Rosie (19 page)

“Well, I gotta go. Come over at four,” said Sharon, leaving Rosie off at the boardwalk.

“Okay. See ya.” She watched Sharon walk away. There was over five dollars in the pocket of her voluminous shorts, and nearly an hour and a half to kill. And she couldn't go home.

She was lonelier that anyone had ever been before, except for Typhoid Mary. Everything felt wrong, like a creepy dream, and she was afraid she was going to die: Rosie was stoned with fear.

She bought a package of bubble gum at the five and dime, where she saw herself in a full-length mirror: ugly, skinny, evil. Her eyebrows looked like caterpillars. Her heavy black curls and her eyes were devilish, like that lady with snakes for hair, whose face turned you to stone. Don't look! Turn away! But for a moment, she didn't move a muscle.

“Rosie?”

“Yeah?” She whipped around, out of the trance. Mavis Lee was ringing up her purchase at the cash register, normal chubby nice Mavis Lee, who'd known her all her life.

“Here's your change. What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? Where's your sidekick?”

“At her violin lesson. Until
four.”

“Is that why the long face?”

“No. Derrr. I have to go,” Rosie said glumly, unwrapping a piece of gum.

“‘Bye, Rosie,” Mavis Lee said, scowling in imitation. Rosie scowled good-naturedly and dropped her head forward, sticking the gum in her mouth, tracing the letter R on the floor with the toe of one shoe, happily embarrassed. Chubby old Mavis dropped her head, silently stammering.

“Tssss,” said Rosie, smiling, and crossed her arms reflexively. Mavis crossed hers and twittered her face like Mrs. Haas did, the look Elizabeth said was gratified indignation, and after a moment looked at an imaginary wristwatch. Rosie giggled, chewing her wad, thoroughly pleased with the attention. Slowly, with her eyes on Mavis, she blew a thick pink bubble. Mavis's brown eyes grew bigger, as did the bubble, now the size of an orange, bulging bigger and bigger; it was tormenting Mavis, and Rosie relished the moment. Mavis thought it was going to burst all over her face. She took it out of her mouth, tied it off, bit a small hole in it, and dangled it before her eyes as it deflated. Then she put it back in her mouth, said goodbye, and left.

By the time she reached the beauty salon, she was glum again. Only ten minutes had passed since Sharon said goodbye. Standing on one foot, she looked into the window at the ladies getting haircuts, or getting curlers, or under the drier. She blew a bubble, and furrowing her brow she gazed vacantly at the coils of blond hair which lay on the linoleum floor beneath a beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman Rosie had ever seen. The blonde read a magazine while a man put her hair in pink curlers. The blonde was Beauty: the daydream began.

Rosie's eyes crossed almost imperceptibly, and her lips parted; a small bubble covered all but her bottom lip, and remained so for the length of her trance: She was grown up, with blond hair, and so good, so good that she could love the Beast. She looked deep into his eyes, knew they loved each other, took him by the paw, and led him home. He could live in the study—somehow
she would hide him from her mother. One morning she would bring her poor beast a bowl of cereal and find him dead. She and Sharon would drag him outside to the rosebushes and bury him. Rosie would cry, “I finally found my beast, and now I've lost him.” Then the prince would fall in love with her, and she would say, “No, I cannot marry you, for I love my beast,” and he would say, “Look into my eyes,
I am
your beast.” And it turned out he got to be a prince because of Rosie's love. The end.

She snapped to with a blink, and looked at the clock in the beauty salon. It was only
three
minutes later, forty-five to go until she could begin walking to Sharon's. To make the time pass, she forced herself to sing “This Old Man,” all the way through till he played ten, he played knicknack again and again, and then made herself move next door, to the record store, where she stared at the records in the window and sang “This Old Man” all the way through again. Then she moved sideways to the next shop, women's clothing, and sang “This Old Man” again. By the clock in the butcher store, sixteen minutes had passed. She glared at the clock; twenty-nine minutes to go, and Sharon's house was only five minutes away. She walked in baby steps for as long as she could toward Sharon's.

Mr. Thackery's car was parked in the driveway, and when she got to the front stairs, she could hear typing from the open window in his study on the second floor. She knew that she and Sharon were not allowed to be in the house with him if Mrs. Thackery wasn't here, because they got on his nerves, so she sat huddled forlornly on the front step. Thick bored time passed. She could stand it no longer: if she could just play with Sharon's toys and trolls, Mrs. Thackery and Sharon would be home before she knew it. But she couldn't go in. Making several braids in a troll's hair took time; she could play with the musical jewelry box, with the jewels and the ballerina who spun when the lid was lifted, or she could color in the King Tut coloring book. She fiddled with a plastic-tipped shoelace, wrote with it on the cement stair, wrote her name in a layer of fine dirt:
Rosie.
She turned her head and peered up at the open window. She shouldn't go in. But she did.

She closed the door softly and walked up the stairs, not
making a sound. Her heart began pounding in her throat as she crept to the closed study door. Taking a big swallow, she asked, in a high quavery voice, “Mr. Thackery?”

He didn't answer for a moment. “Yes?”

“It's Rosie.”

Again, he didn't answer right away. “Yes?”

“I'm supposed to meet Sharon here at four? But I was wondering if I could play in her room until she gets here?”

“Well, sure. Come on in for a minute.”

Rosie opened the door a crack and peeked in.

“Come on in, all the way. That's a girl. Don't be shy.”

Mr. Thackery sat at a huge, ancient desk and looked at her in a friendly way.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Rosie. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry if I yelled at you two this morning. I was trying to concentrate.”

“Oh, that's okay.” Rosie looked around in wonder; although she had peeked in once or twice with Sharon, she had never been inside this room. There was a boat like the
Santa Maria
in a bottle, an antique desk with a globe on it, a shelf filled with ivory statues, a great warrior's sword with jewels on the handle, and a huge aromatic leather easy chair that looked like a throne.

“Have you ever been in here?” he asked, not getting up.

His face was kind and roundish, pink and fatherly. She shook her head.

“Well, look around.”

She did: a grandfather clock said fifteen minutes till four. A clear glass stallion reared on its hind legs, a large framed photograph showed Mrs. Thackery holding Sharon when she was a baby—Sharon had been the prettiest baby in the world—and an old-fashioned gun was displayed in a glass case on the wall.

“Here's something you'll like,” he said, opening his desk. Rosie just looked at him. “Come here. My father gave it to me when I turned eight. Are you eight yet?”

Rosie nodded her head. “Yeah.” She walked to his desk to see what he was taking out.

It was a very, very old pocket knife. He pulled it out and
stroked its sleek silver blade, replaced it, dropped it back in the drawer. He got up from his desk, and indicated that Rosie should sit down in his chair. She looked up quizzically into his kind face. He nodded once, and she sat down. She bounced on the cushion, gripping the broad padded arms, pushed back slightly, found courage, and reached for a wrapped cigar on the desk. She inhaled it, leaning backward, smoked it like Groucho Marx. Mr. Thackery laughed, and Rosie blushed, happy again. He was standing close to her, on her side, like a father would, like he was her father. She knew he was smiling down on her. At that moment, she had a tremendous crush on him and sought his approval—another laugh: she straightened up in the chair and reached forward to push an imaginary button on his telephone. “Yes, Mrs. Binsley, will you please send in a dozen donuts?” And he laughed. “Thenk you veddy much,” she said. And he laughed again. It was ten of four.

His hands were jammed into the pockets of his suit pants, and she saw, out of the corner of her eyes, what she thought was his hand moving in his pocket. It brushed faintly on her shoulder, and electricity flowed through her. Something was going wrong here; she looked up into his friendly face, and he held her glance, a glance full of the entranced helplessness of a child; and at the bottom of her vision was movement, and slowly her eyes moved downward, and his zipper was undone and coming out of it hard and upright was a—no, no, this couldn't be, she stared at his hand on the huge purplish-red veiny dick, at the hideous tuft of black frizzy hair, and waited to wake up.

He touched it to her arm. It was like hard rubber.

“I show Sharon all the time”—Row
row row your boat—“it's
good for girls to see their fathers naked; it's nothing to be ashamed of”—
gently down the stream,
time is standing still—“if your father were alive”—life
is but a dream.
Life is but a dream.
Row row row your boat, gently....
It was sticking straight out, waving. “Sometimes Sharon touches it.” No, Sharon wouldn't touch it.

She's in the nightmare where she can't move, where she's paralyzed, underwater: the top part of it looks like a purple
mushroom, and he has his hand wrapped around the rest of it, is moving it up and down like a conductor pulling on the train whistle's string....

“Go to Sharon's room, there's a girl,” he said, and stepped away from her chair. His breathing was louder now, and at first she couldn't move, but then slowly, afraid that he would grab her, she inched out of the chair and without looking at him, once again not blinking, she tiptoed toward the door. Two minutes till four.

“Rosie? I think you better not tell anyone. Okay?” Rosie, at the door, with her back turned to him, nodded several times.

It was a dream, but even in a dream you had to run for your life; her mother would be furious at her if she knew. Sharon wouldn't really touch it. It was so ugly that she would never get it out of her mind, everywhere she went she would see it; she would go crazy, like the girl in
The Mummy with the Green Diamond Eyes
She was taking the stairs two at a time, she had to get out of there before Sharon and her mother got back, she could never come over again ... but throwing open the front door, Rosie saw Sharon walking toward her, holding a violin case, and Mrs. Thackery struggling with a bag of groceries in the back seat, and she was trapped. Her heart was pounding a million times a minute, and she wanted to run to the back yard, climb over the gate, and escape, but Sharon ran up to her.

Sharon took one look at Rosie, and her eyes grew huge and alarmed, and they both looked as if, if you pushed the right button, they would spring twenty feet in the air.

“I have to go—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Sharon grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the house. Rosie dug her feet in like a mule, and Sharon said, “I just have to put my violin inside,” and before Rosie could collect her thoughts, Sharon had dashed to the house, opened the door, stuck her violin inside, and run back to Rosie. They looked at each other, and then over at Sharon's mother, who was walking toward them holding the grocery bag.

Rosie pulled herself together, or so she thought: she had her eyebrows raised all the way up so that her eyes looked half awake, and her mouth was in a tiny tight smile. She moved
toward Mrs. Thackery and the gate as if walking on eggshells. “Hi,” she said, raising her hand in salute. Sharon was all but tiptoeing too, looking as if she were about to whistle.

“Hi, Rosie, my dear. Did you just arrive?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Mommy? We're going to the schoolyard.”

Rosie nodded.

“Well, all right. but be home by six, at the latest.”

“Well, ‘bye,” said Rosie, still nodding.

“Goodbye.”

They ran, hell bent for leather, past the school, through the town, across the old railroad yard, until they came to the start of the Mexican Trail. They stopped to catch their breath. Straw-colored now, the hills of the ridge ran downward like the knuckles of a lion-paw foot, covered here and there with green patchwork, bunched and nappy from a distance, like fleece. Rosie and Sharon leaned, gasping, against the trunk of a great cypress with fantailed branches that looked like a catcher's mitt: Charles Adderly had pointed out the resemblance once, in his sprier days. You could watch it catch a northerly, flick its wrist, and fling the wind back toward the bay.

They set out at a fast clip up the trail, bordered on either side by trees through which the afternoon sun lay in slats and sometimes broad beams on the ground. Birdsong, and the crunch of leaves, twigs, and acorns in the dirt beneath their feet.

Rosie looked grim. Now no longer positive that Mr. Thackery had shown her his dick, she was at the same time filled with the dreadful prospect of having the memory of it appear in her mind every few seconds for the rest of her life. The images would haunt her forever: his dick and the knife. And the gun. What if she told, would he hurt her? Who could she tell? Rae was gone, and her mother would do something drunk and humiliating. The Adderlys were too far away, and besides, you weren't supposed to mention dicks in front of old people. She would never be happy again.

“Sharon?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” Sharon knew the secret too.

“Jackie Boy?”

“I don't feel like singing,” said Rosie.

“Just one song.”

“Okay.”

“Jackie Boy?”