Chapter 5 The Favor
Walking to the closet next to our front door to retrieve the large soup pot we store there, I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear a rap on the door.
I clutch my chest; I can’t remember the last time an unexpected visitor knocked on our door.
My aunt and uncle are our only visitors, and they never knock but just barge in, but we are always expecting them.
I tentatively open the door. Peeking through the crack, my eyes meet bright brown ones. Jake. I drop my gaze, letting my hair fall over my face.
Smiling hesitantly, he says, “Hey, I’ve got a big favor to ask.
Can you come over at four today and stay with Veronica?
Uh, she’s the girl you met kinda the other day?
It will be for a couple of hours. I teach a class over at Columbia and don’t want her to be alone and was hoping . . .” His voice trails off.
I raise my eyes; he looks so sincere and a little unsure. If this were two days ago, my answer would have been an immediate no, but today, even before I think, I respond, “Yes, I can do that.” I like the way his cheeks angle up to his sharp cheekbones. He’s all angles and sharp points.
Jake quickly lets out the breath he must have been holding and smiles brightly, “I will pay you, of course. It should be until six or so. Does that work?”
Trying to match his easy smile, but my face doesn’t seem to know how to do it.
“Yes, that works.” I quickly incline my head and close the door.
Leaning against the wall, I take a deep, cleansing breath.
Suddenly I’m a bundle of nerves coupled with a rush of adrenaline, feeling more alive than I was just a minute ago. Could this be what living feels like?
Getting ready in my room later, I picture the angel.
Her name is Veronica. Pinching my cheeks to give them a bit of color, I pause and furrow my brow.
Why do I need to watch her? That seems strange, but I push the question out of my mind, straighten my shoulders, and whisper under my breath, “Be brave.”
At 3:45 p.m., with my stomach in knots, I announce to my mother, “I have to babysit a neighbor, and I won’t be home until after dinner.”
Mama stares at me in disbelief. I’ve never babysat a neighbor as I don’t know any of our neighbors, other than the poster child of jaded American youth down the hall, and my mother would never suspect I’m heading into that den of iniquity.
I’m hoping she assumes I made an acquaintance of some mother in our building.
Taking advantage of her shocked surprise, I make my escape.
For this moment, I’m brave and I jauntily throw open our door.
My steps falter just a touch, as I know I won’t be able to avoid my parents’ consternation when I return.
I bravely think, “I won’t worry about that until I must.”
Knocking softly on Jake’s door, I glance nervously down the hall.
My father shouldn’t be home for another forty-five minutes, but I can’t help but shrink against the doorjamb.
Jake opens the door, and I almost fall into his arms. He smiles and seems pleased I’m early.
I’m relieved, as some Americans don’t like my family’s tendency to be early for all appointments and gatherings.
We believe on time means at least fifteen minutes early.
It has proved to be embarrassing on the few occasions we were invited somewhere outside our small circle of family.
It’s an Eastern European thing, and I gave up trying to convince my parents to abide by America’s more relaxed, almost lax approach to time.
Jake ushers me down the same sumptuous hallway, and we turn right, stepping into the living area.
Veronica is curled up in a graceful ball on the sofa.
Her face is free of the makeup from the other night, and she looks sixteen.
She turns toward me and smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks lonely and young.
I immediately sit down next to her and say, “Hi.”
Veronica responds with a tired, “Hi.”
We sit quietly, watching Jake gather up a few papers on the coffee table and put them into a beat-up brown satchel. He looks tired too.
“So, I’ll be back around six. You guys order anything you want when you get hungry.” He drops a bunch of bills on the table and turns to Veronica, “Vee, please eat.” He heads for the door.
I feel like I’m involved in something, though I’m not quite sure what it is. We sit quietly together. It is not an uncomfortable silence. I watch Vee. She is curled inward and not fully engaged with the outside world, as if she’s encased in her own little bubble.
Since Jake seemed so concerned with eating, I think maybe I’m here to cook for her. I say brightly, “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
“Like what?”
I pause and run through a couple of recipes I can make in my sleep.
Most call for some special ingredient, such as the mountain cake that requires custard powder.
I can’t imagine Jake, or his parents, have that, although from what I can see of the kitchen, they may have every ethnic spice I can dream of.
I don’t dare run to my parent’s place to grab something as Papa could be home by now and I’m not sure what I would ever say to him to convince him to let me go back over here.
Babysitting, cooking . . . it all sounds crazy.
I respond, “Let’s make crepes.”
Veronica shrugs, but she unwinds her arms and legs from the ball and stands up. I impulsively take her hand, and we walk to the kitchen.
She drapes her long torso over one of the stools lined up at the island as I spin around the immaculate kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets as I go.
The kitchen is lovely, all soft grays with splashes of warm cream.
I locate the bowls and a whisk and place everything on the island so Veronica can be part of the preparation.
The stove is part of the island, and I’m glad, as we’ll be able to mix and cook everything facing each other.
I open the massive steel door of the refrigerator, extracting milk, eggs, butter, and sparkling water—our bakery’s secret ingredient. I find the door to a walk-in pantry and look around until I find an assortment of jams and jellies.
“Are you a strawberry girl or a marmalade girl?”
I hear a smile in her voice as she responds, “Freakin’ strawberry.”
I carry the jar of jam over to her. “We are going to make Polish crepes. They’re called nalesniki.”
Veronica replies, “Nah-lesh-nee-kee.”
I nod in approval. “Close.”
I whisk the flour, eggs, milk, sparkling water, and butter together, then cover the bowl. “Now it must rest. What shall we do while we wait?”
Veronica scrunches up her forehead and, with a slight quirk of her lip, asks, “How do ya know how to make nah-lish-ka? You didn’t even measure anything.”
I laugh. “Nah-lesh-nee-kee. I’ve worked in my parent’s bakery for as long as I can remember. Nalesniki is one of the first things my mother taught me how to make. I’ve made it thousands of times.”
“Hm, a bakery.” She frowns and sighs wistfully, “That sounds cool. I’d love to make stuff like that.”
Cool? I have never thought of working at the bakery as cool.
I reply pertly, “It’s not so cool when it’s a hundred degrees in the middle of summer, but it does always smell sweet, no matter what.”
Veronica straightens up, looking more alive, and continues, “So, you live across the way from here. That’s pretty cool too.”
Tilting my head, I state simply, “It wasn’t so cool when I first moved here.
I was just starting high school, and I didn’t know anything about New York City and certainly didn’t know our address meant I must be super-rich.
Because we weren’t super-rich, far from it.
You see, my grandparents have had this apartment for years and years.
I guess she doesn’t pay much ’cause it’s rent-controlled. ” I stop and fall silent.
“That doesn’t seem so terrible.”
“Well, when kids found out where I lived, they all teased me and assumed I was a spoiled, rich girl who flunked out of some fancy boarding school and now was slumming it with the public-school kids. I tried to explain, but no one listened, and I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to explain.
I guess what I was trying to say was that I was one of them and they shouldn’t hate me.
But they never gave me a chance and I certainly never fit in.
It was a miserable four years.” I blush.
“I can’t believe I told you that. I never told anyone that before. Not even my parents.”
“Everyone has it tough, one way or another,” Veronica replies, sounding tired and wise beyond her years.
“Hah! I can’t believe that. Your life must be filled with fun and excitement at every turn.”
A cloud passes over Veronica’s eyes, and she smiles thinly. “Even me. I’m getting hungry. How much longer?”
Realizing she’s deflecting, I announce dramatically, “It is time.”
We pour the dough into the pan, and it sputters and sizzles. I flip the little round crepes confidently and set them out on plates. I show Veronica how to roll them up with the strawberry jam in the middle. The sweet aroma of strawberries floats in the air.
Veronica gets up and pushes a few buttons on a ginormous, fancy coffee machine. “Looks like these go perfectly with a cup of latte.”
I remember seeing some tea bags in the pantry and go find them and a teapot and make myself a cup of Earl Grey.
We munch on the sweet crepes, sipping our hot beverages.
I’ve made crepes at the bakery and for my family, but this feels totally different.
Special and totally ordinary all at the same time.
I realize I’m comfortable here despite the fanciness of the furnishings.
Maybe I’ll be able to learn how to live after all.
Veronica eats with gusto and, with her mouth full, mumbles, “Aah, this is fucking fantastic.”
I squeak out, “It’s only crepes.”