After the Fog (45 page)

Rose ran her hand over the case of beer beside her and lifted the two lids that met at the center, again, grabbing.

She lifted a bottle of beer from the case and hefted it in her hand, then shook it. The lid flew off. It had been removed once, and just set back on top. It was heavy, but no liquid inside. She handed it to Father Tom and he turned it over then held the opening up to his eye before pouring it into his hand. Nothing came out even though it felt full.

Rose took it from him and poked her finger into its mouth and felt paper. She snaked her finger around and finally coaxed a piece out. Twenty-dollar bills. She could only reach so far down the neck of the bottle. She ran for her nurse’s bag and found long tweezers to help her remove the money. They released the cache, bill after bill, growing, oddly, more confused than gleeful.

When she had finished, the rolled up money, along with the canned goods, and soot from inside the walls, covered Rose, the floor, Father Tom and the room she’d shared with Henry for nearly two decades.

Rose couldn’t do anything. Before, she’d have leapt and danced over the find, but now the money seemed unimportant.

Father Tom crossed his legs and took a swig of vodka from Rose’s bottle.

“Wow,” he finally said, as he collected the money, the bills that were so used to being rolled up that he couldn’t flatten them to stack. Rose watched trying to make sense of it all.

Unk had intended the money for her, that much was certain; he put her vodka with the money, knew she’d know it was for her. There was a time that finding this stockpile would have solved all her problems, but now, it didn’t matter. Now, she felt sickened. Out of habit, Rose began to cross herself then stopped, waving the gesture away.

Father Tom shrugged then took another swig of vodka. “You let your religion strangle you, Rose.”

Rose took the bottle from Father Tom and took a big swallow.

“I know I’m assuming a lot,” he said, “by saying this, but I think you need to hear it.” He took the bottle back and sipped.

Rose pulled her knees into her chest, head against the wall, listening.

“You’ve lost God in the ritual, the expectations, the motions. You perform for Him. What you need to do is simply see Him in your unfunded clinic, in your imperfect family, in your ugly past when you were so wronged by people you trusted. God is with you, even if you’re not with Him.”

Rose blew out her air and took another swig of vodka. “The Pope’ll have your frock for that.”

“No.”

Rose let the vodka wash through her body, numbing her pain, surprised she felt comfort in simply being, in sitting with someone who cared about her soul more than she did.

* * *

She woke on the floor of her closet, surrounded by the bills, the effects of the vodka on her temples, like Irish dancers on amphetamines. She remembered Father Tom. What kind of damn priest leaves a woman drinking herself to death amid the rubble of a secret hidey-hole?

Rose pulled herself up on the doorjamb of the closet, holding a bottle of vodka. She stumbled to the door, weaving through the mess.

“Father?”

She wandered down the hallway, reached for Johnny’s doorknob and turned it, but couldn’t push it open.

Her hand slipped and leaning against the wall, she continued to the kitchen. She grabbed a shot glass from the cabinet and sloshed some vodka in it.

Rose heard footsteps near the side door. Father Tom came into the kitchen from the front room.

“Who was at the door?” he asked.

She glanced at the clock, and then turned to Father Tom. “Shush. Mailman. Don’t move!”

Rose froze, hands in the air and held her breath. She’d been successful hiding from everyone who hadn’t been avoiding her.

The mailman was persistent, pounding. Rose wished him away and heard the door crank open. She ducked under the kitchen table. Father Tom ignored her frantic gesturing to join her and headed into the hall.

Rose was relieved. He would send him away.

She heard the mailman cough. “Oh, hey there, Father Tom. Didn’t know you were driving the nurse to see John, today.”

What was going on? Rose held her breath. The two men walked into the kitchen. The least Father Tom could do was run interference for her.

“Couldn’t fit anymore in the slot and I didn’t want to drop it again,” said the mailman. “Thought I should check for bodies. Just in case. Hahaha.”

From under the kitchen table she saw the lower legs of the mailman and his black shoes turned toward the priest’s. Finally the two bent over, staring at Rose.

“Hey, Rose. That you up under there? Here’s mail. Four days’ worth.” He stood and flopped the envelopes onto the table.

Rose nodded. “Thanks.” She could barely breathe. Normally she would have been embarrassed to be found hiding, now she was simply petrified she’d have to talk to whoever found her.

He bent back over. “You’re just like my wife. I tell her to use a damn mop, but she insists on cleaning the floor on her hands and knees! I say throw a mop over it and call it a day!” He left the house, without another word.

Rose pulled herself up to the table and sat, Father Tom across from her. Was he going to shadow her forever?

“Don’t you have a church to run?”

“I’m all yours,” he said.

They stared at the mail, the white envelopes, nothing very interesting. Except for one, its creamy, linen threads announcing its pedigree and source. Rose did a shot of vodka and filled the glass and withdrew the letter from Julliard and ripped it open.

“Dear Mr. Pavlesic…” it went on and on, glowing about Johnny’s playing, conveying a sense of uniformity that made Rose sure that every student they were interested in received the exact same letter. But, at the bottom, Mr. Turnbow had handwritten his own note. “Fine young John, we are desperately awaiting your reply. I’m at the end of the road for putting things off with Henderson—the head of admissions. Please contact ASAP as I can only fend off the dogs for another few days…sincerely, Turnbow.”

Rose’s hands shook. Her shoulders shuddered, tears springing from her eyes, the sadness inside her, making her feel like death was on its way. She wiped the wetness with the back of her hands. There was no point in crying. Johnny could no longer do anything. He was better than he had been, starting to walk with crutches, but she would not believe he was better until she saw him sprinting down the hallway.

“He’s on his way to walking Rose,” Father Tom said. “He just needs time. The doctors have been clear, he’s been blessed, a miracle, a phenomena of nature. It’s time you forgive yourself and love him the way you have his whole life.”

Rose shook her head. “I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

Someone at the door startled Rose and Father Tom. Doc Bonaroti flew into the kitchen with such force that Rose didn’t even have the chance to consider hiding.

“You’re alive? Well, yes, of course. Rose. Father Tom, glad to see you,” Bonaroti said. He glanced around the house, clearly too agitated to comment on its messiness, but definitely impacted by the sight.

Father Tom excused himself saying he would take a few minutes to walk the dog and check in at the church with Father Slavin.

Father Tom shook Bonaroti’s hand and the doctor turned his attention on Rose. “I need you now,” he said. “Out and about. We’re having real trouble getting people to talk about the fog. I put together a force of twenty housewives—twenty and they can’t get reliable information! Even the mills and the union are putting ads in the paper to get people to open up their doors. That’s how much pressure there is to collect this data.”

Rose shrugged.

“This is what you’re good at Rose. We need your help. Please Rose, these fumes, this murder in the mills—”

Rose stared into space, thinking about the ads in the paper and what it must have taken to get the mills and union to place them. Yet, citizens still weren’t talking?

“Sebastian will never fund the clinic if I help collect information that links twenty deaths and seven-thousand illnesses to his mill, now will he?” Rose said.

Bonaroti waved his hand through the air as though erasing a blackboard. “That ship has sailed. He’s made it clear he wants no part of funding anything right now. The missus had her baby and is confined and they’re talking about moving. There’s no money with the Sebastians.”

Rose flinched recalling the night she breathed life back into Theresa. She had done something well, something right for Theresa, but in doing so she put off going to her son. She could not find a way to feel comfort in saving one child when she may have contributed to the pain of another.

Bonaroti straightened his bow tie. “There’s a new government agency looking into the effects of industry on the environment. People are still dying, Rose. Another twenty so far. More will succumb. And the non-killing exposure the rest of us have had? Who knows what the rest of us will face in years to come,” Bonaroti said.

Rose nodded but didn’t speak, numb, unable to feel moved by what the doc was saying.

Bonaroti leaned against the sink, his hair flopping over one eye. “The People. People like Unk and all the rest. Four hundred people have been evacuated to North Carolina to recover, Rose. It’s staggering.”

He rifled through his bag for his notebook and read from it. “Sara Clara from the South’s father agreed to find spots for all of them in Wilmington. Thousands—seven thousand people in this town have received care for the effects of that smog. Some scientists are saying these fluoride emissions, worked like nerve agents. It’s why we couldn’t hear wheezing in people who were normally healthy. It compromised those who already had problems, yes, but even formerly healthy people were affected. We’re thinking the trapped chemicals simply paralyzed their lungs.”

Rose grimaced.

He squeezed Rose’s shoulders and she looked away.

“I need you to help interview the residents of Donora,” he said. “The nurses and doctors from Washington need interpreters for the Slavs. You could do that for them. Half the town is afraid to talk. They’re acting like nothing even happened. Others are angry and exaggerating facts. I’m hearing that the mills are gearing up to blame the weather, saying this temperature inversion alone is the reason for the deaths, not the chemicals from their mills. They might go so far as to say our own coal furnaces killed us if they’re pressed, but they don’t want to admit it could be gasses from their mills. If you go to their houses, people will listen to you. Please. We need all the data we can get our hands on to make a strong case.”

“I’m not really feeling well, Doc.”

“You have to help yourself, Rose. Help the people of Donora. Help Theresa. After all these years…”

Rose stiffened.

Bonaroti exhaled his frustration. “I’m the one who blacked out your name in the file, Rose. You told me the story about the orphanage, that you began your nursing studies at Mayview, well, it didn’t take much for me to figure it out.”

He sat across from her at the table. Rose’s mouth quivered as she tried to control her body, her thoughts, her words. He couldn’t have figured it out from the file. She wanted to tell him he didn’t know what he was talking about, that there was nothing she could do, but couldn’t get the words out.

She looked up at him, and felt a breeze from the open side door. Father Tom yelled that he was heading to the church. Rags the dog sauntered into the kitchen, went to Rose and sat by her feet. She dropped her hand and scratched the spot where his skull met the top of his neck.

Bonaroti picked up the dog’s water dish and filled it. “John’s accident didn’t have to happen. He’s your son. Do it for him.”

Rose shook her head. Getting a bunch of townspeople to discuss the killing smog wasn’t going to help her son.

Rose cleared her throat, “How did you figure it out? Theresa?”

“Since the first day you came here. I talked to Sister John Ann. She didn’t pull punches, that one. Your secret’s safe with me, Rose. Always has been.”

Rose turned toward him. “You and I have shared a secret for twenty years?”

“Seventeen or so. That’s what friends do, Rose.”

Rose dropped her chin. She couldn’t believe someone knew she was such an awful person and never held it against her. Bonaroti had done something for her and she would have to do something for him.

She owed him that much.

F
or the first time in a week Rose washed. The simple act of bathing lifted her spirits and loosened the cobwebs that veiled her life. Rose would not start nursing again, even if there was clinic funding, but she would follow through on her promise to Bonaroti.

On a typical foggy day, Rose set out, feeling this was one way she could repay the town that had opened their doors to her as a visiting nurse. She pushed on toward the Stewart home, though her mind kept returning to thoughts of her bed, the way she had hidden there, and wanted to be back there right now.

By collecting data for the government, she told herself, she could help ensure that the killing smog never came again. Then, her reward would be jumping back into her bed until she could muster the energy and will power to make a second set of rounds.