“Third-year student at the University.”
“He’s only been there a month, Cordelia,” Rosemarie said, one woman conspiring with another, “and already he talks like a native. He means the University of Chicago.”
“You go there too, uh…”
“Rosemarie. I know Chuck from grammar school, however. I apologize for not being able to do something about his hair tonight. But that’s a difficult task, as I’m sure you know.”
I wasn’t sure whether my date—who really wasn’t a date—was trying to embarrass my former date or to charm her. Maybe a bit of both. Poor Cordelia was not in the same league as this black Irish witch.
“I went to Harvard,” Chad informed us.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rosemarie said, beating me to the punch. “But I do want to know, Cordelia, what you think of the soprano?”
Cordelia realized that she was not in the house of the Borgias and that she could relax.
“Lovely, in the lower registers, I think.”
“And very smooth when she dodges the high notes. Still, she’s a wonderful actress, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes, Rosemarie. Very tragic.”
“It’s a tragedy all right…. Yet also very Catholic. Forgiveness and salvation for everyone.”
“I had never thought of it that way, Rosemarie. You’re right, however. That’s a very perceptive observation.”
The two young women had decided that they liked each other, cautiously and guardedly perhaps, but still they were not about to let me interfere with a possible friendship.
“I wonder if you could write your observations about the opera in an article for our little magazine…”
“How many words?”
“Twelve hundred?”
“Sure…And”—nudging me with her elbow—“you can use my name…. Chuck will give me the address.”
“Splendidly done,” I whispered to her as we walked in for the second act. “How did you know I had written an article for Compact?”
She stopped humming the “Drinking Song.”
“Vince sent a copy to Peg…. I feel sorry for poor Cordelia. The guy is a creep. She still loves you.”
“Does she?”
“Totally. Too late. She can’t have you.”
“You were certainly friendly.”
“Someday she might need a friend in the real world.”
She resumed her humming.
As the curtain slipped up, she stopped humming and took my hand firmly in hers.
“No whispering.”
I hadn’t whispered during the first act, but I could not now defend myself without violating her rule.
I had listened to opera records at home all my life. La Traviata at the Chicago Opera, soon to die a painful death, was the first one I had attended. It was wonderful, especially with my gorgeous date. I’d be back.
So long as she continued to pay for the ticket.
Our dating, as I have related, had begun with a movie in Hyde Park, then one at the Lake in Oak Park on a weekend. Always accompanied by suppers at inexpensive restaurants—which she chose but for which I paid. Then it escalated to a string quartet and the opera for both of which she paid. I thought I should argue with her and then realized it would be a waste of time. Next week we would drop into Orchestra Hall for a Friday matinee and then eat supper at Rickets on Chicago Avenue.
She was gradually civilizing Chucky Ducky.
Since we weren’t really dating, much less courting, I did not have to worry about the possibility of a serious emotional involvement. My family pretended they knew nothing about our relationship. I pretended to myself that it was not serious.
You can’t beat denial for dealing with a problem.
Besides, I was having a wonderful time. I looked forward to seeing her every day in the library and even more to our nondates.
Chucky Ducky in love? Nonsense! We were just friends who enjoyed each other’s company. Nothing else.
As she drove us home to Oak Park that night (as usual she was staying at a spare bedroom in our house that was now officially known as “Rosie’s room”), she spoke again about Cordelia.
“Are you awake, Chuck?”
“I think so.”
“Just barely…About Cordelia?”
“Yes?”
“She was deeply involved with you, wasn’t she?”
“She dumped me.”
“I understand. But it was very hard for her, wasn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“You could have changed her mind, couldn’t you?”
I hesitated.
“Maybe.”
“You didn’t try?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I squirmed in the seat of her Studebaker. She stopped for the traffic light at Washington Avenue and Laramie.
“I figured it wouldn’t be fair to her.”
Silence.
“Were you in love with her?”
“I thought I was.”
“You got over it very quickly, though, didn’t you?”
“Yes…. How does the court rule?”
“Not guilty.”
That was the end of that.
39
In early November Rosemarie knew all the regulars at Jimmy’s by their first names. Also their wives’ names. And their children’s names. And their birthdays.
On their birthdays, she brought them small presents—scarves, gloves, ties, socks.
If she were running for office she would have carried Jimmy’s precinct unanimously.
Our routine was to enter through the door on Fifty-fifth Street, pass the bar, order our hamburgers or chili at the end of the bar, and then go into the adjoining room and sit at one of the battered card tables and eat our food and drink our beer or Coke—one beer only for Rosemarie and that every other day.
The week before Thanksgiving, the good news at the crazy O’Malleys’ was that Vince and Peg were firmly reconciled. The bad news was that Ted and Jane would not spend Thanksgiving with us. Doctor demanded their whole day. Mom thought it would be nice because then they could split Christmas between Evanston where Doctor lived and Oak Park.
I’ve always had an irrational hatred for Evanston, perhaps because Northwestern was there, perhaps because it was Republican, but mostly because I thought Evanstonians looked down on Chicago.
“Not as much as Oak Parkers did,” Dad would reply.
“That was before we Catholics moved in and took over,” I would insist.
“That’s not the way to deal with Doctor,” Rosemarie had contended. “He’s just like my father. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.”
On weekends, Rosemarie always dutifully checked in at the house on Menard Avenue, spoke with the ancient Kerry woman who was housekeeper, and then almost always adjourned to her home away from home at our house. It had become so much a part of everyone’s routine that no one questioned it or wondered about Rosemarie’s attitude toward her father.
“She loves him, poor man,” Mom observed. “But it’s hard to live in the same house with him.”
Two weeks before Thanksgiving I had promised Rosemarie a report on my work with the family account books. We therefore had an agenda for our chili lunch at Jimmy’s. The agenda did not, however, prevent Rosemarie from taking time to present “Wally” with his birthday present—two pairs of “Christmas socks” in red and green which were so loud that they would have smashed a mirror if there were one behind the bar.
The other regulars applauded enthusiastically.
“Some girl you got there, kid,” a certain Freddy informed me.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Only I don’t got her.”
Freddy shook his head, whether in disbelief or sympathy I could not tell.
There were two big guys—tall and fat—at the end of the bar who had not been there before. They leered at Rosemarie and murmured something lewd. She froze them as was her wont when someone crossed the lin
e between what she deemed appropriate and inappropriate freshness.
When Rosemarie froze you, you were really frozen.
The bigger of the two guys—an ugly fellow with a vast handlebar mustache and an enormous potbelly—muttered ominously into his beer mug.
I turned to mutter back at him—an instinctive and ridiculous male barroom response.
Rosemarie firmly seized my arm and propelled me into the other room.
“Act your age, Chucky,” she hissed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The second room at Jimmy’s smelled of human sweat, stale beer, and the sawdust that covered the floor. A few rays of autumn sunlight managed to find their way through the thick cigarette smoke and dirty shopfront window next to which we always tried to sit. Just as the blue-collar types dominated the bar, University types dominated the second room. The latter, feeling tough and masculine in Jimmy’s, managed to make only a little less noise than the working class.
“Now then.” She arranged her chili dish and her beer at a table near the window. “What has Charles Cronin O’Malley, would-be CPA, found out about his family?” Her eyes narrowed anxiously. “Are they living above their means?”
The American economy was beginning to falter in the first serious postwar recession. Inflation was worrying everyone although income had far outstripped it. The Chinese Nationalists were retreating to Formosa. The L.A. Rams, quarterbacked by Jane Russell’s husband Bob Waterfield, were dominating the NFL. Army had beat Navy 38–0. Louis Armstrong was playing in Paris. The critics were raving about the new Bogart film The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and Tracy and Hepburn, lovers in real life though none of us Catholics knew it then, were back together in the film Adam’s Rib. The war was forgotten but not the Depression, as I was to learn in the next few weeks.
“Not only are they not living above their means.” I sunk my teeth into one of Jimmy’s succulent hamburgers (I always ordered two). “They probably could not do so if they wanted to. Rosemarie, they have more money than they think they have, more money than they know what to do with, more money than it’s probably good for them to have. Despite Doctor, these have been good years to be an architect.”
Rosemarie exhaled contentedly. “I thought that might be possible.”
“Which is why you put an A1 accountant on the job. Moreover, if they used their time and their resources properly, they would have even more money and be able to take vacations at Grand Beach and in some sunny clime in the winter—instead of hanging around the offices worrying that they don’t have enough cash to make ends meet.”
“Really?”
“Really. And to address myself to another of your concerns as the fairy godmother to the crazy O’Malleys—”
“I am not,” she snapped furiously.
“Whether you are or not we can debate on another occasion.” I dismissed her quibble with the sort of hand wave with which she often favored my irrelevancies. “The fact is that they could easily provide Ted and Jane with an ‘allowance’ that would exceed Doctor’s.”
“Better call it a loan.” She wiped a small trace of chili from the corner of her mouth. “That’s what adults do.”
“Regardless. Now there are some reforms that are necessary.”
“Such as?” From her dark blue skirt (which matched her sweater, the latter garment leaving little question about the perfection of her breasts) there appeared a notebook.
“One. They have to hire a draftsman. It’s a waste of resources for someone as talented as Dad to spend his time inking plans. Second. They must hire a secretary to see to the correspondence, the bill-paying, and the filing of plans. Third. They should take in some bright kid from IIT, as they call Armour Tech now, to act as an apprentice. Fourth. They should consider forming a partnership with said kid or some other young genius within the next year. Fifth. They should have me glance over Mrs. McAteer’s shoulder once a month. I have figured out how to deal with her and make her love it.”
“As to the last”—Rosemarie sipped her beer—“I don’t doubt it in the least. But if you take away from your mother her task of searching for lost blueprints, what will there be left for her to do?”
“That at which she’s best. She can be Mom—which is to say she can answer the phone, make appointments, smile at people, and take care of everyone. We’ll call it office manager.”
Rosemarie nodded sagely. “I think we can sell it all, Chuck, if we put it the right way. And what a relief it will be for them to know they don’t have to worry anymore…. You really are good at this accounting stuff, aren’t you?”
“I told you I was.”
“Bet you never win a national prize at it.” She winked.
“That is irrelevant.” I felt my face turn hot as it often did when Rosemarie scored on one of her verbal thrusts, as she did with alarming frequency.
“Well, you can tell them how to reorganize the firm; they’ll find the recommendations coming from an odd source. You’re the one who is sure the Depression will be back; yet you’ll advise them to act like it isn’t.”
I had yet to tell Rosemarie that I now knew enough to be quite certain the Depression would not return, not for a long time, and that the present recession was meaningless.
“I’m not going to tell them. You are. This was all your idea.”
“I will not.” She shoved aside her chili plate. “You’re their child. I’m not.”
“Come on, Rosemarie.” I sat back in my chair. It teetered dangerously. “Don’t give me that. You’re the favored child in the family.”
“Don’t you dare say that!” She pounded the table. “Are you jealous or something?”
“Me?” Rarely did I have the advantage in our verbal sparring. “Why should I be? I’m the favorite second child. But you’re the favorite of everyone. None of the rest of us mind.”
“That’s not true!” Her gorgeous face contorted into an ugly frown. “I’m not even a member of your family! You’re looking for a fight.”
“Guilty conscience? You meddle in our family problems like you were a member. Not that any of us mind because you always help. But why argue about it?”
I wanted to drop the whole debate now. I had no idea how you cope with a woman as bright as Rosemarie when she becomes irrationally angry.
“We’ll argue about it”—she pounded the table again, harder this time—“because it’s a damn lie!”
Some of the other people in the room began to glance at us. We had gone over the approved noise level.
“Cut it out, Rosemarie,” I said, trying to sound disgusted. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat again.”
She sat up straight, to her full five feet five inches, eyes blazing, face pale, nostrils quivering—the Celtic woman warrior ready for battle. “I am—”
“Being ridiculous.”
A smile began to twitch at the corner of her lips. It turned into a sheepish grin. She lowered her eyes.
“—an absolute goof. I’m sorry, Chucky.” She glanced up again. “I guess I’m the most loved because I’m the most lovable, right?”
“I won’t fight that.” I relaxed. I’d won a battle with the wench. “But I might say that as an Irish matriarch-in-training, you need more love.”
“Irish matriarch-in-training?” Thunderheads began to assemble again. “What do you mean by that?”
“Someone who runs things like the good April.”
“I really would be happy if I were like her,” she sighed. “But she’d never lose her temper the way I just did. Anyway, I do need more love, I guess.” She touched the tips of my fingers with hers. “I’m sorry, Chucky. I thought I had the bitch inside me under better control.”
“She sure is pretty when she appears.”
“Silly.” She shoved my fingers away like I had touched hers. “Well, what about if you and Peg and I tell them your report? Is that a good compromise?”
“Better than I expected. I’ll do the talking and you do the persuading.”
> She laughed happily, the angry bitch now effectively banished. Scary character—that angry bitch. But I had shut her up. Not bad. I’d have to brag about my accomplishment to Christopher when I saw him the Friday after Thanksgiving.
“Come on”—she stood up—“I have to finish a paper this afternoon. The trouble with the quarter system is that it’s the end of term before you know it. I suppose you’re up to date on all your assignments.”
“All papers turned in,” I said modestly.
“You make me mad.” She gathered her brown cloth coat over her arm and glanced back at me to assure me that the bitch was still in her box. “Not really.”
We entered the bar, which was more crowded, noisier, and more foul-smelling than usual. Rosemarie elbowed her way through the crush at the near end of the bar and passed the two strangers who had made the snide remarks when we had entered a half hour before.
Everything happened so quickly that it was only afterward that I figured out what had happened—and understood that once again I had fallen on my face.
Someone unintentionally jostled Rosemarie. Accidentally she brushed against the big guy with the handlebar mustache. His eyes glazed from too much of the drink, he groped for her breast, almost automatically. She pushed him aside. His red face wrenched in anger and he grabbed again. This time he captured his prize and squeezed it brutally. His friend seized Rosemarie around the hips and dragged her to the bar between them.
All of this took less time to happen than to describe. Remember that the regulars at Jimmy’s adored Rosemarie. Our two friends were already in deep trouble.
Some manic Celtic berserker ignored the presence of allies and Rosemarie’s training in martial arts. No one messes with his girl, right?
This berserker snatched the two beer mugs from the bar and hurled the contents into the faces of the two molesters. Then I banged the jaw of the one who had seized Rosemarie’s breast. He seemed startled by the sudden pain, so I hit him again, and he slipped slowly to the floor.
Then I turned to the second man, ready to clobber him too. By then my help was not needed. I saw the final motions of a response Rosemarie had learned from the “revered master.”
Younger Than Springtime Page 39