Mystical Rose (17 page)

He called my name.

Mavis, he called hoarsely. Mavis, it’s me.

The lady beside me in the bus with beds — the lady in the bed beside mine — has hair the colour of Maine lobsters. Cooked ones. There’s a lot of it and it’s spread all over the pillow. She’s moaning again. All about her nephews and nieces not coming to see her. All about the tragedy of her life. Diabetes. Pollution. Kids today who don’t know what they’ve got. Who don’t pay attention. It’s all happening to her. Babies that cost twenty thousand dollars. Babies that die of neglect. It’s awful, the world is awful, and she can’t stand it.

The nurse comes swaying over to us and says, There there. The bus turns a corner, sharply, and I slide a bit in my bed. The nurse steadies me. The lady beside me moans some more.

My daughter, I say, but the lady next to me doesn’t let me finish, she’s like an express train going right through to the end of the line, no matter who’s waiting to get on.

Don’t talk to me about daughters, she says. My sister has daughters, the ungrateful swamps. All they ever do is complain.

My daughter — I say.

One of them teaches family planning, she says. Can you believe it? A niece of mine teaching family planning!

My daughter used to work in the legal profession, I say. Titles, wills, statements of claim, all sorts of things.

Family planning, she says. Telling people how not to get pregnant. I asked her how she could do that. What do you say when they come to you for an abortion? I said. Thought that would shut her up, but it didn’t. She smirked as proud as Lucifer.

My daughter isn’t proud, I say.

And suddenly the old bitch starts to cry. I can hear these harsh racking sobs that come from down deeper than the varicose veins in your ankles. Way down deep. All my life, she says, I wanted children. I tried and tried, and I couldn’t have them. All my life.

She turns away. I don’t know how to comfort her. Can You help? You’re right there. Maybe she’ll listen to You.

And, by the way, how come some babies cost twenty thousand dollars, and other babies are thrown away? What kind of system is that? Don’t look sad, that’s no answer.

Rose, Rose, he said.

Hush now.

Rose, Rose, I want you so much. A widow with her own washer and dryer.

Yes, Wilbur.

His kisses felt odd. Not bad, but wrong. If there’s a difference. His arms around me, dancing, had felt wrong too. I’d never … I mean, even with Robbie I …

Maybe it was because it was a hotel room. I’d seen enough movies. I knew what happened in hotel rooms. Knowing Ruby, I
could guess what was happening in our hotel room right now. We were in Wilbur’s room. Same hotel, different view out the window.

But — what are these? he said.

What do you think they are? What do they look like?

Not very experienced, Wilbur.

You’re not supporting them the right way. Women with children are supposed to have underwiring — usually with girdles attached. Not that you need a girdle, Rose, you’re as slim as a willow wand.

Thank you, I said.

But you should take better care of your profile. In a fitted garment with underwiring, you’d really stand out in a crowd. See — like that.

He showed me how I’d look, supporting me with his hands.

I’ve got one with underwiring at home, I said. It’s uncomfortable.

He pulled me down onto the bed.

I was sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair. Not much of it left, but I felt like brushing it. The nurse was making up my bed. I wasn’t really sick yet, so I had a bedroom of my own at the Villa. Harriet was going to visit me any day now.

Snowflakes brushed against the windowpane, knocking softly, wanting to be let in. Like fingertips. I shivered.

Mrs. Rolyoke?

Yes, dear. I turned my head away from the window. The nurse had a belt in her hand. Striped and made of ketchup — I mean terry cloth. A man’s pyjama belt.

Is this yours, Mrs. Rolyoke? she asked.

I knew what to say. I kept my face still and said, I don’t know.

I just found it in your bed.

I don’t know how it got there, I said.

It belongs to Mr. Morgan, doesn’t it?

The whole scene was a dream. I knew I’d been here before. Don’t know, milady, I said.

The night nurse said she saw him coming out of your room last night. Do you … know anything about that, Mrs. Rolyoke?

About what? I said.

I made my face blank. And after a moment she went away.

Harriet was embarrassed. So was the bald young man sitting next to her. I suppose he couldn’t use the shampoo that stops dandruff, because he didn’t have any hair to wash.

I remembered then, the young man was Albert’s son. Albert called him Junior. We were sitting on a bench in a meeting room — me and Harriet and Junior. Albert rolled back and forth in front of us, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

A lot of people think I remind them of someone, I said. Remember that man who thought I was Gene Tierney?

Mother, please.

Standing in front of the Woolworth store on Bloor Street, and he wanted my autograph. Remember?

Yes, Mother. But Mr. Morgan here doesn’t think you look like his wife. He thinks you
are
his wife. And you seem to … to welcome his attention. Don’t shake your head like that, Mother, it’s true. The nursing staff have noticed.

I wasn’t shaking my head to disagree, just to get my hair out of my eyes.

It’s wrong, Mother. I want it to stop.

Junior nodded his head emphatically. You don’t do any good playing along, ma’am, he told me. My dad’s not playing around.
I’m sorry to say it but he’s not. He really does get people mixed up with … my mother.

Never mind, I said, reassuringly. I’m always getting people mixed up. Just yesterday I called someone a cyclamen, would you believe it. She was so upset. I told her, cyclamen is diffidence and modesty. You should be relieved, I could have mistaken you for a columbine.

They all looked puzzled. I tried to remember what I’d just said. Couldn’t. I smiled brightly at Albert, who was bent over with his head on one side, trying to look up my skirt. Silly man.

That nightmare again. The horror of a child lost in the water. I ran down the path to the water’s edge, and up and down the beach, feeling the pebbles underfoot, hearing the wash of the waves. I stared and stared until my eyes were sore and red, frantic with worry, wondering what had happened, was it even now not too late to somehow alter what had happened.

Mama Mama Mama.

I heard the cry, very faint but persistent. I’m here, Harriet, I cried. Harriet, is that you?

And there was her body, lying dead, just like her friend had told me. She was dead, and the water poured out of her mouth. Mama mama mama.

And I realized that I was the one calling out.

Oh God, oh that’s good. Oh my God, he said.

Oh Orville, I said.

He paused.

I mean Wilbur. I wish Ruby hadn’t started that.

Tell me what you’re thinking, he said. Tell me what you want me to do.

I … don’t know, I said.

Do you feel that? he said.

It was dark in his hotel room, and I couldn’t see what it was.

And that? He was panting, his body slick with sweat.

Very nice, I said politely.

One hand I felt, milking in vain. None there since Harriet, and that was quite a while ago. She was off to college now, studying political science. Wilbur’s other hand was lost in darkness and chenille, until —

Hey, I said.

Did you feel that?

Oh, yes.

Wilbur’s voice came from far away. Liked that, did you?

I didn’t reply. He went on moving his hand, if that’s what he was doing.

I was in a pitch-dark cave of feeling, pierced by an unexpected shaft of light when the sun hit exactly the right angle. I was aware of splendour and wonder, veins of delight. How long had they lain there, unnoticed? I was the possessor of great riches in myself.

The sound of water was everywhere, dripping and plashing. I was filled with longing. The water streamed down the walls, pooling at my feet. I arched my back to breathe deeper, and the water fell faster and faster, filling the cave, bearing me up and up. I felt my lungs expanding, as if they would burst. I felt … I felt …

Who, Wilbur asked later, as the cigarette smoke spiralled ceiling-wards, is David?

I saw him, then, smiling, bandaged, just as I remembered him in 1925. He hadn’t aged a bit. Well, he wouldn’t, would he?

Wilbur was lying propped on one elbow. His hair had fallen
damply over his forehead. He pushed it back. Didn’t you tell me your husband’s name was Robert?

It was, I said.

Uh huh.

I felt I owed him something. David was … from a long time ago, I said. Before my husband.

He didn’t say anything more.

The bus stops suddenly. I can hear the hiss of the brakes. Are we there yet? I ask. Are we home? Mine is not the only voice. We’re like a flock of little birds with our mouths eagerly turned upwards, waiting to be fed. Wispy feathers, chirpy voices. Plaintive, needy, worried. Poor little birds The nurses smile and stroke and reassure. Another couple of hours and we’ll be able to go back. The chemical spill is all cleaned up, and they’re moving the residents back into the neighbourhood. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.

Wait — who’s that holding Your hand? Is it what’s her name who’s always calling after her dead son? She looks so happy. Big hard working hands on her, I see.

I beckon the nurse, whisper in her ear. It’s been a while since I heard that lady shouting for Mike, I whisper. She’s very quiet now.

Yes, says the nurse. She is.

The waiter had a big white apron and a big white smile. He looked flustered, talked quickly, forgot things. The outdoor café was set up as a medieval fair, with tents and pavilions and a big open kitchen. Harriet ordered sangria for us both.

What is that? I asked.

A red wine drink with fruit juice and other sweet things.

You’ll love it, said the waiter, spilling some on the tabletop, wiping it up awkwardly with a dirty white rag, smiling again. So seasonal. A sunny summer day in Spain. He gestured around him. In 1400 A.D., he added over his shoulder, moving swiftly away.

So what’s your news? I said to Harriet. Let me guess.

No, she said. Don’t guess.

Almost fifty years old she’d have been, then, and still not married. What did it say about her? What did it say about me? I know how old she was because the subject came up later.

Let me tell you, she said.

I took another sip of the wine.

I’ve got a new job, she said.

You’re not working for the lawyer any more, I said. The man with the awful wife and the voice from the radio. My dear Mrs. Rolyoke, he told me at a Christmas party some years before this, your daughter has told me so much about you I feel I know you already.

That’s good, I said now, drinking my sangria. I never liked him.

Oh, I’m still working for Mr. Sherman —

The Velvet Foghorn, I said. Laughing.

Harriet laughed too, even though she’d heard my little joke before. I’m still working for him, but he’s left his law practice to become the new provincial ombudsman. I’m one of his investigators.

What about his wife? I said. Does she still bother you at home?

No, said Harriet gently. Frank — Mr. Sherman — is divorced.

She wasn’t blushing. I’d have been blushing, in her shoes.

I was thinking, for some reason, of Holland. I suppose ombudsman made me think of Holland. It sounded like a foreign word. Where will you and the Velvet Foghorn be going? I asked her.

Harriet didn’t understand my question. The ombudsman is a government office, she said. Like a cabinet minister. I work around the corner from where I used to.

The waiter came by, eager to know what I thought of the wine. His eyes were brown behind thick glasses. His apron had stains on it.

It’s fizzy, I said.

That’ll be the ginger ale, he said.

Mr. Cuyler came from Holland. And Mr. Groenveld. Big strong men with hands like steam shovels and appetites to match. They farmed over by Colborne way, down County Road 9, which was north of Precious Corners up by Plainville. Dairy cows, maybe a
field of red corn, but it was fruit and flowers they made their money on. You want Dutch blooms, they said to the ladies in Colborne, in Grafton, in Campbellford and Cobourg and Port Hope, real blooms like on the box of Dutch Boy cleanser? Or was it motor oil? There was a Dutch boy on the cover, blond and blue-eyed with those pointed wooden shoes. Mr. Cuyler and Mr. Groenveld wore boots.

You want some fruit? they asked Mama, who said no.

Or flowers? Shrubs, or little trees, in front of your house would look very nice. Mr. Groenveld was talking. Mr. Cuyler was eating an apple. Three bites and the apple was finished. I stared. He tossed the core away and reached for another. Mr. Groenveld could eat three whole pies at a sitting; I’d seen him in a contest at the fall fair.

Daddy was out with Victor the horse, trying to clear rocks out of a field.

I went up to the cart. Wooden slats with dirt leaking through, fragrant with dung and pollen. Bushel baskets of fruit. Shovels resting beside buckets of water. I would have been nine or ten. Used to being poor. Used to disappointment, but able to recall hope.

No, thank you, she said.

Or seeds, they said. Cheap. Their wooden cart was piled high with colour. Insects followed them around all summer long.

Please, Mama, I said. They’re so pretty.

Mr. Groenveld was older than Mr. Cuyler. He had white hair. His daughter was Mama’s age. She was married to a man with one arm who ran the post office in Colborne.

Five cents for a spill of seeds, said Mr. Groenveld. Phlox, lobelia, carnations, and some others I don’t remember.

Please, Mama, I said. Oh, please.

No, thank you, she said. Mr. Groenveld shrugged and backed up his horse.

Mr. Cuyler offered me an apple. I held it in my hand. I was hungry, and the apple smelled beautifully sweet. Thank you, I said, but I didn’t eat it. I stared at the cart full of flowers. And at the twisted paper of seeds in Mr. Groenveld’s hand. I knew the connection between them. I knew what happened when you put seeds in the ground.