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Rose sat on the couch, fuming, until after midnight, when Maggie sauntered in, smelling like a barroom floor, with something wriggling stuck in her coat. "You're here!" Maggie said. "Yes, I am," said Rose. "And so is the phone bill," she said, as Maggie kicked her shoes into the corner and dropped her purse on the couch. "I brought you something!" Maggie said. Her color was high and her pupils were enormous, and she smelled like whiskey. "Two things, actually," she said, holding two fingers up in the air and opening her coat with a flourish. "Honey Bun Two!" she announced, as a small, crumpet-shaped brown dog dropped to the floor. It had moist brown eyes and a brown leather collar and a face that looked as though somebody had smashed it in with a frying pan. Rose stared. "Maggie . . . what is that?" "Honey Bun Two," Maggie repeated, heading to the kitchen. "My gift to you!" "I can't have dogs in here!" Rose shouted. Meanwhile, the little brown dog had taken a fast tour of Rose's apartment and was now standing in front of her coffee table, looking like a dowager who was displeased with her hotel room. "You'll have to take it back," said Rose. "Fine, fine," said Maggie, sauntering back into the living room. "She's just visiting, anyhow." "Visiting from where?" "My new job," said Maggie. "I'm now a dog groomer at the Elegant Paw." She sneered at her sister. "I'm employed. I've been working for two days. Are you happy?" "We need to talk about the phone bill," said Rose, forgetting her plan to be calm and reasonable. "Did you make a phone call to New Mexico?" Maggie shook her head. "Don't think so." Rose shoved the bill toward her sister. Maggie stared at it. "Oh, yeah."
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"Oh, yeah what?" "I got my tarot cards read. But God, it was only like half an hour! I didn't think it would cost that much." "Your tarot cards," Rose repeated. "It was right before my audition," Maggie mumbled. "I had to find out whether it was an auspicious day for a new job." "Unbelievable," Rose said to the ceiling. "Rose, do we have to talk about this right now?" Maggie asked. "I'm really tired. I had a really hard night." "Oh, sure," said Rose. "After two whole days of work, you must be exhausted." "Whatever," Maggie said. "And I'll pay you back for the phone bill." The little dog took one more look at her, then gave a dismissive snort and heaved itself onto the couch, where it began pawing at the pillow, scratching at it with its nails. "Cut that out!" Rose called. The dog ignored her, pawing and poking at the pillow until it was arranged to its satisfaction, then curling up on top of it and falling instantly asleep. "Maggie!" Rose yelled. There was no answer. The bathroom door stayed closed, and she could hear the shower running and the little dog snoring. "What's the other surprise?" Rose asked. No answer. She stood outside the bathroom door, the phone bill clutched in her hand, before turning away in disgust. Tomorrow morning, she promised herself. Except the next morning began with what had become a routine event at Rose's apartment—a call from a bill collector. "Hello, may I speak to Maggie Feller?" the calls would begin. "This is Lisa calling from Lord and Taylor." Or Karen from Macy's, or Elaine from Victoria's Secret. Today, it was Bill from the Gap. At night, Rose would come home and find the answering machine crammed with messages: Strawbridge, Bloomingdale's, Citibank, American Express. "Maggie!" Rose called. Her sister was curled up on the sofa, and
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the dog was curled up on a pillow on the floor—a pillow that Rose saw was now brocaded with drool. "Telephone!" Maggie didn't turn over or open her eyes—she just extended one arm toward the phone. Rose shoved it into her hand and headed to the bathroom, closing the door on Maggie's irate voice spiraling higher and higher, saying, "Yes," and "No," and "I already sent you a check!" When she got out of the shower Maggie was still on the phone, and the dog was gnawing on what Rose was pretty sure was one of her red cowboy boots. "Jesus!" she hissed, and slammed the door as hard as she could. Rose took the elevator to the lobby and crossed the street, hoping that her car would be in the same general area where she'd left it before her Chicago trip. And there it was, almost exactly where she'd left it. Thank God for small favors, she thought, sliding behind the wheel, when an old man tapped on the glass, startling her so badly that she let out a little scream. "I wouldn't do that," he said. "Huh?" said Rose. "Booted," he said. "Take a look." Rose got out of the car and walked around to the passenger's side. Sure enough, a bright yellow metal boot had been attached to the front wheel, along with a bright orange notice. "Delinquent?" Rose read. Maggie, she thought. This is Maggie's fault. She glanced at her watch, figurin g she had enough time to run back up to the apartment and get some answers from Miss Maggie. She stormed back through the lobby ("Forget something?" the doorman called at her back), punched the button for the elevator, stared furiously at the mirrored ceiling as the elevator rose, and half-ran down the hall back to her apartment. "Maggie!" she called. No answer. The shower was running. "Maggie!" Rose yelled, pounding on the bathroom door. No answer. Rose turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. She stormed into the bathroom, intending to rip open the shower curtain, never mind that her sister was naked, and get some answers about what the hell was going on. She took one step into the steamy
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bathroom and stopped. She could make out her sister's silhouette through the plastic of the shower curtain. Her back was to the door, and her forehead was pressed against the tiled wall. More than that—worse than that—she could hear what Maggie was saying. One word, over and over. "Stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid ..." Rose froze in her tracks. Maggie reminded her of a pigeon she'd once seen. She'd been walking to the Wawa on the corner and almost tripped over the pigeon, and instead of looking scared, the bird had glared at Rose with its tiny, hate-filled red eyes. She'd stumbled, almost falling, and when she started walking again, she saw the problem. One of the pigeon's feet was horribly mangled. It was hopping on its one good foot, with the injured one curled up tight against its body. Rose had thought for a moment that she should try to help it. "Oh," she'd said, and reached out her hand, thinking . . . thinking what? That she'd scoop the filthy thing up, rush it to a vet? The bird had simply glared at her some more before hopping off with a terrible, pathetic wounded dignity. Maggie was just like that, Rose thought. She was hurt, too, but you couldn't point that out, couldn't offer to help, couldn't say anything that would hint that you knew that Maggie was hurt or flawed or broken, that there were things she couldn't figure out, or fix on her own. Rose backed out of the bathroom quietly, easing the door shut. Maggie, she thought, feeling the familiar mixture of pity and fury tangling in her heart. She walked back to the elevator, through the lobby, out into the sunshine, and caught a cab on the corner. The car, she thought. The phone bill. The bill collectors. The dog. The clothes on the floor, the cosmetics crowding her counter, the "Final Notice" envelopes jammed in her mailbox. Rose closed her eyes. This would have to end. But how?
TWENTY#ONE
Ella had sand in her shoes. She eased them off and rubbed the sole of her foot carefully against the floor of the car, trying to dislodge the grains before putting her shoes back on. Lewis looked over at her when they pulled up to a red light. "Okay?" he asked. "Yes," said Ella, and smiled to prove it. They'd gone for a late dinner (late in that it was after seven o'clock), and then they'd gone to a concert—and not one at the Acres Clubhouse, either, but at an honest-to-goodness club, in Miami, with Lewis driving his big car slowly through the steamy, sweet-smelling night. Now, as Lewis pulled through the residents' gate at Golden Acres, Ella wondered what would happen. If she'd been a younger woman, she'd probably have counted their dates (six so far), calculated how long they'd been seeing each other, and come to the conclusion that Lewis probably wanted Something. Sixty years ago and she'd have been bracing herself for a half-hour of sweaty grappling and fumbling before curfew ended their fun. But what could happen, at her age? After what she'd been through? She'd thought her heart was dead; a withered stump of a thing, incapable of feeling anything, incapable of flowering. At least that was what she'd believed for the years after Caroline's death. But now . . .
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Lewis pulled into a parking spot in front of his building. "Would you like to come up? Have some coffee?" "Oh, I'll be up all night," she said, and giggled like a silly schoolgirl. They rode together in the elevator in silence. Ella thought that maybe she'd been misreading things. Maybe he just wanted to take her up to offer her tea and torment her with pictures of his grandchildren. Or, more likely, he was just looking for a friend, a sympathetic ear, someone who'd listen to stories about his dead wife. Sex was out of the question. He was probably on medication, like everyone else Ella knew. Only what if he had Viagra? Ella bit her lip. She was probably being silly. She was seventy-eight years old. Who'd be in a big hurry to take her to bed, all droopy and wrinkled and age-spotted the way she was? Lewis was staring at her curiously as he unlocked his door. "You look like you're a million miles away," he said. "Oh, I ..." Ella began, unsure of exactly what she intended to say as she followed him inside. His apartment, she could tell, was much bigger than hers, and while hers overlooked the parking lot and the interstate highway beyond it, his faced the ocean. "Have a seat," he said. Ella planted herself on the couch and felt a trilling note of—of what? Fear? Excitement? He hadn't turned on any lights. He came back and sat beside her, pressed a warm mug of tea into her hands. Then he got up again and raised the blinds, and Ella saw the water shining in the moonlight. She could see the waves rolling up onto the pale sand. And the windows were so big, and she felt so close to the water, it was like . . . "It's like being on a ship!" she said. And it was. Even though she hadn't been on a ship in years and years, this was what it had been like. She could almost feel motion, the rocking of the waves, taking her out to sea, far away from what she knew, far away from herself. And when Lewis took her hand, it felt as right as anything she could remember, as right and as natural as the motion of the water coming up onto the sand.
TWENTYTWO
"She has to get out of my house," Rose said to Amy. They were sitting in a corner of Amy's favorite cafe, sipping iced tea and waiting for their lunches to arrive. Rose had taken a cab to work and spent most of her morning on the phone with the Philadelphia Parking Authority, trying to find out what had happened to her car and how much Maggie's latest stunt would cost her. Then she'd glanced at the clock, groaned, realized that she hadn't gotten any work done yet, and called her apartment. Maggie hadn't picked up. Rose had left a terse message— "Maggie, call me at the office when you get this." By one o'clock there'd been no response, and Rose had met Amy for salads and strategy. "Remember when she stayed with me for three weeks that time? Remember how I thought that was a living hell? Remember how I swore never again?" Amy gave a sympathetic nod. "I remember." Rose winced. She remembered, too, how Amy had stopped by to watch a movie during the week of Maggie's visit, and had discovered the next day that two lipsticks and forty bucks were missing from her purse. "Look," Amy said, "you've been a good sister to her. You've been more than patient. Has she found a job?" "She says she has."
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"She says," Amy repeated. "And is she giving you money for rent? For groceries? For anything?" Rose shook her head. The tall, black, gorgeous waitress sauntered over with their plates, dropped them on the table, and sashayed away without appearing to notice Rose's empty water glass. "Why do we keep coming here?" Rose asked, picking up her fork. "The service is horrible." "I like to keep my money in the community," said Amy. "Amy," Rose said patiently, "you aren't in the community." She ate a few bites of her salad, then pushed her plate away. "What am I going to do about Maggie?" "Kick her to the curb," said Amy, through a mouthful of spinach. "Tell her she gots to get." "And where's she going to go?" "Not your problem," Amy said. "Look, I know that sounds cold, but Maggie's not going to starve on the street. And she's not your responsibility. You're her sister, not her mom." Rose bit her lip. Amy sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry Maggie's such a wreck. I'm sorry Sydelle's such a nightmare. I'm sorry about your mom. But, Rose, what you're trying to do here . . . it's not going to work. You can't be her mother." "I know," Rose mumbled. "I just don't know what to do. I mean, I know what I'm supposed to do, I just don't know how to do it." "Repeat after me: 'Maggie, you need to leave,' " Amy said. "Seriously. She'll go to your father and Sydelle's, and if that doesn't convince her to straighten up and fly right until she's got enough money for a place on her own, nothing will. You can even give her some money—and notice that I'm saying 'give' and not 'lend.' I'll help you, if you want." "Thanks," said Rose, and got to her feet. "I've got to go." "And so does Maggie," Amy said. "You need to take care of yourself here." Rose nodded miserably. "Call me if you need help. Call me if you need anything. Let me know what happens." Rose promised that she would, and headed back to her office.
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She checked her messages. Nothing from Maggie, but there was something from Sydelle. "Rose, please call us. Immediately." So maybe that was where her sister had gone. Rose took a deep breath and dialed. "It's Rose," she said. "You need to do something about your sister," said Sydelle, proceeding to launch into a recitation of the most recent and egregious of Maggie's abuses. "Do you know we've got bill collectors calling our house at eight in the morning?" "Me, too," said Rose. "Well, can't you do something?" Sydelle demanded. "You're a lawyer, can't you tell them it's illegal to call here? Honey, it's no good for your father ..." Rose wanted to say that it was no good for her, either—that nothing Maggie ever did was good for anyone but Maggie—but she kept her mouth shut and said she'd do what she could. She hung up the phone and called home again. Still no answer. Now she was getting worried. Maybe Maggie was at work. Sure, she thought sourly. And maybe the judges would be stopping by shortly to crown her Miss America. Rose logged on to her computer and checked her e-mail. Something from a partner asking, quite tersely, when Rose would be done with the draft of her brief. A group e-mail from Simon Stein entitled "Softball Pre-Season Meeting" that Rose deleted without reading. She got to her feet and began pacing the length of her office. She needed to see Jim, she decided. She needed to see him now. She needed to see him whether he wanted to see her or not. She looked down and noticed with dismay that she was wearing two completely different black loafers—a natural consequence of having her sister dump every shoe she owned onto the floor. Maggie! she thought furiously, and, hurrying down the hallway, blew past Jim's secretary ("Hey!"He's on a phone call, Rose!") and right into his office. "Rose? What's going on?" he asked, hanging up the phone and closing the door behind her.
