Charlotte au Chocolat by Charlotte Silver

pictured the too-small bathroom of our latest apartment steaming from my mother’s perfumed bubble bath. It was Saturday. We had two hundred and fifty reservations on the books. If I went to the restaurant, I would only be able to order an appetizer, and then I’d have to eat it in the office, making sure not to spill my food on the piles of bills.
    I heard the yank of a zipper and the teeth scraping against the silk lining of McKenzie’s bustier. “Come on,” she said, buttoning up her cardigan. “I don’t want to be late.” So I dropped the garter in my hand and I followed her, back to the restaurant.
    Several months later, my mother came home from work and said, “Charlotte, come out in the hall for a second. I have a present for you.”
    She had a knack for sudden gifts, my mother. Often she brought me home lilac sachets or Tiffany key chains, but I wondered what could be out in the hallway.
    â€œIt’s big,” she said. “I had to hire one of the guys in the kitchen to get it up the stairs.”
    We stepped out into the hallway. She told me to close my eyes, and when I opened them, I saw a vanity table. Pink-and-green silk ribbons dangled in front of the mirror. I had always longed for a vanity table.
    â€œThank you, Mummy, it’s . . .”
    â€œIsn’t it a beauty? McKenzie thought you would like it.” I tugged one of the ribbons. “It used to be McKenzie’s,” she said. “She wanted to get rid of it before the move.”
    I paused. Then I asked, “Where is she moving to this time?”
    â€œOh, LA. You know, for acting.”
    The ribbon slid to the floor. It didn’t matter; there were other ribbons.
    I t was a Saturday morning, one of those long Saturday mornings when the dining room was empty and I had nothing to do. I stood on top of the chair outside the waiters’ station, staring at the poster of the man with the top hat and fangs, and when I touched the case, dust caked my fingertips. Had Richard told the truth? Did the Pudding ghost live inside the frame? I couldn’t find out yet, because ghosts didn’t come out in the sunshine. We hadn’t set the table for staff lunch yet and I hadn’t seen anybody pop open a bottle of red wine. That’s how early it was.
    Moments passed, more dust blew off the poster case, and then I heard a scream from the kitchen, a scream that could have punctured the vaulted ceiling. Then I heard another one.
    â€œA mouse!” my mother cried. “A mouse!”
    â€œNo, it’s—” I heard Carla’s voice.
    â€œOh, no, don’t tell me it’s a rat!”
    â€œFire!”
    Mixing spoons and copper pots clattered against the floor. The dishwasher turned off his faucet. I was still standing on top of the chair and my knees wobbled.
    â€œCharlotte,”
said Carla, thrusting open the double doors, “get out of here. Get out of here
now
.”
    â€œBut my mother—”
    â€œYour mother’s
fine
. Now go!”
    I jumped down from the chair. As I dashed through the dining room, I smelled smoke curling in the air. The black-painted doors had never felt so heavy to me as they did at that moment. I was alone as I fled down the staircase, and I could not hear anything, not even curses or screams, from upstairs. My mother—my mother might
die
. They all might die in the flames.
    Outside, I crossed the street and stared at the building. I didn’t see any flames, only smoke, plumes and plumes of smoke spiraling around the building. My mother was fine, Carla had said. She was fine. Holyoke Street was empty except for me, and I cried, I cried in great, racking sobs. Even later, when the fire trucks roared down the street and spectators had started to gather on the sidewalk, I was still crying.
    The building had not burned down after all. The clouds of smoke thinned, and then the chefs slunk out from the alley. They