Mystical Rose (22 page)

No, I don’t mind, I said.

We’ve picked a nice spot, she said. There’s a good view. Your mama liked to look at the ocean, when she and Bill used to come and visit.

My husband Robbie died during the war too, I said.

But he’s not your husband, said the doctor in a hurry, the little one with the head like a soccer ball. He stopped pacing up and down at the foot of my bed to look at me.

He most certainly is, I said. We were married in a church in Philadelphia. Mama was there, and Mr. Rolyoke gave me away. I’ve only been unfaithful to his memory once, I said. Or perhaps twice.

Mother!

Harriet’s mouth was big and round enough to stuff an apple in it. We kept trying to grow apples on the farm, but we only ever had the one crop. Gert’s new dad gave us a seedling tree, one year. McIntosh apples, I think, but the blossoms were few, and when the fruit came it was hard to tell just what kind of apple they were — they looked like cherries and tasted like dust.

Maybe only once, I said.

I want that man put away, said Harriet. Firmly. A bit of colour in her cheeks, made her look attractive. He’s … attacking my mother, she said.

Attacking? Are you talking about Robbie? I asked. Robbie would never attack me.

She doesn’t think it’s an attack, said the pregnant lady, who looked at me for a change. Do you, Mrs. Rolyoke? she said.

From Robbie? I said. Oh no. Robbie is the soul of honour, I said.

The nurse frowned.

Harriet groaned. Mother, she said patiently, tears of frustration in her eyes, Mother, we’re talking about Albert Morgan. Do you remember him? In a wheelchair?

Poor Harriet, she thinks I’m a child. Of course I remember Al, I said. He’s sweet on me.

I meant it as a joke, trying to lighten the mood. But no one laughed.

Mr. Morgan thinks you’re his wife, said Harriet. He calls you Mavis.

Yes, that’s right, I said.

She knows it! cried the doctor. Another doctor said something about consent.

The pregnant lady shook her head, her lips pursed up to be kissed. Do you understand, Mrs. Rolyoke? she asked. Do you understand the situation?

I explained. Albert’s wife’s name is Mavis — used to be Mavis. She’s dead, I told them all, nodding my head. Didn’t
they
understand what was going on?

And Albert is coming to your room at night — is that right, Mrs. Rolyoke?

No, of course not, I said. He’s going to Mavis’ room, I said.

The grey weathered wood was hot against my back. I could feel it through my light summer frock. An old cut-down dress of hers with buttons, still billowy in the front, but Mama would have insisted on calling it a frock. Jack took a deep breath as we pulled apart.

Wow! You kiss better than all the other girls, he said.

Why, Jack, you are as fresh as a daisy! I said. But I wouldn’t have been upset at the comparison. I was happy to be with him.

Let’s do it again, he said, leaning forward, taking my face in his
hands, and pressing his lips on mine. I scrunched them up into a kissable bow, like Clara, and let him press me against the side of the barn. The afternoon sun was in my eyes, so I closed them. I smelled clover in front of me, and the barnyard behind, and wood smoke and boy sweat on Jack’s clothes.

Let’s lie down, he said.

What — on the ground?

No one’ll see us. They’re all in the east section today.

But I did not want to get my frock dirty.

He leaned close again, and whispered. I seen my mom and dad once, he said.

Mm hmm? I said.

And they were lying down, he said.

They were?

Yup, they sure were. Please, Rose. Please, just this once.

His eyes were so blue, and his hair so curly and dark. His smile was charming and insincere. I liked him a lot.

It’s too muddy, I said. And it’s getting late. Mama will be wondering where I am.

Please, Rose.

I smiled down at him. One kiss, then — but that’s all. No lying down.

We kissed again, and this time he put his hand on me. He reached up and touched me through the thin summer dress. I tried to pull away, but I was up against the barn and I couldn’t.

Well, maybe I wouldn’t have tried that hard.

He kept his hand there. I imagined my heart beating against it. I felt myself growing under his hand, a blossom unfolding towards the sun. When we pulled away again we were both breathing hard. I know what to do now, he said. I seen my mom and dad.

I’ve got to go home now, I said.

Didn’t you like that? You’re all red in the face, he said.

I stared out over the field. Burnham Street wound away in the distance, up the hill. From the top of the hill you could see the spires of St. Andrew’s and Trinity United Church in Cobourg. And beyond them the lake, glistening like silver.

Come on, Rose, one more kiss?

No. I turned and started walking across the field.

Tomorrow, he called after me. Tomorrow after school. Same place.

How old would I have been — twelve? And I walked away. Did I?

I suppose I could have asked Ruby to come and stay with me. Two ladies living together, sharing comforts, conversation, fighting over memories and the extra piece of meat at dinner. That made sense. Ruby and I were old friends, and there was room after Harriet left.

She was working for her lawyer downtown; he’d promised to help her with her bar admission exams, and to recommend her to the law society after a couple of years of clerking. I didn’t know how she was going to learn law by searching for the titles to buildings and typing up wills, but that was her business, not mine. I was sorry I couldn’t send her to law school, but she kept telling me she enjoyed what she did.

I’m helping people, she told me.

That’s nice, dear.

And I do good work. Mr. Sherman likes it that I do good work. He tells me so. He appreciates me.

I guess I didn’t appreciate her enough. I tried to, but she was so competent, so uncomplaining, so ordinary looking. Hard qualities
to appreciate. When she moved out I breathed a sigh of relief. Poor Harriet, I wasn’t much of a mother to you.

I didn’t move. I liked the neighbourhood. It reminded me of Robbie. I kept the house on Waverley, and the flower shop on Queen. I dusted and paid the bills, looked out the front windows at the streetcars and Kew Gardens and the clock on the firehall. Had nightmares. Tended my garden. Hired incompetent assistants. Bought a television set.

I missed having a friend I could eat with, laugh with, telephone any time of the day or night. I could have asked Ruby to live with me after Harriet left, but I didn’t even consider it.

Why are You looking so unsympathetic? I’m a bad friend, as well as a bad mother? Is that what You mean? Should I have invited her to stay? Vomiting in the bathroom every morning, falling down in the hall? Going out and not saying when she’ll be back. Going for days without speaking. Staring at me with eyes that aren’t seeing me, or anything else. I knew what that was like. I knew exactly what that was like. I didn’t want to go through it again.

Stop staring at me so sad and bothered. How do You think I feel? I’m the one who deserted her.

Who are you?

I say that a lot. I’m lying propped against some pillows, staring up into a toasted face and I have no idea who he is. Toast and jam, door jamb, marigold. I don’t see the connection. Not toasted — concerned. That’s what I meant.

Albert? I say. Is that you?

I’m Sanjay, he says. He takes my hand and holds it gently.

So am I, I say.

Mother, says Harriet, from the other side of me. It would be too much work to turn my head and look at her. Mother, you remember Dr. Berman.

Hello, I say. And cough. He waits until I finish coughing, and wipes my mouth.

It’s starting to get dark outside. We’re on our way back to the Villa. The danger is over. They’ve fixed whatever it was that was leaking, and the air is safe again. The ambulance bus rocks a bit as we turn a corner. I’m strapped in, but Dr. Berman has to hang on.

Where’s Albert? I ask.

Dr. Berman blinks. Great eyelashes he has, for a man. Long and silky. His dark eyes turn down sleepily at the corners. I don’t know, he says.

He went to the other place, says Harriet. Over in East York — I keep forgetting the name, she says.

Not hell — we used to call that The Other Place when we were kids: Be careful or you’ll end up in The Other Place! One of the maids at the big house in Philadelphia talked about The Other Place too. We used to tease her about it. Put starch in the cuffs, Abigail, we’d say. If you don’t put in enough, Parky will send you to The Other Place. Abigail? Adeline? Some name like that. Her religion was very strict. She didn’t last long.

St. Dominic’s? says the doctor.

Yes, that’s it, says Harriet.

I’m thinking about Albert. He was circumcised. I wonder how that popped into my head.

Mother! says Harriet. She sounds shocked. Oh dear. The thought must have popped out of my head through my mouth. Loose lips sink ships.

The doctor isn’t shocked. He gazes very kindly down at me.

Where’s Dr. Sylvester? I ask.

He’s lying down at the other end of the bus, Dr. Berman explains. He hurt himself when we turned a corner a while back.

Poor Dr. Sylvester, I can picture him lying there all pale and interesting, with lots of attentive nurses. I wonder why this doctor is smiling.

Will we be home soon? I ask.

Yes, he says, standing up, rocking a little with the motion of the bus. Very soon.

Slips didn’t use to happen so often. I was good at keeping secrets. I never told my friends about Uncle Brian killing Daddy. Of course they found out anyway, and were appropriately shocked and excited. Gert shivered, and her eyes went to the shotgun on the wall over the fireplace at her parents’ house. Was it a gun like that? she asked. I didn’t say anything. Was it? How awful! Did your uncle go Bang, Bang, right in the head? She shivered again, and I overheard her talking to someone at school that week about bad blood in my family. Mind you, this might have been because Billy Burnham had invited me to the pictures. Gert liked Billy.

I didn’t tell Dr. Sylvester. No insanity in our family, I told him. No violence. Nothing to cause concern. I smiled at Harriet. I didn’t want to spoil her chances with the doctor.

They took their time together, poring over brochures and pamphlets. Every now and then Harriet would look over her shoulder at me, and I’d smile. The doctor’s hand was lying on the desk near hers. When he moved it to point something out, their baby fingers brushed against each other.

Downhill, the doctor said. She’s going to go downhill. I’m sorry, he said.

Harriet turned to look at me. I smiled encouragingly.

There are waiting lists, the doctor said. It might be six months before she could get in.

And meanwhile? said Harriet.

Meanwhile she’ll be losing things, and forgetting to turn off the stove, said the doctor, and inviting dangerous men up to her apartment. I’m sorry, Miss Rolyoke — I know it’s difficult, he said, getting to his feet in one smooth sincere motion, the kind of guy who always pulls up the knees of his pants when he sits down, so that there will still be a crease when he stands up again.

They were talking about Joe. I remember Harriet mentioning Your name on the phone when I told her that I’d invited a man who mugged me up for a cup of tea. He didn’t really mug me, I told her, because he was so sick and tired he could hardly lift his gun.

Jesus Christ, Mother!

I did it out of guilt. I looked at Joe and saw Ruby, with her hand out. And I took him in and looked after him, not because he deserved it but because Ruby had deserved it.

And he didn’t attack me, or rob me. He thanked me for his tea and went away, and I felt better. Looked better too, in my good scarf. The doctor was wrong: I wasn’t losing things. But I sometimes hid them and then forgot where. The blue scarf with the doves on it had been in the teapot.

It was still raining when we left the doctor’s office. Harriet was quiet on the drive home. She pushed the gear lever back and forth. The engine made noises like an animal in a cage.