Last Call (31 page)

chapter fifty-one

D
iana awakens the next morning with a start, feeling certain that she knows where Rosamond has gone. It’s almost as if the awareness had entered her consciousness through a dream just before waking from a brief and fitful sleep. It had been impossible to rest, her mind constantly imagining the horrors befalling Rosamond out on the streets of Brooklyn, without a credit card or bank account.

Pulling on her robe as she goes, Diana rushes downstairs and out the front door. She jogs barefoot across the dew-damp lawn and hurries up the steps to Bobbie Anne’s. The front door is open and through the screen Diana sees the little girls watching cartoons in the living room.

A second later, when Diana glimpses Rosamond, she’s momentarily startled that her premonition was so accurate. She experiences the mixed emotions of a parent locating a runaway child—relief that the fugitive is unharmed and fury at all the distress she’s caused. Certainly Rosamond is an adult and can pack up whenever she wants. But she’s also Diana’s friend, and as such has a responsibility not to worry her unnecessarily—or Hayden, Joey, and Hank, for that matter. The more Diana dwells on that sentiment the angrier she becomes. She knocks on the metal frame and calls “Rosamond!” through the screen.

As Rosamond approaches the door she’s wearing a smile that quickly vanishes when she sees Diana’s stern look and arms akimbo, after the fashion of an irritated high school principal. “We’ve been worried to death about you! Hayden and Hank checked the hospital and even went to the police!”

Rosamond quickly joins Diana on the front porch so the children can’t hear what’s being said.

“I thought you were my friend!” Diana continues. Suddenly the stress of Rosamond’s absence and Hayden’s illness all bubble over and Diana begins to sob. “I thought you were
our
friend.”

It’s only at this moment that Rosamond understands the full impact of her behavior. In the convent when you had difficulties it was simply accepted that you would go to confession, sequester yourself, and pray, or if worse came to worst, talk to the mother superior. “I’m sorry.” Rosamond places her arms around her friend.

Diana’s relief at finding Rosamond alive and in one piece rapidly overcomes her anger and she hugs her friend in return. They sit down on the steps while Rosamond pours out the story of what happened, the events of the previous day flashing in bold relief as if they’re occurring all over again.

Rosamond had arrived at Bobbie Anne’s house the evening before, after spending the day wandering around Prospect Park and meditating on her situation. It was one thing to leave the convent. Many nuns worked as teachers and nurses and even artists and lawyers. But going on vacation with a man was another thing altogether. And so was causing rancor and chaos in the household of people you’d grown to love.

She’d strolled aimlessly around the circular walks flanking the Soldier’s and Sailor’s Memorial Arch, gazing at the gardens and staring into the fountain until she was almost hypnotized. Then she watched the carousel with its brightly painted horses spinning round and round, and the carnival-like music making the perfect accompaniment to the joyous shouts of children. A few tears fell as she attempted to reach the center of her sorrow and determine what it really was that she ached for.

While digging in her purse for a tissue Rosamond found the baseball card that Joey had given her the day they’d gone to the game farm, almost eight weeks before, seemingly a lifetime. On that day the rows of tiny numbers on the back hadn’t made any sense to her. But since then Hayden and Joey had taught her the meaning of TBS, SBs, RBIs, averages, fielding statistics, and shutouts. With this knowledge she now studied the back of the card for the first time. What became clear was that a baseball player, even a great player, didn’t always have a good game, or even a good season, for that matter. Their luck, skill, and grace, whatever one wanted to call it, was intermittent. Perfection was elusive and often short-lived, even for those in the major leagues. And so where did the faith come from? The team, the coach, from within?

Pondering all this, she wandered into the serene and unobtrusive Quaker Cemetery near the Sixteenth Street entrance to the park, pausing among the headstones as she wondered if, at the end of their time on earth, the people resting here thought they’d made the right choices in life. If they could do it all over again would they change anything, or perhaps everything? She sat on a granite bench and prayed, but grace eluded her. Eventually the sun began to set and the trees cast long dark shadows across the lawn and surrounding hedges.

It was in front of the park that Rosamond spotted Bobbie Anne walking down the street carrying two heavy bags of groceries. She was beautifully dressed in an ivory-colored two-piece suit with threads of silk running through the material, a taupe camisole underneath, matching hose, and high-heeled pumps. A dainty white straw handbag with a gold clasp swung at her side. Rosamond was afraid even to consider where Bobbie Anne had spent the afternoon.

Hurrying to catch up with her, Rosamond took one of the bags before Bobbie Anne could protest. Though Bobbie Anne made it clear from her expression that she wasn’t at all pleased to see Rosamond, who wasn’t as a rule the bearer of glad tidings, or at the very least willing to engage in a live-and-let-live truce between neighbors.

“I was wondering if I might ask you a question,” said Rosamond, accelerating her pace to keep up with Bobbie Anne’s long-legged stride.

Bobbie Anne looked at her unwanted helper and sighed. “To be honest, I’d really appreciate it if you’d mind your own business, for a change.”

Rosamond’s breath quickened more from the sting of the insult than walking hurriedly under the weight of the grocery bag. “That’s what I wanted to talk about—I’m sorry. I mean, you’re right. How you live your life isn’t any of my business.”

Bobbie Anne, indifferent to hearing what she already knew, nodded her head ever so slightly, as if acknowledging a crack in the sidewalk.

However, Rosamond was aware that their neighbor had been raised in the Catholic Church, and that no matter how far away you may travel, the experience is never completely erased. And therefore it was doubtful that Bobbie Anne would be able to withhold forgiveness in the face of a sincere request. Those were the rules. Everyone knew it, from God to Jesus to Paul and right on down the line.

Eventually Bobbie Anne peered down at Rosamond as she trotted along beside her, silently awaiting some sort of absolution, as if Bobbie Anne herself were the pope. “Yeah, whatever. Forget about it,” she said at last.

When they reached Bobbie Anne’s front door Rosamond insisted on carrying the bag into the kitchen. The twins came tumbling down the stairs in their nightgowns and fell into their mother’s arms, a cyclone of light brown ponytails, pink cheeks, and Powerpuff Girls insignia. Rosamond knew the little girls from watching them play in the yard and going duck herding with Hayden and Joey, and said hello. They had no idea about any differences between Rosamond and their mother, and were very friendly toward her.

Rosamond continued to wait while Bobbie Anne handed the baby-sitter three crisp twenty-dollar bills that appeared as if they’d just been drawn from a cash machine. What was the origin of the money, Rosamond couldn’t help but wonder—a banker, a stockbroker?

After exchanging scheduling notes about the following week, the baby-sitter hugged the girls, said good-bye to everyone, and left.

“Thanks for the help,” Bobbie Anne said to Rosamond, indicating that she was welcome to follow the baby-sitter out the door.

Yet Rosamond still wanted to ask her a question, though she was no longer sure exactly what it was. She felt that if she could just stay there for a while it might all be revealed. Rosamond continued to stand in the living room but no words came. Bobbie Anne looked at her expectantly.

“I . . . I can’t go home yet,” Rosamond finally blurted out.

Now most people would ask “why” after a statement like that. But Bobbie Anne had worries enough without involving herself in other people’s problems. Also, she’d been around long enough to know full well all the usual reasons a person can’t go home, and that they were all pretty much the same. However, being raised in the South, hospitality was ingrained in her. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner.”

Bobbie Anne made them hamburgers and after the girls were tucked into their beds she showed Rosamond to the alcove off the kitchen, which had apparently served as the maid’s quarters when the town house was originally built back in the 1920s.

“Aren’t they going to be worried about you?” asked Bobbie Anne. Had Rosamond been in the convent so long that she didn’t understand how if you live with a bunch of people who are not omniscient, unlike her old boyfriend, God, and then suddenly disappear, in most cases they go looking for you?

“I’ve only created a lot of chaos and unhappiness over there,” replied Rosamond. “Joey hates me. Hayden’s daughter Linda believes I’m a con artist. And he asked me to go on vacation with him.” Rosamond carefully pulled back the bedcovers while Bobbie Anne leaned against the door frame.

Bobbie Anne had never known a crew of neighbors with so many dramas, not even when she was a sorority sister in high school. Ever since the nosy daughter moved in there were men either shouting or serenading every time Bobbie Anne opened the window at night. Furthermore, Bobbie Anne had been under the impression that Hayden and Rosamond had been shacking up all summer, that the moment that old black habit disappeared it was replaced by the old black magic, and all bets with The Big Guy were off. She briefly wondered if Hayden had confessed to their little fling last winter, and that’s why Rosamond had given Bobbie Anne such a hard time about plying her trade. But she’d eventually decided no, Hayden was too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell.

“As for Joey, if kids don’t hate you at least once a day then you’re not raising them right,” Bobbie Anne said in her pleasant drawl and softened her countenance with a smile. “And Hayden told me about that loco daughter Linda. She doesn’t know if she’s washin’ or hangin’. Sounds as if someone went and stole her rudder.”

Rosamond finally smiled, too. “Do you think I should go?”

“Stay here for the night. It makes men crazy when they don’t know where you are—it’s a lack of control.”

“I meant on the vacation?” Rosamond asked in a voice all trembly, her emotional state disintegrating at the very mention of the trip. “Will it make things better or worse?”

Why were people constantly asking Bobbie Anne these kinds of questions? she wondered. For starters, she was considerably younger than most of them. And except for the house, which was mortgaged to the hilt, she was broke. On top of all that, she didn’t even have a college degree.

Bobbie Anne was tempted to tell Rosamond to do whatever she felt was right, or that she should just go and have a good time, especially since she knew from speaking to Hayden that Rosamond also had terminal cancer, though probably not as advanced as his. But of course those were the kinds of answers people came up with for themselves and so they were never found to be very satisfying.

“You’ve kissed him, right?” asked Bobbie Anne.

“Not really,” admitted Rosamond.

“Have you kissed
any
men?”

“I kiss Joey every night before he goes to bed.”

“That’s a good example,” said Bobbie Anne. “Kisses can have different meanings. When you kiss a child it’s to tell them you love them in a parental way. A kiss with a friend might mean hello or good-bye. You can kiss a lover and feel unexpected passion or else watch the passion run right out the door. But you have to start somewhere.”

Rosamond nodded her head as if this made sense, though it didn’t, and she still couldn’t tell whether it meant she should kiss Hayden and then decide about the vacation. Or if she should go, but make sure to kiss him only as a friend. Even the word
passion
was confusing. In the Bible and in Latin, passion means “to suffer,” specifically the suffering and death of Jesus. And if that was the correct definition then Rosamond had been experiencing more than her fair share of it.

Bobbie Anne realized that Rosamond was still bewildered. “The point is, you can decide what a kiss means. They’re like words—they are nothing but the meaning we invest in them. It’s the same with sex. It doesn’t have to be—you know—as meaningful as you’re making it. It
can
be. But you can also decide that it didn’t mean anything.” Then she added in a softer, world-weary tone, “And if you do it for money you can decide it’s just a job.”

“I keep thinking about God,” Rosamond whispered, as if He might overhear them.

“Well, God is another word that we invest with meaning. My God knows that I’ve had to do some things I’m not particularly proud of to provide for my family, but I don’t think He’s going to hold it against me in the end, as long as I try to be a good mother. Because I
love
my children. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what it’s all about?” Bobbie Anne’s smoldering voice charged her words with an authority and even a sense of enchantment that belied her youth, sex, and lack of higher education. She kissed Rosamond good night on the cheek. Exiting the room Bobbie Anne recited the only prayer from her vast childhood repertoire that she still employed: “Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony please look around, something is lost and must be found.” Rosamond recognized the Prayer for Lost Objects from when she was a schoolgirl. There wasn’t a Catholic anywhere, lapsed or otherwise, who didn’t trust in the prayer to Saint Anthony.

As Rosamond finishes telling Diana what happened, Hayden appears on the front porch, his pajamas wrinkled and his face haggard from a sleepless night. Seeing the women sitting together on the neighbor’s stoop causes him to rub his eyes in order to make sure they’re not playing tricks on him, as they sometimes did after a few whiskeys. It doesn’t help that a curtain of emerald leaves sifts the piercing August light until it glitters and trembles on the lawn, turning the tiny yard between the houses into what looks like a river of broken mirrors. And within the bushes that veil the two women silvery cobwebs flash pockets of sun as if little flames are leaping among them.