Page 13 of Cakes for the Grump
Rust has spread across the pipes of the sink in the kitchenette of the downstairs common room. Having learned from experience, I don’t bother pointing out to her that it will come back if she doesn’t fix the water leak, knowing full well my suggestion will be taken as insolence.
So, I scrub in silence. Ineffectually since I’m not allowed abrasive material like steel wool pads to combat the rust because Janice doesn’t want the pipes scratched.
She has no such qualms about my hands.
“What is this, Janice? It burns through my rubber gloves.”
“Keep going, Ms. Singh.”
I wet a sponge with more liquid, trying to make sense of the faded label on the jug of cleaner. Knowing my building manager, this is some sort of banned and bottled factory effluent used to make batteries or maybe rat poison. Or this is her own concoction, a mix she sniffs to eviscerate nose hairs.
Bending over, I work the crusted drainpipe harder. Not before long, my skin itches again, getting worse and worse the longer I go at it.
“This—I can’t—” Peeling off my gloves reveals red and raw skin. “Look, it’s really starting to hurt me!”
“Is it?” says Janice, peering at it with her head slightly to one side, still smiling. “Oh, yes, such soft skin like my daughter has. Did you know I have a daughter? You seem surprised by that information. Well, it’s true. I have a daughter who ran away from me, and now she is out there somewhere being punished for her attention-seeking ways. And I’m telling you this, Ms. Singh, because I truly believe if I was more strict, she would have never left me. She would have recognized that hard work and a bit of suffering are the backbone of a good life. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I donotagree. I think Janice is a dingbat, and that this daughter of hers freed herself like a phoenix rising from soiled ashes, but none of that is anything I am going to voice. Instead, I try to scrape off as much rust as I can at super-speed. Only after a coughing fit starts do I stop.
“I shouldn’t be breathing this in,” I sputter, slumping over to steady myself against a wall.
“There’s not much left,” says Janice.
“But—”
“Or if you don’t feel up for it, dear, I can get Mr. Albo to come down and finish the job?” She looks at her nails, and then buffs them on her stiff fuchsia track jacket.
That shuts me up.
The height of immoral Janice Dorian does. She would do that. Without any ounce of guilt, she would bring Mr. Albo down to do this horrible task with me, not caring about his health. The height of immoral Janice Dorian is.
Thankfully the rest goes by fast, and the burn finally abates after I wrap my hands in a barrier of scrunched up paper towels. That night I lather my hands, wrists and arms with ointment.
It barely helps.
FIVE
It is shapingup to be a less than ideal day for me. I have to lie about how happy and productive I am to Uncle again. I search up images of Park Güell so the tale of my visit to the garden designed by Antoni Gaudí is rooted in plausible visual accuracy.
Upon hearing me describe the bird nests, the brilliantly detailed and colorful tiled mosaics, fantastically shaped roofs with unusual pinnacles, and weaving sea serpent bench (thank you, Internet), Uncle asks whether the city sights have inspired new creativity in my cooking.
“My mind is blown wide open with possibilities!”
There is a tin of warmed up beans on my plate. And beyond that, Luke Abbot is the most boring eater I’ve ever met. It’s as if he’s attached a FitBit to his tongue. What I cook for him does not bear mentioning.
More questions come my way after Uncle hears my inflated enthusiasm, including what new recipes I’ve tried out, how does it feel to live independently like I’ve always wanted, and whether my employer has opportunities for advancement so my incredible talent can finally get the attention it deserves.
Uncle’s voice features such belief in me. It’s a marathon having to match his tone with equal bursts of hope and happiness.
To cap it all off, Mumbai’s Lotus Healing Center has billed for another month of service, sucking my accounts close to dry again.
There are so many people I am responsible for, who I can’t disappoint. There is no one in the driver’s seat of my life. Circumstances whip me forward.
For the last few years, it’s felt as if I lost the instruction manual for what to do and where to go next. Every night I question whether I shouldn’t be more aggressively trying to find another job and why I’m so tired at the end of the night, having done nothing to better my circumstances.
And then I wake up in the morning, restarting the cycle.
Today is particularly slow. I get ready, hoping the movement of a new day is enough to offset any maudlin thoughts. It’s another shift of replenishing smoothies, making rice, green salad, and—shocker—poached salmon, not chicken. No dressings or sauces on the side. Flavor once again is derived by a few shakes of pepper and even fewer shakes of salt.
