He looked up and when she stayed mute, he shrugged and left the house, slamming the door.
Rose jumped at the sound then sighed into her tea. No person was strong enough to force anything to happen in the world. Rose sat there for hours, parsing the combination of events that occurred in the past few days wishing she could change any one of them. She tried to say a prayer but none came to mind. Her rosary wasn’t in her pocket. She looked around the kitchen for something that reminded her of her life before the accident. Nothing did. Not even Mrs. Saltz, stirring soup, seeming like the most reasonable woman God had ever crafted. Rose smirked at the thought; there was no God.
Chapter 20
Henry had slipped out of the house when Rose had caught five minutes of sleep, and didn’t come back, proving to her what she had feared her entire life.
Rumor had it he had picked up a shift at the Duquesne Works, pulling overtime every shot he had, living there with a cousin. Magdalena was living with Henry now, sharing a bedroom with three cousins, twice removed, under the age of four and was, according to neighbors who spoke loud enough in front of the house for her to overhear, doing very well.
Sara Clara, Buzzy and Leo headed down south and took the fragile Auntie Anna with them. They went with the groups of fellow Donorans who’d been invited to North Carolina to cleanse their lungs. The reports coming back were that all were responding to the clean, salty breezes. Thoughts of Johnny in a rehabilitation facility in Sewickley, Pennsylvania, accompanied Rose as she went about her day.
Her activities were no longer shaped by nursing or the immediate demands of family. Rose hid herself away from the world, safely ensconced at home. She thought of her family every minute of the day, thinking that people and families were like the nails made in the mill down below. Each gripper left marks on its nails so unique they could be used to solve crimes.
And Rose thought, families were marked that way, too. If it were possible to see inside Henry or Rose and Buzzy, Sara Clara, Magdalena or Johnny—their souls would all bear distinct gripper marks of their shared misery.
Rose didn’t clean the house or bathe or even eat very much. She stayed in bed mostly, not even rain slashing at her windows made her stir. Twice a week Father Tom gave her a lift to visit Johnny.
Once in a while, she braved it and opened the front door to fetch the newspaper. She could only bring herself to read the headlines and then she couldn’t focus enough to leave her gaze on the page.
The November election of Truman over Dewey had come and gone, shocking the nation as most people had gone to bed thinking Dewey won and woke to find Truman the president. The weather had returned to normal in Donora with colder winter temperatures and typical fog that didn’t seem to be killing anyone as the killing smog had done just weeks before.
Rose wandered her house, always having wanted a home of her own, with her own rules, no one to mess up what she fixed up, but she never knew what that might actually feel like. Until now.
She remembered that feeling she’d had the week of the fog, the sense of being with family members yet struck how alone she felt. She hadn’t realized that whatever she had been feeling that day was nothing like what she felt since everyone left. She was still angry at them, but she began to miss the opportunity to tell them she was.
Alone in the house, Rose moved Johnny’s instruments, the footballs, baseball gloves, basketballs, and athletic shoes from room to room every time she noticed them. Rose fully understood her part in Johnny’s accident and inflicted punishment upon herself. If Johnny could not pursue his dreams—or those Rose had for him—then she would not pursue hers either.
After Mrs. Saltz left on Tuesday, November 2nd, Rose climbed into what felt like her own death as she marveled at her lack of desire to do anything. She’d stare at the walls, letting the stinky dog Rags into the house after seeing that he belonged to the Johnsons at the funeral, pulling and tugging on his rope. She felt obligated to take him in, knowing he had a home, and owners who didn’t care for him.
Rose now allowed him to press up against her, follow her around the house, and drink from a cereal bowl. In bed, she’d watch the dust settling on itself, darkening the sills. She wasn’t moved to wipe anything down in the least. She enjoyed the nights when the fog swirled around her ceiling at night giving her mind something to do instead of mulling over the fact Henry was no longer sleeping beside her.
She kept waiting to get bored, to rush out of bed, determined to open her own clinic, secure funding, put her family back together, but nothing happened. On the days she didn’t go to visit John, she wrapped herself in smelly sheets and laid there as though the world had clamped an invisible seal over her, squelching her desire to live.
Rose ratcheted her bedside table drawer open. The flask was empty. She went to the kitchen, found nothing. Rose clawed at her cheeks, feeling dizzy. How had she come to be a person rummaging through her own house for booze, like a common beggar?
Because. That was who she’d always been.
The closet. Her secret stash of, well, everything. She shambled back to the bedroom and went straight to her closet. She got on her knees and popped open the secret panel that hid the space in the wall where her salvation lay.
She ferreted through the cans, trying for a moment to keep things neat. But then she began tossing the cans, corn, beans, Spam, baby food, cloth diapers, bottles, where was the booze?
If she could just have one little drink she could think clearly. She hit the back wall, the space now empty of its contents, but continued to feel around, convinced she’d hidden several bottles there. She pounded on the wall with both fists.
They had to be there. She put it there herself. She fell to all fours and heaved for air. Beads of sweat formed at her hairline. She bent forward, head on her knees, disoriented. She didn’t know what aspect of recent life events had her most upset. Finding and losing Theresa? Johnny’s accident?
Or was it Magdalena’s pregnancy, or her family or losing Henry?
Rose bucked up and screamed at the air. “Haven’t I paid enough?”
A voice came from nowhere. “You have.”
Rose flew to the back of the closet, startled. She calmed herself; she knew that voice. She pushed aside the dresses that hid her view. Standing outside the closet was Father Tom, carrying a bag as though he might be staying somewhere for the night.
She threw her fists into the wall. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” She hit the wall so hard it gave under her weight. She paused and hit it again, exposing another hollow space in the closet. Drywall instead of plaster in this part of the closet? Unk would not have stood for such shoddy building materials.
Father Tom joined her on the closet floor, pulled her hands into his and turned them back and forth, assessing the scrapes and bruises. Rose had expelled all the energy she might have used to push him away and shove him out the door.
“I’ll be staying here until your family returns,” he said.
Rose shook her head. They weren’t coming back. They hated each other, why would they come back?
“Well, then, until one of your friends comes to stay.”
She shook her head again.
“Well, then, see, that’s the problem. I’ll be your friend, then. I can’t have you killing yourself. People need you Rose. You’re not the kind who can just disappear and not be missed.”
Rose pulled her hands from his and balled up against the wall, her head resting on her knees. She couldn’t believe the priest had casually mentioned killing herself.
“Suit yourself,” Rose said. “But, I won’t kill myself. Don’t mind if death shows up and takes me. I’d like that, actually. To just be done with it all. And just so we’re clear, I don’t want you here. You can’t bring God back into my life just because you want to.”
He nodded and examined the hole she’d made with her fists.
“Flashlight?” he said.
“Kitchen drawer.”
Father Tom tripped over t
he canned goods, and headed into the kitchen leaving Rose to stare at the wall. What the hell was in there? How could there be another secret place? Had she been so good at hiding things that she hadn’t even realized what she’d done? Who the hell built a second hidey-hole? Had she done it and forgotten?
Father Tom returned, brandishing the flashlight and shined it into the hole. “Looks like something’s here.”
That didn’t make sense. A person couldn’t forget something like that—building a false wall for Christ sakes. Was she mentally ill instead of just a liar? Stupid? She stabbed at the wall with the butt of the flashlight, piercing the wall with each blow.
The hole grew big enough for them to tunnel their fingers into and tear hunks away. Three big sections gave way and she flashed the light into the hole again. The light bounced back, reflecting off something shiny. She reached inside. Vodka. She felt crazy, how could she forget? She unscrewed the lid and took a swig, feeling it course through every inch of her, warming, numbing, calming her like magic, the way the simple act of saying the rosary used to do.
Father Tom declined her offer for a swig.
She shook her head at the wall. “I didn’t build this, you know. It had to be Unk.” The master bedroom was his before Rose and Henry moved in seventeen years before.
He was a hoarder, like Rose, but not a hider. He hoarded right where everyone could see him with his jars of bolts and nails and screws. But still. Rose put the vodka aside and stuck her head in the hole, the flashlight sending a sliver of light through the space between her chin and plaster hole.
Rose’s vision adjusted. More whiskey and bourbon. She pulled the bottles out and set them behind her. It wasn’t long before she stared uncovering cases of beer. Iron City beer. Rose cursed him silently. Why the hell would he hide that of all things? Rose had to widen the hole to maneuver the case of beer out. It didn’t feel right in her arms. Too light, but not light enough to be empties.
She lifted both sides of the case, and stared down at bottles. What the hell? She closed the box, pushing it behind her. She lifted three more cases out, shaking her head, almost smiling at Unk. He’d always been a strange man, and if he’d been rich, he’d have been deemed eccentric. But, hell, he was interesting enough that half the town thought he’d buried money in the house.
Rose dove back into the hole in the wall and rooted around. Nothing else. Just the outside wall. Nothing. She sat back on one of the cases of beer. Buried money? Why would Unk tease people so? Probably to make people spend the rest of their lives wondering. What would Rose do if she found money? Five days before she had an answer. Buy a new home, pay for everyone’s school. Be secure, happy. Five days before, everything had been clear.
Rose ran her hand over the case of beer beside her and lifted the two lids that met at the center, again, grabbing.
She lifted a bottle of beer from the case and hefted it in her hand, then shook it. The lid flew off. It had been removed once, and just set back on top. It was heavy, but no liquid inside. She handed it to Father Tom and he turned it over then held the opening up to his eye before pouring it into his hand. Nothing came out even though it felt full.
Rose took it from him and poked her finger into its mouth and felt paper. She snaked her finger around and finally coaxed a piece out. Twenty-dollar bills. She could only reach so far down the neck of the bottle. She ran for her nurse’s bag and found long tweezers to help her remove the money. They released the cache, bill after bill, growing, oddly, more confused than gleeful.
When she had finished, the rolled up money, along with the canned goods, and soot from inside the walls, covered Rose, the floor, Father Tom and the room she’d shared with Henry for nearly two decades.
Rose couldn’t do anything. Before, she’d have leapt and danced over the find, but now the money seemed unimportant.
Father Tom crossed his legs and took a swig of vodka from Rose’s bottle.
“Wow,” he finally said, as he collected the money, the bills that were so used to being rolled up that he couldn’t flatten them to stack. Rose watched trying to make sense of it all.
Unk had intended the money for her, that much was certain; he put her vodka with the money, knew she’d know it was for her. There was a time that finding this stockpile would have solved all her problems, but now, it didn’t matter. Now, she felt sickened. Out of habit, Rose began to cross herself then stopped, waving the gesture away.
Father Tom shrugged then took another swig of vodka. “You let your religion strangle you, Rose.”
Rose took the bottle from Father Tom and took a big swallow.
“I know I’m assuming a lot,” he said, “by saying this, but I think you need to hear it.” He took the bottle back and sipped.
Rose pulled her knees into her chest, head against the wall, listening.
“You’ve lost God in the ritual, the expectations, the motions. You perform for Him. What you need to do is simply see Him in your unfunded clinic, in your imperfect family, in your ugly past when you were so wronged by people you trusted. God is with you, even if you’re not with Him.”
Rose blew out her air and took another swig of vodka. “The Pope’ll have your frock for that.”
“No.”
Rose let the vodka wash through her body, numbing her pain, surprised she felt comfort in simply being, in sitting with someone who cared about her soul more than she did.
* * *
She woke on the floor of her closet, surrounded by the bills, the effects of the vodka on her temples, like Irish dancers on amphetamines. She remembered Father Tom. What kind of damn priest leaves a woman drinking herself to death amid the rubble of a secret hidey-hole?
Rose pulled herself up on the doorjamb of the closet, holding a bottle of vodka. She stumbled to the door, weaving through the mess.
“Father?”
She wandered down the hallway, reached for Johnny’s doorknob and turned it, but couldn’t push it open.
Her hand slipped and leaning against the wall, she continued to the kitchen. She grabbed a shot glass from the cabinet and sloshed some vodka in it.
Rose heard footsteps near the side door. Father Tom came into the kitchen from the front room.
“Who was at the door?” he asked.
She glanced at the clock, and then turned to Father Tom. “Shush. Mailman. Don’t move!”
Rose froze, hands in the air and held her breath. She’d been successful hiding from everyone who hadn’t been avoiding her.
The mailman was persistent, pounding. Rose wished him away and heard the door crank open. She ducked under the kitchen table. Father Tom ignored her frantic gesturing to join her and headed into the hall.
Rose was relieved. He would send him away.
She heard the mailman cough. “Oh, hey there, Father Tom. Didn’t know you were driving the nurse to see John, today.”
What was going on? Rose held her breath. The two men walked into the kitchen. The least Father Tom could do was run interference for her.
“Couldn’t fit anymore in the slot and I didn’t want to drop it again,” said the mailman. “Thought I should check for bodies. Just in case. Hahaha.”
From under the kitchen table she saw the lower legs of the mailman and his black shoes turned toward the priest’s. Finally the two bent over, staring at Rose.
“Hey, Rose. That you up under there? Here’s mail. Four days’ worth.” He stood and flopped the envelopes onto the table.
Rose nodded. “Thanks.” She could barely breathe. Normally she would have been embarrassed to be found hiding, now she was simply petrified she’d have to talk to whoever found her.
He bent back over. “You’re just like my wife. I tell her to use a damn mop, but she insists on cleaning the floor on her hands and knees! I say throw a mop over it and call it a day!” He left the house, without another word.
Rose pulled herself up to the table and sat, Father Tom across from her. Was he going to shadow her forever?
�
�Don’t you have a church to run?”
“I’m all yours,” he said.
They stared at the mail, the white envelopes, nothing very interesting. Except for one, its creamy, linen threads announcing its pedigree and source. Rose did a shot of vodka and filled the glass and withdrew the letter from Julliard and ripped it open.
“Dear Mr. Pavlesic…” it went on and on, glowing about Johnny’s playing, conveying a sense of uniformity that made Rose sure that every student they were interested in received the exact same letter. But, at the bottom, Mr. Turnbow had handwritten his own note. “Fine young John, we are desperately awaiting your reply. I’m at the end of the road for putting things off with Henderson—the head of admissions. Please contact ASAP as I can only fend off the dogs for another few days…sincerely, Turnbow.”
Rose’s hands shook. Her shoulders shuddered, tears springing from her eyes, the sadness inside her, making her feel like death was on its way. She wiped the wetness with the back of her hands. There was no point in crying. Johnny could no longer do anything. He was better than he had been, starting to walk with crutches, but she would not believe he was better until she saw him sprinting down the hallway.
“He’s on his way to walking Rose,” Father Tom said. “He just needs time. The doctors have been clear, he’s been blessed, a miracle, a phenomena of nature. It’s time you forgive yourself and love him the way you have his whole life.”
Rose shook her head. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Someone at the door startled Rose and Father Tom. Doc Bonaroti flew into the kitchen with such force that Rose didn’t even have the chance to consider hiding.
“You’re alive? Well, yes, of course. Rose. Father Tom, glad to see you,” Bonaroti said. He glanced around the house, clearly too agitated to comment on its messiness, but definitely impacted by the sight.
After the Fog Page 33