Rosie (25 page)

Elizabeth ricocheted off the wall twice when she finally went upstairs to bed. She lay down fully clothed and closed her eyes, felt her mind swirling through quicksand, felt the bed spin. She had passed out by the time James joined her and did not wake up when he rolled her over to undo the buttons on her skirt. He pulled it off, dropped it on the floor, and let her lie on top of the covers in panties and a shirt, while he stripped down to nothing and crawled between the sheets beside her.

He read Greene's
The Human Factor
for an hour or so, glancing from time to time at his softly snoring lover. He closed the book, put it on the floor beside the bed, got up, and went to the bathroom, where he filled a glass of water and got the bottle of aspirin out of the medicine chest. He carried the water and pills to Elizabeth's bedside table, put them down, and went to the window, where he stood staring for a long time at the night sky. He turned to look at Elizabeth, handsome, serene, and dead to the world. He heard an owl, crickets, cicadas, a distant siren, wind in the trees, and went to lie down, smoking in the dark with a cold glass ashtray on his chest, beside the black-haired woman who might one day be his wife.

Rosie awoke an hour later and sat up in bed, terrified of nothing in particular. The old house was settling down for the night; downstairs a floorboard groaned—was that a footstep on the stairs? She held her breath and strained to hear. He's coming
upstairs to kill them all: it's Norman Bates, dressed as his mother, holding a long sharp knife; or it's a crazy laughing black man with a gun; or it's Mr. Thackery.

Crrrreak.

She scurried under the covers down to the foot of the bed, pulling her blankets and sheets into a pile on top of her, so the killer would think “Hmmm, no one to kill in
this
room.” After a while, the sounds on the stairs ceased, and she came up for air, alone in the dark. God! Rosie scrambled off the bed, holding her breath, and turned on the light. She tiptoed toward the door, looking as frail and feverish and ethereal in her white flannel nightie as a pre-tubercular Dickensian orphan. She walked down the hall to her mother's room.

“Mama?” she whispered, outside the closed door. “Psssst. Mama?” No one answered. She cleared her throat and slowly opened the door. “Pssst?” Neither James nor her mother responded.

The room smelled of wine and tobacco; she was safe. She tiptoed to Elizabeth's side of the bed, lay down on the carpet, and was soon breathing peacefully.

Elizabeth whinnied at dawn.

“It's all right,” James said. Rosie woke up.

“Whaaa?”

“You were dreaming. Chasing rabbits.”

Elizabeth groaned.

“What were you dreaming?”

Elizabeth groaned again. “I don't remember.”

“There's water and aspirin by your bed, if you need it.”

Rosie watched her mother's arm reach out above her. Bugeyed, a Little Rascal, about to start whistling, she watched the arm and a glass pass back toward the bed, listened to her mother drink water.

“Oh, I don't feel well at all, James.”

“This will be your last hangover.”

“God, I get to stop
drinking
today.”

“Yeah.”

In the lulling silence, Rosie smiled, crossed her fingers.

“What if I can't do it?”

“I know you can. Think of how good you'll feel, clear-headed, healthy. Less guilty, less sick.”

“I guess that doesn't sound so bad.” She laughed softly, groggily. “I quit smoking, you know.”

“I know. If you can quit smoking, you can quit anything.”

“Oh, James. I don't know if I can do it.”

“One way to find out.”

“God, I am so fucked up.”

“Yeah, but on top of that, you're perfect.”

“Don't make me laugh.”

“You are, for me. I've been waiting for you all my life. I want to grow old with you. We could spend the rest of our lives getting to know each other.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, we should get married.”

“Oh, God, I don't know.”

There was a long pause. Say yes, Mama, say yes! The pause continued.

“Elizabeth? When did you first notice that you'd lost interest in me?”

Elizabeth laughed. “I never will, I promise.”

James exhaled loudly.

Rosie heard them kiss. After a long while, she could tell by their breathing that they were asleep. Rosie got up and tiptoed out the door.

Her bedroom was lit by the sunrise. She took off her night-gown and put on her shorts. Her T-shirt was so cold against her chest that for a moment she thought it was wet, and the voice within her head said, Mama's gonna quit!

Sober for two days, Elizabeth felt that her windows had been washed: her mind and eyes were clear again. It was a miracle, to not have the drinks that she craved.

The phone rang, and she went to the hall to answer it. James, at his typewriter, looked up and listened:

“Hi. How are you doing? ... What's the matter? ... No. Oh, shit. What did
you
say? ... Oh, no, Rae, you're kidding me! You gotta call him back and tell him you've reconsidered ... Because! The guy is a jerk and an asshole, and you've worked so hard to get over him! ...
I know
you're lonely, but you were lonelier when you were with him; you spent all day every day swallowing golf balls.... Of course he misses you. You were the best thing that ever happened to him. But he didn't want you.... Oh, good, now he does, right. Wonderful.... Ohhhh, gee, was he crying? My heart bleeds for the guy. I hate that kind of man! Who makes you console him for needing you! God. Call him back, then call me.... Because! He makes you feel clingy and neurotic and obsessed, and lucky to get whatever little morsel of time he can give you. Because, Rae, as long as some man is
making you feel that way, you know who you are; if somebody makes you feel insecure and needed and abused, you exist; otherwise, if a man made you feel loved and wanted and deserving. of being loved and wanted by a great person, you'd have a massive identity attack.... Oh, come on, sweetheart. If I could find a great man who loves me and wants me, you can. There's a good one out there waiting for you. Don't settle for a selfish, boring little boy.... Okay. Call me back. We're going to the city tonight—me and James and Rosie. Come with us. We'll eat in North Beach and then go see a movie. Something funny. Rosie's pretty low, too.... Oh, she's upstairs in her room, brooding. James is working. I'm about to go work in the garden. So—call him up, all right? Then call me back.... Oh, Rae. It always feels that way, that you'll never fall in love again, that no one great will ever fall in love with you, but I promise. It'll happen.... Look, I spent my whole life looking for a friend like you. I'd given up. And then we found each other. Or rather, you found me, and weasled your way into my heart, and now you're part of the family. And James is part of our family too, and when a good man comes along for you, he'll be part of our family too. Okay? I promise.... Good, okay, call me back. Be brave. I love you, Rosie loves you—”

“Tell her I love her too!”

“And James loves you too. Call me back. ‘Bye.”

Elizabeth stood in the doorway of the study, smiling.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Yes, of course. You were terrific.”

“Brian—”

“I gathered. You were great. There's got to be a job out there for you, for when people are having episodes and you tell them what to do.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Seriously; you have no idea what a difference it makes to have you, Elizabeth Ferguson, on your side—on my side, or Rae's side.” The phone rang again.

“I'll be right back.”

When she left, James picked up his clipboard and scribbled furiously on the top piece of paper.

“Good work, Rae. How do you feel? Do you want to come over and weed? ... Yeah, that's a better idea—put on a stack of records and finish up that weaving. We'll come get you at six. But don't play all those mushy torch songs; stay away from Linda Ronstadt.... Okay. Call me if you have a relapse. Take it easy. ‘Bye.”

“So. You're going to garden? Good. I'll make lunch in a while. How are you holding up? Don't you like not drinking?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I don't know. Yeah, I guess. It feels ... phony now, though. I mean, I know I can go for several days, or a week, or whatever—but I
know
I can't face the rest of my life without ... I mean...”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah?”

James nodded. “We'll work it out.”

“I feel I—well, when Rosie was little, and everything would be going all right—she'd be playing happily or something—and then she'd fall, land on her butt or her face. And we'd watch her rev up for a great explosive cry; there'd be a few moments of silence while she was taking this huge, revving up sort of breath and she'd look all wild in the eyes. And Andrew would say, ‘You're okay, you're okay.' And she'd think about it for a second, and realize that she didn't hurt, and the fit would never happen. She'd get on with playing. And that's how I'm feeling today. I have to keep saying, ‘You're okay, you're okay.'”

“One day at a time, and all that.”

“Yeah, but it's like one
hour
at a time.”

An hour later, James poked his head into Rosie's bedroom door, thumbs in his ears, waggling his fingers. She was lying on the bed, reading
Pippi Longstocking
for the umpteenth time, and gave James the polite smile of a visitor at an insane asylum.

“Hey, Rosie. Do you want to play catch for a while?”

“No, thank you.”

“How come? It's a perfectly splendid day.”

“Because I'm reading.”

“It's too nice to stay inside. Let's go outside and bother your mother.”

“Nah.”

“Come on.”

“I just don't feel like playing, James.”

“I'll give you a
piggy
back ride.”

“I really just don't want to.”

“Will you come play with me if I give you my car?”

She scowled and smiled at the same time. “No.”

“How come?”

“I'm not even old enough to drive.”

“You're not?”

“Duh, James.”

“Rae's going to come with us to the city.”

“Good.”

“Okay. I'll be in my study if you need me.”

James heard her stomp down the stairs some time later and looked up from his typewriter. The front door opened and slammed shut. From where he sat, he could see Elizabeth sitting Indian-style by the lattice of sugar snap pea vines, dropping green pods into the lap of her red sundress. Then Rosie came into view and walked slowly toward her mother, head down. Black curls, white T-shirt, red bermudas, and red bobby socks with dime-sized black polkadots. He reached for his clipboard, extracted a pencil from behind his ear, and scribbled something. Then he lifted a feathery lock of hair with the pencil lead and twirled a strand around the pencil as if winding spaghetti onto a fork, daydreaming.

Elizabeth looked up from the snow peas and watched her brown and rangy child approach, trudging, really, looking almost rickety. Rosie spat through the gap in her teeth at the marigolds, wiped spittle off her chin, and trudged over to Elizabeth.

Poor old Rosie: I seen sunrise, I seen moonrise, lay dis old darkie down. Elizabeth smiled.

“Gudd-eetings in de name of his royal majesty, Emperor Haile Selassie,” she called.

“Tsss.”

“Ever feeeerful, ever shoor. Jah!
Rastafar
-eye—”

“Mama, can't you just
please
take me seriously for once in your life?” Rosie's face quivered from the strain of her indignation. “God!”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

“No.”

Rosie whispered something toward the ground and then, in a grimly casual daze, ground out the pad and berries of a strawberry plant with the toe of her sneaker.

Elizabeth looked up into the unhappy face. “Thanks, doll. I hadn't gotten around yet to stamping out the berries.”

Rosie scowled.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Rosie exhaled noisily, still looking down.

“Do you want to sit in my lap?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Elizabeth placed the snow peas on the ground.

“You have a crummy lap.”

“What?”

“You're too skeeeeny.”

“Darling, coming from you—”

“It's like sitting on books.”

Elizabeth grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down into her lap. “I want to hold you.”

“How come?”

“Because I love you more than anything. And you're depressed.”

“What about James?”

“I love James more than anything too.”

“What about Rae?”

“I love Rae more than anything too. But Rosie, I love you with all my heart, and all my soul.”

Rosie sat stiffly while her mother blew warm air into the curls on the back of her head. Elizabeth enclosed Rosie in her arms, rubbed her knobby shoulders, felt her daughter's shoulder blades dig into her big soft breasts. They listened to the birds.

“Are those the socks Rae gave you?”

“Yeah.”

“They look terrific. Every ladybug in the garden is going to fall in love with you—”

“I don't want to talk about my goddamn socks!”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I feel like being dead.”

“Yeah?” Elizabeth exhaled loudly, nuzzled Rosie's soft downy neck.

“And I just wish that Sharon would die.”

“It's a bitch, isn't it?”

“Totally.”

“You won't feel so bad for much longer.”

“Oh, yeah? Wull.
James
still misses his mother. And she's been dead for
years.”

“But he doesn't ache very often. You're aching now. It's a fresh wound, losing Sharon. James still has pangs of—homesickness for her. Like you miss your daddy sometimes.”

“Oh, no, sometimes
I ache.”

“Because he was a great father. You were lucky. Look at who Sharon got for a father. But ... my point is: that the jagged hurting part ends. Honest. Right now, your best friend in the world is leaving, and you're left holding a bag of knotholes. But after she's gone, you'll miss her less, every day.”

“God.”

“You'll make a new best friend, I promise. And besides, Palo Alto isn't so far away. We'll work it out so you two get to be together every so often.”

“But I like to see her every day.”

“I know you do.”

“Do you still miss Daddy?”

Elizabeth didn't respond immediately. “It's funny. I don't miss him anymore, but I think about him all the time, every day, every time I watch you read, or run. And I'll always love him, for giving me you. But—I don't miss him, exactly.”

“Wull, I do.”

“Of course you do.”

“I just feel like screaming, about Sharon.”

“I know that feeling so well. All I can say is, it passes.”

“When?”

“What can I say? A week from Tuesday? I don't know. Probably when school starts up.”

“What if I start crying at school?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I bet you won't. I bet on the first day of school, you find someone neat to play with.”

“What if I don't?”

“Right now, you're feeling like there's a vacuum in your life—I swear to you, I know the feeling perfectly. But remember what James said?”

“Nature hates a vacuum.”

“Yeah. And so all sorts of stuff rushes in to fill it.”

Elizabeth leaned them both forward and picked a small fat strawberry from beneath a green pad, held it with her long fingers up to Rosie's right eye, as if to let her view a ruby, and then popped it into her child's mouth. She picked another for herself, picked another for Rosie, listened to the soft wet sucking, felt Rosie's jaw move up and down: nursed her with berries.

Rosie crossed her outstretched legs at the ankles, stared with an angry expression at her red and black socks. Elizabeth gave her another strawberry.

“I don't even feel like
seeing
her right now. I feel like wrecking all her stupid toys.”

“Try to be a good sport, baby. Sharon feels as bad as you do. It's all right for you to be mad, but ... try to be as good a sport as you can. I'll tell you. It's a run-of-the-mill shitty thing. Life is full of them. And it
always
feels better to be kind.”

Rosie sighed.

“Let's go eat,” said Elizabeth. “There's left over mu shu pork.”

“There's no more pancakes.”

“There's flour tortillas. And black bean sauce.”

They gathered up the snow peas Elizabeth had picked earlier, and cut some flowers for the table: zinnias, roses, and bluebells.

The third day of Elizabeth's sobriety started off well enough, hot and blue, with patches of wispy tortoise-shell clouds high in the
sky. James had been typing since eight, and Rosie had left at noon to spend the day swimming with Sharon and her mother. Elizabeth read the
Chronicle
twice, washed a cashmere sweater, went around the house picking up after James and Rosie, read a chapter of Anthony Powell, watered the ivy, made an appointment to have her teeth cleaned, defrosted the refrigerator, and sat down in the window seat with the Help Wanteds.

None of the advertised jobs caught her fancy. What did she like to do? Read, talk, walk, garden, sleep, make love, ruminate, eat, laugh, loaf, hardly marketable interests: the muted clacking of James's typewriter reminded her that her days lacked structure and invention. But staying off the bottle took all her time and energies. Would alcohol one day cease to be her automatic and primary response? Would it cease to be a craving and an obsession? What if those jungle drums—I want a drink I want a drink—never stopped?

She went to the phone and dialed Rae's number. She needed to be babysat today, needed advice and encouragement, because she needed a drink, needed some moments of peace of mind. Needed Rae. She had been there when Rae needed her, two days before when Brian had called, when Rae had been weak and depressed. Rae owed her one; but Rae wasn't home.

She went to the door of the study, listened to the furious typing, hung her head, and rubbed her eyes. She turned around and walked to the kitchen, licking at the corners of her mouth, blinking back tears.

She stood staring out the kitchen window at the garden and the trees and the birds and the sky, feeling concurrently crazy and numb. Finally, she walked back to the study and opened the door. James continued typing for several seconds, and then looked up at her.