Mystical Rose

by Richard Scrimger

  The numbers I just gave you.

  Why? I asked.

  Because we’re trying to determine how good your memory is, he told me. It’s a test.

  I’ve never been very good at numbers. I remember my daughter being incredulous at how I kept my books at the flower shop. It comes of not ever learning how to subtract, you see. I don’t like to tell people, but it’s the truth. I must have skipped that part of my schooling. I’m very good at adding up; if a customer bought a dozen long-stemmed roses and a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers for his girlfriend I would be able to tot them up — $6.99 for the roses and $8.00 for the flowers — and tell him that he owed me whatever it was. I could even make change from the twenty-dollar bill. But I could never figure out the difference between what I paid for things and what I got from the people who bought them. Why I didn’t go bankrupt I’ll never know. Maybe I did go bankrupt and never noticed.

  They say poverty marks you, that you never really get over being poor. I think that’s true, but not only about money. What do You think — sorry, there I go again, You don’t think anything. You know. Well, I have been poor in spirit, poor in love, and that has marked me. Forgive me, I loved Harriet as well as I could. Better than I was loved as a girl.

  Goodbye, Mama, I said from the doorway of our house on Forth Street in Cobourg. She didn’t answer, she wasn’t there. I would have been seventeen, conscious of my uniform, of the picture on the mantel in the parlour, our only memento of Daddy. I didn’t want Mama around when I said goodbye. I didn’t know what she thought of goodbyes, of our new house, of me. I didn’t know her. Poor in spirit. Mr. Davey was waiting outside to drive me to the train station. A brilliant fall day, leaves whirling down the street in fragrant clouds of colour. Me and Miss Parker spent it in the train, Cobourg to New York to Philadelphia. She knitted, and criticized whatever I was doing. I read for a while, then gazed out the window and thought about a place with a million people all living together. A huge place, bigger than a thousand Precious Corners. It boggled my mind. In the movies you saw cities a block at a time — except for ancient Babylon. I couldn’t imagine a real city, full of real people. Sit straight, Rose, said Parky. Don’t gawp and roll your eyes, anyone would think you were a halfwit.

  First person I saw in Philadelphia was dark skinned. So was the second. I would have stared; you didn’t see a lot of dark-skinned people in Cobourg. Next thing I remember, the whole platform was full of people. I followed Parky’s wide skirts.

  The Rolyokes lived in Rittenhouse Square, in a huge L-shaped house with a tower at the top and a curving driveway at the bottom. It wasn’t the biggest place on the square any more, but it had been when Mr. Rolyoke’s dad built it out of textiles. That’s what Robbie told me, later. I don’t understand how fortunes are made. Other houses in the neighbourhood were built out of oil, and coal, and railways, and at least one, it was rumoured, was built out of liquor.

  At first I lived in the tower with the other girls. You remember my room, the one I shared with Jane. We could see the river from the window. Becky and Mrs. Porson lived across the hall. She wasn’t a girl, Mrs. Porson, but her husband was dead and she was just kitchen help so she had to share. Miss Parker lived underneath. If one of us girls got up in the middle of the night, Parky knew about it. There wasn’t a bathroom, of course, and I remember clamping my legs together to keep from having to use the chamber pot under my bed. There’s a trick to that, you know — clasp your left ankle under your right heel and lock your two knees straight. Works every time — every time. Becky never got the hang of it; she kept wetting her bed. She was a really pretty girl, but nervous. She cried. She didn’t last long. Jane was different. Parky didn’t bother her the way she did me, because she knew Jane was tougher than I was — hell, she was tougher than Parky herself. She had a way of looking at you if there was something she didn’t want to do. Her expression would say something like, You’ll have to kill me before you can make me do This. Even if This was washing the floor. And Parky knew that look was there — and so I spent a lot of time washing the floor. Maybe it was because Jane was dark skinned. I never asked her about it. She didn’t encourage intimacy. I never heard why she left. I told her I was homesick, the first week I was there, missing Mama and the places I knew. Jane looked up at me, short dark woman with muscles under hard flesh, hair slicked down tight, and looked away.

  I have no idea, I said to the handsome doctor. Numbers are so hard to hang on to, I said. Like watermelon seeds — you try to pick them up and they slip through your fingers. I couldn’t tell you the numbers forward, let alone backward. He wrote something down, then smiled and told me a story about a woman named Helen going to the supermarket. I tried to pay attention, but nothing much happened to Helen — no conflict at the frozen foods, no hold-up at the cash register — and my mind wandered.

  Lady Margaret was staring at a bowl of flowers on a small table in the brown drawing room. Beautiful, she said — to herself? She was alone, I mean, I was in the room but I was used to not being there. People talked but not to me. I didn’t say anything, bent my head and kept dusting, maybe blushed a bit. Lady Margaret backed up and bumped into me.

  Rose, she said. She smiled. I ducked my head.

  Are you getting along all right, dear?

  Yes, ma’am. I mean milady.

  Miss Parker giving you lots to do?

  Yes. I couldn’t help wincing.

  She’s a very experienced manager. And so talented. Isn’t this a beautiful flower arrangement she’s made?

  Would it have been a test? I’d made the arrangement, of course; I made the arrangements every morning in the conservatory.

  I’m glad you like it, I said.

  Becky came in then, curtseyed to Lady Margaret and said I was wanted in the kitchen. Lady Margaret smiled and told me I could go. I followed Becky with my heart full of dread.

  You don’t remember any of the story? The doctor looked puzzled, his dark eyes all soft and full of moisture. I don’t know why he was concerned, it wasn’t much of a story. Something about Helen, I said. I think she was worried. She didn’t want to go back to the kitchen with her cantaloupe. I shuddered.

  Mrs. Rolyoke.

  That’s me. I looked up, into the doctor’s face. He handed me a tissue.

  Do you know what we’re doing here this morning? he asked. We’re trying to find out about your health. Your daughter is concerned.

  I know, I said.

  You’re forgetting a lot of things, he said. Now, we all forget some things, that’s normal, but you’re forgetting things you should remember. Things that might be dangerous. The physical tests we gave you last time didn’t tell us much. Now I’m giving you these little memory tests. The story about Helen and the supermarket is one of them. We see how much you remember now, and then how much you remember in ten minutes. We’re measuring the rate of memory loss. Do you understand?

  He was starting to sound agitated. There there, I told him.

  But you see, Mrs. Rolyoke, you don’t remember anything now. How can I measure your rate of memory loss, if we start at zero?

  Yes, I said.

  It was the same with the numbers. You didn’t get them confused when you said them backward, you didn’t get them at all.

  Yes, I said.

  Mrs. Rolyoke, do you think you’re forgetting things? He stared at me. This was an important question. Of course, I said. I’d forget my hands if they weren’t attached to my smokestacks. I mean arms, I said. I smiled. He was so handsome.

  And now let me ask you something, I said.

  He sighed. Was I giving the wrong answer again?

  Are you married? I asked.

  Robbie and I were married in Philadelphia, in a little Episcopalian church off Juniper Street with no one there except Mr. Rolyoke and Mama and Bill Scanlon, her husband. I wouldn’t have minded calling him Daddy, but he told me to call him Bill. He was a straight-shooting kind of guy, from the Maritimes originally, who volunteered with the Cobou
rg firefighters and worked in the Bank of Commerce where Mama deposited her employer’s savings.

  Robbie and I met them at the train station. Mama was pleased for me, and not pleased, both at the same time. You’ve done well, haven’t you, she said, very quietly, so the dark-skinned porter wouldn’t hear. I burst into tears. Mama was in her best dress, with gloves and a shawl. She took Robbie’s arm and went on about his family. He smiled weakly and said, How do you do. He and Bill nodded to each other. Lovely day, Bill said. We had a cab waiting and Mama told the porter to put their luggage into it.

  The minister stammered out our names, and spent the whole service looking at Mr. Rolyoke’s morning coat. My father-in-law seemed remote, unapproachable, and somehow all-powerful. Robbie was charming and happy, smiled at me, made jokes that no one laughed at. He didn’t bring a best man, so we used Bill. Hope you don’t mind marrying the second-best man, he told me. Mama kept looking around from the front row. The church was empty, except for Mr. Davey at the back, his chauffeur’s cap on the pew beside him.

  Mr. Rolyoke gave me away. I remember the pressure of his hand on my arm. Gentle, reassuring. Do not fear, he murmured to me. I guess I was shaking. His expression was impossible for me to read through my veil. He wasn’t happy, or sad, or angry. He just was.

  We had the wedding breakfast at a hotel and then took the train north. I didn’t eat much, say much, do much. I would have been feeling a little sickly by then. Not every day, but most of them. My new blue dress fit wonderfully, flattering my hips and hiding my tummy. And there was a surprise in the pocket, a last-minute wedding gift from Mr. Rolyoke. I didn’t discover it until it was too late to thank him.

  And so, with the summer ending around us, in an atmosphere of anxiety and cigar smoke, we went to Niagara Falls. The hotel room looked northwest, and the view of the sun setting behind the horseshoe falls through the light feathery clouds was everything the picture postcards promised, and in colour too. Made me shiver, and catch my breath. I sent postcards to Gert and her sisters, and my other friends in Cobourg. I hoped they hadn’t moved since I was there last. I would have sent one to Mama, but I didn’t think she wanted to hear from me.

  Later that night Robbie told funny stories about horseback riding to cheer me up. He wore a shiny dressing gown with those clasps on the front, frogs, is that it? And leather slippers. He had a flask of bootleg whisky, but he put it on the bedside table after a couple of drinks. His bed had a blue spread — mine was wine coloured.

  I’m sorry about your mother, I said.

  He stared at me. So am I, he said.

  I never knew she could be so mean, I said.

  He didn’t say anything. Maybe he did know. I’d never seen the two of them together, exchanging secrets, telling jokes, being close. He laughed when he was amused, she only smiled in a pained sort of way, as if being amused was a chore. And they weren’t amused by the same things.

  Do you think you’ll ever see her again? I was asking about his mother but thinking about Mama. Would I ever see her again?

  Not if she sees me first, he said. But I’ll see you, Rose, every day. And in a few months I’ll see the baby. Tell you what: Let’s move away from Philadelphia. Just the three of us. We’ll get a jolly little place somewhere and let mother stew in her own juice. Forget about her. Right after the honeymoon, we’ll get on a train or boat, or we’ll buy a car and just drive. What do you think, Rose? Where would you like to live?

  I was a girl, married only that day to a man I hardly knew well, a man I’d served, whose world and way of living were different from mine. How many of the same things did we know? I was two months pregnant. I didn’t know what I wanted to eat right then, let alone where I wanted to live for the rest of my life.

  You decide, I said.

  All right, I will.

  The sun was long gone. There were torches and gas lamps in the streets below our room. I was tired. He helped me into bed. Thank you, I said.

  For what?

  You know, I said. He blew me a kiss and climbed into his own bed.

  In the morning the waiter brought us tea and toast in our room. Robbie thanked him warmly. I thanked him too.

  Where you folks from? he said. Don’t sound like you’re from New York.

  Where do we sound like we’re from? Robbie asked.

  The waiter thought a bit. Sound kind of foreign, he said. Like English or something. Had a couple here the other day, sounded like you. They was from Toronto. You know Toronto?

  Robbie and I looked at each other. Know it? said Robbie. That’s where we’re from.

  Thought so, said the waiter. You sound like it.

  He touched his little hat, closed the door gently behind him.

  Three days later we arrived at Union Station. Robbie asked where the best hotel was and was directed across the street to the Royal York. The porter who wheeled our bags was surprised by the size of his tip. You folks not from around here, are you, he said, respectfully.

  We are now, I said.

  We didn’t live at the hotel for long. I was unsure of myself, unused to deference, luxury, having material wants gratified. It would have been just after we’d found a house, maybe a month after our arrival in Toronto, that the stock market crashed.

  I have so much regret in me. You know that. You were there. Course You were. You saw me being beaten by that crazy Miss Parker. Not clean enough, the floor, the cooker, the pots — and me on my knees, sobbing. Not clean enough! I hated You so much.

  I know I should be understanding, accepting, forgiving of my enemies — but it was hard to forgive, there in the back kitchen. Even now I can feel the hard cool flags under my knees — I used to count them as I waited for the next blow to fall.

  Rose, my dear, what’s the matter? That was her — Lady Margaret. I’d be wincing, carrying a plate into the dining room. I didn’t want to be there at all, not with my sore back. But Lady Margaret insisted. I want to see how you’re doing, my dear, she’d tell me. We both do. With a glance at Mr. Rolyoke.

  I’m fine, milady, I would say. Fine.

  That’s good.

  But I wasn’t fine. The old sailors’ rhyme says that when the wind follows the sun, fine weather will never be done, but in my life the wind had shifted against the sun, and I trusted it not, for back it would run. More than once, with my back smarting, I thought about giving notice, but I knew I’d never get another position without a reference. And I couldn’t bear the idea of Mr. Rolyoke not approving of me. He was such a gentleman, quiet and grave, full of important thoughts. I’ve never had any of those. My mind wanders off, like a dog in a park full of strange scents. He was considerate too. When I accidentally brushed against the bowl of his pipe he was more concerned for my burnt arm than the crystal brandy snifter I’d dropped. Next morning at breakfast Parker beat me with a wooden spoon because the milk for the porridge wasn’t hot enough. Any hotter and it would have scalded, I told her, and she beat me harder. Sitting in the high wooden chair this time, arms folded to protect my breasts.

  You’re frowning. Should I have done something? Run away, fought back, told Lady Margaret? You’re shaking Your head. Should I have not done something?

  I loved the conservatory, early in the morning. The row of vases on one of the long benches, the moist warm air, the quiet. Parker tried to criticize my work, but even she knew it was something I could do better than anyone else there.

  After a big and successful party Lady Margaret took one of my best arrangements into the kitchen and tore it to pieces, stem by stem, running the stems through her nails, crushing the blossoms into juice. We’d already been sent to bed; I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I watched from behind the door, fascinated. The look on her face was one of intense rage.

  Maybe the party hadn’t been such a success. I hurried up to my bedroom. I would have been alone by now, in the room beside Parker’s. Sometimes I could hear her grunting in her sleep.

  Robbie’s face was round, pale, fleshy, with alway
s a faint sheen of sweat near the surface. His eyes bulged faintly behind the glasses. His brown hair, parted neatly on the left and brushed backwards, never seemed to grow. He was enthusiastic and vague at the same time; he’d come back to the hotel all excited about a great house he’d seen, it’d suit us to the ground, big kitchen and living room, great view of the park, and a nursery for the baby — only he’d be unable to remember the address. Or the location. Which park? I’d ask. Could you see the lake? Was it on a hill? West or east of Yonge Street — you remember Yonge Street, I’d tell him — the big street with all the theatres? He’d smile, shake his head, and laugh at himself. It was an eighty-cent cab ride, he’d say.

  I got in touch with a real estate agent, an old sourpuss with those big ears that really old skinny-headed people get. Remember how excited he was when he found out our name. Any relation to the textile company? he asked. And when Robbie nodded, he said, You know the stock just hit eighteen dollars a share. Tell me — do you think it’s due to split again? September, this would have been. Robbie giggled and said he had no idea. We called the real estate office after we moved into the house on Waverley, to ask something about taxes, but the phone had been disconnected.

  The voice rattles in my ear, like a key in the locked door of my prison cell. I wonder what he’s saying. His arms are in front of him, gesturing. Like he’s praying. He looks worried, great blisters of sweat on his face. Harriet nods in earnest agreement. Hospitals are so military, like battleships of caring. This guy will be an officer of sorts. He points at me, points at Harriet, makes his gesture again. He looks earnest but he sounds like a shovel full of gravel.

  My daughter is wearing a beautiful dress. I didn’t know she had one like it, quite takes me back to another era. I’m in bed, lying down. I want to sit up but can’t. My head feels heavy and my arms are as weak as a baby’s. My daughter is holding my hand.

  What does that mean? says my daughter. I perk up. I can understand her. The rest of the noises that filter through the world to me are meaningless, but I know her voice. My daughter is speaking, and I can understand what she is saying.