Recipe for Disaster (11 page)

I laugh nervously. Not crazy, just the victim of coincidence. “Careful there, Gemma, Schatzi barely acknowledges my existence, and I have no one else to talk to, so you might not want to start a conversation with me!” I turn to another page.

“Conversation with a new girl is either enormously tedious or exceptionally pleasant.”

Holy shit. I keep reading.

“The new housemaid seems sweet enough, if her cleaning is as charming as her chatter, she shall be a most welcome addition to our little family downstairs.”

Whew again. Although, very weird. I decide perhaps I should stop talking to this Gemma book, and maybe eat something. That one chicken leg wasn’t exactly substantial, and I’ve had an emotionally and physically draining morning. I wander into the pantry and grab a can of beef vegetable soup, dump the contents into a bowl, and throw it in the microwave, snapping the other leg off of the chicken and gnawing on it cold while the soup heats up. I can’t figure out if today is auspicious or suspicious, but maybe a good lunch will put me right, and I can go downstairs with my head on straight and really get to work. And since I have to admit to the smallest bit of loneliness, maybe this Gemma will keep me company tonight.

I
’m starting to get a complex. On Monday and Tuesday I went to the Albany Park Workers’ Center to pick up a day laborer to help me do demo in the basement. Not only did I not get anyone to agree to come with me, but on both days I had to look at stupid smug Liam filling his garish truck with eager workers. Every time he shrugged and winked at me on his way out of the lot. On Wednesday and Thursday I did what no self-respecting general contractor does, and hit the Home Depot. Where I explained in my broken Spanish what I needed done and what I could afford to pay, over and over, I was denied. On both days I noticed a slight, elegant man in a perfectly wound navy blue turban watching the proceedings. Figuring that he too was in need of some assistance and not getting any, I would smile at him, and he would look at me expectantly, and I would head out alone.

This morning I’m desperate. Not only have I lost two hours of work a day for no reason trying to get help, but the demo is also going painfully slowly. Usually for a job this size I would bring in a four-man crew. Two focused on destruction, two filling large rubber garbage cans with debris and getting it into the huge Dumpster I’ve rented. This whole week has been a painstakingly slow process of gradually pulling down old plaster on one wall at a time, and then filling and lugging the can, which I can only fill halfway each trip with the heavy old plaster, otherwise I can’t lift it up to empty it into the Dumpster. If I don’t find some affordable help soon, my whole timeline is going to take a beating. Not to mention my body. I’m used to hard labor, it makes me feel alive, but I’m bumping smack into the limits of my physical abilities, and ending every day with barely enough energy to walk Schatzi around the neighborhood. I collapse every night onto my sad little air mattress, muscles aching in ways that ibuprofen can’t touch. And every morning I roll out of bed onto the floor, where my morning stretching isn’t just a way to start the day, but necessary if I intend to actually walk upright and get to the bathroom.

I was going to just skip the whole charade today, but I asked Gemma what to do and the journal said, “
Perhaps the fifth time will be the charm
.” Of course, Gemma was telling the housemaid Charity why she wasn’t discouraged when the fourth honey cake in a row fell in the center and had to be restarted, but her unflappable nature inspires me, and the resignation to simply do what needs to be done seems the best way to tackle my current problems. Gemma didn’t have a choice. It was Passover, people were coming to dinner, the Rabins didn’t care if the unexpectedly warm and humid April weather was making the flour damp, or the coal stove temperamental. All they wanted was a honey cake, and it was Gemma’s job to provide one. Preferably one that didn’t sag in the middle like a broken-down horse. I have to build this house and I really can’t manage it alone, so I don’t have a choice either.

I pull my truck back into Home Depot for one last try. Sometimes on a Friday you can get a guy who doesn’t want to take on something that could cut too much into his weekend. It isn’t like I need some highly skilled professional; I just need a little bit of muscle. I get out of my truck and head over to where there is a small gaggle of men standing around smoking and drinking coffee out of take-out cups, stamping their feet to keep warm. It oddly looks like an AA meeting has recently let out. I recognize some of the guys from yesterday, mostly by the way they look at me and laugh. I approach a couple of new ones and begin my spiel, but they wave me off. As my one last shot walks away from me, I notice my turbaned friend again standing off to the side, and I give him the nod that says, “A tough week for us both.”

He walks over to me. “Are you looking for help with something?” he asks in a shockingly smooth and elegant English accent.

“I am. I have a massive basement demolition project and an insanely small budget, so I’m not having any luck. How about you?”

“I’m here to find some work. Perhaps I might be of assistance with your project?”

I’m shocked. It never occurred to me that he was here looking for a job. I can’t help but look him up and down. He is tall, but slim, and doesn’t look terribly powerful.

He smiles at me. “I’m stronger than I look. And I work cheap.”

I grin back at him. “I’m Anneke. What’s your name?”

“Lovely to meet you, Anneke. I’m Jagjeet Singh, my friends call me Jag.”

“I can only pay ten dollars an hour.” I’m sheepish about this. When I was with MacMurphy I usually paid between twenty and thirty dollars an hour depending on what I needed done. But those carefree budgetary days are over.

“That is fine. I’d be delighted to come work with you today, Anneke.”

“Jag? You are a lifesaver.”

“I might say the same of you.”

“Do you have a car or do you want to ride with me?”

“I have a car, but I’ll follow you.”

“I’m the old turquoise truck, I’ll go slow.” I head for my truck, and I think maybe, just maybe, this week is salvageable after all.

J
ag, I’m going to make some lunch. Can I make some for you too?”

“Thank you, Anneke, but I’ve brought my own lunch. If I could trouble you for a microwave, it would be better if I heated it up a bit.”

“Come on upstairs.”

It’s been a good morning. Jag may be skinny, but he is wiry and actually very strong. He made short work of getting all the plaster I’d already pulled off into the Dumpster, and then began working on another wall across from me. He clearly knows what he’s doing; he’s careful to check for electrical and plumbing runs before starting.

He follows me up the back stairs, and I take him into the kitchen. Schatzi wanders over to check him out, and he drops to one knee, muttering to her in a language I don’t recognize.

“That’s Schatzi.”

“Fräulein,” he says, and switches his endearments to what sounds like flawless German. In moments, she is on her back letting him rub her pale gray belly, wiggling in delight. Stupid dog. Last night when I tried to pet her she nipped me. We’ve been living like roommates that hate each other. She spends most of her time curled up in the front turret window seat, coming to the kitchen to get fed. Our first night I’d set up her plush little dog bed in my bedroom, and in the morning discovered she had dragged it out into the hallway while I was asleep, and there it has stayed. We take a longish walk in the morning; she gets let out at lunch into the yard so she can go to the bathroom, and then another longish walk after dinner. Other than these bits of contact, we don’t really spend any time together.

I never minded her indifference when I was living with Grant, but I’m not going to pretend that it wouldn’t be nice to have the littlest bit of warmth from her now that it is just we two in this dilapidated house. Grant may not have wanted to jump my bones every minute, or even every other week, or every other month for that matter, but he was very physically affectionate. We cuddled. We held hands. We kissed. He rubbed my feet and my shoulders, and we slept like spoons. He made up for everything I missed growing up, every scraped knee that didn’t get kissed, every mean girl insult that didn’t get soothed, every disappointment that I had to comfort myself. I didn’t know how starved I would be for contact, and I find myself weirdly jealous of the dog, who is grunting happily under Jag’s ministrations.

He finishes playing with the dog, stands and looks around the kitchen, and whistles under his breath.

“Anneke, this is spectacular. Your clients must be very good cooks to want a special kitchen like this. I’ve never seen one like it. May I ask, who is the architect?”

I grin ear to ear. “I am.”

“You’re very talented. Is this Poggenpohl?” he says, caressing a cabinet reverently with long fingers, sliding a slim drawer open to reveal the knife rack within, pushing it closed with the slightest touch. I’m impressed. The high-end cabinetry company is simply a cut above, famous for both clean lines and an enormous range of organizational details. When Grant and I did the kitchen at our—I mean HIS—apartment, I turned him on to their stuff, and he was so impressed with both the look and the function that he insisted we use them again when we did this place. It was a huge investment on his part, and I thank god we did the kitchen first, since it will be a great selling feature and I would never have been able to afford it now.

“Yes, it is, you have a good eye. A lot of people don’t recognize their stuff.”

“You can’t mistake their lines or their finishes, or attention to detail. It would be like not recognizing a Rolls-Royce when it drives by you. Your clients have good taste. And are very lucky. This is a kitchen that will make a passionate cook enormously happy.”

“No clients. I’m doing it on spec.”

“Wow. That is a huge undertaking. And you’re doing it all yourself?”

“As it turns out, yes, unfortunately.”

“And can I be so bold to ask if you perhaps might need someone more regularly than just the occasional help for a day?”

“I do, but I can’t really afford more than what I’m paying you.”

“I’ve been at Home Depot every day for three weeks. You’re the first person to hire me. Frankly, you’re the first person to speak to me. If perhaps you aren’t disappointed with my work, I would be happy to simply come here every day and do good work with you instead of standing in the cold while the other workers call me ‘
terrorista
,’” he says with a wry smile, washing his hands in the kitchen sink, his even, white teeth shining behind his dark beard, which had been lustrous and shiny this morning, and is now matte and pale with plaster dust.

I laugh. “Yeah, I’m fairly sure those guys don’t know from Sikh. They see a turban and jump to conclusions.”

He turns and looks at me. “And how did you know I was Sikh?”

“Your last name is Singh. The style of your turban. I have a friend who is an interior designer, and her rug guy is Sikh. His last name is Singh too.”

“How rare that I don’t have to explain.”

“You do have to explain why you would want to come work with me for so little money. You’re clearly a worldly and educated fellow, not the kind of guy one usually finds hustling for day labor in a parking lot.” He doesn’t have any of the telltale signs of substance abuse, and I’m hard-pressed to imagine that he isn’t qualified to do a range of normal jobs.

He walks over to the microwave and puts a large Tupperware container in it. “Let’s see. I was born in India and my family moved to London when I was a boy. My father is in the diplomatic corps. I did a degree in London in industrial engineering, and worked there for a large firm for a few years, and then came here to do a graduate degree at Northwestern. I’m supposed to become a PhD and then either a well-published academic or a wealthy engineer, preferably quickly here where the money can flow and then back in London near my family. But to be honest? What I really love is projects like this. Working with my hands. Building houses.”

My heart falls. He’s a student. I’ve worked with them before. They’re notoriously eager at first, but then the pressure of school gets to them, or they have to start missing big chunks of time to work on papers or projects.

Then he says the magic words. “So I quit. Actually it was strongly suggested to me that perhaps the rigors of the program weren’t a good fit for my skills. So essentially I quit before they kicked me out.”

“Ouch.”

He laughs. “Yeah. Sort of embarrassing. So now I’m thirty-three, slowly running through my savings, and my student visa now officially has an expiration date. My parents don’t know I’m not in school anymore, and my big plans of getting hired by a local construction company dried up quickly, so I’m beginning to despair of shifting my visa from student to work.”

“You’re overqualified AND underqualified,” I say, knowing exactly how a résumé like his would have been received at MacMurphy.

“Exactly.” He opens the microwave and retrieves his lunch, now unbelievably fragrant, filling the kitchen with the scent of spices. “I have too much education and experience on the engineering side, and no practical experience beyond helping friends with home improvement projects on the build side. I don’t have enough residential architecture design background, and no experience at all with client relations. But because of my education, no one wanted to hire me as a laborer either.”