Olivia Snowe - Beauty and the Basement

You know the story.

Youve heard it before.

Everyone has.

Now, read it again.

A new twist. A new gasp.

The story is told again.

TWICETOLD.

Told by Carlo

I m in the basement again. Its dark down here, and it smells like mildew and dryer sheets. Light flickers at me from the huge flat screen mounted on the far wall. It faces my couch. Well, I call it a couch. It might as well be a bed. I sleep down here. I eat down here. I play video games down here. I

Carlo! Its my mother. I dont bother responding. Youve been down there all summer! she says. Are you coming upstairs ever again?

Not if I can help it, I mutter to myself. Maybe shell just assume Im sleeping with the television on. Her high heels clomp down the bare wood stairs. I quickly roll to my side and close my eyes to fake sleep.

I know youre awake, she says. I heard the channels changing.

Fine, I say. What do you want?

Im going out now, she says. I open one eye first, then the other. Shes in a fancy black suit, with her dark hair blown out in ridiculous waves. Shes wearing tons of makeup, too.

Have fun, I say.

She puts a hand on her hip and sighs at me. What will you do for dinner? she asks. I lift the remote and switch from some action movie with a guy in a suit to an action movie with a guy in a tank top. I shrug.

Ill ask Santino to make something for you, she says. Santinos our chef. He lives somewhere in the south wing, I think.

I can make something myself, I say. Its true. I can. I am an expert at preparing all types of cereal.

Then Ill give Santino the night off, she replies.

Whatever, I say, and I push the volume button up with my thumb. Bye!

The next thing I hear is the front door slamming.

Great, I say to myself after the house is quiet. Now Im hungry. I swear I wouldnt have even thought of food if Mom hadnt mentioned supper.

I push myself up off the couch and manage to get upstairs. The orangey light in the kitchen means its after seven. It also means its late August. It also means school starts next week. Im not ready for that.

I pour myself a bowl of something colorful and sweet with a little plastic toy inside of the box. Then I lean on the kitchen counter to eat.

Ah! says Santino as he steps into the kitchen. I would have made you something.

Its all right, I say.

This sugary garbage, he says, is not all right. I could have made that pasta from last week you liked so much.

My eyebrows shoot up. I love his food. I just dont like the idea of being waited on, like Mom and I are some kind of royalty. Were not. Were two fools living in a ridiculous mansion that neither of us paid for. Were just lucky because Dad was very, very rich.

Was.

Santino obviously sees my interest in his pasta, because he gives me a big grin. Even though hes already hung up his apron, he grabs a pot from under the counter.

Penne with vodka sauce, he says. Fresh peas. A little cream.

You dont have to do this, Santino, I say, but Im already ditching my cereal. Youre off the clock.

Please, please, he says. Im happy to. What am I going to do tonight anyway? Fall asleep in front of the TV? What fun is that?

Well, its not that bad, I think.

You know Im happy to make a good supper for you and Mrs. Mostro, he says, any time.

Thanks, Santino, I say.

Now get out of here, he says, turning his back to me and strapping the apron on again. Im about to head right back downstairs when the doorbell rings. It makes me jump.

I turn and watch Santino at the counter, chopping pancetta. Well? I say. Hes not the butler; hes the chef. Still, when hes around, he usually answers the door. And with our housekeeper Catalina off till after Labor Day, I really expect him to step up. But no.

Ah-ah! Santino says, not even bothering to turn from the cutting board to look at me. Im off the clock.

I laugh, but hes not kidding. You expect me to open the door? I say. Santino pretends he cant hear, continuing to chop and whistle to himself. So I shove through the swinging kitchen door into the big entryway. Lightning cracks outsideI didnt even know it had started raining.

When I open the door, a man rushes right past me, his coat pulled up over his head.

Whoa! I say, flinching at the spray as he shakes off.

Im terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, he shouts over the thunder. Car trouble.

Santino comes through the swinging door, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

Sir, the stranger says, moving to shake Santinos hand. Im so sorry for bursting in. If I could just use your phone, Im happy to wait outside.

He thinks Santino is my dad. It reminds me of what Ive tried to forget. My dad is dead.

Ill show you the way to the phone, I say, stepping between them. Mr.... ?

Forgive me. Im Jack Beaumont, he says. He stands up straight for the first time since he burst in. He has a graying blond mustache. He pulls off his hat to reveal a head of thinning hair, the same shade as his mustache.

Im Carlo, I say. This is my house. And thisI thumb at Santinois our chef. I pause, thinking for a minute.

Dont you have a cell phone? I ask.

Ah, he says, looking away from me. The battery died. Darn thing. He forces a smile and a shrug. For some reason, I think hes lying.

Follow me, I say. I lead Mr. Beaumont through the kitchen, through the back door to the courtyard, and out to my mothers greenhouse. We have other phones, but the greenhouse is the only room enclosed in windows. That means I can keep an eye on him from the kitchen.

Right here, I say, gesturing to Moms wicker patio set, with a phone on the side table. Ill let you have some privacy.

He thanks me and sits down. I pull up my hood and dart across the courtyard to the kitchen. I sit on the stool by the window to watch Mr. Beaumont. He has the phone cradled under his ear, and hes wandering through Moms prize-winning indoor garden. Now and then he stops to read a label or take a leaf between his thumb and forefinger, like hes testing the quality of a piece of fabric.

I shouldnt have let him in, I say to Santino.

He sighs. Maybe, he says. But this is some storm.

Told by Belle

I cant imagine whats keeping Dad , I think as I sit in my bedroom. Well, sort of my bedroom. It was Dads office until my room upstairs sprung a leak in the ceiling. Now I sleep in Dads office.

Not that he needs it. His business went belly-up two years ago when one of his planes crashed in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It was carrying most of the companys merchandise. When it was lost, Dad was responsible. He went bankrupt. Since then, weve lived modestly. This once-magnificent brownstone on one of the most beautiful blocks in the city is crumbling.