They all adored Sam, they said at the hospital. But they were awfully glad he was well enough to go home.
Now he climbed exuberantly out of the car, wearing his little blue jeans, with a baseball cap on his head, and carrying an armful of airplane books. So much for Anastasia's fantasy about having an invalid for a brother. The invalid came noisily through the back door, dropped his books on the kitchen floor, and demanded a SpaghettiOs sandwich for lunch.
Anastasia had seen too much of spaghetti in various stages of digestion lately. She didn't think she could survive watching a SpaghettiOs sandwich being eaten.
"Welcome home, Sam," she said. "I cleaned up your room for you."
"Did you mess up my stuff?" he asked.
"Nope." She had left a pile of blocks and a half-constructed castle on the floor, some mysterious Tinker Toy objects that might have been airplanes on his little table, and a long line of Matchbox cars running from one side of the room to the other. "I should have, though," she said. "You've messed up my stuff often enough."
Rats, thought Anastasia, and felt guilty. She had made a solemn vow that if Sam got well, she would never be mad at him again. Now he hadn't been home five minutes, and she had already made a grouchy remark. In her entire life, she thought, she had probably made at least four hundred solemn vows, and she had never been able to keep a single one of them.
I am definitely Lacking in Character, thought Anastasia.
Then and there she made a solemn vow that she would keep Mrs. Bellingham's party from turning into a disaster so that the hospital where Sam had been fixed up would get its twenty thousand dollars. Never before had she made a solemn vow involving so much money. This solemn vow she would keep, she thought, and the size of it would make up for the four hundred others.
Still, she was not about to watch Sam eat a SpaghettiOs sandwich. It was almost time to go to work, anyway.
"See you later, guys," she said to her mother and to Sam. "I'm off to wax the Bellingham antiques."
***
By seven P.M. on Wednesday, the antiques were waxed, the rugs were shampooed, the books were dusted, the silver was polished, the caterers were busy in the kitchen with the food, and the orchestra was tuning its instruments on the terrace. Anastasia had been picked up at home by the chauffeur, because she wasn't allowed to ride her bike at night. Daphne was there, wearing a blue silk dress. There were no deviled eggs. Chinese lanterns were hanging outside, lighting the terrace and the gardens. A photographer from the newspaper was loading his camera with film, and in the study a bartender had set up a bar with so many bottles that it looked like the Ritz.
Mrs. Bellingham came down the staircase dressed in a flowing gown sewn with tiny pearls, and her hair piled on top of her head.
"Anastasia," she said. "You—"
"I know, Mrs. Bellingham," Anastasia interrupted. "I'm to pass the hors d'oeuvres, and ask people if they would like another drink, and pick up empty plates and glasses and take them to the kitchen. Mrs. Fox already told me."
Mrs. Bellingham smiled. "I'm sure she did. And I know you'll do everything perfectly, because you've been very conscientious about every job you've been given, ever since you began work. I'll miss you, after this evening."
Tonight was to be Anastasia's last night of work. School would begin next week.
"Could you stop by tomorrow, Anastasia, to be paid? Things will be so hectic this evening," Mrs. Bellingham went on.
Anastasia nodded.
"As it happens, dear, you interrupted me," said Mrs. Bellingham. "I wasn't going to tell you what to do tonight. I was going to tell you that you look beautiful. Very grown up."
"Oh," said Anastasia, startled. "Thank you." She was wearing her very best dress, new shoes, and tiny silver earrings. She had felt beautiful, at home, when she got dressed. Her mother and father had said that she looked beautiful. But it was kind of nice to hear Mrs. Bellingham say it. Parents always said stuff like that even when it wasn't true, so you couldn't entirely trust them. She smiled after Mrs. Bellingham, who had gone on into the living room to rearrange the cushions for the millionth time, and made the solemn vow again that she would keep the party from being a failure.
***
Two hours later, the party was not yet a disaster. But Anastasia's nerves were. Things weren't going the way she had expected them to.
First of all, she hadn't been able to recognize any of the special guests that she and Daphne had invited. She had thought that they would be very visible because of their clothes. The invitation had said "black tie." She knew that, because Daphne had told her. That meant that the official guests—the rich guests—would be wearing tuxedos, at least the men would, and the women would be wearing evening gowns.
She had thought that it would be very easy to recognize the town drunk, in his stained and rumpled clothes. And the dog-food lady in her many layers of unmatched dresses and stockings. And the drug dealer in his ragged jeans.
But there was only one man wearing anything like jeans, and that was a tall, slender man in a denim jumpsuit with sequins decorating the pockets. Anastasia had thought for a minute that he must be the drug dealer, wearing his dressiest outfit, and that she should go over and (politely, firmly, quietly) ask him to leave, before he tried to peddle some marijuana, maybe to the mayor or something.
She had made her way over to where he was standing, pretending that she was going to offer him some mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat. But just as she approached, a gray-haired woman in a black satin dress swooped down on the man.
"Lester!" she had cried. "I've caught you at last! I have a potential client I want you to meet!" She took his hand and pulled him over to another woman, who was sipping champagne.
Good grief, thought Anastasia. He's going to make a sale right here, practically publicly, right in front of a twelve-year-old maid. If my parents hear about this, I'll be killed.
"Darling," the woman in black was saying to the other woman, "this is Lester, the best decorator in Boston!"
"And the most expensive," said Lester haughtily as he shook hands.
Anastasia had leaned against the wall, unnerved. What if she had asked the best decorator—and the most expensive—in Boston, politely, firmly, and quietly, to leave? She felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it.
She had realized, then, that she must make her moves very, very carefully. She must be completely certain that she was kicking out the right people. But it was so hard to tell. Not all of the men were wearing tuxedos; some were in ordinary suits. The women were in all kinds of outfits, not just evening gowns; some wore strange pants—one was even in chiffon knickers—and some were wearing plain short dresses. Almost any one of them could have come from the low-income housing project. There was no way to tell.
And they were all ages. She had thought that she would recognize the guys who hung out in the park smoking pot—even if they weren't wearing their ragged jeans—because they were young. But there were many young people here. The most humiliating moment of the evening so far had been when a young man—college-student age—had politely asked Anastasia if she would like to dance.
In her entire life no one (except Robert Giannini, at a square dance once, and that didn't count. Robert Giannini, of all people. At a square dance, for Pete's sake) had ever asked Anastasia to dance. Now it was actually happening. And the guy was as handsome as a movie star. The orchestra was playing something romantic, and there was an almost-full moon. It was the worst moment of Anastasia's entire existence.
"I can't," she mumbled.
"You mean you don't know how? Come on, it's easy," he said, smiling at her.
"No," she said, agonized. "I mean I'm the maid." And she ran away.
Anastasia kept passing the endless trays of mushrooms, chicken livers, and cheeses, wondering what she should do. Suddenly she spotted, standing against the wall, someone who looked vaguely familiar. He was standing alone, wearing a very ordinary suit, apparently half asleep, drinking a dri
nk.
She watched him. As she watched, he gulped down the last of his drink, set the glass on a table, and went to the bar for another. He came back to his place against the wall and stood there, drinking sleepily again. Anastasia was quite certain that she recognized him. But she had never seen him dressed in a suit and tie before.
He has to be the drunk who sleeps on the sidewalk near the barber shop, she thought. And if I don't kick him out, he's going to slump to the floor, sound asleep and drunk, and ruin Mrs. Bellingham's party.
I will be polite, she said to herself. And firm. And quiet. I will say, I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to leave now.
She rehearsed it in her mind. I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to leave now. I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to leave now.
But when she walked over to him, she didn't say it. Instead, she said politely, "Hello."
He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. "You look familiar," he said. "I'm sorry, but I can't remember your name."
That was weird. She shouldn't look familiar to him. It was supposed to be the other way around. She recognized him because she'd seen him sprawled on the sidewalk. But he had never seen her. He'd always been asleep.
"My name is Anastasia Krupnik," she said, "and you look familiar to me, too." And she said to herself once more: I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave now. But she couldn't make herself say it aloud.
"Krupnik," he said suddenly. "Of course. I should have remembered. You're Sam's big sister. How's he doing?"
Anastasia was stunned. How on earth did the town drunk know Sam?
"He's fine," she said, puzzled. "He has a scar on his head, but when his hair grows back you won't even be able to see it."
"Of course not," the man said, smiling. "I stitched it very carefully."
Then she knew. The man wasn't the town drunk at all. He was the surgeon who had operated on Sam.
She wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. What if she had actually said to him, I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave now? What if she had taken his arm (firmly, quietly) and tried to propel him to the door.
"Excuse me," Anastasia said. "I have to pass food. I'm the maid."
Then she went to the powder room to recover. Daphne was just coming out. They looked at each other.
"Big trouble," said Daphne. "I just threw up."
"Why? Have you been drinking champagne or something?"
"No," said Daphne, but she looked stricken. "I just blew the whole thing. Ruined the party."
"I almost did, myself," said Anastasia miserably. "What did you do?"
"I've spent the whole last hour trying to figure out who is who. I couldn't even recognize the people I gave the invitations to."
"I know. I've been doing the same thing."
"And finally I thought I recognized one."
"Me too. But I was wrong."
"I bet you weren't as wrong as I was," said Daphne.
"I bet I was," said Anastasia. Sam's surgeon. Good grief. It made her cringe to think of it.
"I saw this man, and he looked familiar..."
"Yeah. I know."
"So I watched him for a while. And he was talking and talking, telling some long dull story with no point to it. Everyone around him was trying to be polite, but you could tell they were all bored and wishing they could get away from him. And I knew I'd seen him before."
"Yeah," said Anastasia sympathetically. "I know the feeling."
"Then I noticed that his suit jacket was buttoned wrong. You know, he had the wrong button in the wrong buttonhole, so it was all bunched up down the front. And there were other clues, too. He was wearing a Red Sox button in his lapel. Nobody in his right mind would wear a Red Sox button to a black-tie party, right?"
Anastasia groaned. "Right. So what did you do?"
"I went up to him and said very politely, the way we practiced, 'I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave now.
"What did he do?"
"He just looked at me for a minute. Everybody looked at me. There was a hideous silence. Then he said"—Daphne drew herself up, tucked her chin against her neck, and imitated a deep, pompous voice—"'Young lady, who do you think I am?'"
Anastasia groaned again. "What did you say?"
"Well, he asked. So I told him the truth, about what I thought. I said, politely and firmly..."
"And quietly?"
"Not quietly enough. Everybody heard me. I said, 'I think you're a deinstitutionalized psychotic.'"
"And he wasn't," said Anastasia. But she already knew that he wasn't.
"No," said Daphne, "he definitely wasn't."
"Who was he?"
Daphne took a deep breath. "He was the mayor," she said.
11
Anastasia woke the next morning with the sense that she had had a bad dream. Then she remembered. It hadn't been a bad dream at all. It had been real.
The mayor had sputtered and glowered and sought out Mrs. Bellingham to ask who this obnoxious child was. And it was Daphne.
Mrs. Bellingham had demanded an explanation from Daphne, who had excused herself and run to the powder room to throw up. That was when Anastasia discovered her there and heard what had happened.
They had talked briefly about the possibility of running away together, maybe joining a circus or something. Hitchhiking to Hollywood, perhaps, where Daphne could achieve stardom with her dramatic talents, and Anastasia could be her manager.
But none of it seemed very practical, and besides, there was Mrs. Bellingham, suddenly standing over them.
"Anastasia," she said, "you can go on back to the party and continue your duties. I have something to discuss with Daphne."
It was her chance to flee. But she couldn't.
"Mrs. Bellingham," she said, "you may as well discuss it with me, too. Because I was just as involved as Daphne."
"It was my idea, though," Daphne pointed out.
"What was?" asked her grandmother. "What is going on? You two girls come with me right now into the study and explain this to me."
So they did. They had no choice.
Funny, though, that it wasn't too hard explaining what they had done. Daphne even got into being dramatic about it, imitating the lady with the bag of dog food and the drunk on the sidewalk receiving their invitations to the black-tie party. Mrs. Bellingham's lips twitched, as if she wanted to laugh.
The hard part—the impossible part—was explaining why they had done it.
"I was mad," said Daphne hesitantly, "because you gave me a doll for my birthday."
Mrs. Bellingham looked puzzled. "But it was a beautiful doll, Daphne," she said. "I bought it at—"
"Grandmother," Daphne interrupted angrily, "I'm thirteen years old."
"Mrs. Bellingham," Anastasia said so that Daphne wouldn't have to take all the blame, "I was mad, too. Because when I was looking for a job, I wanted to be a Companion, and you made me into a maid without even asking me."
"I see," said Mrs. Bellingham, and Anastasia could tell that she was trying to see. But also that she didn't, really.
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Bellingham said slowly, "Why didn't you tell me? Both of you. Daphne, why didn't you explain to me about the doll? And Anastasia, why didn't you come to me and explain your dissatisfaction? You were always so courteous and hard-working that I had no idea you were angry."
Anastasia thought for a minute. Then she said, "Because I was scared of you, Mrs. Bellingham."
And Daphne said, "Me too, Grandmother. I was scared of you."
Mrs. Bellingham looked startled.
Anastasia suddenly felt very, very sorry about the whole thing. Not because she had been caught. And not because the party had been ruined. But because Mrs. Bellingham looked so surprised and so sad.
"Well," said Mrs. Bellingham, "I think I'll have the chauffeur run both of you girls home. Anastasia, don't forget to stop by tomorrow for your money."
"Mrs. Bellingham, I don't think I deserve to be pai
d," said Anastasia. And she meant it. But it felt terrible, saying it. All of those hours of work for no pay.
"Nonsense. You worked hard, and you did a good job, even tonight. Come by about ten tomorrow morning."
"Grandmother," said Daphne, "I don't mind being sent home. In fact, I want to go home, because my stomach hurts. But what about the party?"
"What do you mean, what about the party? The mayor seems to have simmered down. The party will continue without your presence, Daphne."
"But Grandmother," Daphne said meekly, "all of the people that we invited are still out there somewhere. The dog-food lady, and the drunk, and the psychotics, and the low-income people, and ..."
Her grandmother sighed. "Daphne," she said, "surely it is apparent by now that those people, whatever their problems, know how to behave at a party. Which is more than I can say for you at the moment."
Then she led both girls through the back hall to the kitchen door and instructed the chauffeur to take them home.
Anastasia lay in her bed and remembered it all. She felt awful. Even her goldfish wouldn't look at her. He swam with his tail turned toward her.
"Well, the hospital got its money, anyway," she said belligerently to Frank, the goldfish. But he only twitched his tail. He wouldn't turn around.
How humiliating, to be snubbed by your own goldfish.
After a while she sighed, got up, pulled on some old clothes, and went downstairs. Her parents were drinking coffee in the kitchen, and Sam was running a toy truck around the floor.
"Hi!" said her mother. "How was the party? You went to bed so fast last night that I didn't have a chance to ask you. You must have been exhausted."
"I was." Anastasia poured some milk over a bowl of Cheerios and began to eat. "The party was okay."