After the Fog Page 6

  Rose scolded herself, told herself not to worry about nonsense, that Magdalena was only momentarily frustrated and worried about her pending scholarship. Rose knew Magdalena was a smart girl, but she knew a lot of the world’s big problems stemmed from lack of education, more than a dearth of smarts.

  The question most burning Rose was why Henry would pretend it was reasonable for Magdalena to quit school. He knew a woman needed her independence. The only way to guarantee that was through financial security. And seeing as Magdalena was not heir to a fortune, her mind would have to provide for her. Rose had taught her daughter since the first time she whispered sweet words in her ear: You are magnificent Magdalena, you keep your wits about you, you work hard, be great.

  She didn’t have time for this. She had to meet Mrs. Sebastian, the wife of the new mill superintendent, at ten A.M. at the Lipinski home.

  Rose opened and closed her hand around the flask of vodka. She shook her head, paralyzed by fear she’d take a drink; motivated by the desire for one. She closed her eyes, the events of the morning causing her as much anxiety as her ambivalence about taking a drink.

  She exhaled her frustration, unscrewed the lid and tossed a mouthful of vodka into her mouth. It stung like an angry wasp and hit her stomach like needles. Her shoulders hunched forward and she resisted her gag reflex. With the edge of the bedspread, she wiped her mouth. Her heartbeat slowed and she rubbed her chest below her collarbone.

  Rose replaced the lid on the flask and shoved it to the back of the drawer. She leaned over the side-table, gripping the edges. She wanted more. But, no. One shot was enough.

  Walk away and get dressed, she thought. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  No.

  Just one more.

  She rifled through the drawer for the flask. In hand, she unscrewed the lid and took her shot. The alcohol spread through her body. Magdalena’s announcement, Henry and Buzzy’s breakfast shenanigans, all of it made her think she was losing everything. She needed to employ logic and rid herself of blind uncertainty that only led to self-fulfilling prophecy. And, not the good kind.

  She threw open her closet door and pushed aside her freshly ironed uniform and good church dress. She knelt on the floor and rammed three hatboxes to the side. Her breath short, she crawled deeper into the closet, groping along the wall where the side met the back and popped open a hidden door. Her chest heaved as she focused on the orderly rows and stacks of non-perishable goods. Everything was there in the exact order that she left it.

  This stash of foodstuffs was as important as saving money, she thought. And hidden here, no one would find it. She ran her fingers over the cans of beans, soup, spam—anything that would keep. She would have everything they needed to survive if needed and she wouldn’t share a bit of it with lazy Sara Clara.

  That woman could starve and wither like an autumn leaf. She crossed herself at the thought. Please God help me, she thought. She felt her focus scatter. Everything and everyone should have been in its place, yet it wasn’t.

  She crossed herself. Please God; help me get through this day. She had always tried to be a good Catholic. Well, ever since Sister John Ann showed her how much she needed to be. She tried. She did everything she could to follow the rules.

  Rose squeezed her eyes shut, still running her fingers around the tops of the cans. She wanted her doubts to vanish. But, despite the constant confession of her sins, the penance of Hail Marys and novenas, she was still angry with God. But, too afraid to discount his power. She knew she was wrong to be angry with Him, so she proceeded in life as though she were not.

  * * *

  Johnny stood near his mother’s clothes closet, bent over, hands on his knees, trying to see what exactly she was doing. Her feet, the splotchy, blackened bottoms of her slippers swerved and jerked as she messed with something in the back where he couldn’t see. He’d caught her in the same position a couple of times. Once, he snuck in while she worked and fished around, sure she stashed Christmas gifts there but found nothing. Johnny felt his mother kept a part of her hidden from the family; no one knew her as well as she knew them and this closet was part of what made him think that.

  The sound of metal clanging and paper crumpling drew him closer. “Mum?”

  Rose gasped; feet suddenly still, one foot slightly raised in the air, the other toe, jammed into the matted carpet. And then she was moving again. She backed out, shoving things around as she did.

  Rose stood and pulled her robe tight around her.

  Johnny’s eyes darted from Rose to the closet and back again. He was nervous, but tried to exude confidence. He knew his mother responded positively to mutual strength more than she did to weakness.

  “I need to talk to you.” Johnny saw a crescent of greasy soot on her shoulder. He flicked it with his finger, smearing it.

  Rose pushed Johnny’s hand away and brushed at the soot, smudging it more. Johnny knew that would infuriate her, but she seemed more jumpy than angry, shuffling him away from the closet, kicking it shut with her foot.

  “G-go, on.” Her words came out in a stutter for the first time in Johnny’s life.

  Again, he glanced over Rose’s shoulder at the closet. He made a mental note to poke around in there later.

  “Get on to school,” she said. “You’ve got plenty of school work to do and you need to have the grades like the fellas from the class of—”

  “Mum, please. I’m not like those fellas from forty-four and forty-five. I love playing football with the fellas for sure, but I am not looking to break my neck in college.”

  He couldn’t get the right words out. He searched for a sign in his mother’s expression that she would be open to what he had to say. He reminded himself to be confident, to simply push the words into the world.

  He took Rose’s hand and squeezed it to get her full attention. “I want to play music.”

  Rose clenched her jaw and pulled her hand away. “What the hell’s in the water today? Is this some sort of ‘jag Rose day’ I’m not aware of? Music is a direct route to the mill. It’ll be as if you signed on a shift the day you graduate from high school. Hell, why even finish high school if that’s your plan?”

  “But—”

  Rose shook her head. “And now look it here, all your yammering has influenced your sister. Do you know how smart that girl is? And she’s plotting a life sewing of all things.”

  “I’m trying to tell you I have other opportunities.”

  Johnny felt his legs go rubbery and he sat on the bed. Why did he think they could talk about this, that he could change her mind? She had taught him to be strong. This was his chance to show her he learned that lesson. He swallowed and stood back up, looking at his mother right in the eye.

  “I just want you to know I, uh, might take those opportunities.”

  Rose sighed. Now she took his hand, stepping forward, forcing him to sit back on the bed. She re-combed his immaculate hair. He waited for her to rant, but she didn’t. Maybe the Magdalena thing took more out of her than he realized.

  “My parents died of the flu when I was two; I lived in that wretched orphanage. Every time we save money, someone in this family loses it or steals it or borrows it. Not to mention the depression years. It took almost nothing to go from having everything we needed to buy a house to nil. If a person’s wealth is in his mind, an education, that can’t ever be taken away. That’s the safest investment a person can make.”

  “I would say the same is true for a musician. A good one.”

  His mother was petrified of losing him in a mill accident or to booze, or to a lazy girl who couldn’t keep house. But Johnny had no intention of working in a blistering mill. His mother simply didn’t know how good he was at music.

  “It’s my job to tell you what to do,” Rose said. “It wouldn’t be responsible if I didn’t open up the world to you, so then you can make the choices you want. That’s what’s wonderful about America. The parents just have to be smart enough to know their kids
can do better than them and care enough to make it happen. So, when you talk to the football scouts this weekend. Don’t say ‘yunz.’ They’ll look at you different if you speak properly than if you speak like a buffoon. You’ll go to college. You don’t have a choice. End of discussion.”

  “Julliard is a college—”

  They locked stares.

  “I will work so hard, Mum. In New York City. I’ve talked to a fella there. No way I’ll fail. You’re my mother. I hail from Donora where the only failure is not trying. I’m not Buzzy.”

  Rose’s eyes conveyed a kindness she didn’t always reveal. She put her hand on his shoulder. “You’d be better off if you were dumber. Not that you’re a genius, but you’re not dumb enough. I don’t think music school is the answer. I don’t think—”

  “Hey, how ‘bout a swing around the living room before I leave for school?” He cocked his head and his lips slid into a half smile that never failed to soften his mother. Rose shook her head.

  Johnny couldn’t live the life his mother had plotted for him, but he loved her so much it hurt. He was sure he could get her to go along with his plan if he tried hard enough. He had a few more days to convince her, to get her ready to meet the man who would change his life.

  Johnny stood and leaned on his toes and broke into a full smile. She tilted her head and shrugged. She was clearly finding his idea reasonable. By the end of the week he might even convince her to forget about having the Notre Dame scout over for grub. By then, he might actually have everything he wanted.

  He took Rose’s hand, pulled her into the hall where he’d set the Victrola spinning. He dropped the arm and the sax introduction for “In the Mood” began. Rose’s favorite song.

  He spun her down the hall. His father stood there, hands in his pockets.

  Johnny heard pounding on the door. “The gang’s here. Gotta get to school on time.” He broke away from Rose, glancing back to see that she was smiling at him, making him feel as though there was room for him to make his world right.

  * * *

  As soon as Johnny dashed out the front door Rose was struck by his absence. Henry took her hand, his familiar calluses hit her palm in the spot they always did. Resentment sputtered through her body—irritated that he’d taken up for Magdalena before they had a chance to discuss the fact she was throwing her life into the toilet for no good reason. She refused to look at him and started back down the hall.

  Henry came up behind her and grabbed her by the waist. He turned her around, forcing her to face him. Henry wore his half smile, lips not parting even as his eyes squinted. He kissed her forehead and cheeks gently and she stepped against him, his smooth steps leading her to a slower rhythm than the music suggested.

  “I’m goddamn angry you kept that from me. It’s bullshit, Hen,” Rose said into his ear. “You conspiring is…” Just saying the words was like a million knives in her pride, eviscerating her position in the house. Magdalena had trusted Henry over her. She had gone to him her whole life with little tiny things, but this was important. This wasn’t about a dance on a school night or buying an extra sweater. Henry knew Rose believed in getting an education above anything else; he’d always agreed, yet there he was, approving of Magdalena’s irresponsible plans.

  Henry pulled Rose closer, her chest against him, his lips brushing her ear as he unknotted her chignon in a single swoop. His fingers combed through her hair. His other hand sat gently in the small of her back making her body meld into his.

  They danced their way back toward the bedroom, the passion that marked their relationship for nearly two decades was reborn as Henry lay Rose on the bed and slowly, artfully, and as though there was nothing else in the world that mattered other than her being, pulled her robe open and ran a hand up her slip.

  And, the two knew what they meant to each other in a way that they never seemed to find the words to convey. She closed her eyes and let his hands wander over her body. She rubbed and squeezed him; her legs wrapped tight around his waist, and smelled his skin, the familiar scent of sweat from the night still there in spots his shower did not reach.

  His lips on hers, his body inside, he unbolted her heart and filled the emptiness. Rose had never felt love the way she did when having sex. It was the most potent form of it, the only way she felt she belonged with Henry completely. And so, there was never a time, never once, that she said no.

  * * *

  Rose sighed as Henry rolled off of her and onto his back. She looked at his tranquil face, the way he appeared completely at peace when his eyes were shut. Nice for him. Other than the few minutes during sex Rose couldn’t seem to find peace in any aspect of her day, eyes closed or open.

  She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, stretching her arms above her head. She went to the dresser and took the fresh washrag from a drawer. Its fluffy, terrycloth loops were long flattened into near-useless cotton.

  She looked over her shoulder at Henry. How could he have agreed that Magdalena should quit school? Rose dipped the cloth into the water basin, rung it out and rubbed it with her beauty bar to add a scent that would freshen and cleanse.

  He had never lied to her before. With the cloth she rubbed her neck, her underarms, scraping away the dead skin. She imagined Magdalena confiding in Henry, discussing how they would keep it from Rose until just the right time.

  She whisked away the sweat and filth between her legs, rinsing the cloth then running it down her ankles to her feet, between her toes. She tried to cover up the sadness those realizations brought by focusing on what lay ahead—the data she needed to present to get the funding from Mrs. Sebastian.

  Henry coughed making Rose turn back to him. He tamped out his cigarette in the chunky, glass ashtray beside him and scratched away on the yellow legal pad he’d kept in his bedside drawer.

  “Get some sleep,” Rose said.

  “Yeah,” Henry said as he continued to write.

  Rose shook her head and toweled off her legs. She was always caught off guard by the way Henry attracted her, zapping away unease or anger or worry for the moments that their sex lasted. Then, like a window snapping shut, the closeness was gone and the hurt that she had closed off was instantly back.

  “You need a day off,” Henry said.

  Rose pulled her stockings and undergarments from a drawer and slammed it shut.

  “You’ll see. With some rest, everything will be fine,” Henry said. He normally pushed Rose to confide in him when she was angry—as much as she ever could—but this time he seemed as unwilling to cross the divide as her. That made her even angrier.

  Rose laid her slip on the bed, pulled on her underpants and garter-belt and sat down, forcing Henry to move in toward the middle. She glimpsed the yellow pad of paper as he shifted. Doodling. He had something to say to Rose, but she didn’t have time to lure it out of him.

  She fixed her bra straps over her shoulders and hooked it in the back.

  “Just one day,” Henry said as he ran his finger under her bra strap and then caressed the back of her neck.

  “One day?” Rose wound the Big Ben clock listening as the gears tightened. “I’ve got a home visit to show the new superintendent’s wife that her money would be well spent in our community health clinic. I should check in on Meanie and Slats before seeing if Big Martha will deliver today.”

  The clock’s heavy ticking set her pace. She lifted her leg and rolled a flawless white stocking over one foot and up her leg. She snapped it to the garter and smoothed the whole stocking from toe to thigh. Henry toyed with the garter and she eased his hand away.

  She rolled on the second stocking. “You fix this with Magdalena and then I’ll feel better.” The sound of paper crinkling drew her attention to Henry who was folding up a yellow, legal pad piece of paper.

  “We don’t need a conversation about how crazy her little announcement was this morning. Neither of us has the time.”

  She stepped into her slip.

  Henry lit another cigarette
. “What would you do if you knew something you shouldn’t, but because you knew it, you should do something that may not be the right thing?”

  Rose grimaced. Henry was always spouting philosophic “what ifs” that at one time Rose used to entertain. They’d become background noise to her, well, she wasn’t sure when, but they floated through the air, entering her ears, but not sparking any intellectual interest.

  “You just tell the truth, Henry. That seems to be the best way to avoid stepping into dog-shit, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged, tapping his pencil on the yellow pad. “Like when there’s information you’re supposed to know and facts you’re not…”

  Rose laughed and went to the closet. “Like when our daughter confided in you that she plans to toss away her future like dirty toilet paper?” She removed her uniform from her closet.

  “Don’t ever do that again. Keep a secret,” Rose said, wishing she could wrench the words back into her mouth, knowing that she’d kept secrets from Henry she would never want to have to make up for. But still, this was different.

  “Rose.” Henry appeared to feel all the guilt Rose thought he ought to, having kept such a secret. “I didn’t—”

  A knock on the door stopped Henry from finishing his thought.

  Sara Clara’s voice was muffled behind the wood door. “Doc Bonaroti said, Mrs. Sebastian confirmed, Rose. Don’t be late.”

  Rose groaned. As if she’d ever been late for anything.

  “The Doc said that, not me. Don’t be mad at me,” Sara Clara said.

  “Oh I’m mad, Sara Clara,” Rose said.

  Rose pulled her blue uniform over her fresh, white slip, its delicate lace, immaculate from Rose’s laundry skill as she did not let Sara Clara near her clothes. “So, spill it, what were you going to say?”

  She glanced at Henry who was back to scribbling.

  “Later,” he said, his voice conveyed that he was pouting. “Sounds like you have to run.”

  She straightened the white, crisp collar and slipped into her best black, pumps—she had to show Mrs. Sebastian that in the work of a community nurse, the uniform was as important as what she did.