Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  Elaine must read the concern in my face because she says, “Don’t worry. He isn’t left alone. Nurse Janna stays afternoons and evenings, when I’m too tired to do any more. Then I grab my crochet bag, walk to the corner, and get on the bus. He doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

  No amount of crunching chips can fill the uncomfortable silence, though I do my best, give her some room to finish her story. I had only pushed her to deflect the telling of my own story, and now I wish I hadn’t.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she says in between onion rings, her fingertips shiny from grease. “That I was rotten to you because I’m bitter. Because my husband’s lost in his own head, so I take it out on the rest of the world.”

  “No, Elaine,” I say, making another attempt to hold her frail, papery hand. “I wasn’t thinking that.” I give a little shrug. “Besides, you already told me it was because I had reminded you of your screwed-up granddaughter.” I smile sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “That was part of it,” Elaine says, overlooking my remark. “The other part happened before you came on the bus. A kid with lightning bolts shaved into the side of his head and those discs in his earlobes. He looked like a troublemaker, and he was.”

  A sharp jolt cuts through me. I hope Elaine didn’t catch the flash of recognition in my eyes. I inspect my sandwich, pull out a piece of bacon and crumble it between my fingers.

  “The bus was crowded that day, but there was an empty seat next to me. He refuses to sit in it, though, saying that old people smell, and maybe I should clean my dentures once in a while.” Elaine takes a sip of water, clears her throat. “I ignore him, keep my eyes on my crocheting, but he’s getting others riled up. He starts pretending that I . . . well, passed gas,” she says lightly, measuring her words, “and waves a hand in front of his face. He’s making a scene, this kid, and everyone is letting him. Not one decent person tells him to knock it off, so he keeps at it because he’s got an audience, you see.”

  I see.

  Elaine continues. “It got worse,” she says, even though I can’t imagine it could. Being humiliated like that on the bus? And no one stepping in? I was getting superheated. “Because I told him to sit down and behave himself. That got him riled up. He grabbed the ball of yarn I was using and started tossing it around to his friends in another row. It became tangled in their hands, and the scarf I was working on got yanked from my lap. Those heathens got their hands on that, too, and pulled it all apart. All that work. Ruined.” Her eyes drop at the memory. “Finally, a man put a stop to it and returned the mess of yarn to me. I must’ve looked like I was going to cry, because the kid says, ‘Old people shouldn’t cry because death is coming soon and you’re returning to Jesus.’ He wanted me to make a big smile with my dentures.”

  I remember the gold cross around his neck and wish Mary would’ve yanked it off when she had the chance, rammed it between his eyes.

  “But you want to know the worst part?” She leans in close. “I did want to cry, Rosie, because as hard as you may think your life is now, wait until you have trouble seeing, and your knees hurt, and the person you love most in the world doesn’t even recognize your perfume anymore.”

  What can I say to that? I’m too busy choking on the giant reality pill Elaine has shoved down my throat.

  “I studied him,” she says. “While he clutched the rail above his head, I could see how skinny he was, how his body stretched out like a rubber band. I was hoping he’d snap in two. Instead, he got off at the next stop, which was just as fine by me. That’s when you got on. I guess I’m the one who snapped.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We all do at some point.”

  “But it still doesn’t excuse my behavior. I’m sorry, Rosie.”

  “You’ve already apologized.” I wave her off with a chip.

  “I can’t help my husband anymore,” she says, her eyes becoming glassy pale blue marbles. “She took off over a year ago, so I can’t help my granddaughter, either. But whatever had you upset after your phone call . . . I can listen. Maybe I can even help.”

  26

  I DIDN’T TELL Elaine every detail of my story, just the headlines—my father died, left me with a woman who’s still keeping a secret he took to the grave, and now I’m searching for my birth mother. Elaine was so shocked, she ordered hot tea with a splash of brandy. Lou’s is that kind of place.

  While for the most part she was speechless and only nodded at me with wide eyes, Elaine did end our conversation with an offer to help—in an unexpected but awesome way. She offered to show my sketches to her daughter, who works at the Art Institute in Fort Lauderdale. I told her about my application to the Fashion House, but she said it can’t hurt to apply to more than one school, echoing Paula’s advice. Her daughter’s not an instructor or anything. She works in administration, but has been there a long time and has connections with a lot of the staff. I honestly couldn’t believe my luck, and leaned across the table to pop a grateful kiss on her cheek.

  When our plates were empty and our conversation had run dry, Elaine paid the check and told me to meet her on Thursday’s four o’clock bus with my portfolio.

  • • •

  I headed straight home after our dinner and created another portfolio with some recent stuff to highlight my range—the jumper, the robe, the gown I showed Mac, a trench coat that comes apart at multiple seams to become a long vest.

  I place the sketches in a bright yellow folder with my name and phone number written in thick black marker on the front. She couldn’t promise anything, especially since it was probably too late to apply for summer classes, but at least she’d stick my foot in her daughter’s door. Much appreciated.

  I hid the folder under my mattress to keep it safe, then plop back on my bed, exhausted. I want to snap off the light, escape into dreamy nothingness, but first I need to call Mary and tell her about Elaine and her run-in with Ralph. She’s going to freak.

  “That’s a helluva coincidence,” Mary says, grateful for the interruption of Great Expectations, which we have to read for English class.

  “I know. I mean, I couldn’t believe the coincidence part, but I could believe the way he treated her. He’s a psycho.”

  “More than that. He is one bad dude. Messing with a nice old lady? He needs to be taken out. Does your Hardy Boy Wonder have any connections?”

  I snicker, but Mary’s silence has me thinking she’s serious. “You’re kidding.”

  “Of course,” she says, “but, you know, there are other things we can do to take down that asshole.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  She pauses, then says, “Never mind,” which of course makes me mind. Mary never starts a thought she doesn’t plan on finishing.

  “Tell me,” I say, suddenly feeling fearless. “I may just do it.”

  “Burn that shit down, Rosie girl.”

  “Burn what down?”

  “The shed. Light that bitch up so he can’t mess with another girl again. Who knows? He may get the message to not mess with old ladies, either.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I can’t go back there. Plus, my dad’s in a bad mood tonight. I’d be afraid if he caught me sneaking out. It’s only a matter of time before his fists turn my way.” The fear in Mary’s voice makes me want to protect her, to be the doer instead of the thinker for once. “Look,” she says, her voice brighter. “I really have to finish reading, so if you don’t want to tell me what happens in chapters forty-seven through fifty-two, I gotta go.”

  So she goes, and I decide to go, too. Just like that.

  I choose black sweats, a long-sleeved black shirt, and an old pair of black sneakers that went out of style two years ago. I should be fairly invisible. Now all I need to do is find a few things to complete the mission.

  • • •

  I’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking out of my house
. I don’t want a medal or anything, but if they were given out for such a category, I’d win the gold. A leaf is barely rustled as I crawl through the screenless window, the grass flattened into a quiet rug.

  It’s only a few minutes before the bus pulls up like an old friend, its doors cranking open with welcoming arms. I deposit my money into the slot. The driver smiles with tired eyes, tells me to take a seat up front. I do, but I’m afraid she’s going to start talking. I know her kind. She’s not like Archie, who’s only interested in making his stops on time. She wants to make friends. She starts off all nice and easy, then goes in for the kill, telling me about her kid who’s sick and her husband who can’t find a job. Midnight rides tend to bring out the melancholy in people.

  But I can’t be someone’s sounding board tonight. I’ve got to stay focused. So I slide over to the window seat and pretend to be deep in concentration while staring out at a starless sky. The driver gets the hint. She whistles and hums to fill the silence until I pull the cord fifteen minutes later, requesting a stop.

  The bus drops me several blocks from Ralph’s, but since I know my way, I walk fast and with purpose. Still, I took along the bug spray, just in case, and clutch it in my right hand.

  When I arrive this time, the house doesn’t seem so nice. The same Cadillac is in the driveway, but backed in near the garage. Without the front door lights beaming on it, it looks older and in desperate need of a wash. The lawn, too, is no longer freshly mowed, and weeds sprout through the brick pavers I cross on my way to the backyard.

  I use my watch, not my cell, to check the time, since I don’t want the screen lit up. Eleven fifty-five. Hopefully, everyone is tucked into bed, or at least thoroughly occupied by whatever people do at midnight.

  I duck around the side Mary used, tiptoeing through the tall grass, confident in my sneakers and the protection they provide. There’s my target, beckoning me to put it out of its pathetic misery. It should have been built better, nicer. Instead, it’s become abandoned, occupied only by vermin, by which I mean Ralph.

  Before I touch anything, I put on a pair of dishwashing gloves Lucy has never used. I found them under the kitchen sink, still sealed in their plastic packaging. They’re bright yellow, and while I feel kind of silly wearing them, I know they’re crucial. At a crime scene, fingerprints are the kiss of death.

  I grab the handle, pretend I was the one being ushered inside. My stomach lurches when I open the door, the smell of fertilizer and mildew choking me. Immediately, I close the door behind me and see the lock that had kept Mary captive. Thanks to the back window, the moon casts enough light for me to work by. I study the cramped quarters, different now that I’m inside.

  I’m instantly drawn to the wood walls. They somehow seem familiar. I pull off a glove and reach out, running a set of fingers up and down a plank, oblivious to the splinters lodging into my skin. I press my nose to it and breathe in the oaky, musty scent. It’s unsettling, disturbing, but I don’t know why. I’m struck by a memory of my very first best friend, a chubby little girl named Felicia who always wore her banana-colored hair in a fish-tail braid. I’d gotten stuck in one of those plastic cabins during recess in first grade. The door wouldn’t open, no matter how hard I kicked. I became hysterical, screaming for help. She stuffed herself through a window and said, “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” I haven’t thought of Felicia in years. It must be this shed, even though I can get out of here if I want.

  When the memory of Felicia passes, a wave of terror creeps up on me. Maybe I’m channeling Mary’s fear. A chill sets into my bones, sweat forms on my neck. My legs feel weak. I almost drop when a rattle outside breaks the spell. I rush to the window just in time to catch a glimpse of a cat jumping from the fence I had sat on almost two weeks ago.

  I slip my hand back into the glove, pulling myself together, and rub away pinpricks between my eyes that promise a headache. Time is limited. For all I know, Ralph has another midnight date planned.

  Near my feet rests the blue blanket he wanted Mary to lie down on. I pick it up. It is scratchy, and I begin to feel that same panic I felt when I touched the walls, so I toss it. Near a shovel lies a pile of rusty, discarded tools that I know—from the summer we spent working at Perkins Paints—can still do their job. I cringe, imagining what Ralph might have done to Mary with any one of those things if she hadn’t managed to escape.

  I ignore the potent smells and take in a deep breath to steel my nerves. I am doing a good deed, a necessary one. I’d like to think I’m saving some girl, maybe being someone’s hero, even if she never knows. I thought he was a psycho then, but after hearing how he treated Elaine—one of the nicest, coolest old ladies I’ve ever met—Ralph and his Rape Shed need to be taken down.

  I pull out a rag and two of Lucy’s lighters from my canvas tote. Using both hands, I crack open the plastic cylinders and empty the fluid, which instantly disappears into the rag. I hope it’s enough. I wasn’t about to spend any money on this venture, but I’m rethinking my decision not to purchase a can of kerosene.

  The bag of mulch Ralph had used as a pillow is still on the floor where he left it. Has he used it again? Has some poor girl been forced to lay her head on it and squirm beneath his stinky, skinny body?

  I rip open the thick plastic bag, stuff the wet rag into the heap of rough brown chips. Looking around, I grab whatever else will catch quickly—a coil of rope, a wooden rake, and, of course, the blue blanket.

  Out comes the third lighter I stole from Lucy’s purse. I flick the wheel with an eager thumb. It’s tossed onto the pile, which ignites immediately, ribbons of blue and yellow flame swarming through gaps in my makeshift bonfire. It doesn’t take long for the flames to grow high, reaching their spastic orange fingers toward the roof. I want to watch, but the heat forces me out.

  I pull the door shut and race across the lawn, much easier this time in sneakers. When I’m safely out of sight, at least a block away, I turn to see a thin trail of smoke billowing into the sky and wish that mad dog a good night.

  27

  YOU’D HAVE THOUGHT I wouldn’t be able to sleep last night, between Elaine’s offer and my first foray into arson. But I slept like a baby, especially after I’d told Mary I did it and she said she was proud of me. (Actually, she said she was very fucking proud, which made me happy.) And this morning I skipped off to school with a fully charged cell phone turned to silent, instead of vibrate.

  So I’m in an extra-good mood today, especially because I’m about to enter the door to Brooks, PI, and make things right with Mac. I check my appearance in the mirrored door first to make sure a long day hasn’t undone my schoolgirl chic—hair tamed behind a tortoiseshell headband, glossy lips, no mascara, and a snug tartan dress that had Todd sniffing around more than once today. It was kind of weird, because that ship has sailed, and we both know it.

  “Are you coming in?” Mac pushes open the door from inside. I hope he didn’t see me hesitating, checking myself out in the reflection. It seems he’s mixed up his wardrobe a bit. He’s wearing a beige sweater vest, but over a cool white tee that shows off his tanned forearms, and dark blue jeans instead of those stiff khakis. Let me just say it: Mac looks hot.

  I answer by slipping into the dark room. It’s depressing in here. The space needs flowers, lights, maybe a clown. I take the lead and head straight to Mac’s office so we’re in a friendlier environment. We take our usual seats at his desk.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Better.”

  “I was worried about you,” he says. “I probably should’ve called.”

  “It’s okay, Mac. I was out of line. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Friday was crazy. Your dad’s will answered a lot of questions. You were . . . overwhelmed.”

  Right. I guess so. But I was also feeling other things, like a loss of control. But I don’t want to get into that now. I can sense a fresh
start brewing here.

  “So,” he continues. “Did you have a chance to return the will to Lucy’s desk?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t pull off another secret visit.”

  Mac shrugs. “I guess it’s not the end of the world. The lawyer will have a copy, anyway.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your birthday is in six days. The clock is ticking. She may be getting her ducks in a row.”

  “Preparing for payday,” I say.

  “In a matter of speaking. But John was telling me estate matters could take some time to settle. It’s not like she just shows up to the lawyer’s office with you and the will and an empty duffel bag.”

  The image makes us both snicker, lightening the mood a thousand percent.

  “Obviously, she knows she’s got money coming to her. But she also knows something else—that your real mother is alive. We want to know why she hasn’t disclosed this to you. That’s the real mystery here.” Mac pauses, and I can see his train of thought has shifted. “Whatever we find out, I’m glad your father left you money. You’re going to be okay.” He makes a silly grin. “Guess we could’ve held on to your three hundred bucks, after all.”

  “No, I gave it to Mary.”

  “What? Why would you do that?” He’s not angry, just surprised. I could kick myself for letting that slip. But talking to Mac is easy. He always seems so understanding and ready to listen. Kind of like Elaine.

  “Uh . . . well, she wants to take off after graduation, and—”

  “I know she’s your best friend, but remember what I told you. Settling your father’s estate could take a while. Possibly months.”

  “It’s okay, Mac. I wanted her to have it. She deserves the money more than I do, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “Why would she deserve it more?”