not to touch anything. If this place got cleaned up, it could be a dream kitchen, I thought. While Mrs. Rao’s kitchen was upscale and luxurious, it didn’t compare to the industrial strength of this place. This was built to bake hundreds and hundreds of cakes and pies and puddings and breads. It made my head spin.
I put down my school bag on the cleanest part of the counter, walked over to the cabinets and opened them one by one. Sacks of different kinds of flour were stowed inside—white flour, brown flour, pastry flour, and all sorts of cheap cake mixes. Smaller bags containing brown sugar, cane sugar, white sugar, and icing sugar lay haphazardly, ripped apart, used, and thrown back in a hurry. I could see trails of sugar inside the cabinets. Containers with baking powder and cocoa powder lined the top shelf in helter-skelter fashion, tossed carelessly in between bottles of vanilla and coloring. Some didn’t have lids and others were past their due date. Shouldn’t these be in the fridge?
I got on a stool to reach the row of cupboards on top of the shelves. They were filled with grungy, used things that belonged in a chemistry lab rather than a kitchen. Crammed in the cabinets were glass beakers, boxes of baking soda, and cast-iron pans that didn’t look like they’d been cleaned well. Right at the back were stacks of something in brown paper bags, which I couldn’t reach. Everything looked dirty, so I closed the cupboard doors and stepped down.
I opened the fridge, trying not to touch the gook on the handles. Other than two sticks of butter and seven eggs, there were bottles of rubbing alcohol, two half-filled bottles of wine, and twenty intact bottles of rum. Someone here was seriously using alcohol for baking.
I twisted off one of the wine toppers, sniffed the contents and nearly gagged. The wine had turned—it was worse than vinegar now. I’d taught myself how to bake with alcohol using Chef Pierre’s recipes, and knew it was a myth you should cook with cheap wine. I put the bottle back and closed the fridge gently, shaking my head.
And that was when I saw it—in one corner, standing tall and proud—a tall, white chef’s hat. There was a large dab of brown something on it. On a closer inspection, I saw it was a smudge of chocolate icing. On the floor nearby was an apron streaked with yellow and brown marks. It had faded lettering that said, “I’ll tell you the recipe, but then I’ll have to kill you.”
I placed the chef’s cap on my head, feeling like I was putting on a crown. I picked up the apron and tied it around my waist. I puffed out my chest, walked over to the main counter, and put my hands on the cold steel. I looked around me, imagining what it must be like to be the chef here. How come Katy never told me about this place?
Still in my chef’s hat and apron, I walked toward the front of the shop. To my left was a washroom with a mini-washer and dryer next to a large sink. To my right was an office with a view to the strip mall outside. I stepped inside and looked around. On the scratched Ikea desk sat a brass nameplate with “Domenico Benedetti Valentini” etched in flowery print. This must be Dick’s office—Katy’s boss.
Like Mrs. Rao, Dick was a pack rat. Fridge parts and old stove pieces were strewn all over the floor. One wall was covered with brown cardboard boxes, from the floor to the ceiling. I peeked into a half-opened box at the bottom, and saw bottles of cheap Jamaican rum inside. On the box was a sticker that said “Buy ten, get two free.”
In between these boxes, were crates and crates of cigarettes with the words “USA” stamped on them. This is why the place smells so bad. Dick must be the biggest chain-smoker and rum drinker in the world.
While Mrs. Rao was a neat pack rat, Dick was a cluttered one. Papers littered his desk. On one corner, sat a sad houseplant with droopy yellow leaves, like it had been fed rum instead of water. On the other corner, sat a locked safe, one of those portable ones you can buy at the local drugstore. Coiled around the desk lamp’s base were a dozen rosary necklaces, covered in so much dust it was difficult to know their original colors. On the shelf behind the desk were more school chemistry paraphernalia, all dusty. There was a blue suede sofa in the corner where some of Dick’s jackets had been thrown carelessly. The armrests were brown with overuse or dirt. I shuddered in disgust. I would never sit on that.
“Hello?” a garbled voice said behind me.
The hair on the back of my neck sprang up. I turned around slowly, expecting to see a stranger, but there was no one in the room. My heart sped up. With legs like jelly, I walked over to the doorway and looked out. Not a soul.
“Helloo?” the croaky voice said again. I whirled around. Who’s that? Whoever it was had a cold, or something strange had stuck in their throat.
“Goddammit!”
I jumped.
“Shit!” The voice was coming from inside the office. With my heart pounding, I looked around and around. I peeked behind the shelves, under the desk, and finally looked up to the ceiling.
There.
Perched high on top of the bookshelf, next to an ivory statue of Jesus, was a multicolored parrot with a tail as long as its body. It was a beautiful bird with feathers of purples, blues, and reds. I would have thought it magnificent if I hadn’t heard it swear like a sailor a second ago.
“So
it’s you who’s talking,” I said, staring at it in wonder.
“Hello-o-o-o?” replied the parrot, cocking its head to one side. “Get ba-a-a-ck to work!”
This must be Dick’s unofficial watchdog. It had been quietly watching me all along. It dipped its head a few times and opened its beak again.
“Go to hell!”
I blinked. “That’s rude,” I heard myself say.
“How a-a-are you?” it replied, giving me a piercing look.
“I’m… er…” I caught myself in time. I was standing in the middle of an empty bakery, late in the evening, talking to a rude bird, while I was on my way to the airport and out of this country. If this wasn’t crazy, I didn’t know what was. I had to get out. I had to find Katy. Maybe her phone number’s here somewhere. Didn’t she say I could stay with her? She wouldn’t mind me staying over one night, would she? At least until I sort a ticket to Goa.
With one last glance at the bird, which was now busy scratching its head and studiously ignoring me, I walked out of the room and closed the door. I didn’t want to take a chance on it flying out and following me. The main reception desk was in front. It was as messy as Dick’s office. I spotted a small alcove next to the front desk and peeked inside.
This little den was the tidiest place in the entire store. A simple wooden table and chair were tightly wedged into this small space. An old laptop sat in the middle of the table next to a stack of ledger books. I opened one of the books and recognized Katy’s handwriting. So this is where Katy spends her time after school.
It was strange to imagine the red-heeled, miniskirt-wearing, party animal Katy sitting for hours doing bookkeeping. I looked through the papers on her desk and those posted on the wall, searching for her telephone number. She’d given it to me once, but in my rush I’d left it in my room at Mrs. Rao’s house. All I had on me was a pair of jeans, a white T- shirt, a change of underwear, my passport, and my purse filled with a few dollars.
