Rosie O'Dell

by Bill Rowe

  One day, bending over the water fountain near the staff room on a warm June day, I’d heard through the half-open door, our grade seven teacher, Miss Pretty, mimicking to another teacher our principal Curly Abbott: “‘You must now agree, Ms. Pretty, that well within the time frame of Dr. Rothesay’s prognosis during his frank and forthright discussion of young Rosie’s crisis in my office, she has emerged like a chrysalis from her cocoon to fly again like a butterfly in the sun.’” Miss Pretty’s mocking impression of Curly’s pomposity did not sound to me like hearty agreement with his view.

  The strange relationship that had recently developed between Rosie and Suzy Martin, the school’s female tough, added to the general analysis. Suzy Martin had joined the class at the beginning of the grade seven year after her family had moved to St. John’s from somewhere in central Newfoundland. From the day she arrived at Smearies school, rumours swirled, ranging from talk among the students that her father, now an absentee husband, used to be a minister in one of those sex cults, to whispers that Suzy’s so-called little brother who lived with her father rather than her mother, which was itself weird, was really her own child. This latter surmise was possible, students claimed, because she displayed enough physical maturity that some of the boys had given her the nickname “Headlights.”

  From her first week last fall, Suzy Martin was Rosie O’Dell’s enemy. They were opposites in every respect. Where Suzy’s background was financially modest, Rosie’s was deemed prosperous. If Suzy was rough, Rosie was relatively genteel. When Rosie aced every test and assignment, Suzy’s papers usually sported an “unsatisfactory.” Where Rosie participated in positive extracurricular activities, Suzy smoked and swore and, some said, drank. Where Rosie seemed prissy and straightlaced, Suzy was regarded by boys in the class as experienced enough in sex to be called behind her back “the human pincushion.”

  Suzy did not hide her dislike of Rosie and her high and mighty and righteous manner. She expressed her contempt with names like Ice Queen and Dragon Lady, and, after it became known that Rosie was going to move house, the Bitch of Buckingham Mews. Rosie ignored her, despite these verbal and some near physical provocations in the corridors. Many of the boys lived in daily hope that violence would break out between them. That would be some cat fight, they told each other: Rosie was strong and athletic, but Suzy was a hard mean street fighter; while Rosie would be sure of winning by the Queensberry rules, Suzy would be clawing the eyes out of her head. But Rosie never deigned to pay the least attention to her. If Suzy tried to confront her by blocking her way in the corridor, Rosie walked around her with no more concern than if she’d been a bag of trash. Once, just before Christmas, when Suzy actually took a flick with her pointy fingernails at Rosie’s face, Brent, who had witnessed it, reported to me that Rosie casually moved her head out of the way with outstanding reflex action, looked at Suzy as if surprised she existed, sadly shook her head a couple of times, and walked on.

  During the winter, there didn’t seem to be any encounters at all between the two girls, at least none that I saw. Brent conjectured that Suzy must have realized Rosie was way too fast for her, and if it came down to a scrap, “Rosie would give her a good shit-knocking.” A few times after the start of Rosie’s bad period, in classes I shared with the two girls, I caught Suzy, as she slumped on her desk, gazing furtively from under her eyelashes at Rosie. I tried to make out the expression on her face. It didn’t look like hatred, more like puzzlement. Then, after Easter of grade seven, Rosie and this same hardcase, Suzy Martin, mystified everyone. Overnight, with no evident transition period, they became fast inseparable friends. For the rest of the school year they never seemed to be out of each other’s sight.

  I HAD A BIG summer ahead. A week or so after school closing I was going to Twillingate for a fortnight with Brent and his parents. I was looking forward to that. Brent’s father fascinated me. I found him both amusing and frightening at the same time. And I was not to be disappointed this trip. After Twillingate, I was to have three weeks in St. John’s, with Brent staying at my house for most of it, during which time I hoped to weasel my way into Rosie’s company somehow. And then I was flying to London, England, with Dad and Mom, for, as Dad kept saying, pretending to mock the ads of similar tone on the radio, “the dream trip of a lifetime.”

  The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the house in Twillingate was the absence of the old dog. When I wondered about him, Brent’s dad said in a whining, boyish voice as if he were quoting from the movie, “Don’t make me shoot Old Yeller, Pa.” And he smiled at me benignly.

  I looked at Brent, who said, “Dad had him put down just after the last time you were here—remember how he used to make it sound like the world’s biggest doggy treat—and now he’s trying to make me strangle the cat.”

  “What cat?” I asked. I’d never seen a cat about the house, either here or in St. John’s.

  “The one you liked so much the last time you were here,” said Brent. “The one you wanted to take home, but you left too fast when Rosie’s father got drowned. I asked the guy who owned it if I could have it after, and he said yes. But you didn’t come back.”

  “Oh, Brent,” said his mother. “Strangle the cat! What next?” She looked at me with sincerity in her eyes. “That’s not true, Tommy.”

  I wasn’t convinced. I looked at his dad for his side of the story. He said, “Now, I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand like that, missus. Brent has got to learn he can’t have everything he wants all the time without making some sacrifices.”

  “Where’s the cat now?” I asked Brent.

  “Outside somewhere. She never comes in the house anymore. She’s kind of a shed cat down on the waterfront. She likes to go after rats and eat fish guts and that.”

  “Store,” said his dad.

  “What?”

  “Store. Fishermen don’t call it a shed. They call it a store.”

  “Jesus. Okay. Store. I told them I wanted a dog for my birthday, and Dad goes, ‘There’s no more animals coming into the house until Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums is in heaven.’”

  “Is that the cat’s name?” I asked. “Itty Bitty—”

  “Sure is,” said Brent’s dad. “That’s the name I gave her. She looked so cute one morning trying to come into the house with that live rat bigger than herself hanging out of her mouth that I named her Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums. And I didn’t say ‘heaven, ’ Brent, I said, ‘pussy heaven.’ I wasn’t implying that the darling creature has a soul like us noble humans. I was speaking figuratively. When I said, ‘pussy heaven, ’ what I meant was, you know, like, ‘dead as a doornail’? And if the concept of the death of a rat-catcher is too harsh for anyone, let me rephrase the point by saying that Brent will get his dog if and only if, and when and only when, our Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums shows reliable symptoms of being negatively alive. Rigor mortis would be a good start.”

  Honest to God, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing at the man. And he was talking about the death of the cat I loved! Luckily Brent broke in with something gruesome: “See what I mean? And he keeps dropping hints that every now and then a cat gets caught around the neck in a rabbit snare and strangles to death.”

  “I’m sure he was just warning you to be careful,” said Brent’s mom. “Weren’t you, Dad?”

  “I certainly was. For instance, you will notice I did not urge the placing of poison around the outside of our premises for fear that a neighbour’s animal might inadvertently eat it too. You have to be careful and considerate about other people in such matters.”

  “Whatafuckinarsehole!” Brent breathed at me. He stood up and said, “Let’s get our rods and go fishing in at the pond.”

  “Trouting,” said Mr. Anstey. “Fishing is when you catch fish in the sea. Trouting is when you catch trout in a river or pond.”

  “What about sea trout, Einstein?” said Brent from the door.

  “The exception that probes the rule. Or maybe you think I should have b
een stupid enough to say ‘proves the rule.’ I know you wouldn’t think that, Tom. You came first in the class this year.”

  I stopped on my slow progress to the door. “I was lucky,” I said. “Rosie O’Dell had a bad year. She only came third instead of first. “

  “Oh, did she? What was the cause of that, I wonder?”

  “Her father’s death came back on her, they said.”

  “After all these months? That’s odd. And Brent, you only came second. What’s your excuse? I never died for you, so you don’t have that to blame it on yet.”

  “Second is fine, Dad,” said Brent’s mom. “Leave the boy alone about it.”

  When Brent didn’t speak, I jumped in: “Brent had to spend a lot of time at hockey practice to be one of the leaders in the league in points like he was. He probably would have come first if—”

  “Yes, one of the leaders in points. And you spend just as much time at your swimming—going to the pool at all hours in the morning and workouts after school, so that doesn’t wash.”

  “Maybe he’s just frigging smarter than I am,” said Brent. “Come on, Tom, let’s go.”

  “Wait now. You can’t fire out something totally irrelevant like that and just take off. Smarter than you? What has ‘smarter’ got to do with anything? The question is how can you stop playing second fiddle and take over the top spot? You’ve got to start thinking about kicking all the scrawny little arses out of your way.”

  “Dad, what a thing to say,” said Brent’s mom. “Tom is not one bit scrawny.”

  “I don’t mean that literally. It’s just a manner of speaking. Nothing personal. Tom is smart enough to know that. That’s why he’s top dog. So listen, boys, here’s what you should do. Brent, you’ve got that bank account your mother keeps putting money in for you. It’s got nine thousand dollars in it right now.”

  “How do you know that? That’s my shagging account.”

  “It’s not how do I know that? It’s why do I know that? Because every solitary cent in it came from me, directly or indirectly. That’s why. Now Brent. Here’s how you can get me off your case for only coming second. Make Tom here an offer he can’t refuse. Tell him you’ll give him two thousand dollars, one thousand now and one thousand when you graduate, on the condition that he’ll let you come first from now on and right through high school.”

  Containing my astonishment, I made light of it: “Well, Mr. Anstey, two thousand dollars or not, I’d rather have you on Brent’s case than my father on mine.”

  I saw a flicker of a grin before Brent’s father said, po-faced, “I can’t say as I blame you there.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “from now on Rosie O’Dell will probably start coming first again.”

  “Now there’s a girl who has shown real character, as well as being very smart and athletic.” Brent’s father turned to him. “That’s the girl you should start going out with, Brent, one who can produce superior kids.”

  Arms stretched out to the sides, Brent freaked: “Effin’ Jesus. Kids he’s talking about now and me thirteen.” He stomped out the door.

  I followed right after, hearing his mother, “No swearing around the house, please.”

  On our bikes, Brent said, “There’s no reason I can’t have that pup, except for the old man. Strangle the cat? He’s the one I should shagging strangle.”

  “How come you take him so serious? Sure, he’s only fooling around all the time.”

  “Yeah right. But even if he is, he still pisses me right off. And I will kill the prick one of these days.”

  “Don’t be so foolish. Your own father?”

  “Just wait and see.”

  BACK IN ST. JOHN’S two weeks later, Brent asked me if I’d ever seen Rosie’s new house. I said no, and the next morning our meanderings through the streets of St. John’s on our bikes just happened to bring us by the entrance to Buckingham Mews. Standing there beside her bike waving was Suzy Martin. She told us she was waiting for Rosie, who was due any minute.

  “This is a coincidence,” she said. “We were just saying yesterday that we should get you two guys to come on a ride with us.”

  My heart leapt up. “Which house is hers,” I asked.

  “You can’t see it from here. It’s around that bend.”

  “What are you waiting here for? Let’s go in and meet her there.”

  “Here she comes now,” said Brent.

  As Rosie approached on her bike, before even saying hi she shouted to Suzy, “What happened? Did you phone them, after?”

  “No,” said Suzy, “they just showed up here out of the blue.”

  “This is great,” beamed Rosie. “Must be kismet. We’re heading for Portugal Cove. Want to come? If you think you have the stamina.”

  “Jeez, don’t go daring them,” laughed Suzy. “With you three jocks, I’ll be shitting bricks as it is.”

  Off we set for Portugal Cove Road, and during the dozen kilometres out to the cove, Brent and I jumped curbs and did wheelies and threw up gravel from the shoulders with our tires as we vied with each other for the title of biggest show-off or, as Suzy said, “There’s a lot of traffic on this road, boys, don’t be such flaming arseholes.”

  We stopped at a fast-food place in Portugal Cove where Suzy encouraged us to buy some greasy french fries and gravy to supplement the tuna fish salad and peaches Rosie had brought for two. Then we had a stand-up picnic on the big wharf and made plans to go across to Bell Island on the ferry with our bikes later in the summer and explore from Wabana to Lance Cove. Without thinking, I declared what a feat it was that years ago Rosie’s father had swum across the tickle from here to Bell Island. I could have punched myself in the big mouth. Here we were having fun and I had to go and spoil it by reminding her of when her father’s friends had made that comment in their forlorn hope he might not have drowned in the river.

  Rosie was standing close to me. Without looking at me she said, “You remembered that. This is the first time I’ve been down here since before Daddy died. I wanted to look across again.” She bent her head to the side towards mine until our hair touched for a moment. I glanced at the other two. Brent was studiously gazing out to sea, but Suzy was looking over at us smiling.

  Then we rode on through St. Philip’s and along St. Thomas’s Line to Topsail Road. There, only now realizing the time, I used a pay phone in a convenience store to call home and say that Brent and I were going to miss lunch. “You’ve already missed lunch,” my mother said. “Where are you two scallywags?”

  “Paradise.”

  “By yourselves?”

  “We ran into Rosie and Suzy.”

  “Paradise.” She paused. “That’s a fair distance away. Try not to be late for supper.” I thought I heard a smile in her voice. But maybe not. Maybe I put it there.

  Every day for the next ten days, except for two rainy, windy ones, we met at the entrance of Buckingham Mews and went riding on our bikes. We pumped our legs up over the South Side Hill and all the way out to Cape Spear. Rosie said, “Out here once I told Gram, ‘This is the closest point in North America to Ireland and England where our people come from.’ And Gram goes, ‘Thanks for the warning.’” Rosie laughed: “I really miss her. She was great.” Then we watched in awe the huge billows from an early southern hurricane coming up the great convex belly of the Atlantic Ocean and breaking on the rocks below. I mused aloud that every now and then some imbecile leaves the safe viewing spots high up here and wanders down too close to the rocks and is caught by a surprise surge more towering than the rest and swept out into the briny deep, never to be seen again. It was out of my mouth before I remembered that every now and then this imbecile, me, should shut up. What was it Samuel Johnson said? In the house of a man that was hanged, don’t talk of rope? But Rosie responded, “Yes, I hope they never put up a big fence and spoil this view.”

  We rode around St. John’s harbour and out to the ruins of Fort Amherst. We rode down through Quidi Vidi Village and watched the swell of the se
a ebb and flow through the narrow Gut. I regaled everyone with the cheerful story of the small fishing boat that had gone out through Quidi Vidi Gut on a sunny windless day only to encounter a sudden unforecast storm on the ocean that swamped the boat and drowned all hands. To hide my red face, I got on the saddle and pedalled away.

  We struggled up over Signal Hill to Cabot Tower and looked across Quidi Vidi Lake to Sugar Loaf and Red Cliff, and beyond to the Beamer between Torbay and Flat Rock, and on to Red Head in the distance. The next day we rode through Logy Bay and Outer Cove and Middle Cove, to Torbay, where a gigantic iceberg was floating by on the Labrador Current. We spun down to the Gallows Cove trail and planned to go on a good hike all the way to the end of the Beamer later in the summer. On the way back on the Marine Drive, Brent and I were all for riding up over the gravel road to Red Cliff and having a look at the abandoned American buildings there. But Rosie said she didn’t feel like going up to Red Cliff. Why not? I asked. Suzy said she didn’t want to either and that ended the discussion. I wouldn’t find out for two or three years why Rosie avoided Red Cliff and no other place during our explorations.

  We rode out to Bowring Park twice. The second was the best of our rides. The first time there we had our picnic by the statue of Peter Pan. We read the inscription: In memory of a little girl who loved the Park. And, of course, me, good old Mr. He-knows-everything-morbid-and-grisly-that-ever-happened, I had to babble on about how the statue was erected in memory of Sir Edgar Bowring’s small grandchild, who had been with her father on board the Florizel over fifty years before when the ship struck a reef at Cappahayden on the Southern Shore of the Avalon Peninsula, causing him and her and scores of others to drown.