After the Fog (22 page)

Rose and Bonaroti had studied James Elam’s account of breathing for a polio victim in just this way. It had worked and that was good enough reason to consider employing it even though it had yet to make the medical annals as accepted practice. She was fortunate to work with such a courageous doctor and she knew together they were making a difference.

Still, Rose did not need a complaint filed against Bonaroti while they were trying to secure funds. She exhaled. She tried to remember how her day had started. It seemed as though the events that marked it were lived by someone else. Rose stopped to catch her breath after a few steps home. Her heart pounded and she felt dizzy. She grasped the railing on the stairs.

The birthmark came back to her, the memory of the tiny infant who bore one, and Theresa. Rose looked back over her shoulder. She almost turned to go back to the office to read the file. But she didn’t. She started back up the steps, moving slowly, entertaining the thought that Theresa might be hers, not wanting to know for sure.

R
ose wiped her feet on the mat outside her home, the mindless motion soothing her. The whistle for the shift change had blown about the time Schmidt was tumbling to the sidewalk. And now, as Rose tried to block Mrs. Schmidt’s screams from her mind, she could hear the chorus of housewives hollering the names of errant children who’d not yet returned for dinner. Like a strange piece of music, notes played together, though not quite fitting, Mrs. Sullivan’s voice then Mrs. Gregorchek’s then Mrs. Carpenetti’s, then the chorus of the Westerman sisters and on it went until every child was home, eating dinner with family before the men of the house had to go to sleep to get ready for the early morning shift or leave for the all night one.

Rose unhooked her coat and hung it on the wall. She could hear Johnny’s gang in the living room. Band practice. Nearly every day after football practice, they would gather at the Pavlesics, laughing through the occasional twang of a guitar, crack of the drums, and pop of a trumpet as they warmed up their instruments. In between all the chatter, Johnny’s voice rose, his jovial spirit and endless stream-of-consciousness punctuating the other boys’ thoughts, making them buckle over in laughter again.

Rose leaned against the wall outside the room, wishing she could capture all of the boys right there, never let them grow up, allow Johnny that kind of fun for the rest of his life with the gang he’d known since the day he was born. That wasn’t possible; the other boys would start in the mill as soon as they decided they’d had enough of their senior year of high school or immediately after graduation. And these guys, talented as they were in music, had no choice but to starve as an artist or eat well as a card-carrying, union steel worker. But Johnny had choices.

The smell of chicken, potatoes and buttered green beans made her think she’d been too hard on Sara Clara. Perhaps the girl came to her senses and actually did something useful today.

Rose needed to wash up, change into a dress, and find out what the hell had happened with Magdalena that she would want to quit school. After that, she’d get down on her knees to pray that Henry had found a job.

Rose’s attention was drawn to the notes of a song. The boys had actually stopped talking, Johnny had taken the liberty to shut himself up long enough to play the trumpet. That was an ongoing joke of the fellas, that they pushed him to play trumpet over piano. At least for five seconds, he wouldn’t be talking incessantly.

Rose watched the boys clustered around the room. Johnny slipped and slid around the floor, moving with his trumpet as though he’d born with it attached to his body. Pierpont Jasper—the lanky colored kid never without a suit and bowtie, whose limbs looked nearly rubber, started his sax solo. Dicky Solvinsky plucked at the piano, his plump belly folding over his belt. Prunzie Schaffer rattled away on the drums and Wild Bill Rodriguez fitted his violin into the collection of bluesy sounds. Modern music, Johnny called it, not like Rose’s pre-war swing.

The bluesy notes seemed to speak more than simply emit sounds. The boys’ music reached right into her soul and made her want to cry. Maybe the boys were better at music than Rose had allowed. Maybe there was…no, no, no, heading down a road of music will only, surely, lead back to these mills. She reminded herself that it was her job to deny Johnny this flight of fancy—a “life” with the band. He’d regret that choice in ten years. She would not allow him to make a stupid decision, and risk everything. Now with Henry losing his job, Johnny’s future depended more than ever on securing a scholarship—on the game he’d be playing on Saturday.

How could Henry have done such a careless thing?

Rose then thought of Theresa Sebastian, and understood how Henry could have been so stupid. Rose had been stupid once, too. Her lie was long and deep and kept secret her entire marriage. Rose rubbed her temples. Too much thinking and not enough action for one day.

“Hey Mum.” Johnny dashed across the room and all the fellas stopped playing. He planted a kiss on Rose’s cheek. “Hey, the fellas are stayin’ for dinner.”

“Sure, sure. They might not want to, though.”

The three boys on the couch leapt up. “We want to, Mrs. Pavlesic. Anything for a meal at your place,” pudgy Tommy Tubbs said, rubbing his belly.

“But, I uh, I don’t know who made dinner. I just got home.” Rose felt as though the numbness that had gripped her was affecting her ability to talk. She just wanted to hide.

“We’ll sweep the porch and the walkway,” Pierpont said.

Rose would normally have teased Pierpont saying he and the fellas had a lot more than sweeping to do to earn one of her dinners.

“Sure, okay, fellas. Sweeping. That would be nice.”

“Hey Mrs. Pavlesic, let me feel your muscles, come on, let me see that bicep.”

Rose laughed at that. “Get the hell out and sweep, the only muscle I’m interested in seeing is yours pushing a broom.”

She wished she could trade places with those boys, any one of them. The words of Father Tom or whatever his name was, filled her mind—forgive yourself. The boys went back to their instruments and Rose headed to get two brooms. She wanted to forgive herself, but couldn’t. Now maybe with Theresa right in front of her, she could finally do that, she could tell her the truth.

Rose opened the closet door and a tumble of hats and gloves fell to the floor. Theresa had not suffered as Rose had worried. She had not had her face bashed in like her friend Helen. Rose scooped up the woolens and shoved them deeper onto the shelf. With brooms in hand, Rose headed back to the boys, listening to them play, nodding at the skill she could no longer deny. Rose told herself to let her past go. To find a sense of peace in knowing Theresa was alive and relatively well. Well enough. But, she couldn’t. As much as she wanted to, she just could not.

* * *

Magdalena stood outside the bathroom door. Her bare toes furrowed into the worn rug. Her stomach contracted, releasing acid every few seconds. She pushed her hair back from her face with both hands and drew a deep breath.

She needed to talk to her mother, explain why she’d changed their plans. But could she do that?

Maybe Magdalena shouldn’t. Not right then. Not when she’d just walked in the door.

Magdalena grasped her throat. Her mother was so strong, so practical. Surely she would see the sense Magdalena’s plan made once she learned the whole story. Her mother would be pleased that Magdalena found someone who loved her. Like Henry loved Rose.

Tears filled her eyes. But, Magdalena did not love him. She had done something wrong and had no valid excuse. She would have to lie and sacrifice her dream of being a scientist and marry him, so her family would not be shamed. But, disappointing her mother?

Her father had seemed to know how it felt to disappoint Rose even though he didn’t say how he had. Everyone in the house was afraid of Rose, but Magdalena.

Magdalena pushed open the bathroom door and forced a smile at her mother.

Rose pulled her brush and lotion from under the sink. “Hi Magdalena. Give me a minute.”

Magdalena sat on the side of the tub. Rose peeled off her uniform, and stood barefoot, her white slip shifting up and down as her mother reached for soap and stretched for her shampoo bottle. Magdalena knew exactly where her mother had been that day just by looking at her slip.

The white material was pristine from the top to an inch above the hem. That last inch offered testimony to her day. Red iron-ore dust from the blast furnace and yellowish dustings over the black soot told her Rose had been near the zinc mill.

Rose bent over the sink, head drooped forward, hands clamped around the rounded sink edges.

“Mum?” Magdalena said, and felt her lips quiver.

Rose turned. Her expression looked pained then irritated. She straightened and squinted at Magdalena. “You look as though you rubbed your head all over your pillow. What the hell’s going on with the histrionics, parading around town when you should be in school? Commiserating with Ester about a career in sewing?”

She wanted her mother to hold her. But, she was frozen.

Rose turned her hands palm up, water dripping from her fingertips. “What’s so bad today Magdalena?”

Magdalena shook her head. She knew Rose’s unspoken words. Nothing we have to deal with is as bad as what I’ve seen so toughen up.

Magdalena leapt up and fell forward into her mother. She felt Rose absorb her weight and steady them both. Rose gripped Magdalena’s shoulders and pushed her away so she could see her face but Magdalena didn’t look at her mother. She sobbed mouth open at her mother’s shoulder.

Rose surrendered to the hug and she rubbed Magdalena’s back. “It’s just a phase. You’ll get that scholarship and you’ll get your confidence back. That’s what’s wrong, right? Just a little insecurity? Those boys giving you a hard time for taking physics again? You’ll be so happy once the pressure is off and you’re in college.” Magdalena’s face stayed plowed into Rose’s body.

Just say it, Magdalena thought. Just get the words out.

“I don’t have time for—”

Magdalena nearly gagged getting out the words. “I’m pregnant.”

Rose stiffened and she stopped rubbing Magdalena’s back.

Rose dislodged Magdalena from her body and tried to capture her gaze. “Now. What did you say?”

“I’m so, so sorry, Mum.”

Magdalena saw her mother’s face contort as she came to understand exactly what her daughter had said.

“Who did this? Your father will snap the S.O.B’s. neck. If I don’t rip his arms off first. Who did
this
?”

Rose pulled away from Magdalena. A flurry of comments and questions flew out of Rose’s mouth so fast Magdalena could not answer them. She clutched at her skirt; afraid if she let go she might keel over.

Rose covered her mouth with both hands, speaking through her fingers. “We’ll put the boy in jail. I’ll kill him.”

Magdalena straightened. Now was the time for her to claim she loved the boy she let inside her body, but not inside her heart. “I’ve been in love, well, for as long as I can remember…”

Rose dropped her hands and bit her lip.

“I’m seventeen, Mum. You treat Johnny like he’s a grown-up and me like a baby, and oh, I love him, I do. I know you will never speak to me again. I tried, I love—”

Rose shook her head and spun the faucets on, doused her hands under the water. Magdalena watched Rose’s muscles contract and relax, scrubbing the Camay over her hands, up her forearms, under her arms, as though cleaning up after a long night of working in the mill, as though she were covered in the same filth that Magdalena felt inside.

Rose scrubbed her face again. “I don’t know why you would say all this, why you would want to break my heart. You loved him for as long as you can remember?” Rose bent over the sink and splashed her face, choking on the suds that streamed into her mouth. She rested her forearms on the curved porcelain, water rushing down the drain.

Magdalena breathed heavily, her thoughts muddled and tired. She’d worked so hard to make her mother’s dream come true, to aspire to something other than a mill-wife. And now, she was exactly what her mother hadn’t wanted.

“Mum, please. You always wanted a bigger family, more children, but you couldn’t. So, I can. I will. I’ll have all the kids you wanted.”

Water dripped from Rose’s face into the sink. “You’re doing this for me?”

“Half the girls my age quit school already and will be married within two years. What does it matter if I get married now? What’s wrong with me being like everyone else?”

Rose straightened and reached for a face towel. There was nothing there. “Dammit! That damn Sara Clara! Dammit, dammit.” Rose blasted past Magdalena. She followed her mother to her bedroom. Wanting forgiveness. Rose had never had a weak moment in her life, but she was sure Rose could forgive her. Rose was a lot of things, but heartless, she was not.

Magdalena watched Rose dig through a clothesbasket at the end of her bed, searching for a towel. She tossed the contents of the basket until she reached the bottom, but no towels. She looked at the ceiling and collapsed to the floor, pulling the bedspread to her face.

Magdalena had never seen her mother like this. It frightened her and Magdalena began to sob, unable to catch her breath in between wails. “Please, Mum, look at me.” Magdalena held her arms out to her mother.