Rosie (3 page)

Rosie's first comedy routines were impersonations. She could do old Mrs. Haas, she could do actors in television commercials she had seen at a friend's house—Mr. Big Fig, the Raisin Bran raisins, an uncanny Ricardo Montalban—she could do the Munchkins, Louis Armstrong, and the freakishly buxom woman who lived next door, who eased her breasts onto her dining room table as if she'd been holding two big bags of groceries. And she learned to love to make her mother laugh.

By the time she started kindergarten, she'd been published in the
Chronicle,
in a letter to the pet doctor.

“Dear Mr. Miller,” she dictated to Elizabeth. “These friends of ours, names Grace and Charles, had two cats. This one named Bert who is orange ran away. Mama says it found a new home. Do you think its new owner is nice?” (signed, in her own hand) “Rosie Ferguson.”

“Dear Rosie,” he answered in his column. “Yes.”

Rosie was the star of kindergarten, loved every minute of it, was the only child who could read, had attention lavished upon her by the teacher and the children. She was the only child with a dead father and seemed rather proud of it. There was only one bad day in those nine months of finger painting, stories, naps, snacks, and playing with her friends. When she was proudly reading
Little Black Sambo
to the class, bile came up into her throat. She fought it back, kept reading, but soon she was on the verge of throwing up and began to cry-with her mouth closed. While being held and comforted by her adored teacher, Rosie threw up all over her, an event she would never forget.

Elizabeth reasoned that she couldn't very well find a job, since
she had to be—wanted to be—home at noon, when an ecstatic Rosie returned. She was worried that Rosie was so sensitive, cried at the drop of a hat, cried upon hearing “The Streets of Laredo,” cried upon hearing “The Titanic” (although she was momentarily cheered upon learning that it was little kiddies, not kitties, who had wept and cried as the water poured over the side), cried when her mother was noticeably drunk. She cried when she thought about orphans, and blind people, and dead puppies, and old dogs at the pound. She cried when she thought of poor little lambs who had lost their way, she cried about the Little Match Girl, she cried on those rare occasions when Elizabeth cried, and she cried about war. She cried because Abraham Lincoln had been shot, mostly cried for little Tad, and cried with terror late at night when she thought she heard the mice gnawing through the electrical wires-sure to set the house on fire. And she cried with an unquenchable homesickness for her father.

A year had passed since his death. One Saturday, Elizabeth sat reading on the porch while her skinny child sat in the lowest branches of the plum tree, chucking the hard green plums at various targets—cars, for instance, which drove down the narrow, rustic street on which they lived.

“Be
careful,
sweetheart. Those branches are thin.”
Get down out of that tree before you fall and break your neck,
says her mother's voice, inside.

“I'm being careful, Mama.”

Elizabeth returned to the book,
Rabbit, Run,
which she was reading for the second time: “Sun and moon, sun and moon, time goes.” In the tree, Rosie stopped throwing plums when Mrs. Haas emerged from her house and crossed the street to the picket gate outside the Ferguson house.

“Your roses look lovely,” she called to Elizabeth.

“Thanks.”

“Rosie, darling, you're not eating those nasty green plums, are you?” Even from the porch, Elizabeth could see her blinking her nose like a rabbit, had to bear down on a laugh as she
remembered Rosie's impersonation: Rosie could do a better Mrs. Haas than Mrs. Haas.

Rosie shook her head—the heavy black curls.

“Because if you do, you'll get the trotties.”

Rosie looked back at her mother, checking in.

“And another thing,” said Mrs. Haas, puckering her mouth and brow like young Shirley Temple at her most nobly indignant. “If you eat the little plummies
now,
they won't have a chance to grow up and
ripen.”

Rosie, with a roll of her eyes, a horrified mouth, and a sarcasm impressive in one so small, said, “Ohhhh, pooooor plummies!”

Elizabeth smiled.

On the night before first grade began, Rosie climbed into bed dressed in brand-new jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes. Hearing footsteps in the hallway, she pulled the covers up to her neck, closed her eyes, and breathed in a sleeping, almost snoring way. Her mother sat down beside her, stroked her bottom, and then leaned forward to kiss the side of her face several times, with a thick vinegary breath. Rosie's lids flickered, and she turned her head to bury it face down in the pillow, now smelling clean, soapy cotton: Go away, Mama.

Her mother whispered, “God, I love you, Rosie.” Rosie didn't move a muscle, and finally her mother got up and left, turning off the light at the door, which she left open.

Rosie tossed and turned for the next few hours, while her mind spun with picture shows of first grade. She imagined herself reading to an impressed Mrs. Gravinski, cheered on by the kids in her class. She saw herself telling jokes, everybody laughing, especially the beautiful Mrs. Gravinski. She had a moment of terror in the dark when she watched herself, sitting in the first
row, fart a stream of little green bubbles which would hang tell-tale above her head, and another bad moment when she remembered throwing up on her kindergarten teacher.

The pillow grew hot and scratchy and she kept turning it over; the sheets felt sandy, and she couldn't keep her eyes closed. She put one leg on top of the covers to cool off, dozed fitfully, dreamed that when she got up to write on the blackboard she was naked, and the kids were laughing, and even beautiful Mrs. Gravinski was doubled over with laughter, and Rosie was trying to cover herself up with paper towels ... She awoke with a start and looked around the room, breathing rapidly. It seemed like hours until she fell asleep, and it seemed, when she woke up to sunlight and her mother shaking her shoulder, that she had been asleep for ten minutes.

“Rosie,” her mother said, laughing. Rosie propped herself up, surveyed her leg in the new blue jeans and shoe on top of the cover, made a whining moan, and rubbed her eyes. Teary, sleepy, and mad, she got brusquely out of bed, stomped out to the hallway, clomped down the hall to the bathroom, and slammed the door.

Elizabeth followed after her but stopped outside the closed door.

“What's with the angry clubfoot routine?”

“Chh.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No. Derrr.”

Elizabeth heard water running. “I'll go make you some breakfast, okay? Come on down when you finish shaving.”

“Tss.”

“Don't be nervous, Rosie. You'll love first grade.”

“I know
I will. Just leave me alone.”

Rosie threw a small, troubled fit at breakfast because the fried eggs were all snotty, another fit when she saw that her mother had cut the tuna sandwich in her Wonder Woman lunch box the wrong way, another when her mother tried to run a brush through her thick, soft, shoulder-length black curls, and yet another when the toothpaste squirted all over the sink. But
when the yellow school bus pulled up across the street, she rushed downstairs ecstatic, blue eyes shining, cheeks flushed. She grabbed her lunch box, kissed her mother, and ran for the bus.

Elizabeth read the paper and drank coffee in the kitchen, wishing the morning had already passed. After cleaning up the dishes, vacuuming the downstairs, and reading the paper again, she made herself some breakfast—Irish oatmeal, with raisins and brown sugar—and read the want ads. In three pages of Help Wanted listings, one job caught her eye: a cook, with baking experience, was needed at San Quentin. She smiled; she would probably meet more interesting men there than the ones she knew. She closed the paper, sat staring at the kitchen wall for a long time.

Her life—or her days, at any rate—was a drought, too much time on her hands,. nothing that
had
to be done. She started to think about lunch. It was ten o'clock. Rosie kept flashing through her mind: Rosie in school, in class, on the blacktop, four-square, the rings, hopscotch; Rosie, the angry clubfoot, stomping down the stairs; Rosie sprawled in unlikely positions on furniture and floors throughout the house, reading, with a baby finger hooked absently over her bottom lip, completely absorbed. Elizabeth sighed deeply at the kitchen table, sighed again a moment later under the strain of boredom. She drummed her long fingers against the table, hit it lightly with a fist, got up and went to the study.

She sat down in front of the typewriter. Maybe she had it in her to write. One way to find out. She inserted a piece of paper, drummed all eight fingers against the keys, scratched her tilted head, rubbed her eyes, sighed, stared at the paper, was distracted by the plastic Disneyland paperweight out of which Rosie had sucked the water and the apparently nontoxic snow particles so that Tinker Bell lay on the floor, face down on top of her wand ...
concentrate.
Okay. Here we go. Fingers on the keys, she rocked slightly with a look that said that once she got the first word down on paper she wouldn't be able to keep pace with her
thoughts. “Once” she wrote—no, wait. She xxed it out. “Many years ago”—no wait. “I rememb”—no, xxxxxxx. Poised again, hands on the keys, she stared at Tinker Bell for a long time, hardly blinking—leaped up, walked quickly to the mirror in the hall, and checked herself out. Great straight nose, the long full lips Rosie had inherited, hazel eyes flecked with gold, thick black lashes: handsome, interesting, not pretty, goddamn it, not pretty. But regal. She imagined Johnny Carson asking her what had gotten her going as a writer in her mid-thirties.

Well, Johnny, when my daughter, Rosie, started first grade, I thought I'd give myself some time to see if I had the talent and drive to write; I'd always thought I'd be good at it, but of course the success of the book surprises me as much as...

Back to the typewriter. She sat down, got up, walked to the rear of the house, put some laundry and detergent in the washing machine, turned it on, and went back to the study, but before sitting down, went to the kitchen for more coffee, then back to the study after stopping off again briefly at the mirror. “Lately it occurs”—no, wait. “Sometimes when”—no, wait, fuckin'
A,
man, come on. Concentrate. Think of a story to tell. Okay. “After leaving Mr. Braithewaite”—the phone rang; goddammit! Just when she was starting to really cook. She got up, walked to the kitchen, picked up the receiver, expecting, as usual, bad or inconveniencing news—Gordon was canceling for tonight, or...

“Hello, Elizabeth,” said her aged friend, Grace Adderly.

“Hello, Grace.”

“Isn't it a
bad
wind?” she said, in a tone which made Elizabeth feel like she'd done something wrong.

“Yes.”

“Am I interrupting you?”

“No, no. How are you? How is Charles? How do you like living in the city?”

“We just
love
it. In fact, I'm calling to invite you to an apartment-warming party next week, you and Rosie both.”

Oh, damn, I can't make it, Elizabeth almost said, before realizing she didn't know what day the party was to be.

“Saturday night at six.”

“Oh, damn, I can't make it. Unless I can change some plans—can I call you back?”

“Oh, try, will you?” Grace asked. “And of course, you're welcome to bring your nice young man.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself. Gordon, the man Grace was thinking of, was not nice, not young, and not hers, but he was the most presentable of her three current candidates: single and not too alcoholic.

“Listen. I'll have to call you back. I'll see if I can get out of what I'm sort of lined up to do.”

“Oh, dear. Hang on a moment, please. Kittykitty-kittykittykitty. Kittykittykitty. Oh, you're hot, aren't you—and you want to take off your little jacket! But I can't find the zipper! Now, how about a nice glass of water and some little cookies....”

“Grace!” Elizabeth hollered into the phone. After a moment, Grace hung up. Elizabeth laughed—she had an idea for a story-and called back.

“Hello?” Grace asked.

“Hi, Grace.”

“Elizabeth!”

“Hello?” said a drowsy male voice on an extension.

“Charles, darling,” said Grace. “I thought you were taking a nap.”

“I was, until the phone rang.”

“Well, then, come into the kitchen and have a nice toddy with me.”

“I'll be there in a moment,” he said, and they both hung up.

Elizabeth stood shaking her head, smiling. A story was forming. She went. back to the study, sat down, xxed out “After leaving Mr. Braithewaite,” and began again:

Better go put the clothes in the dryer.

When she sat back at the typewriter, she reread what she'd written, pleased.
Well, you see, Johnny, it's a funny story: the first chapter, “Parties,” came about on the day my daughter Rosie started first grade....
The phone rang again. Jesus! The great artist rose, glaring, and went to the kitchen. It was probably Grace again, or else it was Gordon, canceling for tonight.

“Norma?”

“No.”

“Is she there?”

“No. Wrong number.”

Elizabeth returned to the study, sat down, stared, with her hands on the keys, for a good fifteen minutes at what she'd written, then got up to take the clothes out of the dryer.

Back at the typewriter, she mentally computed the calories she had consumed at breakfast: about 450, she figured, not bad. So if for lunch she had two pieces of bread—160, say—a few slices of chicken—100? 150?—and a tablespoon of mayonnaise—100—

Concentrate!:

Oh, there was milk in the coffee: maybe another 50 calories. Elizabeth stared for the next half hour at a color photo tacked to the wall, Rosie on the porch at three, naked except for a red plastic fireman's hat on her head. Then it was time to fold the laundry and put it away.

Back to the study; but before sitting down she turned and went to the kitchen, stopping for only the quickest glimpse in the mirror, back to the study to get what she'd written to read over lunch. No wonder she was so hungry. She'd probably put in three miles since breakfast.

It was twelve-thirty, a little too early for a beer. She got chicken, a tomato, mayonnaise, cilantro, and an English muffin out of the refrigerator, popped the muffin in the toaster, and went back to the refrigerator for red onion. Partially hidden behind the milk, an ale winked at her, wet and cold. She stroked her nose, sniffed, reached for it.

Elizabeth lay reading
Bleak House
in the window seat that afternoon, no longer driven to write, waiting for Rosie to come home from school. When the doorbell rang, she started as if she had heard a pistol shot.

Who on earth could it be? Even Gordon wouldn't dare drop in unannounced. Was it a sad policeman? Had Rosie been killed by the man who had murdered those women at the lakes? Was it the man himself? Shit, it was probably the Jehovah's Witnesses again; they had been stalking her lately. Yesterday there'd been a
Watchtower
on the doormat with the headline CAN YOU SMOKE AND LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR?

She walked to the front door. “Hello?”

“Hello,” a woman's voice said.

“Are you a Witness?”

“I swear to God I didn't see a thing.”

Elizabeth opened the door and found a fat, long-haired woman standing on the doormat, anxiously looking over her shoulder.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you E. Ferguson?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm Rae Meltzer. I just moved into the house at the end of the street.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Why don't you come in for a moment?”

“Thank you, E.”

“Elizabeth.” Five minutes. Then you'll have to be going because I've got any number of things to attend to. The fat woman was pretty, with huge almond-shaped brown eyes, wavy auburn hair, a smallish, distinctly English nose, pinched on both sides.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just in the neighborhood.” Rae, hands jammed into the pockets of her worn baggy Levi's, shuffled off toward the living room, leaving Elizabeth standing, puzzled, at the door.

“God. Look at all these books.”

Elizabeth walked to the living room, leaned against the wall, and watched as Rae darted from bookcase to bookcase, reading titles, ricocheting from wall to wall, stopping for a few seconds at a framed print, then back to a bookcase, expressing admiration in her cheerful, woolly voice: Margaret Rutherford in
Blithe Spirit.