The Secrets of Rosa Lee

by Jodi Thomas

  Even though a relative newcomer in town, Micah had heard the stories about the old maid who had lived to be ninety-two. She’d lost her wealth—first a section, then a block at a time until nothing had remained in her name but the house and gardens. Some said she’d never ventured beyond her gates. She had had no life outside her property, and folks said no one, not even a delivery man, had stepped beyond her porch.

  Micah studied the house as he crossed the street, his tennis shoes almost soundless. Even in the streetlight he could see that weather had sanded away almost all paint, leaving the two-story colonial a dusty brown. The same color as the dirt that sifted through everything over this open land.

  Smiling, he waved at the house. It seemed more than brick and board. Some places have personalities, he thought with a grin. If this one had a voice it would say, “Evenin’ Reverend Parker,” in a Texas drawl.

  He slowed in the darkness and stretched before turning about and heading back through town. The temperature had dropped during his run. Time to get home.

  As he stepped into the street, a movement in the gutter caught his attention. He stumbled trying to avoid a collision.

  A tiny, muddy, yellow cat, not big enough to be without its mother, curled against a pile of trash the wind had swept in the grate. Its long hair stuck out in all directions, but the little thing didn’t know enough to crawl away from the pile of discarded cups and packing paper.

  Micah leaned down. “Now, what have we here?” He lifted the shivering pile of bones and hair.

  The animal made a hissing sound but didn’t fight as he warmed it with his hands.

  “How about coming along with me, little guy?” Micah carefully tucked the kitten into his jacket pocket and turned toward home. “I’ll share the leftovers from the men’s prayer breakfast with you.”

  The animal didn’t sound any more excited about the meal than he was, but their choices were limited. Thanks to his late meeting at the church tonight, his son Logan had already eaten dinner with their neighbor, Mrs. Mac. Micah could go grocery shopping at the town’s only store and probably run into half a dozen people he knew, all of whom he’d have to talk to. Or, he could eat out alone and have everyone who passed by look as if they felt sorry for him. Or, he could finish off whatever lay wrapped in the aluminum foil the breakfast cleanup committee had insisted he take. Leftovers seemed the best choice.

  When Micah entered the back of the duplex he shared with his seven-year-old son, he lowered the kitten into a basket of dirty laundry and motioned for it to be quiet.

  The cat just stared up at him, too frightened to make a sound.

  Micah closed the utility-room door and silently moved down the hallway. Sometime during the fifty-year history of this place, someone had cut a door between the two apartments.

  He leaned his head into the other apartment and whispered, “Thanks, Mrs. Mac.”

  “You’re welcome,” she answered without turning away from her TV. “No trouble.”

  Micah closed the door connecting the apartments without bothering to lock it, then moved down the hallway to Logan’s room. Over the past three years they’d worked out a system. He helped Mrs. Mac carry in her groceries, mowed her side of the lawn and did anything her arthritis wouldn’t let her do. She watched over a sleeping Logan while Micah ran, and babysat on the rare occasions Logan couldn’t accompany Micah to a church meeting.

  Micah carefully crossed the cluttered floor of Logan’s room and knelt to pull the cover over the boy’s shoulder. He brushed sunny-blond hair away from Logan’s forehead and whispered, “We love you, son,” as if Amy were still alive and helping him raise the boy.

  He backed out of the room slowly, knowing one more day of Logan’s childhood had passed.

  A little after seven the next morning, Micah checked on his furry houseguest. After crying half the night, the kitten must have licked up all the warm milk in the chipped saucer Micah had left in the laundry basket. The tiny houseguest now lay curled up beside his oldest sweatshirt.

  “I want that shirt back,” Micah said as he poured himself coffee. He thought of moving the basket to the garage but decided it was too cold. With luck, the cat couldn’t jump out and would be fine until he came home for lunch with kitty litter.

  “I’ll stop by and get some cat food, so consider it a date for lunch.” He lifted his cup to the sleeping guest. “I promise not to try to cram any more of the church’s scrambled eggs into you.” The nuked eggs worked only slightly better than the warmed hash browns. Last night Micah had ended up making a sandwich out of a leftover biscuit and sausage. “I’ve no doubt you’re a Baptist. Any self-respecting Methodist would have downed the eggs.”

  “Who you talking to, Pop?”

  Micah smiled. His son had turned a corner a month ago—calling him Daddy was now too babyish.

  Lifting the kitten, Micah faced his son. Logan, thin, blond and full of energy, was a miniature of himself except for one thing. The eyes. The boy had Amy’s green eyes. And right now they danced with excitement.

  “Where’d it come from? Can we keep it? What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Micah laughed. “Slow down, partner.” He laid the kitten in his son’s lap. “I found it last night when I was running. I don’t think Mrs. Mac allows pets, but she’ll probably let us keep it for a few days until we fatten it up a little and find it a home. I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl cat, but I do know its name.”

  Logan wasn’t listening. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the cat in his lap.

  Micah felt a tug at his heart. A boy should have pets, but after Amy had died, Micah had all he could handle taking care of Logan.

  Standing, Micah washed his hands and poured Logan’s Cheerios, then sliced a banana into another bowl. “I thought we’d call him Baptist—you know, after John the Baptist.”

  Logan nodded.

  “Better wash your hands and eat, son. Jimmy’s mom will be here soon.” Micah poured the last of the milk in a small glass and set it beside the cereal. Logan never mixed food. Not anything. Mrs. Mac told Micah once that a mother would never put up with such nonsense.

  “Will Baptist be here when I get home?” The boy put the cat back in the basket.

  Micah tossed Logan a towel to dry his hands and directed him toward the table. “I’ll pick up some food today. We’ll be like a hospital and take care of him until someone adopts him.”

  He didn’t miss the pain that flickered in Logan’s eyes. For the boy, a hospital was a place to die. First his mother, then his only grandparent. Micah knew he shouldn’t have said the word, but sometime Logan would have to understand and learn not to be afraid of words. Words like hospital and cancer.

  Micah reached over and petted the cat as Logan downed his breakfast.

  “I’m going to Jimmy’s after school, remember?” the boy mumbled between bites.

  “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “Seven, please. Jimmy’s dad’s cooking out. Said it’s for the last time this year. The grill’s going into the garage for the winter. He cooks the hot dogs on a stick and lets me eat them like a corn dog without the bun or anything.”

  “All right, seven.” Micah couldn’t blame Logan. His choice at home was usually a kid’s TV dinner or fast food.

  Jimmy’s double tap on the door sounded and Logan was off like a racer hearing the gun. He grabbed his backpack and jacket, slapped a high five on his dad’s hand and ran for the door.

  Micah scraped the half-full bowl down the disposal and reached for the old leather backpack he used as a briefcase. He knew at thirty-four it was long past time to switch to a briefcase, but the bag he had carried since college still felt right on his shoulder. He hated change. There had been so much change in his life, he clung to the familiar in small ways whenever he could.

  “You need anything before I go?” He glanced toward the basket, but the cat was sound asleep.

  He felt stupid talking to a cat, but it beat the silence of the
house. “See you at noon, Baptist.”

  If he hurried, he’d have time for breakfast at the Main Street Café before the committee meeting. No one thought it strange when a man ate breakfast alone, Micah thought. He’d be safe from sad looks, for once.

  With coffee cup in hand, he grabbed his coat and headed toward his car. A blast of sunshine and cold air hit him as he ran the ten feet to the old garage. He tried to hold the coffee and pull on his coat. Brown spots plopped along the walk. By the time he got to his car, the half cup of coffee he’d managed to save was cold. He drank it anyway while he waited for the heater to warm. This time of year, by midafternoon, he’d need the air conditioner. Nothing made sense to him anymore, not even the weather.

  He missed the green of East Texas, but he couldn’t return. Not yet. When he had moved to Clifton Creek and accepted the associate pastor’s position at First United Methodist Church, he’d decided to give his grief a year to mend before returning home. But Amy’s memory hadn’t faded. In a few months, she’d be gone three years. His heart and body still ached for her. Some nights, he ran miles trying to outdistance the emptiness of his life. Logan was all that gave him reason to breathe most days.

  He sat at the edge of the counter at the café, ordered pancakes and strawberry pie and pretended to read the Dallas paper while he tried to figure out when he’d have time in the day to shop. When he’d finished eating, he paid out, speaking to almost everyone in the place.

  He elected to walk to his meeting a few blocks away at the edge of town.

  Micah smiled and waved as the plump Rogers sisters climbed from their van. He’d become an expert at smiling…at hiding…at pretending to live.

  The Rogers sisters were so short they tumbled out of the Suburban like beanbag dolls. Micah thought of suggesting they drive a smaller vehicle. Since neither had children, he saw no need for six extra seats. But maybe, to them, the van was like some of the old men’s pickups around town. Farmers who moved in from their farms wound up hauling nothing more than groceries around, but they thought they still had to drive a truck. Maybe the sisters had needed the van when they’d taught school and had simply become used to it.

  “Look Beth Ann, it’s that young Reverend Parker,” the smaller of the sisters whispered in a voice Micah could easily hear. “He’s so handsome it makes me think of changing religions.”

  Micah fought down a laugh. He certainly wasn’t young at thirty-four, and no one but Amy had ever thought him handsome. “Morning, Miss Rogers.” He offered his hand to the one who’d spoken. If she’d called the other Beth Ann, then she must be Ada May. He turned to the other. “Miss Rogers.”

  Both women smiled, but it was Ada May who spoke again. “You get on this committee, too?”

  Micah nodded. As the associate, part of his job was to serve on every committee and charity board that came along. This one didn’t seem to require much. They only had to vote on what to do with the old place. He hadn’t even gone inside and had already made up his mind. They needed to tear it down before it fell. Micah envisioned a park in its place, maybe with a running track.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Beth Ann finally found her voice. “I’m sixty-four and, to my knowledge, no one’s ever been past the door of this place in my lifetime. There’s no telling what we’ll find.”

  “Mice,” Ada May mumbled. “Maybe even rats and spiders. Rattlers, if it’s warm enough.”

  Beth Ann shuddered and pulled a purse, big enough to use for a sleepover, from the van. “We came early, hoping to walk around the grounds before the meeting started. Would you like to join us, Reverend?”

  Micah offered each an arm. “I’d love to, ladies. I planned to do the same thing.” He didn’t add that he had been early to everything for three years.

  Stones still marked the path through what had once been a fine garden. Huge bushes of twisted twigs looked misshapen. Micah guessed in spring they’d bloom once more as they had for almost a hundred years. A stand of evergreens along the north property line blocked the wind and cast a shadow over part of the plants, making them appear gray and lifeless.

  Ada May tugged on Micah’s arm. “The garden seems to have no order, twisting and turning, but if you stay on the path, you’ll make it back to the house. All paths turn back on themselves and lead to the rear of the house.”

  “Now, how do you know that, sister?” Beth Ann asked from just behind them.

  “Everyone knows that,” Ada May snapped. “Young folks bring their dates here and have for years. Lovers walk the path at twilight.”

  “Well,” Beth Ann interrupted. “We’ll know if it’s fact after we walk it. I don’t go around telling anything that I don’t know to be true, until I check it out for myself. I’ve heard tell that evil roams these gardens. As a child, I heard of people being chased out of the gardens by a crazy man with long white hair flying like a sail in the wind behind him. But, I don’t know that for a fact, mind you.”

  Both women paused as if waiting for him to say something, but Micah guessed it would be dangerous to come between the sisters. He wondered if any man had ever been brave enough to try. Since they weren’t sure where the path ended, he figured neither had ever made this journey at dark when lovers came out.

  As they walked along, it occurred to him that he felt as dead inside as the winter gardens that hadn’t known a human touch in years. He didn’t much care as long as he could hide his feelings from everyone. Like an actor, he’d played the same role so many times that the words no longer made sense.

  He couldn’t talk about his thoughts, his feelings. Couldn’t tell people how much he still missed his wife. Every day. Every minute. It didn’t matter. Years had passed since he’d kissed Amy goodbye. All he had to do was stop breathing. Just don’t take another breath, and he’d be with her.

  But he couldn’t leave Logan. She wouldn’t want him to. So he’d go on walking, smiling, pretending, until Logan grew up, and one day he might get lucky and forget to breathe.

  As the sisters talked of winter roses, Micah closed his eyes and thought of Amy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Straighten up, Lora. You look round-shouldered. I swear you’ve a model’s form when you hold your head up, but when you slouch, all I see is Lurch from The Addams Family,” Isadore whined. “And hurry up or you’ll be late for the committee meeting.”

  Lora Whitman pretended not to hear her mother and wondered if she could special order an ejection seat for the passenger side of her next Audi. Sometime during college, she’d become an Olympian at ignoring Isadore Whitman. Before Lora had hit puberty, her mother had thought her ideal, dressing her up like a doll and bragging to her bridge club about the perfection of her only child.

  Then the awkward years had hit and perfection had slipped, never to be reclaimed, no matter how hard Lora had tried to please. Even the night she had been named homecoming queen, Isadore had leaned to hug her daughter and had reminded her how bad her nails looked. While any other mother might have been proud, Isadore had whispered another comment about how fat Lora looked in taffeta.

  Lora honked as Old Man Hamm rolled through the town’s only stoplight in his rust bucket of a car. For a moment, she visualized him hitting the passenger side of her Audi, sending Isadore into terminal silence. As always, Lora colored her daydream with detail. Blood the same shade as her mother’s lipstick. The volunteer firemen trying to pull Isadore out without damaging her Escada suit.

  Lora steered left toward the eyesore of a house at the end of Main. Her mother continued to rattle. The plans for what she’d wear to her mother’s funeral faded as Isadore began her list of what Lora should do at the meeting. Her mother seemed to believe that if Lora left her sight without instructions she might—even though she was twenty-four years old—wander off the face of the earth.

  “I know you think this committee appointment isn’t important,” Isadore stated as if she had an audience. “But you’ll see. One thing will lead to another. You can help decide what t
o do with the old Altman house. The next thing you know, you’ll be moved to some important board seat. Why, in ten years you could be on the town council.”

  The only goal Lora had was to accumulate enough money to get out of this place. She could see no way that serving on a civic committee would help her accomplish that. But in the six months she had been back handling advertising for her father’s car dealership, she’d learned one thing. If she didn’t play the game, she had no chance of breaking free. Her father held as tightly to his money as her mother wanted to hold to her.

  “Don’t park in the dirt.” Isadore waved her hand, shooing the car as she might an animal. “There’s probably mud.”

  Lora stopped in the center of the street and threw her silver Audi into Park. “You think you can drive my car home?” She opened the driver’s side door with doubts about her mother’s ability to handle anything other than a Cadillac. Lora’s ex had told her she’d picked the car just to anger her father, but in truth, Lora loved the feel of it.

  Isadore tried not to look as if she were hurrying when she circled the car and took Lora’s place. “Of course I can drive this thing, but don’t you want me to pick you up? I’m just having my nails done. I could be back in an hour, provided the girl does the job right. Last time I told her I wanted a French manicure in another color. I swear she looked at me like—”

  “No.” The last thing Lora wanted was to stand around like a schoolgirl waiting for her mother to pick her up. “I’ll walk over to the dealership and ride home with Dad.”

  She heard her mother’s “but” as she closed the door. With Isadore, there was never an end to conversation, only abrupt halts.

  It frightened Lora to think she might end up like her mother, constantly harping on something of no importance. Before the divorce, when Dan wanted to really land a blow, he’d mention how much she sounded like her mother.