Rosalind

by Stephen Paden

  "Oh Rosalind," she whispered.

  "Who?" asked Maggie.

  Susan just smiled and shook her head.

  "Mother, I chose University of Louisville so I could be close to you. It's not that far, but I need to get going."

  Susan snapped out of her dream and nodded reluctantly.

  "Of course, dear. I'm sorry."

  "Hey," Maggie said, running her delicate fingers across Susan's cheek. "I love you, mom."

  "I know," Susan replied. "No boys."

  "But I like boys," said Maggie in a sultry voice.

  For a moment Susan thought she was going to cry. It wasn't because she was afraid of Maggie mixing it up with boys. She knew that was inevitable and, more importantly, natural. It was at that moment that she thought about Rosalind; about a thirteen-year-old girl who gave the world—gave Susan—everything and got nothing in return.

  Maggie kissed Susan on the cheek, picked up the last box, and loaded it into the rear seat of her car.

  "You be sure to write me as often as you can," Susan said.

  "I will." Maggie opened the door to the car and looked at Susan. With a little wave, she slid into the car and started the engine.

  Susan watched the olive colored Pinto drive away.

  She went into the house when Maggie's car disappeared down the road and went upstairs to Maggie's room. She bent down and sat on her knees as she moved the oval rug away and pulled up a loose board from the floor. Her hand came out with a cigar box in it and she opened it. The smell of eighteen years washed over her and made her shiver. She reached in and pulled a discolored page out and unfolded it.

  It brought her back to the rainy day when Maggie had been born.

  She remembered the rain.

  She remembered the ambulance that had come to carry Rosalind away. She remembered when Wilkes had come to her house and told her that they had found Joe Hanes floating in the quarry next to a half-submerged truck that was registered to her husband. She remembered how easy it had been to tell Wilkes how John confessed to killing the Peterson girl and the sheriff (and of course how she had just discovered his complicity herself) and that she had to defend herself when he threatened to kill her. She remembered the trial and acquittal of killing her husband and the sympathy that poured out once the town had learned of John's vices and the death of Jessica Peterson. But she never told anyone that he was Maggie's father.

  The Byrd household had taken a hit in the small town of Whispering Pines. Her status and reputation were gone, but she didn't care. She had what she wanted. She remembered that she didn't cry for Rosalind.

  She remembered it all.

  The woman in the yellow dress smiled at Susan, but she ignored her and looked at the name scribbled beneath it:

  Susan moved her fingers over each letter. Her hand began to shake, but she closed her eyes and tightened her lips. The tremors stopped and she touched her name again.

  "Thank you for my daughter," she said, and put the page back into the cigar box.