ringing in my ears as I walked into Katy’s apartment.
It wasn’t the first time he’d fired me, and it wasn’t the first time he’d yelled at me. Insulting Katy and me was like drinking rum for Dick. He thrived on it. There were days I wished I could quit.
Working at the Next Day Catering Company felt like a dead end. I was making just enough for food, heat, water, and a half of the rent. My plans for buying a one-way ticket to Goa seemed to get further and further from me.
I closed the door behind me wondering how Katy was coping back at the shop.
Katy hated working in the kitchen. Whenever I offered to teach her how to bake a cake or make the icing, she became busy with something or the other—a spreadsheet had to be balanced or a client had to be called. She didn’t just hate cooking, she didn’t enjoy eating either.
Often, after she ate a meal, I’d find her locked up in the toilet. And if I’d walked by the door, I’d hear her retching. I only asked about it once, because I’d been worried she was sick, but she brushed me off so brusquely, I didn’t mention it again. In the end, I gave up, and our shop duties became more distinct as the months went by. I was the chef of the kitchen and she was the chef of the books, while Dick did nothing, but lorded over everything.
He spent many late nights at the bakery after Katy and I had gone for the day, but given the magazines of half-clad women stacked up on his desk alongside the open boxes of rum, I didn’t think he did anything productive. Right now, I hoped my friend wasn’t getting the brunt of his anger. Though he yelled at her as well, I knew he liked Katy in his own twisted way and would never really fire her or harm her.
To calm myself down, I decided to make walnut banana cakes. With a hint of rum, they were the ultimate cheer-up food, easy to make, comforting to eat, and the calories didn’t count, especially on bad days.
The meals I’d made at Mrs. Rao’s home had been a fusion of East and West, made with my imagination, partly following Chef Pierre’s recipe books, partly listening to my mother’s voice in my head. Each dish had been different—a new recipe, a new idea put to the test.
Mixing spices and whisking sauces were fun, but my passion was baking cakes. It was how I kept memories of my mother alive. Her cupcakes were to me the queens of all desserts. In a few sweet bites, they could mend broken hearts, heal wounds, and make you forget mean bosses, even if only for a day.
As I mixed the batter in my bowl, my mind wandered to that morning. Did he really say, “You’re only good for one thing?” What a scumbag. I mixed faster, wishing I could make him pay for his nastiness. The pale yellow mixture thickened quickly. When I got mad, I was more efficient than my electric mixer.
An urgent knock at the door jolted me out of my reverie.
I placed the bowl on the kitchen table as quietly as I could, and stayed silent as a mouse, hoping for it to go away. The knock came again, insistently this time. I wiped my hands on my apron and tiptoed over to the door with a frown. Who can that be? No one was home at this time of the day.
I’d lost sleep many a night over the past months, worried sick Mrs. Rao would snatch me away and force me to get married to another vile old man. The reason she hadn’t come after me yet, and the reason no one had reported me missing, reaffirmed my worst fears. My visa is a fake. I was sure of it now. Mrs. Rao would never call the authorities or bring attention to the illegal activities she and Franky were involved in.
But that didn’t ease my worries. It was only a matter of time before they found me.
I laid low and hadn’t dared to venture near my school again, even to pick up my high school diploma. Katy had gone to the graduation ceremony by herself and picked up my certificate with hers. I restricted my movements and wore shades, even on cloudy days. I badly wanted to find a second job, but I worried they’d ask too many questions. I felt lucky Dick had hired me with just a referral from Katy.
Katy told me I was being paranoid and that it would be hard for anyone to track me in a city of almost eight million. But every morning, I got this strange feeling of eyes watching me. I couldn’t shrug that feeling off.
The knock came again, much louder this time.
I opened the door slowly, keeping the chain intact. I peeked outside with one eye.
Randy’s face came into view.
He was our apartment building’s caretaker, a reedy man in his thirties who dressed like he was nineteen and smelled like pot. With a sigh of relief, I pulled out the chain and opened the door.
“Hey, Randy.”
“Saw you come home early,” he said, thrusting something toward me. “Here.”
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the brown envelope and opening it.
“Rent change.”
“Again? How much?”
“Read it yourself. This apartment’s for one person. Since you’re two now, rent’s been raised.”
The letter was short and to the point.
“Nineteen percent? It’s difficult to pay our rent as it is.”
“That’s your problem. Should have thought of that before moving in, eh?” Randy sniffed loudly and swiped his nose. “By the looks of it, management’s generous. If there’s two of you, I says we hike it by fifty.”
“You can’t do this to us,” I said. “Is it even legal?”
“Them’s the rules. Not me who made ’em up.” Randy shuffled off, sniffing to himself.
I watched his disappearing back in dismay. I closed the door and leaned against it.
Katy’s apartment was really Dick’s apartment. He’d rented it out for her, under his name, with the express agreement she paid all rent and utilities. It was an informal arrangement between the two, and Dick never seemed to care about the cost of the rent and how fast it was going up. He was doing her a favor as far as he was concerned.
This small studio, located in the cheap student district above a Chinese takeout shop, was only a few square feet bigger than Grandma’s home in Goa. The main difference was while Grandma’s kitchen belonged in the nineteenth century, Katy’s came with appliances from the seventies. Instead of smells from the communal toilet in Goa, smells of Chinese fried rice came wafting in, which I had to admit was a million times better.
On my first day at Katy’s, I craved spring rolls all day long, salivating at the thought of biting into a crispy wrapper filled with mint leaves, shredded carrot, and sweet dipping sauce. After five days, the smell became less alluring. By the tenth day and onward, I didn’t want to have another Chinese spring roll for the rest of my life.
At night, I slept on the sofa while Katy slept on her single bed in the corner. Other than that, there was enough space for a kitchenette table and two chairs. After living in Mrs. Rao’s spacious mansion in the northern Toronto suburbs, Katy’s apartment felt like a shack in a shantytown. But compared to how I’d lived in Goa, this was a roomy place with a full bathroom for the two of us, a luxury compared to Grandma’s old home. I had nothing to complain about.
I threw the letter on the kitchen table with a sigh and walked over to my mixing bowl. Katy wasn’t going to be happy to hear this news. Just as I picked up my spoon, the telephone rang.
What a busy day.
“Hello?” I said.
Frrzzzz. It was static coming down the line.
“Hello?”
I heard the faint sound of someone breathing, mixed with the buzz of static.
“Is anyone there?” I said.
“Is this Asha talking?” It was a distinct Indian accent. A man.
My heart skipped a beat. “Who…?” I swallowed. “Who’s this?”
More static.
“Who are you?” I said, my heart beating faster now.
The line went dead.
I stared at the handset for a few seconds before placing it back on its cradle. No one knew I was staying here. No one had this number except for Dick, and he didn’t have an Indian accent. Within seconds, the phone rang again, making me jump. I yanked the phone to my ear.
“Who’s this?” I barked. “You better tell me or—”
“Asha?”
“Katy?” I said in relief.
“I’m so glad you’re home. I was worried. What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing,” I lied.
“You sound funny.”
I hesitated. “Just got a call. Wrong number I think.”
That strange feeling of being watched came over me again and I gave a quick glance at the window. But no one was looking in from our second-floor apartment window.
I’m getting paranoid.
“Reason I’m calling,” Katy was saying, “is because Dick says he didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean what?”
“To fire you.”
“Again?”
“He’s really sorry this time.”
“Sorry? Dick? Why can’t he call and say sorry?”
“He’s under a lot of pressure these days. He owes Jose a ton of money, so he’s totally stressed out. He told me to tell you that.”
“Who’s this Jose you keep talking about?”
“His business partner from Detroit. Dick’s borrowed a lot of money from him and is in pretty bad shape. I did the books this month, and things don’t look too good. It hasn’t looked good for a while now really. That’s why he can’t give us a raise.”
“Maybe Dick should stop his trips to the racetrack and strip clubs and pay his partner back,” I said, feeling my face getting warm. “Anyway, he shouldn’t be taking out his frustrations on us. Especially on you.”
“He’s begging you to come back.”
“Really, Katy?” I couldn’t imagine Dick begging anyone for anything.
“Okay, I’m begging you to. There’s a big order tomorrow, and they want a batch of fifty cupcakes. And I truly believe he’s sorry.”
How she couldn’t see his bad side was baffling.
“He needs me now? Maybe I don’t need him,” I said, more out of spite than anything else.
“Please, Asha? Please?”
I sighed. I could never leave Katy hanging.
“Well…,” I hesitated.
“It’s not like we have much choice anyway, do we?” she said.
I thought about that for a second. Katy had half a point. She had a choice. I didn’t.