Waking Rose: A Fairy Tale Retold (23 page)

H
IS

“Who was that?” Fish asked Kateri, as Rose and the tall, brown-haired guy disappeared into the frothy crowd.

“Paul Fester. One of her friends,” Kateri said.

It was impossible to decipher Kateri’s expression. He wondered if her roommate was playing dumb. Well, he had been right—Rose had already attracted the attention of other guys.

Why had he come here in the first place? Now he wasn’t sure.

“Come on, let’s watch the contest,” he said, at a loss for something to say.

The music was deafeningly loud (how could you enjoy yourself with this kind of volume? Fish wondered), but upbeat. He and Kateri found a place against the wall and watched the energetic storm of couples on the floor. Rose and the brown-haired guy were dancing with athletic energy. He tossed her lightly in his arms, over his back, from side to side, and Rose, her skirts flaring around her crisply, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself.

“They must have practiced this,” he said to Kateri in private tones, which in this din meant he was speaking above normal level.

“I think so. She hangs out with those guys a lot.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah.” Kateri was playing tight-lipped. And he didn’t mean to sound like an inquisitor.

Soon the contest was over, and Rose and Paul, much to Fish’s surprise, hadn’t even placed.

“Fifty’s dancing is just too popular around here,” Rose complained, as she came over. “Oh, by the way, Fish, this is Paul. Paul, this is Fish.”

“You can call me Ben,” Fish said, giving out his hand to the tall guy, who squeezed it jocularly. He wondered if Rose was in love with him.

“If we practice more, we’ll be better,” Paul said. “Hey, there’s the guys!”

Fish turned to see three young men, of various shapes and sizes, all dressed in identical black trench coats. Several wore Mafia-style hats.

One of them, a stocky guy with long black hair in a ponytail, pulled a handful of carnations from behind his back with a deft motion. There was a bouncing Martian on a spring wiggling out of the center. “Happy birthday, milady!” he said with a bow.

Rose squeaked with surprise and took the flowers as Paul bellowed out in a baritone, “Happy Birthday…”

And Rose, blushing red, stood there, as the entire group, then the entire lobby, started singing. Towards the end of the song, she began to solemnly wave the Martian back and forth to the song—Fish guessed she was self-conscious. When it ended, she curtsied.

“Thank you, kind sirs,” she said.

“Duty and pleasure,” the stocky guy said, “And speaking of pleasures, I had the pleasure of seeing you onstage this evening.”

“Were you impressed?” Rose asked.

“Quite.”

“Oh, Alex, Leroy, James, this is Fish,” she gestured.

“But he calls himself Ben,” Paul put in.

“Really?” the stocky guy chuckled, and turned to Fish. “Heard about you before. Interesting nickname, ‘Ben.’”

“That’s what my parents kept calling me, and it sort of stuck,” Fish replied. “I go by either name.”

“So I’m told,” Alex said, and Fish wondered how much Rose had informed her college friends about him.
Probably a lot, knowing Rose
. Then his cell phone rang, a thin shrill beep in the thunderous noise of the dance. He excused himself and hurried outside to take the call, trying to recover his hearing.

It was just his voicemail calling his phone, informing him that he had new messages. Wanting a distraction, and under the force of habit, he dialed his voicemail. The message had come in Friday at 5 PM. This happened all the time with cell phones in these hilly regions—the signal would blip in and out of range so that sometimes he wasn’t informed about a call he had missed in the morning until late evening—sometimes even the next day.

He shouldered past several incoming students and walked out into the night air as the message began. It was an unfamiliar female voice, and at first he thought it was a telemarketer.

“This is a message for Mr. Denniston. This is Wanda Hart. I’m Charles Russell’s secretary.”

He was surprised, and tensed his neck unconsciously.

“Mr. Russell wanted me to pass this information on to you:  We just received word that Mr. Edward Freet passed away today in federal prison. Apparently he died of cardiac arrest.”

There was a pause, and Fish could sense that she had searched for the correct phrase to say. An expression of sorrow clearly seemed out of place to her. At last she cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Russell said you would want to know. If you have any further questions, please call us back. Goodbye.”

The message clicked off. Not a bereavement call. Something far more peculiar. Being informed of the death of one’s enemy.

He clicked the phone, and the night breeze seemed to fill his eardrums with the rush of a wind tunnel.

Hers

It was one of those birthdays where so many little things went right, or just fit—Rose felt that her guardian angel must be arranging them for her. For instance, the idea that she had to match her red full-skirted dress with Kateri’s white crocheted sweater and adding the silk floral scarf with red roses on it for 50’s flair, which looked spectacular. Especially when worn with the multicolored necklace of vintage glass beads she had serendipitously found at the antique store that day. The daintiness of the crochet, the strong statement of the red dress, the delicate gleaming of the necklace and the luxury of the silk scarf added up to happiness and glory, and Rose felt that rare feeling of perfect beauty. It was just the outfit for dancing.

And tonight, she danced to her heart’s content. The 50’s dancing was mostly good, fun, and innocent—and full of fast dances she enjoyed. And she had partners!

Of course she and Paul danced together. She was coming to know him a bit more, enough to know that she appreciated his personality, but she realized now that she would never fall in love with him. So she was trying hard not to give him any particular attention, but felt free to reciprocate in the general affectionate sense that Paul himself had. He seemed to love everyone and everything.

Then Alex asked her for a dance, to a less vigorous song, not exactly a slow song. Alex, she saw at once, she would have to be careful with. She knew him enough to realize that she would have to be watchful of how much time she spent with him or he would read it as interest on her part. As much as she respected him and enjoyed his company, she wasn’t interested in him. It would be unforgivable of her to lead him on. So as they danced, she kept the conversation light and steady, not allowing the silences to linger.
Friends, and no more,
she thought to herself.

Leroy also wanted to dance with her, and she danced one dance with him. She knew him the least of the three, but of the three, he was the best dancer in the old style, a ballroom dancer who knew how to keep the time and make his partner look good. And he was impeccably polite. A charming partner, but they had very little in common. He seemed to recognize their basic incompatibility too, and that was comforting. She could just enjoy dancing with him.

Three dances, three whirls in the music and lights, and each time, Rose felt she gave and received something quite different, each one adding carefully to her happiness, but not filling her heart. It was good, she thought, to be able to be friends with a guy, to be able to appreciate his character and person in an aura of freedom—yes, friendship was sweet and sustainable, and she basked in it, glad that she was a lady to them, and that they were friends to her.

If only it could be that way between her and Fish, she thought. But freedom and spontaneity had long ago fled between them, mostly due to her clumsy initiatives in the past. She felt now as though she had spoiled an intricate painting with thumb strokes of finger paint, so that it would never regain its former airiness, no matter how hard she painted over her mistakes.

She didn’t dare ask Fish to dance, and that was the one thorn of the birthday bouquet, because she sensed that he wasn’t going to ask her to dance, and if she didn’t ask him, she wouldn’t get to dance with him.

Trying to keep herself from getting cut on that thorn, she sought him out of a sort of general curiosity after not seeing him for some time. Kateri said he had taken a call on his cell phone. She expected to find him outside talking on the phone, but instead discovered him out on the porch of the cafeteria, sitting on the concrete retaining wall and talking with Paul. Paul had an enthusiasm for Spanish literature, which apparently Fish knew something about. They were discussing Cervantes with intensity, oblivious to the Motown songs blaring inside.

Rose suppressed a smile. She might have expected this. Gliding over in her red dress, which twitched in the breeze most delightfully, she leaned against a pillar and watched them talking, Paul’s smooth brow and earnest expression, Fish’s world-weary, scarred countenance and shrewd eyes. It was odd that the two of them were almost the same age.

She listened to the talk long enough to follow what they were saying, but felt peacefully disinclined to join in. It was enough to observe them both from the periphery. That was one of the finer parts of knowing one was beautiful—a freedom to merely listen.

Inside, she could hear a familiar song playing,

But how many heartaches must I stand

before I find a love to let me live again?

Right now the only thing

That keeps me hangin' on

When I feel my strength, yeah

it's almost gone

I remember mama said—

At last, Paul paused in the conversation. “Mind if I run in to get a drink? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Fish said. Then his brown eyes fell on Rose and his crooked smile crept up his face. “You remind me of your sister, the way you’re sitting there just now.”

She smiled back at him. “Do I?”

“Yes. I can see the similarity between you two now. One rarely does.”

“Perhaps it’s because I’m not talking,” she suggested.

His smile was quirky. “I had thought of that, but I couldn’t come up with a polite way to say it.”

He looked away from her, pensively. “Rose,” he said abruptly. “Would you like to go for a hike?”

“Sure,” she said, taken aback. “Now?”

He shook his head. “No. How about tomorrow? Afternoon? I could come up again, before your play. Unless you’re too busy with studies.”

“No,” she said at last, considering, with her head on one side. “No, I’m not too busy. Is something wrong?”

“It’s complicated.” He brushed his fingers through his hair. “I just—well, I thought it might be good to talk. To you. If you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to it,” he stood up, and pulled a thin package out of his trench coat pocket. “It’s not much, and I meant to give it to you sooner, but … well, happy birthday.”

“Oh!” she said, opening it and finding a book of poetry by W.B. Yeats. “
Thank you!
”

So he had remembered, after all.

Happiness complete.

For now.

H
IS

It had been a rather bad night, but he had expected that. He woke up early because of the nightmares, and got himself together for early Mass. He had arranged to meet Rose at the cafeteria for brunch at noon, which was served after the campus Mass had let out.

They had brunch together, accompanied by Kateri and several of her friends, who, knowing a bit about the Donna situation, seemed to regard him as a sort of security guard on duty and no more. He focused on conversing with them, and found that this made talking with Rose a bit easier.

But then after brunch, the crowd of girls suddenly and rapidly evaporated, and Fish found himself standing on the portico in front of the cafeteria alone with Rose, staring at her. It was an awkward moment, because she didn’t say anything either, which Fish recognized was highly unusual. Either she was practicing being silent and mysterious again, or he was making her uncomfortable.

“Ready for the hike?” he said. “I thought we could just go around the campus, if you like.”

“I can’t go hiking like this.” She was wearing a flowered dress.

“Why not? You were wearing that chiffon thingy Friday in the woods,” he couldn’t help pointing out.

“Yes, but with walking shoes.”  She put out a foot for his inspection and he noticed she was wearing red high heels. “I’m always messing up the heels on my nice shoes because I forget I’m wearing them and walk through gravel or mud. So now that I’ve remembered I’d rather change.”

“Oh. All right.” 

She took an uncommonly long time to change, while he waited in the dormitory lounge. Someone had left a textbook on the coffee table, and after several minutes had gone by, he picked it up and began to read it. It was a literature book with scribbled class notes pushed inside it.

He was reading an essay by Faulkner when he came across a folded piece of paper. On the outside was a doodling of a gravestone, and in calligraphy was written on it, “Rose Brier, R. I. P.”  Beside it was a caricature of a girl being strangled—an ugly picture, but he could recognize who it was supposed to be.

A sharp bolt of anger went through him, and he turned the book over, looking for the owner’s name. It wasn’t marked.

Deliberately, he picked out the piece of paper and folded it and put it into his pocket. He kept a hand on the book and started looking around the lounge. There was no sign of either Tara or Donna. Just then he did a double take.

Rose was walking towards him, wearing jeans, and a pale pink sweater, with a celery-colored scarf looped around her neck. She was gorgeous.

“Oh, there you are,” he recovered, and slid the book under his arm. “Now are you ready for hiking, Miss Brier?”

“Yes,” she said, and put out her foot again so he could see she was wearing hiking boots.