The Bubble Reputation

by Cathie Pelletier

  This memory loss happened to many people, Rosemary was surprised to learn, and they had managed to go about life effectively, to hold jobs, raise a family, have hobbies. It was hard work for them, but it could be done. Yet Mother’s problem was more than just the terrible brain malfunction. Her emotional instabilities had cropped up years earlier, before the fall. Rosemary remembered days of coming home from school to find Mother wrapped in a blanket, in the heat of June, sobbing. “We’re all going to die someday,” was the only excuse she could offer. When Father did die, the year Rosemary turned ten, Mother experienced her first real wash of craziness. “His heart,” she said of the organ that had killed her husband, “must have known what was best.” But she never really pulled out of the low dive his death had thrust her into. She cried often and was forgetful. Scatterbrained at best.

  The family had learned to deal with it simply as Mother’s ups and downs. But the woman who emerged from the hospital two years after Father’s death, after the fall, could hardly be called forgetful. She had gone from scatterbrained to Mad Hatter. Robbie barely remembered her as anything but crazy. Miriam remembered nothing more than embarrassment in front of her teenaged friends. “Personally, I think she jumped,” Miriam said often of the stepladder incident. Rosemary had been so caught up in losing Father that when she finally came around to ask questions, Mother was gone, too. In her place was a woman who wanted nothing more from her children than the courtesy one receives from strangers when meeting them on the street, when dining with them in the same restaurant, and plenty of soft chocolates.

  In Rosemary’s lovely dining room, upon the old oak table, the family ate dinner and mentioned everyone and everything but William. She was thankful. The suicide was not a subject she wanted brought up, something to be discussed as minutes of the meeting. She saw a great irony in the fact that William was the only person with whom she could discuss such a delicate issue.

  “I’m a homicide away from doing something to Mrs. Abernathy,” Uncle Bishop said, and passed the garlic bread to Rosemary, who took a buttered piece and passed it on to Robbie. “She’s threatening to have Ralph shot if he comes near her bird feeder again.”

  “Can’t you just keep him away?” asked Rosemary.

  “But Ralphie’s a tomcat,” Uncle Bishop explained. “He’s already sprayed the daylights out of that tray feeder, and now he thinks it’s his.”

  “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous,” said Miriam.

  “Miriam knows what spraying is, don’t you, Miriam?” Uncle Bishop asked. “I’ve seen your husbands dripping at the altar.” He forked a large spool of spaghetti into his mouth. Miriam snatched her garlic bread away from Mother, who had reached a hand out to steal it. “Personally, I think Ralphie is getting the raw end of this deal,” Uncle Bishop continued. “He’s even blamed for the dead birds Mrs. Abernathy sees along the road, miles from the house.”

  “Did I get a letter from Aunt Sophie?” Mother asked suddenly. There was a short silence. Robbie was the one to finally ask.

  “Who the hell is Aunt Sophie?”

  ***

  “You always do the dishes when we’re at your house,” Rosemary said to Uncle Bishop. “Just take Mother in by the fire and I’ll cram everything into the dishwasher.”

  Miriam offered to help and followed Rosemary to the kitchen with water glasses and a handful of forks. Rosemary suspected something else. It had been three months since Miriam had complained to her about the family and about her own personal problems.

  “I seriously think Bishop is trying to turn Robbie toward gaiety,” said Miriam, rinsing the glasses.

  “Gaiety?” asked Rosemary.

  “You know,” said Miriam. “Gayhood. Gaydom. Gayness. Whatever noun they use for that kind of lifestyle.”

  “Don’t be silly. Uncle Bishop is a good influence on Robbie.”

  “Rosemary, he’s in love with a man who wears dresses. You didn’t know that, did you? Well, there’s a lot that’s happened during your little vacation.” Rosemary looked at her sister. Little vacation. In Miriam’s mind, getting over William’s death was as easy as sunning in the Bahamas. “He has to go out of state to find them,” Miriam continued. “There aren’t a lot of that kind in Maine, you know. At least not north of Bangor.”

  “Robbie’s an intelligent adult,” Rosemary said. She turned on the garbage disposal. “He knows what’s best for himself.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Miriam. Rosemary handed her a crystal water glass and Miriam feigned searching for a dish towel in one of the kitchen drawers. Miriam never found a dish towel because Miriam didn’t want to find a dish towel. “I worry that those are the only role models Robbie has.”

  “Robbie is twenty-six years old,” said Rosemary. “Not four. And try to remember that Mother has been one of his role models.”

  Rosemary finished loading her wear-and-tear dishes into the washer, and then pushed the Start button. Inside, the dishes clinked happily. The dishwasher had been a contribution to the household from William, evidence of a lucrative summer along the coast, near Mount Desert Island, selling quick sketches of Maine’s ocean, lobster traps, and gnarled fishermen to tourists. Those lucrative summers, however, had been sparse. Rosemary had taken her summer salary in a lump sum that year and bought the clothes washer and dryer. But the noisy dishwasher had been William’s gift to the house, and even the watery sound of it at work saddened her.

  “Where does Bishop get his money, anyway?” Miriam asked now. “That’s what I’d like to know. He hasn’t worked in years. In fact, I can’t remember him ever working. Yet he has plenty of money. Where does he get it, Rosemary? Do you think he’s involved in some sort of porno racket with homosexuals?”

  “I heard that, Miriam,” Uncle Bishop yelled from the den.

  ***

  In the living room Mother beckoned to Robbie for more wine. Then she held the glass tightly in her hands and rocked back and forth in her chair. Miriam sat in the recliner, her legs crossed.

  “Where’s Raymond?” asked Robbie.

  “Looking at some land along the coast,” Miriam answered. She and Raymond met at a “Get Rich Through Real Estate” seminar and had fallen head over heels into buying land at dirt-cheap prices, dividing it into plots, and then selling it to anyone who would give them money for it. “We’re going to erect some condos,” she added.

  “Condoms?” Uncle Bishop asked. “You should be good at erecting condoms, Miriam.”

  “Raymond thinks it’ll develop nicely,” Miriam said.

  “Miriam and Raymond are selling the state of Maine to New York City,” Uncle Bishop warned the others. “Mark my words. We’ll get up one morning and see a big arm sticking up in the air, holding a torch.”

  “‘’Tis the last rose of summer,’” Mother sang loudly, “‘left blooming alone.’” She curled one foot to still the rocker. “Where’s Aunt Sophie’s piano?” she asked.

  Rain hit against the churchlike windows of the house. Rosemary heard Mugs the cat scratching on the back door and went to let him in.

  “It’s really coming down out there,” she told them, hoping to speed up the good-byes. She needed to take this reacquaintance idea slowly.

  “I’d better drive her home,” said Robbie. “Aunt Rachel will be waiting up.” He touched Mother’s arm.

  “Hey, mister,” Mother said, her eyes locked on her son. “You got any money?”

  “I’ll catch a ride home with you, Robbie,” said Miriam, who had refused to drive again after an accident she’d had ten years earlier. “The year I hit the ice-cream truck was the year I turned thirty,” she liked to mention, as though that chronological fact were connected in some cosmic way to her bad driving.

  “Miriam’s mad because I won’t let her smoke in my Datsun,” said Uncle Bishop. “I don’t know why she just doesn’t quit. A cigarette is the dirt
iest thing you can put in your mouth.”

  “And this from a homosexual,” said Miriam. “Go figure.” She found her plastic rain hat in her purse and unfolded it. Mother was already at the door, peering out at the rainy night.

  “That damn bus,” Mother said, when she felt Rosemary put a hand on her tiny shoulder. “That damn bus is always late.”

  ***

  When the others had left, Rosemary poured herself another glass of wine and Uncle Bishop another scotch. They sat before the last of the fire in the Schrader fireplace.

  “What’s this Miriam tells me about a new boyfriend?” she asked.

  “Just what did Tokyo Rose say?” Uncle Bishop’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Miriam’s name.

  “Nothing, really. So you tell me.”

  “He has such a keen sense of fashion,” Uncle Bishop said then. He twirled the scotch in his glass. “He was waiting tables when I met him. The man should have his name on asses all over the world, like Calvin Klein does, and instead he’s shoveling cheese sticks to college students.” Mugs had come to Rosemary’s side and was rubbing back and forth against her arm, marking her well with his scents.

  “Where are your shoes?” Rosemary asked cautiously. Uncle Bishop looked at her, studied her face.

  “Miriam’s mouth isn’t shaped like a megaphone for nothing,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “Some people throw knives,” Uncle Bishop said. “And a shoe is really a very friendly missile.”

  “Unless it has a heel.”

  “Heels do sting.” He looked at Rosemary. “So he has a thing for shoes. Some people collect dead insects. Miriam collects husbands. Come over some night and have dinner. Meet Jason for yourself.”

  “Jason?” asked Rosemary. “You know, I can see that on the asses of the world.”

  Uncle Bishop beamed at her.

  Rosemary walked him to the door and then opened it. They stood in the casement and listened to the rain beat upon the roof, then drip down from the eaves.

  “Pants by Jason,” Rosemary added, and Uncle Bishop smiled again. He squeezed her tightly. “Oh, Uncle Bishop,” said Rosemary, and all the words she wanted to say caught up in her throat. He patted her hand.

  “It’s okay, baby doll,” he said softly. “It’s gonna be okay.” He put an arm around her, hugging her up to his chest. Rosemary saw spaghetti sauce spots on the gray sweatshirt.

  “I miss William so much,” she whispered.

  “You always will,” said Uncle Bishop. He held her to him, and she sank into the fleshiness of his body, a huge, soft mattress. She let him cradle her. Uncle Bishop had, after all, been father and mother to her, and to Robbie. So what if he loved a man with a passion for shoes, and who occasionally threw them at him?

  Rosemary watched Uncle Bishop drive off into the wet night in his baby-blue truck, with the plastic Paul Bunyan dangling from the rearview mirror. Then she went back to check on the fireplace, Mugs trailing behind. With a strip of shimmering rain still running down his back, Mugs looked like a fluorescent skunk. Rosemary gave him a quick pat before she took the screen off the fireplace and closed the heavy doors.

  ***

  As Rosemary was fixing a late snack the phone rang, startling her. She looked at the clock. It was almost one. She was now more suspicious than ever of phones ringing late at night.

  “Oh no,” she said, remembering who it would be. “‘The Children’s Hour.’” She picked up the receiver and heard that booming, familiar voice.

  “It’s the worst thing you can imagine,” Uncle Bishop said. He never waited for her to say hello. Even when William was there, he knew she’d pick up the phone for his late-night panic calls. “It’s to the point where I may never sleep again.”

  “Tell me about it,” Rosemary said.

  “The accumulation of ice at the North Pole?” he asked. He seemed to be gone for a couple of seconds, and then was back, full voice in her ear. Rosemary knew he’d taken the time to pour another scotch. “The Children’s Hour” was not, contrary to what Longfellow thought, between the dark and the daylight, but between midnight and a bottle of scotch.

  “Yes,” said Rosemary, “the accumulation.” She knew very well that it was an accumulation of ice in Uncle Bishop’s scotch glass that had brought on the current panic.

  “It’s been going on for a long time,” he said. “Up there at the North Pole. Up at old Santa’s place. And when that baby tips, we’re gonna go ass-end. They’ll find washing machines from Detroit out in Santa Monica.” He dropped something. Rosemary heard a thump. It was the receiver, but soon he was back.

  “Is there anything we can do to save ourselves?” she asked. The rain had stopped. Large beads of water clung to the window, yellow with light from the yard.

  “Thanks to gravitational force,” Uncle Bishop said, slurring his words now, “there’s four safe spots on the earth. But only the Freemasons know where they are.”

  “How much time do we have?” Rosemary asked, suppressing a yawn. She would never let Uncle Bishop think that these panics, which occurred each time he sat down with a new book from his Strange But True Book Club and a bottle of Glenlivet, were trifles.

  “Until May fifth, in the year 2000,” he said. “That’s when all the planets in the solar system line up. It’s all recorded in the Great Pyramid, Rosie. And then kaput. No more earth as we know it. No more people. Except for four goddamn gaggles of Freemasons. I never trusted those smug little bastards, with their rings and their secrets.”

  “Try to get some sleep,” Rosemary said, soothing him. “Try not to think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night then.”

  “Wait!”

  “What now?”

  “For Chrissakes, don’t say a word about those four safe spots to Miriam. She’ll be down there erecting condos and throwing an Ice Accumulation Party.”

  “I won’t say a word,” said Rosemary.

  “She’s selling the state of Maine, you know,” Uncle Bishop warned.

  ***

  Before going up to bed, Rosemary went down to the den to check the fireplace one more time. The room was intensely quiet; the fire died away, the rain done outside. She could see Winston, the outdoor cat, lounging on the patio, a cat who had never warmed to humans. Inside, on the shelves, hundreds of quiet books stared down at her, books she and William had collected from bookstore sales, garage sales, and the countless times they broke down and paid full price. Shelves of books. Millions of words. Things people wanted to say. Things they had to say. She reached for the worn copy of Shakespeare’s collected works, one of William’s prized books from college, and opened it.

  “‘All the world’s a stage,’” Rosemary read. “‘And all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.’” Her part now seemed to be nothing more than dealing with William’s exit. She stepped back so that she could look at the colors of the spines. It was a room full of books. And spring was coming to the land around the house of words. Rebirth was coming to Bixley, Maine. The warm rain would take away the last remnants of snow along the edge of the woods. It had been a long winter and now it was over. The slush would soon let the fields and roads and driveways turn dry again. During the day, she had heard the far-off murmur of softball teams being organized at the ballpark. April was turning into May, and soon there would be buds everywhere, and shoots coming up out of the ground with the promise of new grasses and silky petals. And the migrant birds would return, their heads full of broken images of faraway places most of Rosemary’s neighbors had never been. Places she had never been. The birds had been there and back, to cities and towns in the South where the magnolia and dogwood had burst into flowers weeks before. Now it was Maine’s turn. And spring was coming. Rosemary could sense it lying in wait for her. A
nd she could sense something else waiting, too. She could feel change rising up inside her. She had some questions she needed answered, not just about William, but also questions about herself. She had a skin to shed, and that would not be easy.

  THE DISTURBED PAIRS

  June followed May into Bixley, Maine, bringing with it the last of the shoots, and buds, and a card that came in the afternoon mail. Rosemary had gone outside to check on the new plants, which already had tiny flowers on them. The afternoon was perfectly June. The land had finally dried from the aftermath of winter. A few birds fluttered about the feeder that hung in the front yard. The cats lounged in furry balls on the steps, jingling the tags on their collars when they stretched and keeping a lazy eye on the birds. When she remembered the mail, she left her gardening gloves on the front steps and walked down to the box. It was a small card, the kind that comes ten to a packet, with seashells on the front. It was postmarked Portland and Rosemary smiled, knowing it was from Elizabeth, her best college chum whom she hadn’t seen in years.

  As Rosemary closed the door to the mailbox, she heard a faint buzzing, as if a distant lawn mower was cutting someone’s grass farther down Old Airport Road. Her house sat one mile out on this road. Most traffic used New Airport Road, which came into the tiny airport on its other side. A few families lived along Rosemary’s road, and some folks still used it to get out to the airport. But the business done there was conducted on a small scale, with five or six Cessnas and Piper Cubs a day scheduled for flights to Bangor, Portland, and Boston. The occasional takeoff of a small plane over Rosemary’s house was certainly no sound pollution, no window-shaking, Congress-petitioning noise. The planes were already up fairly high and merely purring by the time they passed overhead. But this droning sound was different.