One morning late in May Rose walked into Howard’s office. “If you promise not to ask me how old I’m going to be, I’ll let you take me to dinner on my birthday. What do you say?”
Howard smiled. “Who could refuse an offer like that?”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart, Rosie. When’s your birthday?”
“Today.”
“Stabbed,” Howard said.
“You promised.”
“You’re a hard woman, Rosie.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
“I’ve been working since I was sixteen,” Rose was saying. “Full-time. Before that I worked part-time. I don’t remember anything of my childhood except working. I never had much.” She took another sip of her Pink Lady. They were sitting in a dark corner of a cocktail lounge off Euclid Avenue in downtown Cleveland. In the middle of the room a fat Negro man played softly on the piano. “Tea for Two” and “Dardanella” and “Blue Skies.” “No,” Rose said, “I never had much.”
“What did your father do?” Howard asked.
“As little as possible right up until he died. My mother, she was dead too by that time.” Rose realized that she was talking too much and she paused, staring down at her Pink Lady. Ordinarily she did not drink and this was her third cocktail. “Am I acting drunk?” Rose said.
“You’re a perfect lady. Besides, it’s your birthday.”
“I hate birthdays. Not this one. But the others I hated.”
“How many others have there been?”
“And you promised you wouldn’t ask.”
“See?” Howard said. “You’ve got a mind like a trap. You can’t be drunk.”
Rose sipped her cocktail.
“You were talking about your family.”
“Oh, them. To hell with them. I got a bunch of aunts. They used to shift me around every so often. House to house. I bet I’ve lived in most every town in Ohio. You ever move much? I hate moving.”
“West Ridge is my home, Rosie. I’ve never lived anywhere else. Never want to.”
“Your father dead too?”
“He’s dead too.”
“What did he do?”
“You’re kidding.”
Rose looked at him blankly.
“You can’t have lived long in West Ridge without knowing about my father. He delivered nine-tenths of the population.”
“That’s a good thing to be. A doctor.”
“Yes.”
The piano player started into “Make Believe.” Rose hummed along softly. “You would have been a good doctor, Howard. You got good hands. I look at people’s hands a lot. You can tell about them from their hands. Did you know that?”
“Bumps on the head are a lot more scientific, Rosie. Phrenology.”
“You’re kidding, but I’m serious. You should have been a doctor with your hands.”
“I tried. I went to medical school for a year after college. I flunked out. So you see, you’re wrong.”
“You’re very good at selling houses, Howard.”
“Damn right I am. I know every house in West Ridge. I used to bicycle around when I was a kid. All over town. Ask me any corner in town and I’ll tell you about the houses there. Go on. Ask me a corner. Ask me any two streets that come together.”
“All right. Cedar and Lincoln.”
“Cedar and Lincoln.” Howard closed his eyes. “There’s four corner lots and two houses. One of them’s owned by the Fergusons. Brown house. Three floors. They bought it from the Slocums in 1926. The other house is empty now, but Old Man Mahnken built it back in 1915 and—”
Rose laughed. “I believe you.”
“I can do that for hours,” Howard said.
“I believe that, too.”
“Damn right,” Howard said. “Damn right.”
They finished their drinks. “Do you think we should have another, Howard?”
He raised his hand for the waiter. “What the hell, Rosie. It’s your birthday.”
“It really isn’t.”
Howard lowered his hand.
“My birthday is in December. I was a Christmas child. I lied to you, Howard. Are you mad?”
“What did you do that for?”
“Better work relationships. I’m a firm believer in better work relationships. Are you mad?”
Howard raised his hand again. Then he smiled. “What the hell,” he said. “It’s May. That’s almost your birthday.”
“You drink a lot, don’t you?” Rose said. It was two hours later and she was on her sixth Pink Lady.
“Yes. I drink a lot.”
“Does your mother like for you to do that?”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever discussed it.”
“But you live with her.”
“That’s right. But she goes her way pretty much and I go mine. She doesn’t pry.”
“You’re very lucky.”
“Yes.”
Rose swallowed half her drink. “I love these. They get better and better the more you drink them.”
Howard sipped his Scotch.
“How old are you, Howard? I never promised I wouldn’t ask.”
“Thirty-one.”
“You ever want to get married?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I just wondered.”
“Damn right I want to get married.”
Rose took another swallow of her drink. Then she said it. “You can do better than Dolly Salinger.”
Howard looked at her.
“A lot better.”
“What are you talking about? What do you know about Dolly?”
“I’ve seen her. That’s enough.”
“Did her hands give her away?”
“Are you serious with her?”
“Dolly’s my fiancée. We’re more or less engaged.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re going to get married.”
“When?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Do you want to marry her?”
“It’s really not much of your business, Rosie. But since you stuck your nose in, yes, I want to marry her.”
“But she won’t have you?”
“She’ll have me.”
“When?”
“Dolly’s got this thing about money.”
“You’re not rich enough for her. Is that it?”
“Now, look, Rosie—”
“Don’t talk about it anymore. If you don’t want to, don’t. Change the subject.”
Howard took a long swallow of Scotch.
“I’m going to be getting married myself one of these days.”
“Who to?”
“I got me some ideas,” Rose said.
When they drove up to the house on Oak Street it was early in the morning. Rose opened the door for herself and stepped out. Howard moved around the car, holding on to it with one hand as he went. They started up the walk, moving past the “Furnished Rooms” sign. The night was bright, the moon full. Rose stepped up the steps but lost her balance, falling against him. He steadied her as best he could. They were standing very close together.
“I never had a better time,” Rose said.
“My pleasure.” Howard started a bow, then thought better of it. “I’d never make it back up again,” he explained.
“I’d help you,” Rose said. She stood a step above him, staring into his eyes. “I meant that, Howard. I never had a better time. Not ever.”
Howard smiled.
“Thank you, Howard.” She closed her eyes, waiting.
“Welcome,” he answered, but she knew from the sound of his voice that he was moving away from her.
Rose opened her eyes. He was backing down the sidewalk, waving. She returned it. “ ’Night, Rosie,” he called.
Rose turned, entering the house, climbing the steps to the top floor. Flicking on the lights in her room, she went to the mirror and stared at herself. She looked worse than usual. I wouldn’t kiss
me either, she thought. Taking a step closer to the mirror, she began examining her face. Plain. God, it was plain. With a wild burst of anger, she grabbed a handful of her brown hair and pulled it until the pain began to numb. “Easy, Rose,” she said aloud. “Easy.” Her temper frightened her when it came like that. She breathed deeply, trying to bend it under control. In the mirror she could see her room. Square and dull. She hated it. She hated everything about ... No. No, that wasn’t true. (Her temper was going.) She didn’t hate it. (She was breathing easily again.) After all, she had had worse. A lot worse.
And by Christ she was going to have a lot better.
The morning of the seventh of July, Rose talked to Howard’s mother for the first time. She and Miss Dickens were in the office when the telephone rang. Rose answered it.
“This is Mrs. Scudder,” the voice on the other end said.
“Oh, Mrs. Scudder, how do you do?” Rose said.
The question was ignored. “My son will not be in today.”
“Is he sick?”
“He is not sick. He is fine.”
“Will he be in tomorrow?”
“I’m not in the least sure.” There was a click on the other end.
Rose hung up the phone. “She’s a sweetheart. Howard won’t be in today.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Haven’t you heard? Dolly Salinger ran off and got married. He’s quite a bit older than she is, but very rich, or so the story goes. I imagine he’s all upset, poor Howard. It’s really very sad.”
“Tragic,” Rose said.
Howard did not come to work the next day. Or the day after that. But when he finally did return, a week later, it was obvious what he had been doing with his time.
Drinking.
The smell of alcohol in the early morning made Rose want to retch.
“Good morning, harem,” Howard said. “Miss me?”
“You must never desert us again,” Miss Dickens began.
Howard held up his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“You O.K. now?” Rose asked.
“Fine,” Howard said, making a smile. “Fine, fine, fine.” And with that he went into his office and closed the door.
Later that morning, when Rose went into Howard’s office, she caught him hurriedly shoving a bottle of whisky into a desk drawer.
“You better knock next time, Rosie.”
“You think so?”
“What is it, Rosie?”
“You got any letters you want to send?”
“Not just yet. I’ll call you if I do.”
Rose hesitated in the doorway.
“Anything else, Rosie?”
“It can wait,” Rose said, and she closed the door.
At eleven-thirty Rose looked over from her desk. “Time for your lunch,” she said.
Miss Dickens looked at the time. “But I never go to lunch this early.”
“Yes, you do. Today you do.”
“But—”
“Out you go. Don’t argue.”
Miss Dickens looked at Rose’s face for just a moment more. Then she hurriedly put on her summer hat, her summer gloves. Picking up her purse, she was gone.
Rose waited for a moment, her eyes closed. Finally she stood and walked to Howard’s office, throwing the door open.
“Didn’t I tell you to knock?”
“Did you? I forgot.”
“What’s got into you, Rosie?”
“That’s not the question. What’s got into you?”
“That’s my business.”
Rose said nothing. Howard sat back in his swivel chair, his hands folded on his stomach. Rose stared at his puffy eyes. Howard looked away.
“I’m busy right now, Rosie. So if it’s not important, let’s postpone it.”
Rose moved closer to him.
“Don’t make me order you to get out, Rosie.”
“Order me. See what happens.”
“Dammit—”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Please.”
“Beg some more,” Rose said. She could feel her temper breaking loose inside her, a thing unto itself, anger building. She let it come.
“For the last time, Rosie—”
“I hate weakness! Howard. It makes me sick.” And suddenly her voice was out of control. “You lousy lush!”
Howard closed his puffy eyes. “I never said I was strong, Rosie. Did I, now?” He forced a smile. “Under stress I tend to drink. It’s my pattern.”
“It is, huh? It is, huh?” And she whirled around the desk, jerking at the drawers, opening them, slamming them shut, moving to the next drawer, jerking and slamming until she found the bottle. “Here,” Rose cried and she shoved the bottle at him.
Howard’s eyes were still closed. “Don’t do anymore. Please.”
Rose grabbed him. “You’re through with that stuff! Never no more, not while I’m around. You ever touch that stuff again you’ll have to answer to me and you don’t wanna do that, Howard.” She let him go.
Howard began to shake.
“Aw, Howard,” Rose whispered then. “Aw, come on.”
“She left me, Rose.”
“Good, I say.”
“She left me.”
“Rest easy, Howard.” She reached out, gently touched his cheek. “I’m here.”
After that, they were together. Most of the time they spent in the office, working until ten o’clock at night, six nights a week. Sundays he took her driving in the country or swimming in Lake Erie. But even then they talked about work. How to sell houses. How to sell houses. During the week they would tour West Ridge at lunchtime, driving slowly down street after street, Rose watching and listening, Howard explaining about who lived where and when it was built and what kind of a price it would bring on the market. Howard talked. Rose absorbed it all.
In October she sold her first house. It was small, on the north side of town, but still she sold it. That night he took her into Cleveland again, where they had dinner and then went to the symphony. Afterward he drove her home, his right arm draped over her shoulder most of the way. When they reached the front steps of her place on Oak Street, he hugged her briefly, then kissed her quickly on the cheek.
As she walked up to her room, Rose could not help smiling.
Toward the end of that month Rose got a second phone call from Mrs. Scudder.
“Miss Mathias?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Mrs. William Scudder.”
“I recognized your voice.”
“I would like to see you.”
“Anytime.”
“Tomorrow, then? Four o’clock. Can you get away?”
“If you’d like me at four, then I’ll be there at four.”
“Until tomorrow, then. And, Miss Mathias ...”
“Yes?”
“I don’t see any reason to tell Howard about this, do you?”
“Is that an order, Mrs. Scudder?”
“That’s an order, Miss Mathias.”
At four o’clock promptly, Rose arrived at the Scudder house on Waverly Lane, one of the two most exclusive streets in town. The Scudder house was large and white, with four white columns in the front. Rose walked up the path along the lawn and rang the bell. A middle-aged servant lady opened the door.
“To see Mrs. Scudder. Miss Mathias. I’m expected.”
“This way, please,” the servant lady said, turning, walking through the foyer. Rose followed her.
Mrs. Scudder was waiting, seated in the library. She was a small, heavyset woman with white hair. “Miss Mathias,” she said.
Rose sat in an easy chair across from her, carefully folding her hands in her lap.
“Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
Mrs. Scudder poured a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the table beside her. Rose took the cup and balanced it carefully, making sure not to spill.
“Lovely fall,” Mrs. Scudder s
aid after she had poured herself some coffee.
Rose allowed as to how it was indeed a lovely fall.
“I felt the summer was a trifle hot.”
Rose allowed that too.
Mrs. Scudder talked on, holding her coffee cup gracefully, sipping from it gracefully. Rose followed along as best she could. The room seemed uncomfortably warm and she wanted to wipe her brow, but she decided against it. The walls of the room were lined with books, the great majority of them bound in leathers of red and green.
Rose commented on the books.
“Dr. Scudder was a great reader,” the older woman said.
“I wish I could say the same,” Rose said.
“You don’t read, then?”
“I know how, if that’s what you mean.”
Mrs. Scudder smiled. “Books can be a comfort, Miss Mathias. In times of stress.”
“Some people read, some people drink.” Mrs. Scudder flicked her eyes across and for a moment they stared quietly at each other. “And you can call me Rose.”
“Rose,” Mrs. Scudder said.
Rose finished her coffee.
“Would you care for another cup?”
Rose shook her head.
“I myself happen to have a passion for coffee. I drink coffee most of the day. In the morning when I awake, then again at lunch, then—”
“Get to it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The point.”
“I prefer reaching the subject gradually.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s more than obvious.”
“What’s the subject?” Rose said.
“Come now. We both know the answer.”
“O.K.,” Rose said. “What about Howard?”
Mrs. Scudder poured herself another cup of coffee before she spoke. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for what you’ve done with him. I could never have done it. I know that.”
“Go on.” Rose got up from her chair and started to pace.
“I prefer you to sit.”
“I prefer not. Go on.”
“You’re too common for my son,” Mrs. Scudder said.
Rose nodded. “What was the matter with Dolly Salinger?”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“Plenty. Answer my question.”
“She was half Jewish, for one thing. I disapprove of mixed marriages.”
“What kind do you approve of?”
“I wish you’d sit down, Miss Mathias.”
“And who was the girl before Dolly and what was the matter with her?”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 14