by Susan Wiggs
Pop had told her to stay out of trouble. He was going to the plant nursery with Mrs. Montgomery and Rosa was not to leave the yard. That was fine with her, because it was a perfect summer day, third grade was behind her and she had nothing but lazy days ahead. When Mamma was alive, Rosa used to help her in the kitchen garden at home. Mamma’s tomatoes and basil were so good they won prizes, and she always made Rosa wear a straw hat with a brim, tied on with a polka dot scarf. She said too much sun was bad for the skin.
Since Mamma died and the boys went into the navy, there was no one to look after Rosa once school let out for summer, so she went to work with Pop each day. The nuns from school urged Rosa’s father to send her to a Catholic summer camp. Rosa had begged to stay home, promising Pop she’d stay out of the way.
Going to work with her father turned out to be the only thing that kept Rosa from shriveling up with sadness over Mamma. He used to be a familiar sight around the area, going from place to place on his sturdy yellow bicycle. Now they drove together in the old Dodge Power Wagon, with all his gardening tools in the back. During the summer, he worked from dawn to dusk at six places—one for each day of the week—mowing, pruning, digging and clipping the yards and gardens of the vast seaside estates that fringed the shoreline.
This was Rosa’s first visit to the Montgomery place, a giant barge of a house with a railed porch on three sides and tall, narrow windows with glass so old it was wavy. She found all sorts of things to explore in the huge, lush yard that extended out to touch an isolated stretch of beach. Still, she was bored. She wanted to go to the beach, to take the little dinghy out, to go on adventures with her friends. But she was stuck here.
Spending the afternoon alone would be a lot more fun now that she had a rope swing, she thought, sticking one bare foot in the bottom loop and pushing off. She laughed aloud and started singing “Stray Cat Strut,” which played on the radio at least once a day. She didn’t really know what a “feline Casanova” was, but it was a good tune, and her big brother Sal had taught her all the words before he left.
He and her other brother, Rob, took the train early this morning. They were going to something called Basic Training, and who knew when she’d see them again?
She soared high enough to see the empty beach beyond the lavish gardens and then low enough to skim the soft, perfectly groomed carpet of grass. The sky was bluer than heaven, like Mamma used to say. In the garden below, the button-eyed daisies and fancy purple lobelias were reflected in the surface of the pond. Seagulls flew like flashing white kites over the breakers on the beach, and Rosa felt all the fluttery excitement of freedom.
Summer was here. Finally, endless days out from under the glare of Sister Baptista, whose stare was so sharp she could make you squirm like a bug on a pin.
The little seaside town of Winslow changed in the summer. The pace picked up, and people drove along the coast road in convertibles with the tops down. Pop would comment that the price of gas and groceries went sky-high and that it was impossible to get a table at Mario’s Flying Pizza on a Friday night, even though Rosa and Pop always got a table, because Mario was Mamma’s cousin.
Rosa came in for a landing, aiming her bare foot for the crotch of the tree. Her foot struck something dry and papery that collapsed when she touched it. A humming noise mingled with the rustle of the breeze through the leaves. Then Rosa’s foot burst into flame.
A second later, she saw a black cloud rise from the tree, and the faint humming sound changed to a roar. A truly angry roar.
She didn’t remember getting down from the tree, but later she would discover livid rope burns on the insides of her knees, along with a colorful variety of scratches and bruises. She hit the ground running, howling at the tops of her lungs, then stabbing the air with a separate shriek each time she felt another sting.
She headed straight for the pond with its burbling fountain.
Rosa took a flying leap for the clear, calm water. She couldn’t help herself. She was on fire. It was an emergency.
The cool water brought relief as she submerged herself. The places she’d been stung were instantly soothed by the silky mud on the bottom. She broke the surface and saw a few bees still hovering around, so she sat in the shallow water, waving her arms and legs, stirring up brown clouds. She didn’t know how long she sat there, letting the mud cool the stings. She could detect six of them, maybe more, mostly on her legs.
“What in heaven’s holy name is going on?” demanded a sharp voice. A woman rushed out of the house and down the back stairs.
Rosa almost didn’t recognize Mrs. Carmichael in her starched housekeeper’s uniform. The Carmichaels lived down the street from the Capolettis, and usually Rosa only saw her in her housedress and slippers, standing on the porch and calling her boys in to dinner. Everything was different in this neighborhood of big houses overlooking the sea. Everything was cleaner and neater, even the people.
Except Rosa herself. As she slogged to the edge of the pond, feeling the smooth mud squish between her toes, she knew with every cell in her body that she didn’t belong here. Muddy and barefoot, soaked to the skin, bee-stung and bruised, she belonged anywhere but here.
She waited, dripping on the lawn as Mrs. Carmichael bustled toward her. “I can explain—”
“What are we going to do with you, Rosa Capoletti?” Mrs. Carmichael demanded. She was on the verge of being mad, but she was holding her temper back. Rosa could tell. People tried to be extra patient with her, on account of her mother had died on Valentine’s Day. Even Sister Baptista tried to be a little nicer.
“I can get cleaned off in the garden hose,” Rosa suggested.
“Good idea. I hope you didn’t do in any of the koi.”
“The what?”
“The fish.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “Let’s go.”
As she followed Mrs. Carmichael across the lawn, Rosa glanced at the house and saw a ghost in the window. A small, pale person with a round Charlie Brown head stood staring out at her, veiled by lace curtains. She looked again and saw that the ghost was gone, shy as a hummingbird zipping out of sight.
“Holy moly,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Carmichael cranked opened the spigot.
“Oh, nothing.” It was kind of interesting, seeing a ghost. Sometimes she saw Mamma, but she didn’t tell anyone. People would think she was lying, but she wasn’t.
“Stand right there.” Mrs. Carmichael indicated a sunny spot. The grass was as soft as brand-new shag carpet. “Hold out your arms.”
Rosa’s shadow fell over the grass, a skinny cruciform with stringy hair. An arc of fresh water from the hose drenched her. “Yikes, that’s cold,” she said.
“Hold still and I’ll be quick.”
She couldn’t hold still. The water was too cold, which felt good on the beestings but chilled the rest of her. She jumped up and down as though stomping grapes, like Pop said they used to do in the Old Country.
The ghost came to the window again.
“Who is that?” Rosa asked through chattering teeth.
“He’s Mrs. Montgomery’s boy.”
“Is he all alone in there?”
“He is. Put your head back,” Mrs. Carmichael instructed. “His sister went away to summer camp.”
“I bet he’s lonely. Maybe I could play with him.”
Mrs. Carmichael gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think so, dear.”
“Is he shy?” Rosa persisted.
“No. He’s a Montgomery. Now, turn around and I’ll finish up.”
Rosa squirmed under the impact of the cold stream of water. When the torture stopped, Mrs. Carmichael told her to wait on the back porch. She disappeared into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She returned with a stack of towels
and a white terry-cloth bathrobe. “Put this on, and I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”
As Rosa peeled off her wet clothes, Mrs. Carmichael stared at her legs. “Mother of God, what happened to you?”
Rosa surveyed the welts on her feet and legs. “Bee-stings,” she said. “I kicked a hive. It was an accident, I swear—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rosa thought it would be rude to point out that she had already tried to explain.
“Heavenly days,” said Mrs. Carmichael, wrapping a towel around her. “You must be made of steel, child. Doesn’t it hurt like hellfire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s all right to cry, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it won’t make me feel any better. The mud helped, though. And the cold water.”
“Let me find the tweezers and get those stingers out. We might need to call a doctor.”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Rosa hoped she sounded firm, not impolite. While Mamma was sick, the whole family had had their fill of doctors. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You sit tight, then. I’ll get the tweezers.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a blue-and-white first-aid kit and used the tweezers to pluck out at least seven stingers. “Hmm,” Mrs. Carmichael mused, “maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, jumping in the pond. I think it’ll keep the swelling down.” She gently pressed the palm of her hand to Rosa’s forehead, and then to her cheek.
Rosa closed her eyes. She had forgotten how good it felt when someone checked you for fever. It had to be done by a woman. A mother had a way of touching you just so. It was one of the zillion things she missed about Mamma.
“No fever,” Mrs. Carmichael declared. “You’re lucky. You’re not allergic to beestings.”
“I’m not allergic to anything.”
Mrs. Carmichael treated the stings with baking soda and gave Rosa a grape Popsicle. “You’re very brave,” she said.
“Thank you.” Rosa didn’t feel brave. The beestings hurt plenty, like little licks of fire all over, but after what happened with Mamma, Rosa had a different idea about what was worth crying about.
Mrs. Carmichael got a comb and tugged it through Rosa’s long, thick, curly hair. Rosa endured it in silence, biting her lip to keep from crying out. “This is a mass of tangles,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Honestly, doesn’t your father—”
“I do it myself,” Rosa said, forcing bright pride into her tone. “Pop doesn’t know how to do hair.”
“I see.”
Rosa pressed her lips together hard and stared at the painted planks on the porch floor. “Mamma taught me how to make a braid. When she was sick, she used to let me get in bed with her, and she’d do my hair.” Rosa didn’t tell Mrs. Carmichael that by the end, Mamma was too weak to do anything; she couldn’t even hold a brush. She didn’t tell her that the sickness that had taken Mamma took some of Rosa, too, the part that was easy laughter and feeling safe in the dark at night, the security of living in a house that smelled of baking bread and simmering sauce.
“Dear? Are you all right?”
Rosa tucked the memories away. “Mamma said every girl should know how to make a braid. But it’s hard to do on your own head.”
Mrs. Carmichael surprised her by holding her close, stroking her damp head. “I guess it is hard, kiddo.”
“I’ll keep practicing.”
“You do that.” Like all grown-up women, Mrs. Carmichael was a champ at braiding hair. She made a fat, perfect braid down Rosa’s back. “I’ll put these things in the dryer. Wait here, and try to stay out of mischief.”
six
The housekeeper disappeared again and Rosa tried to be patient. Waiting was the pits. It was totally boring, and you never knew when it would end. She fiddled with the long tie that cinched in the waist of the thick terry robe. It was way too big for her, the sleeves and hem practically dragging.
Somewhere far away, the phone rang three times. Mrs. Carmichael’s voice drifted through the house. Rosa couldn’t hear the conversation, but Mrs. Carmichael laughed and talked on and on. She probably forgot all about Rosa.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Rosa pushed it with her foot and, almost all by itself, it swung open. She gasped softly at what she saw. Everything was white and steel, polished until it shone. There were miles of countertops, and Rosa figured the Montgomerys owned every tool and utensil that had ever been invented—strainers and oddly shaped spoons, gleaming pots hanging from a rack, a huge collection of knives, baking pans in several shapes, timers and stacks of snow-white tea towels.
Boy, thought Rosa, Mamma would love this. She was the world’s best cook. Every night, she used to sing “Funiculi” while she fixed supper—puttanesca sauce, homemade bread, pasta she made every Wednesday. Rosa had loved nothing better than working side by side with her in the bright scrubbed kitchen in the house on Prospect Street, turning out fresh pasta, baking a calzone on a winter afternoon, adding a pinch of basil or fennel to the sauce. Most of all, Rosa could picture, like an indelible snapshot in her mind, Mamma standing at the sink and looking out the window, a soft, slightly mysterious smile on her face. Her “Mona Lisa smile,” Pop used to call it. Rosa didn’t know about that. She had seen a postcard of the Mona Lisa and thought Mamma was way prettier.
Rosa walked through the strange high-ceilinged kitchen, running her finger along the edge of the counter. She stood on tiptoe to peer out the window over the sink. It framed a view of the sea. Her mother would’ve gone nuts for this kitchen.
But it didn’t smell like anything, just faintly of cleanser. Mamma’s kitchen always smelled like roasting chicken or baking pizza or freshly squeezed lemons.
Rosa finished her Popsicle and put the stick in a shiny, bullet-shaped trash can. She tried to keep still, she really did, but curiosity poked at her. She knew it was wrong, but she was going to snoop. She had always wondered about these great big houses. She’d seen them from the outside, painted giants with white scrollwork trim, shiny cars in the circular drives and yards where people in summer hats and starched white shirts held garden parties.
She walked down a hallway, her bare feet soundless on the polished wood floor, the hem of the robe dragging. Her hand stole inside the bathrobe to clutch at the shiny new key Pop had given her. She was old enough to have a house key now, and he told her never to lose it.
She could hear snatches of Mrs. Carmichael’s phone conversation, and when she realized it was about her, she froze right under a big painting of a sailboat in a rustic frame.
“...know what to do with that poor little girl all summer. Pete wasn’t gone five minutes and she got in trouble.”
Pete was Pop. It seemed like every woman who knew him was waiting for him to mess up now that he didn’t have a wife anymore.
“Oh...no idea,” Mrs. Carmichael was saying. “The kindest thing he can do for that child is remarry. She needs a mother.”
No, thank you. Rosa buried her face in the overly long sleeves of the bathrobe to stifle a snort. She absolutely did not need a mother. She had the best mother in the world, and just because she wasn’t around anymore didn’t mean she was gone. She belonged to Rosa in a special way. That’s what Father Dominic said, and everyone knew priests didn’t lie.
I still talk to you, don’t I, Mamma? She thought the words as hard as she could.
“At least Pete’s got his work,” Mrs. Carmichael went on. “He’s happy when he works. He’s like a different person.” She gave a gentle laugh. “Hmm. I know. And with those looks of his...”
Rosa got bored with eavesdropping. Everyone was always saying how Pop was still young and good-looking, and that he ought to find another wife. Why did people think you could replace someone, like she was a lost schoolbook and all you had to do was bring a
check to the office and they’d give you another?
She continued her silent exploration of the house, feeling as though she had stepped into an enchanted castle. The front room was all white and lemony-yellow, with white furniture and a seashell collection in a jar. Photographs in silver frames pictured people in white clothes without wrinkles, just like in a magazine ad. There was a huge bouquet of cut flowers, probably from the garden Pop took care of. The glass-topped coffee table displayed an important-looking scrimshaw collection. The mantel had a crystal candelabrum with long white tapers that had never been lit.
This wasn’t like going over to Linda’s house to play. Everything was so big and so incredibly quiet. The flowers made it smell like the funeral home where they took Rosa’s mother.
She backed out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. Tall double doors with glass panes framed a room that had more books than the Redwood Library in Newport.
Rosa loved books. When Mamma got too sick to do anything else, and couldn’t even braid hair anymore, Rosa used to get in bed with her and read and read and read—The Indian in the Cupboard, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Charlotte’s Web and poems from A Light in the Attic. And of course, Goodnight Moon, which Mamma used to read to Rosa every night when she was tiny.
She stepped into the room and inhaled the musty sunshine smell of books. She walked over to the lace-paneled windows and discovered a view of the garden and pond. Rosa caught her breath. The ghostly boy had stood right there, at the window, watching her run from attacking bees.
She wanted to browse through the books on the shelves, but she became aware of a hissing-gurgling-sucking sound. A creepy chill slipped over her skin. This was a haunted library.
She spun away from the window and saw the ghost on the couch.
Rosa had to push both fists against her mouth to keep from screaming. He was doing a terrible thing, sucking steam from a snaky plastic tube into his mouth. The tube was attached to a box, which emitted the hissing sounds.