“Is it blocking traffic?”
“No. I was able to get it off the street. If I floor it, it will jerk a couple of feet forward. But that’s it.” She set her keys down on the counter, then gave him her name and address.
“The tow truck is out. We’ll get you next. But the mechanic won’t have time to look at it until sometime Monday.”
Two more days without a car! She hadn’t bought groceries yet. How was she going to get to church tomorrow and her summer school class on Monday? “All right,” she said wearily, and started on the long walk home.
Though it was unseasonably warm, she kept her trench coat tightly belted. Garages and mechanics always made her feel exposed and vulnerable. It was so obvious when you didn’t have a man living with you. One look under your hood and your solitary state was totally apparent. The fan belts would be frayed and the radiator dry—because women had never been taught to fathom these mysteries.
Rose remembered her relief yesterday at walking into a hardware store almost completely staffed by women. A brunette in bib overalls had been able to explain how to fix the broken chain on a toilet with straightforward delicacy. Some day Ridgely would have female mechanics, though probably not in her lifetime.
She stepped up her pace as she approached her own neighborhood. It was a poor area with run-down homes inhabited by three and four families. The house on the corner was the worst. Used tires piled up like a platter of doughnuts stood by the back door. An abandoned washing machine, rusting in the sun, occupied a prominent space midyard, as if it were a suitable substitute for a birdbath or some other lawn ornament.
And today, as always, the front yard was full of half-dressed children and beer-drinking men. She walked by quickly with her head down. She hoped no one in the group would shout or stare at her. Her heart pounded and her side hurt, but she didn’t slow until she reached the rickety stairs leading to her own walk-up. Soon she would move. After a few more paychecks had accumulated in her checking account—the car didn’t cost too much to fix.
Her front door was plywood-thin and had been slightly warped from either weather or a forced entry. Rose thought it might have been the latter, so she had had a chain lock installed at her own expense. It hadn’t made her feel much safer. Every little noise made her start. And last night a group of boys selling candy bars to benefit the athletic program had completely terrified her.
She had already been in bed when they had pounded on her door. She had remained there in a terrified huddle until their knocking stopped. Then she had peered out the window and seen them there with their innocent candy bars.
Rose had adopted the habit of going to bed at 8 P.M. For three hours she slept peacefully. Then at eleven she automatically woke and was unable to relax and return to sleep until around four. She felt that if the apartment was going to be burglarized it would happen between eleven and four.
It was so silly. She told herself that daily. There was nothing to be afraid of. She didn’t own any expensive jewelry or irreplaceable artifacts. She had already been raped. Still, she could not kid herself into a sense of security. What had happened with Al was child’s play compared with what could happen with a stranger. She was going to stay vigilant.
Rose shed her raincoat and checked the refrigerator. Dinner was going to be simple: an English muffin, a cup of instant soup, and an orange. She placed her meager dinner on a tray and carried it into the living room. Eating with the evening news had become a habit. Though she knew listening to the nightly recitation of violent acts did nothing to calm her or aid digestion. She set the tray on the coffee table, carefully avoiding the newspaper section resting there. She had saved last Sunday’s local supplement because her daughter and son-in-law beamed at the world from a color photograph on the cover.
According to the article, Richard was writing a book, and Cheryl had found herself a wonderful job. She had sent them a congratulatory card. Greeting cards were exemplary because they placed no burden on the recipient. Cheryl and Richard now had her address; if they felt like getting in touch, they could; if they didn’t, they were under no pressure or obligation to do so.
She washed her dishes, watched two situation comedies, and got ready for bed. There wasn’t any milk left, but she found herself feeling quite sleepy without it. Relieved the active part of the day was over, she pulled on her nightgown, and got into bed.
The bedside princess phone woke her with loud, shrill peals.
“How are you, Rose?” came a vaguely familiar voice.
She remembered the mocking smile of the gas station attendant and was afraid to speak.
“It’s Richard,” the phone voice said urgently. “Are you all right?”
“Oh. I must have fallen asleep in front of the television.” She looked at the little clock on her nightstand. It wasn’t quite nine. She couldn’t admit to being in bed. “I read about you in the newspaper.”
“We got your card. Thank you. You know The New York Times picked up the story. Since then, three publishing houses have offered to give me an advance on the cookbook.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Incredible. That people remember me. But I’m not so sure I want them to. Even so, the manuscript is keeping me busy. I’m going to interview some agents and there’s an occupational therapist in New Milford who wants to collaborate with me. But,” he added in a rush, “that’s not why I called.”
“Yes?” She was glad he hadn’t changed, was still boyish and affectionate.
“Well, I’ve always believed in minding my own business.…”
She had never known Richard to be hesitant or find a subject awkward. Was it something with Cheryl? “But you’re going to meddle now, right?” she said in what she hoped was a playful tone.
“Yes, ’cause I know what happened to you and Al.”
She choked, then fought for air. This was the greatest humiliation yet—that her daughter and son-in-law knew. She couldn’t bear it.
“So he had a fling with some young girl after his mother died. It didn’t mean anything. He’s been going to pieces ever since you left him. And it certainly shouldn’t keep you away from Cheryl and me.”
Rose felt relief. Or was it anger? He’s been going to pieces ever since I left him? Why is his welfare my responsibility? I’m going to pieces myself. Nobody is blaming him. It wasn’t Richard’s fault. He didn’t know any better. “I needed time,” she said gently.
“Sure. Of course. But we miss you.”
Did we include Cheryl? She had run away leaving all those unplanted flowers. Could Cheryl forgive something like that? She doubted it.
“We’re having a few people over tomorrow—the secretary who replaced Cheryl and a guy from her programming class. Why don’t you join us?”
If it were Cheryl issuing the invitation, Rose would have walked the full six miles to their home. But Richard might be forcing an encounter here that Cheryl didn’t even know about. “My car is in the garage until at least Monday. Besides, I’d rather visit when you don’t have other guests. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Cheryl.”
“Okay. How about dinner on Thursday?”
“Won’t that be hard with her working?”
“No. Richard is doing all the cooking and testing his recipes. I lead a charmed life.”
Cheryl was on the kitchen extension! Her daughter wanted her. “I’d love to come over. I want to hear all about your new job.”
“Good. I’ve got some other things to tell you about, too.”
There was a gentle click. Cheryl had hung up. Richard cleared his throat, and Rose realized that he hadn’t yet approached the subject he found awkward.
“One other thing. Al was left his mother’s home. He asked me to ask you if you’d like to live there.”
“Tell him no, thank you.”
“Wait a minute. This shrink he is seeing—”
A shrink! He was blurting out all his troubles to a psychiatrist when he hadn’t been able to tell her what
color tie he’d prefer? Her neck began to stiffen. “Is this doctor a man or a woman?” She had to know that. If it was a woman, it would mean their marriage was a total sham. It would prove he could talk to women, just not to her.
“I don’t know. You can ask him. I told him to stop by your place around noon tomorrow and explain this house deal.”
“Did you invite him for lunch, too?” she asked testily.
“No. He won’t stay long.”
It was impossible to offend Richard. He always believed in the rightness of what he did.
Rose slammed the phone down, then slipped her feet into terrycloth scuffs and went out to the kitchen. There was nothing to eat. She put the teakettle on and got out a package of Saltines. She had no intention of seeing Al. It wasn’t Richard’s fault; he didn’t know what had happened. But his ignorance did not obligate her to being home at noon.
She slathered peanut butter on the crackers and made plans. She would leave the house at eleven and slowly walk to noon Mass. She had no intention of remaining home cowering behind a locked door all day.
* * *
Rose stopped at a McDonald’s after Mass, though she knew it wasn’t necessary. Al wasn’t a patient man. He could never wait for anything. On their honeymoon trip to Disney World, they had walked from exhibit to exhibit and seen nothing but the evening fireworks because he refused to wait in line.
Waiting must have made him feel powerless. Had that restlessness been a sign that he was dangerous? If it was, she had never picked up on it. She had always felt safe with Al. He let her make the decisions. It was so different from her first marriage where George always had the upper hand. He had never consulted her on anything—cars, vacations, gifts for Cheryl.
But maybe George’s way was better. She had certainly paid dearly for being the leading partner; it was obviously a luxury women couldn’t afford. After finishing her giant iced tea, she decided to buy herself a second cheeseburger. There was nothing at home to eat but peanut butter.
It was close to three that afternoon when she passed the ramshackle house on the corner. The disorder seemed more of an eyesore on Sundays. Her mother had felt hanging out wash on the Sabbath was a sacrilege. What would she think about these aimless, bloated men and popsicle-stained children who flaunted their poverty.
Al had been seated on the bottom step, but when he saw her approaching, he stood.
Rose did not notice him until he moved. He had on a suit she had never seen before. His face was flushed and mournful. He raised his hand in a timid half wave, which she did not return. He was the conqueror. What right did he have to look so beaten?
When she was within hearing range, he said, “I know you don’t want to see me. But I have to tell you how sorry I am.” He pulled a document of some kind from his pocket. “I want you to have this.”
Rose shook her head. Her calves ached from just having walked four miles—a useless effort. She invited him in because he obviously didn’t expect to be allowed in and because she did not want to have such a personal conversation in the street.
He was shocked by the poverty of her surroundings. She watched him take in the garish pink cabinets, the shabby furniture, and the cigarette-burned rug.
“I’ll make us some tea.” She needed to give this visit some structure but was afraid he would come into the kitchen entryway and watch her while she filled the teakettle and pulled down cups. But he didn’t. He stayed seated precariously on the living room couch, not even presumptuous enough to remove his suit coat.
He reminded her of college boys she had dated. They were so polite and formal on the first few dates. But in an amazingly short time they became authoritarian and demanding. She pulled two tea bags out of the cabinet.
I wasn’t made for intimacy, she told herself. I should never have married. Well, she had been punished. Her first husband had been cheerfully and continuously unfaithful. Now she was politely making tea for a man who had killed her with silence, then raped her. Her eyes watered and her hands fumbled to locate the mugs.
They were cheap plastic. One thumped on the floor, but was incapable of breaking.
Hearing the commotion, Al had moved to the doorway. “Can I help?”
“No.” Desperate for something to say, she pointed to the pink cabinets beside her. “Awful color.”
“I could sand and repaint them for you.”
She shook her head vigorously, but could not check the flow of tears. How humiliating it was to continue loving a man who had deliberately harmed you.
He moved forward slowly, as if land mines were hidden in the space between them. He touched her shoulder tentatively with his fingertips. Detecting no resistance, he grasped her firmly while softly repeating. “There, there. There, there.”
EPILOGUE
When Richard’s book was published a year later, the dedication read:
In gratitude to Cheryl, Rose, and Al.
And a special thank-you to my daughter,
Sara, for taking long afternoon naps.
TITLES OF THE AVAILABLE PRESS
in order of publication
THE CENTAUR IN THE GARDEN, a novel by Moacyr Scliar*
EL ANGEL’S LAST CONQUEST, a novel by Elvira Orphée
A STRANGE VIRUS OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN, a study by Dr. Jacques Leibowitch
THE TALES OF PATRICK MERLA, short stories by Patrick Merla
ELSEWHERE, a novel by Jonathan Strong*
THE AVAILABLE PRESS/PEN SHORT STORY COLLECTION
CAUGHT, a novel by Jane Schwartz*
THE ONE-MAN ARMY, a novel by Moacyr Scliar
THE CARNIVAL OF THE ANIMALS, short stories by Moacyr Scliar
LAST WORDS AND OTHER POEMS, poetry by Antler
O’CLOCK, short stories by Quirn Monzó
MURDER BY REMOTE CONTROL, a novel in pictures
by Janwillem van de Wetering and Paul Kirchner
VIC HOLYFIELD AND THE CLASS OF 1957, a novel by William Heyen*
AIR, a novel by Michael Upchurch
THE GODS OF RAQUEL, a novel by Moacyr Scliar*
SUTERISMS, pictures by David Suter
DOCTOR WOOREDDY’S PRESCRIPTION FOR ENDURING
THE END OF THE WORLD, a novel by Colin Johnson
THE CHESTNUT RAIN, a poem by William Heyen
THE MAN IN THE MONKEY SUIT, a novel by Oswaldo França Júnior
KIDDO, a novel by David Handler*
COD STREUTH, a novel by Bamber Gascoigne
LUNACY & CAPRICE, a novel by Henry Van Dyke
HE DIED WITH HIS EYES OPEN, a mystery by Derek Raymond*
DUSTSHIP GLORY, a novel by Andreas Schroeder
FOR LOVE, ONLY FOR LOVE, a novel by Pasquale Festa Campanile
‘BUCKINGHAM PALACE,’ DISTRICT SIX, a novel by Richard Rive
THE SONG OF THE FOREST, a novel by Colin Mackay*
BE-BOP, RE-BOP, a novel by Xam Wilson Cartier
THE DEVIL’S HOME ON LEAVE, a mystery by Derek Raymond
THE BALLAD OF THE FALSE MESSIAH, a novel by Moacyr Scliar little pictures, short stories by andrew ramer
THE IMMIGRANT: A Hamilton County Album, a play by Mark Harelik
HOW THE DEAD LIVE, a mystery by Derek Raymond
BOSS, a novel by David Handler*
THE TUNNEL, a novel by Ernesto Sábato
THE FOREIGN STUDENT, a novel by Philippe Labro, translated by William R. Byron
ARLISS, a novel by Llyla Allen
THE CHINESE WESTERN: Short Fiction From Today’s China, translated by Zhu Hong
THE VOLUNTEERS, a novel by Moacyr Scliar
LOST SOULS, a novel by Anthony Schmitz
SEESAW MILLIONS, a novel by Janwillem van de Wetering
SWEET DIAMOND DUST, a novel by Rosario Ferré
SMOKEHOUSE JAM, a novel by Loyd Little
THE ENIGMATIC EYE, short stories by Moacyr Scliar
*Available in a Ballantine Mass Market Edition.
he Way It Happens In Novels
The Way It Happens In Novels Page 20