Rosie (22 page)

“So, tell me about New Mexico.”

“God, it was great.”

“Are you over Brian?”

“Tsssst. Water off a duck's back.”

“Yeah?”

“The guy was an asshole, Elizabeth. I don't know why you kept pushing me into his arms.”

Elizabeth smiled. Rae lit a cigarette. The corner of Rosie's mouth turned down: no one noticed.

Rae burst out laughing. The Fergusons watched.

“I gotta tell you both this one thing that happened.” Rosie and Elizabeth nodded. “And you're both sworn to secrecy ... Okay. When I first arrived in Nambe, I was totally depressed about Brian, right? I was shuffling around moaning, I seen sunrise, I seen moonrise, lay dis ole darkie down.” Elizabeth smiled, and took a sip: God, I have missed you, Rae.

“But a few days after I got there, my friend introduces me to this guy named Peter, who's pretty funny, and I kept hoping he'd call and ask me out. But he didn't.”

“Is this going to be an uddult story?” Rosie asked.

Rae nodded. Rosie got to her feet.

“Oh, don't go, sweetheart,” said Rae. “I can tell your mom another time.”

“No, that's all right. I have to do this thing inside, and then I'll come back out.”

“Promise?” Rosie nodded, and went to the door. Elizabeth shook her head, and took another sip.

“Go on with your story.”

“You really want to hear it?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“You're not just saying that?”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Okay, so there I am, down and out in New Mexico. One day I go into town and eat roughly ten pounds of Mexican food, then head for the drugstore for candy—it's one of those savage pig animal days. I buy a bag of M&M's, and a
People
magazine, which I take outside to read in the sun. In it, I learn that anorexics gobble down laxatives to lose weight. My eyes open wide,
and I go back into the drugstore, and up to the pharmacist. The store's crowded, and I sort of whisper to her that I need a good strong laxative. Well, she's got a voice you could cut glass with, and she starts screeching laxative suggestions at me.” Rae threw back her head and laughed.

“She hands me the kind she uses, and it says, ‘the gentle laxative,' but I can't bring myself to say I want something
ruthless,
something called Dyno-Lax or something, so I buy it, and eat most of the box.”

“Then I go home to Eileen's, raid the refrigerator, and wait for something to happen. But nothing does, nothing at all. And then, several hours and two snacks later, Peter calls and invites me to dinner that night.”

“‘Hope you're hungry,' he says.”

“‘Starved,' I say. ‘Haven't eaten all day.'”

“Oh, Rae.” Elizabeth laughed.

“Okay. To make a long story somewhat shorter, I get all dolled up, my black silk dress, pearls, sexy black heels, lots of makeup ... and we go out to dinner. Peter and I really hit it off. By now, I've completely forgotten about the laxatives. He invites me home for a nightcap, and we both know I'm going to spend the night.”

“When we get there, we have a brandy, and listen to records and then—I swear to God—he says he's got blisters on his feet from jogging, and he's got to soak them for a few minutes. I figure his feet are dirty or something, and we're about to go to bed, so I say, ‘Fine, fine.' He pours me another drink, hands me the new
New Yorker,
and goes into the bathroom. Closes the door, runs water in. the bathtub. I sit there reading happily, feeling like the sexiest woman alive, when all of a sudden I've got to shit so bad that my eyes are watering.”

“Oh, God! What did you do?”

“I sat there praying, squeezing my cheeks together, not blinking. I hear him running more water, he's going to be in there forever, and
I
am dying, Egypt, dying. I am
bursting.
I have never, in my life, been more desperate.”

Rae began honking with laughter.

“So I decide my only chance is to shit in a saucepan or
some-thing, and throw it out the window; honest to God, that was my plan. Fuckin' A, mama, I'm thirty-two years old, in silk and pearls, the sexiest woman alive, thinking, He'll never ask me out again if he comes out and I'm squatting over a saucepan....”

Elizabeth roared.

“But there was no other way! I'm wishing I was dead, I'm worrying that I'll throw the saucepan out the window and it will kill a pedestrian and the police will come knocking at the door.”

Elizabeth held her sides.

“And then, miraculously, he emerges, and I smile prettily and say, ‘Oh, la-dee-dah, there you are,' and I make it to the bathroom with one or two seconds to spare.”

The women sat laughing in the sun.

“Did he ask you out again?”

Rae shook her head. Elizabeth shrugged.

“Oh, well.”

“Boy, I missed you. Who else could I tell that story to?”

“It's great to have you home. I missed you too. So did Rosie.”

“Is something bothering her? She's
never
left during one of my stories before. Am I losing my touch?”

“Something's on her mind. But she won't tell what it is.”

“Well. Sometimes it's just hard, being a kid.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in agreement.

“Do you know what the Arabic root for ‘child' means?”

“Now, Rae, how the hell would I know what—”

“Well, see, the only reason I know is I read this book called
Arabia
while I was in Santa Fe.”

“Oh.”

“And ‘child' means, among other things, ‘to intrude on and sponge off of, to arrive uninvited and impose upon.' And it
also
means softness, and potter's clay, and dawn.”

“Yeah?”

Rae nodded.

Elizabeth took a long sip of ale. “Potter's clay.” Rosie's turning out like me. “Dawn.” A new day, somewhere down the road...

“Elizabeth?”

“Yeah?”

“I think that if you were to ask me nicely, I would stay for dinner.”

“Good! I'm making lasagna—with sausage. Let's go find Rosie, and cook.”

“All
right.”

“Rosie!” Elizabeth called from the bottom of the stairs.

“What?” Rosie was lying face down on her bed.

“Come on down. Rae's going to stay for dinner. Come help us make lasagne.”

“I'll be down in a minute.”

Rosie shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later. Rae took one look at her eyes and lifted her off the ground in a hug: Rosie clung to her for dear life.

Elizabeth watched them with a sad look on her face.

Rae set Rosie back down. “What's the matter, sweetheart?”

Rosie scowled, shrugged.

“Don't you want to talk about it? You'll feel better.”

Rosie shook her head.

“Well, will you help us make lasagne? I've invited myself to dinner.”

“Okay.”

Elizabeth assembled the ingredients and together they began to make dinner. Rosie diced tomatoes from the garden for the sauce, while Rae sauteed ten toes of garlic in butter, and then added sausage. Elizabeth minced fresh basil and parsley.

“Would you like a drink, Rae?”

“No, thanks.”

“I'm ready for a short one.” Elizabeth went to the cupboard, got down the scotch, and poured herself a drink.

Rosie glowered. Rae noticed. Elizabeth got some ice cubes from the freezer, and dropped them into her drink.

“You done with the tomatoes, Rosie?” Rosie nodded glumly. “Then take them to Rae. Now you can help me slice the cheese.”

Rosie scowled at the ball of mozzarella. “This stretchy stuff?”

“Yeah. But wait till I get back—I'll just be a minute.”

Elizabeth took a sip of scotch and left the room. Rosie sat down at the table, and began tearing a paper towel into confetti-sized pieces. Rae turned to look at her.

“Come on, honey, out with it.”

Rosie squirmed, shrugged, said nothing. Staring down at the table, she saw in her mind's eye the hairy purple dick, and flushed. Rae came and stood beside her.

“You're having a hard time these days, aren't you?” After a moment, Rosie nodded. Rae sat next to her and stroked Rosie's cheek. “You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Rosie rubbed her eyes, miserable, squirming.

Rae pointed to the whiskey. “Is that what's on your mind?”

Rosie shrugged and sighed deeply.

“You and me gotta talk,” Rae whispered. “Okay?” Rosie rubbed her nose. “Really we do—as soon as you're ready. Maybe tomorrow?” Rosie shrugged. “And be nice tonight, okay?”

Rosie looked exasperated. Rae poked her in the stomach. Rosie doubled over, smiled.

Much later that night, James stood guard beside Rosie while she said her endless prayers, kneeling at the bed. Her head was bowed, so loose black rings barely touched the back of her white flannel nightgown and fell forward across her cheeks to the tips of her fingers. Spindle-like arms draped with flannel jutted out like wings, and she looked as small and fragile as a figurine from a creche, something like a cross between the Little Drummer Boy and the Little Match Girl.

James fingered the penknife in the pocket of his khakis. He was both moved and preoccupied, would watch her with tenderness a moment, stare into space the next. He wore a black Tshirt and argyle socks, one mostly green, one mostly gray.

Downstairs at the kitchen sink, Elizabeth finished up the dishes. She wore her hair up, and the white kimono, and a look of sedated regality.

She was listening to reggae on the radio: Bob Marley—Dead Marley—and Bunny Wailer; singing along softly, sipping unblended scotch. She was drunk enough to have decided that she was about to quit drinking.

She went upstairs to kiss Rosie good night, pushing off from the banister every few steps.

“James?” Rosie was asking.

“Yeah?”

“If the world blew up, would we still go to heaven?”

“Don't think about that before bed.”

“But would we?”

“Yes, I think so. I think our souls would survive.”

“Would they be burned?”

“What, our souls? Only physical things can be burned.”

“But what about in hell? Doesn't just your soul go down?”

“Good question.”

“Okay, sweetheart, hop into bed,” said Elizabeth, stepping into the room. “It's after ten.”

“Hi, Elizabeth.”

“Hi, James. Good night, Rosie. I love you.”

“Can Leon sleep in my room?”

“No. Leon sleeps outside. You know that.”

“But what if a killer comes into my room?”

“What good would Leon be? He'd race around the house, gathering shoes to drop at the killer's feet.” Elizabeth laughed.

“Don't worry, Rosie. Your mother locked the door. And if anyone got in, I'd tear them apart.”

“Really?”

“Limb from limb,” James snarled.

Rosie managed a small smile and climbed under the covers, wiggled around to warm up the sheets, and lay down with her head on the pillow.

Elizabeth kissed her eyes and mouth, James kissed her cheeks. Rosie was fine for about two minutes after they left.

Then, drifting off to sleep, the frizzy black hair appears on the dark screen behind her eyes and she watches the movie where Mr. Thackery touches her arm with his penis; in the movie his face looks eerie, like a retarded ghoul's, and it doesn't stop playing until she's sung “Row Row Row Your Boat” half a dozen times. It was late, and fairly soon, Rosie dozed.

Sometimes, like tonight, when Elizabeth saw the full moon, it looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe's face. James and Elizabeth
took off their clothes and climbed into bed. James switched off the lamp. They held each other.

She was about to fall asleep, but her hand brushed against his balls, and she petted them, rolled them between her thumb and forefinger, one at a time, both at once, and he exhaled a deep moan, like a wind from some faraway tropical place inside him.

“James? I want to tell you something.” He was scratching her shoulder blades, lightly. “I'm going to go on the wagon. Pretty soon.”

James hugged her. “I'll go on the wagon with you.”

“Okay. I'll let you know when I'm ready. It's going to be soon.”

Elizabeth nuzzled against him and closed her eyes, sleepy, relieved, and in a few seconds fell asleep.

She awoke a minute later. James was talking softly. She felt in a swirling fog. “What did you think?” he asked.

She searched through the fog for an answer.

“Two and two thirds Negroes.”

James didn't respond. She started to fall back to sleep.

“What did you say, Elizabeth?”

“Oh”—nonchalantly—“never mind.”

James was still holding her, snoring, when she woke with a headache at dawn.

Two hours later he was pounding away on the typewriter from behind the closed door of his study, coughing and occasionally laughing out loud. He was listening to KJAZ and perfectly happy without her.

She was depressed and tired as she squeegeed egg yolk off their breakfast plates with a toast crust. She went to the living room to read a book and heard Leon scratching at the front door. She begrudgingly went to let him in, and he tore through the house panting, joyous and hungry. In an actively bad mood now, she went to the kitchen, made him a bowl of Gravy Train, and lured him outside to the front porch with it. He mooed.

Inside, she looked at the closed study door like a hungry kid watching someone eat ice cream, and the clacking—the sound of
his life's work—got on her nerves, like a dripping faucet. Walking back to the living room, she slapped at her forehead, mistaking a lock of hair for a spider, and wiped at the corner of her mouth. Rosie stomped down the stairs and into the room, wearing red bermudas and her purple T-shirt.

“Me an' Sharon are going swimming with Mrs. Thackery today. Why didn't you wake me earlier? She's picking me up in an
hour.”

“Don't whine at me, baby. I'm tired.”

“I can't even find my suit,” she began, and in the next few minutes had infused the downstairs with frustrated demands and energy as pervasively as food escapes in a space ship, infusing every molecule in the air. “All the towels are wet. Leon took one of my zoris, will you drive me into town to buy some more? I need a dollar, for the snack bar. I don't
want
any breakfast. No, I
hate
eggs. You always make them so they're all snotty. God, I
hate
Raisin Bran, it's all boogery.”

And so on until Elizabeth yelled, at the top of her lungs in the kitchen, “Shut up!”

Elizabeth went upstairs to get ready for her interview at the bookstore, but sat on her bed for the longest time, immobilized. She could hear typing downstairs, and birds outside the window. She almost called the bookstore to cancel the interview. She was
so
tired.

Finally, though, for reasons she didn't understand, she put on a dress, and Spanish boots, and combs in her hair, and blusher on her cheeks, mascara on her lashes, and Chanel behind her ears and wrists.

She didn't get the job.

The owner's sister-in-law wanted to give it a try.

“Oh, I see,” said Elizabeth. “Well, thanks anyway.”

By the time she reached the doorway she was already in tears, and already reporting back to James and Rae that it was a lousy
bookstore, mostly diet and cat books, no Faulkner, no Woolf....

She drove to the grocery store, still sniffling, still rehearsing what she would tell her friends: James,
Betrayed by Rita Hayworth,
a novel by Manuel Puig, was in the cinema section. Oh, Rae, I didn't really even want the job. It's just that I wanted it to be me who said no, not them.

She dried her eyes, blew her nose, and went in to shop, with her head held high. She bought the makings for veal piccata, a six-pack of ale, and peaches. She began to feel better, paid, and left.

She wasn't ready to go home. She pulled off the road just past the harbor and looked out to sea. Streamers of silver and red burst through dark sworled clouds and were reflected perfectly on the water. The red spinnaker of an ancient ketch flapped. She opened an ale and watched an aircraft carrier plod toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

When she finished the ale, she opened another.

Her hazel eyes were old and sad in the rearview mirror, and the corners of her mouth drooped. She drank quickly and put the two empties on top of the groceries. They clinked against each other when she started driving home. She should have put them back in their carton.

Hers was the only car on the road. She reached into the glove box for a Certs and, fiddling with the jammed button, saw a gangling blur dash out of a roadside bush, watched a big blond puppy dive beneath her wheels, saw it in slow motion because her mind was speeding ahead of time, and heard a terrible thud—
kathunkakathunka kathunka
—like a book going around in the dryer.

She slammed on the brakes and the car stalled. The top of her head was coming off, and her heart beat in her ears. She slowly turned to see the bloody crumpled dog, felt a whirling revulsion in her guts: it might have been a child. Her thoughts were wild, full of terror, her white knuckles on the steering wheel were trembling, and she started the car and fled. Coward! Go back! Jesus Christ! Go back and deal with it, Elizabeth.

But she simply couldn't.

She parked outside her gate, turned off the engine, and came completely unglued. She was still sobbing ten minutes later when James opened the passenger door and slid in beside her.

“What's the matter? Didn't you get the job?”

She shook her head.

He held her. “There, there,” he said, “there, there”: Yossarian and Snowden, whose guts are spilling into his flak suit. “I'm cold, I'm cold,” “There, there.”

When Rosie arrived home at two, she found her mother and James in the window seat, talking. Her mother's eyes were red and wet, with black smudges of mascara underneath.

“What's the
matter,
Mama?”

Elizabeth looked at her sadly. “I—didn't get the job.”

Rosie winced, reached out to stroke her mother's knee.

God, do I love you, Rosie.

“Oh, Mama. It's okay.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I don't know why I'm taking it so hard. I think I'm just very tired.”

Rosie nodded gravely. “Wull, why don't we go to the movies?”

“I'm too depressed.”

“It would cheer you up.”

“No, really, I just don't want to.”

Rosie sat down in the easy chair and threw up her hands in exasperation. “God!” she said.

James smiled at her. Rosie crossed her arms.

“You mean we're just going to sit here all day?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “You don't have to, sweetheart. Why don't you give Sharon a call, and see if you can play at her house for a while?”

“No!”

Rosie got up and began pacing, angrily—Sharon's house, Sharon's father. Elizabeth watched her, puzzled.

“Rosie,
what's
been eating you?”

Rosie stopped pacing and looked down at her feet.

“Mama?”

“Yeah?”

There was a long pause. “I think I'll go see Rae.”

Elizabeth nodded encouragingly. Rosie felt sick to her stomach.

“Hi,
Rosie, what a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Rae.”

Rae was sitting on newspapers, on her porch, painting a bookcase white. White paint was everywhere, drizzled down the front of a plaid flannel shirt, streaked across her forehead and in her hair, in a puddle to the left of the newspapers, and in footprints which led to the door, where Rae's moccasins lay, soles up.

“I'm just about done here. Jesus, what a mess, hunh? You know what I always say? I always say, if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

Rosie smiled and leaned against a white Corinthian column, with her hands jammed into the pockets of her baggy shorts, chewing on the neckline of her purple T-shirt.

“Mama didn't get the job.”

“Ohhhh, nuts.”

Rae put down the paintbrush.

“Is she depressed?”

Rosie nodded. Rae put the lid on the paint and got to her feet.

“It probably wouldn't have been that interesting for her anyway.”

Rosie nodded.

“Hey, are you by any chance hungry?”

Rosie shrugged.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in Rae's breakfast nook, with a pot of lemon grass tea, eating buttery raisin-bread toast.

Rosie looked shaky and sad. Rae studied her.

“So. Do you want to talk about it?”

Rosie shook her head, praying for Rae to make her tell.

“Well,
I
do.” Rosie looked up at her. “I know you're feeling
pretty angry about your mother's drinking. I feel upset and helpless about it too. And it's time she and I had a long-overdue talk about it. It's so hard to mention....”

Rosie shook her head. “There's something so much worse.”

“Really?”

Rosie nodded, absolutely terrified.

“What is it?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I swore to God I wouldn't.”

“You
have
to. It's eating you up.”

Rosie hung her head. Sharon's dad showed me his dick. Sharon's dad. Rosie was stricken, trapped and anxious. She looked up at Rae.

Sharon's dad—“Sharon's dad.” She stopped.

“Go on.”

“I can't.”

“Okay, Rosie. Either you tell me what he did, or I call and ask him.”

“No!”

“Then tell me.”

“Sharon's dad—showed me his dick.”

Time stopped. Rae's mouth dropped open. Rosie burst into tears. Rae slammed her fist down on the table.

“God!” she shouted and got to her feet. She grabbed Rosie out of her chair and sat back down, with Rosie in her lap. “That bastard! I'll kill him!”

Rosie buried her head against Rae's breast, sobbing.

“Oh, Rosie.”

“He put it on my arm.”

“Oh, Rosie.”

“In his
study.”

“Why didn't you tell Elizabeth?”

“I promised Sharon I wouldn't.”

“How did Sharon find out?”

“He does it to her all the time. When he did it to me, I ran out of the house, and Sharon got home right then, and she knew. But
she said—and he said-that all fathers show it to their daughters, so when they see their
hus
band's—”

“Bullshit, Rosie. Sick men do it. It's
a crime.
Men go to jail for doing it.”