After the Fog

by Kathleen Shoop

  He held her face, caressing her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I just wanted to get your thoughts on something. That’s all. But you’re tired. You always do the right thing and I know. Now I know.”

  Henry stood and went to the door.

  “Hen!” Rose glanced at the clock. He was going to have to sprint down to the gate to make the shift change. He didn’t have time to quell her confusion, but she couldn’t let him leave the room.

  He raised his eyebrows at her from the doorway.

  “Just be careful.” What a stupid thing to say. What she wanted to do was order him to stand there and reveal what was behind his wandering queries. But she didn’t want his pay docked or for him to be fired for tardiness.

  The thought that Rose might never see Henry again brought to life a dull fear she hadn’t felt in ages. Rose collapsed onto the bed, her heart thrashing in her chest. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. She lay still, willing her body to listen to her mind, to understand, Henry would be home, that worrying about injury or death when he went to work was not worth her time. There was no way to keep him safe. He was good at what he did, that though other men were maimed and killed in the mill, they were not as strong or smart as Henry.

  What was happening to her? Maybe Sara Clara was getting to her in more than one way. Maybe it unnerved her, having the young woman there, a set of eyes that hadn’t seen how bad work in the mills was before there were eight-hour shifts, or unions, a sense of control over their lives. Maybe it was reflecting back a truth Rose knew existed—she didn’t want her son anywhere near the mill. She would mourn Henry forever if he died, but she would live. The death of her children? Well, they could put her in the grave with them for all she’d be able to handle after that.

  With the last burst of energy Rose slid out from under the bedcovers, slipped out of her clothes, into a nightgown, and back into bed still not bathed. Her head felt heavy on the pillow and she hoped sleep would remove all that had stained her life that day. For that moment, she believed that was possible.

  Chapter 6

  Wednesday, October 27th, 1948

  The benefits of uninterrupted sleep were never to be underestimated. At five in the morning Rose woke, her mind sharp. She rolled into Henry’s side of the bed, the sheets cool from the absence of his body. She rubbed her eyes, crossed herself, and said a short prayer for his safety. Then she offered one for the others. Inside her words to God, she felt protected as if she and He stood within her clasped hands, sheltered by His grace. She pushed her folded hands to the ceiling three times and hopped out of bed.

  Rose pushed back the curtain as she did when she woke each morning. She squinted. She had expected to see the lamplight at the neighbor’s house illuminating both of their back yards but she could only make out a cottony glow that didn’t beam past the lamp itself. Were the windows that dirty? She rubbed the glass then examined her fingertips. There was soot on her skin, but not enough that it would make the early morning sky appear charred as it did. She shrugged. She pulled the curtain back into place, sure the sun would burn back the fog by noon.

  She headed toward the bathroom, tripped over a raised stretch of carpet in the middle of the hallway and stubbed her toe. Her knee ached and brought back the memory of Isabella, and Rose faltering as she headed down the dark hall to the woman’s bedroom. Chills ran up her spine. She was struck with an image of the lifeless Isabella and her dead baby tucked in the crook of her arm.

  She ran the faucet in the tub, and bent over the edge, her knees digging into the cracked tile floor. Rose scrubbed her scalp and hair under the soothing water, as she shook off the memories of Isabella. Early in life she’d learned allowing herself to feel pain—physical or emotional—caused her to lose the ability to make good decisions, to be a good person, to function at all.

  Finished with her hair, Rose plugged the drain and slipped into the comfort of full submersion, thinking that a total cleansing to baptize the day was what she needed.

  With her to-do list reeling through her mind, a freshly bathed Rose breezed through the dusting and sweeping on the main floor then tackled the laundry mess in the cellar. At the top of the stairs, she pulled the string to the bulb, and cast the stairs with feeble light. She brushed aside cobwebs at the bottom and looked up into the wooden crosshatched supports before ignoring their filth.

  Rose passed the coal cellar and jumped as the metal door swung open. She heard the coal man’s shovel scratching into inky mounds of coal outside, then a load hitting the floor in chunks; smaller shards splashing like black water.

  “Hey there Nico,” Rose said.

  “Rosie.” The coal man peeked through the hole in the wall. “Milk man nearly broke his neck on them steps up to yunz guys’ utility room—up by yer kitchen.”

  “I told him to leave it out front. On that porch sixty-seven times, I told him.”

  “Tell ‘em again,” he said. “Fore he breaks his neck n’at.”

  “He breaks it, then screw ‘em, I warned him,” Rosie said.

  “I’ll pass that along,” Nico said.

  Rose nodded.

  Past the cinderblock shower, past Unk’s workbench where each tool had its hook, and on the underside of the shelves, baby food jars hung like glass bats. Unk had screwed the lids of baby food jars into the wood and each jar, turned into its lid, was suspended in the air, boasting its contents, as neat as Rose could ever imagine tiny construction items being stored.

  At the back of the cellar Rose dunked her hands into yesterday’s wash water, feeling around for the carcasses of her beautiful tea and hand towels.

  She smiled down at the linen. A small segment of the embroidered flower garden remained in full bloom, somehow still vibrant blue, pink and red. Rose crossed herself, thinking she’d been witness to a miracle that morning as she cut the salvageable part—a four-inch segment—from the ruined towel and tucked it into her jeans pocket. She fingered the rest of the sopping, grey towel then threw it into the garbage.

  She snatched it back out. So few things she owned were markers of the day she married Henry. Even ruined, she couldn’t bare to throw out Auntie Anna’s work, her gift to Rose at a time she had nothing. A surge of anger toward Sara Clara flooded Rose. She said a quick Hail Mary, but the resentment had taken root and stifled the prayer.

  “I have news.” Rose turned from the wash and met Henry’s gaze.

  “Mother of God, you scared the living daylights out of me.”

  He limped toward her.

  “Oh Hen, your foot? How’s the Achilles?” She craned around him to see the back of his leg, looking intact.

  He touched Rose’s cheek. “You crying?”

  Rose winced. “Course not. What’s news?”

  Rose turned back to the utility tubs. “Well Hen, what?”

  “Magdalena’s skates. Did you see them under the stairs there?”

  “That’s what you want to talk about?” She clipped the scrap of ruined fabric to the clothesline above her head then drained the washtub. She still needed to rewash what Sara Clara had simply matted down with water. She could feel Henry watching her. He was a man of few spoken words, but normally, if he stood there looking like he had something to say he simply said it.

  She heard him exhale.

  “It’s not good.”

  “What? Magdalena’s quit roller-skating along with school? You’re worried about that over the fact she wants to quit school? Come on, Henry.”

  Henry crossed his arms and looked away.

  “What?” Rose said.

  Henry met Rose’s gaze. “I got fired.”

  She turned from him and buckled, catching herself on the edge of the tub. “What?” Buzzy’s words from the day before came back to her.

  Henry sighed.

  She straightened but didn’t face him. “Because of dumb-ass Vinski?”

  Rose could hear Henry shift and sigh behind her.

  “No, Emmanuel Knight.”

  Rose spun back to Henry.
“Manny? The colored fella who coaches Johnny sometimes?”

  “He deserved the promotion. Before any other guy in that entire mill. He knows more than—”

  Rose leaned back against the tub for support. “So you had to get involved?”

  Henry pulled a wet shirt from the laundry tub and started to feed it through the ringer. Rose snapped it back and tossed it into the tub, turning on the faucet to re-soak the damaged clothing. They had often discussed the way colored men were overlooked in the mills, but never in terms of giving up his job up for the cause.

  Henry held up his hands in surrender. “Something snapped. I couldn’t watch them give it to someone, someone pretty dumb, over him again.”

  Rose felt like the restful sleep she had gotten, never happened. Her arms and legs felt heavy, her stomach churned at the thought of Henry losing his job. How would they pay their bills?

  “Look at me, Rose.”

  She stared past him.

  “It was right to say something,” Henry said. “Sometimes a fella needs to do the right thing.”

  Rose turned and fed the shirt through the roller, pushing the handle, pulling it so hard her wet hand slid off every other turn. “I know, I know. It’s not fair. Nothing’s fair. That’s a first-grade lesson in social studies, Hen. You’re smarter than that. We’re almost done paying off Buzzy’s debt. We’re so close.” Rose lost her grip on the handle then picked up the roller and tossed it into the tub. Henry had no idea what it’s like to have nothing. She couldn’t live like that again.

  “You could have just written a poem about the injustice,” Rose said. She instantly wanted to take back the words. She put a hand to her forehead, wiping away the sweat. She couldn’t look at Henry, couldn’t stand to see the hurt in his expression. She turned the water back on and let her hands dangle in the tub.

  Henry stepped behind Rose and rubbed her back. “Well, you know how everyone kisses my ass because I played ball for the Pirates, and my purple heart, they crawl up over each other’s backs just to buy me a beer. I thought they’d listen. I forgot they didn’t really give a damn. Still, I did the right thing, Rose.”

  She knew it too, but it still pissed her off.

  Henry ran his finger down the small of her back. Rose stiffened, agitated, mad that she found the word “stupid” so readily at her lips, just barely able to keep it locked inside her mouth. The phrase “You dumb hunky,” kept popping into her head. She wanted to scream it and beat him with it.

  “I’ll get work,” Henry said. “You know these fellas on McKean will hire me. The chance to put my mug in their windows. An ex-Pittsburgh Pirate? I may not be Stan Musial, but you know I’ll get work. This town is doing well. I’ll get other work.”

  Rose wished Henry was Stan Musial, the Donoran who’d gone on to make $50,000 a year playing a game instead of throwing out his shoulder after just six seasons.

  Henry held a towel out to Rose, and she took it and rubbed her chafed skin with a heavy exhale. “Town’s doing well,” she said. “But, you can’t piss people off. Every blessed business in town depends on the mills, Hen. Christ Almighty, even Deborah’s Shoes and Gloves. No one’s going to hire a loudmouth, even one who played for the Pirates.”

  Rose loved Henry because of how he saw the world, she just wasn’t prepared to live with the consequences. She pushed the towel back at him. He hung it over the rope above them.

  “You know I agree with you,” she said, “but you shouldn’t mess with mill hierarchy. Just do the right thing and come home to your family in one piece.”

  Henry nodded and lit a cigarette. “That’s what I thought I did.”

  Rose bit the inside of her mouth.

  Henry’s silence said he was disappointed in her reaction.

  “You’ll take Leo while I look for work?” Henry said.

  Rose lifted her shoulders and let them drop. Maybe Buzzy needed a diaper change, too. Maybe a rubdown and spoon-fed breakfast.

  “Buzzy’s got to sleep. Sara Clara’s under the weather.”

  “Jeez-o-man! Lord knows we can’t have those two care for their own kid.”

  Henry looked away. “I can watch Leo tomorrow once I get a job and catch up on shut-eye.”

  Rose didn’t mind Leo traipsing around with her; she just minded that everyone else treated her as though she were a donkey. Why not load up the old girl?

  Rose was losing control of her focus, her list of things to do that day. “I have to see to that young woman with respiration issues—the Sebastians’ daughter, Theresa. I need that funding more than ever now. We can’t all be out of work, can we?”

  Those words burned Rose’s lips and she knew they chiseled at Henry’s ego. There was nothing worse than a shrew belittling her husband, let alone one that actually had more financial leverage and a reason to belittle him.

  Rose wanted to let this go, to let Henry go sop up his pulverized pride, but she couldn’t.

  “Do we even want the same things anymore, Henry? The house like we always talked about? Getting out from under your brother? You keep making these decisions as though I don’t exist. I mean, Magdalena is allowed to quit school of all things? She needs to be independent, able to care for herself no matter what—”

  “You know we want the same things. I care about my family, our family. I know they’re hard to handle, but they’re ours. That means something.”

  She threw a shirt into the water and stomped away.

  “Does it mean something, Henry? I guess you’re saying I wouldn’t know?” Rose didn’t wait for his response; she slammed back through the cellar, back upstairs to get ready for work. She felt as if she was losing everything; she could not ever go back to the poorhouse at Mayview. Not for anything, for anyone.

  Henry called to her but she pretended not to hear. She wanted to stop and talk and help soothe her husband, but she couldn’t and as she closed the door on further conversation, she was hit with the urge for a smoke and a stiff fifth of vodka.

  * * *

  Rose dressed quickly, double-checking her uniform. She was heavy-handed with the starch when she ironed and never more grateful of the care she took with her clothing than when she slipped on the uniform to visit Mrs. Sebastian that day.

  Every crease and plane lay as it should, giving Rose confidence. Her backup pair of shoes boasted a nice, clean shine. The soles were worn nearly through to her skin, but they would do for a while more. Finally, she brushed and twisted her thick hair into a bun that gave her a polished appearance.

  Rose took a deep breath as she entered the kitchen. She was fuming at just about everyone in the room. Each seemed to occupy his or her own special level of uselessness, but Rose wouldn’t point that out just then. Certainly, she was not perfect, she reminded herself.

  She kissed Unk’s head and gave Auntie Anna a tight squeeze. She patted Leo’s back and told him to hurry, to go get dressed as he was assigned to her for the day. The normal family banter was non-existent; the mood was wrapped in terse silence. Sara Clara wasn’t wearing lipstick and her face was as grey as the laundry she had ruined. Magdalena sat head in hand, lifeless as Sara Clara. There was a bug going around, Rose probably brought it home to them herself.

  She plucked a piece of bacon from the serving platter. It was surprisingly crisp. She wondered who had cooked it, but refused to ask. The clink of forks and knives on china punctuated the hush. Her stomach should have been growling, but it turned over on itself instead.

  Johnny grinned at Rose. He looked as though he had not spent the night drinking, thank goodness. Rose sighed, his ease relaxing her. She didn’t want all this strain in the house. She would try a different tact with Sara Clara. Rose would not yell at Sara Clara for ruining her embroidered towels. Besides, she needed to have the sense of goodness around her before meeting with Mrs. Sebastian, and pointing out Sara Clara’s shortcomings hadn’t forced her to pay any more attention to detail.

  “Sara Clara,” Rose said as Leo came back into the kitchen with
his coat in hand. “Don’t forget to make the shopping list.” She couldn’t ruin that, Rose thought. “Friday’s payday, after all. You know what should be on it after nearly a year here. Johnny and Magdalena can put together jumbo sandwiches for lunch if I’m not here to make something better.”

  Rose tapped her foot not sure she should order Sara Clara to do more.

  Leo draped himself around Rose’s midsection. Rose smoothed his hair off his forehead.

  “Oh, and Sara Clara,” Rose reached into her junk drawer and pulled out a glob of pink putty and kneaded it. “The walls in the front are black again. Remember how I showed you to use the putty?”

  Sara Clara glanced at Buzzy then nodded making Rose think she didn’t really remember.

  “Just press it on the wall to lift the soot and when it’s blackened, knead it until it’s pink and start again.”

  Sara Clara nodded.

  “And costumes,” Rose tossed the putty to Sara Clara. “We need to finish Leo’s Halloween costume. I fitted him, you sew. Big parade on Friday. You’ll see why Donora’s so special once you experience the Halloween parade. And don’t forget to mail your bills. It’s Wednesday.”

  Sara Clara forced a smile and nuzzled into Buzzy who put his arm protectively over her shoulder.

  “I can do that, Rose,” Sara Clara said.

  Rose saw the question on Sara Clara’s face, wondering if Rose was going to yell about the ruined laundry. Rose patted her uniform pocket where the scrap of intact flower garden embroidery was nestled. “But don’t touch my wash. I’ll handle that.” And Rose was out the door, Leo flying behind her.

  * * *

  The crisp air nibbled at Rose’s cheeks and nose as she and Leo stepped into the thick fog—bristly, Irish woolen-like fog—still murkier than normal. Was it earlier than she thought? She looked at her watch—eight-thirty. Rose thought perhaps the fog had settled thick to reflect her dark mood or maybe she’d stepped inside one of Henry’s bleak poems.

  Rose reminded herself that Mrs. Sebastian’s funding was more pressing at that moment and feeling sorry for herself would only make her reek of vulnerability or resentment and cause Mrs. Sebastian to question her abilities.