Mystical Rose (24 page)

I raised my hand to sketch a little wave, and Ruby looked over my head. And the crowd passed by and me with it. And I wondered — I wonder — did she see me?

I could have crossed the sidewalk, dropped my sign, and gone into the restaurant and talked to her; but Harriet was with me and we were in the middle of … No, that’s not it. I kept marching, and singing about Michael rowing the boat ashore, because I was afraid. I didn’t go into the restaurant because I was afraid of what I’d find. Afraid of what she would have become. I didn’t want to know.

Did she die by accident a few years later? Was that her body at the bottom of the unsafe fire escape? The newspaper article gave her name but not her address. I went to the funeral wondering if it could be the same Ruby Wellesley. I never found out because the casket was closed. There were no other mourners. The landlord paid for the funeral.

I wonder if she saw me that afternoon in the crowd of marchers. Did she recognize me? Perhaps she was scared too. And I wish. Oh I wish. I wish I could have the chance again. Poor Ruby. I’d run into the restaurant and take her by both hands, the way she used to greet me. I’d invite her back to the shop to live. I’d give her flowers. Hazel and Star of Bethlehem:
reunion, reconciliation
. And yew:
I am sorry
.

Lady Margaret was not a mother-in-law out of the music halls or TV situation comedy. She did not interfere, did not appear in our lives at all, Robbie’s and mine. That morning in Cobourg, in front of the summer place, with Harriet in my arms and the horse waiting behind us, was the last time any of us ever saw her.

Did she know about the regular payments into our bank account, I wonder? She must have, if she stopped them.

Isn’t it odd that Mr. Rolyoke died without a will. The lawyer in Philadelphia was so embarrassed. I used to wonder if … if maybe
there was a will, leaving something to Harriet, if not to me. I suppose not. That sort of thing happens in movies.

Lady Margaret lived a long time, didn’t she. Even longer than I’m going to. I’m surprised she didn’t move back to England after Mr. Rolyoke died, but she preferred to hang around Rittenhouse Square with the dust sheets and the mice and her disappointments.

I wonder how she knew Harriet? You’re not going to tell me, are You — not my story. She did know her, though. How else to explain the clippings? Her niece Estelle found them after she died, and phoned me because my number was written across the bottom of the one from the Canadian news magazine.
A Miracle?
was the headline. The story was all about the Bluestone case. There was a photograph of Stephen Bluestone shaking hands with Harriet. Lady Margaret would have got the phone number from the Toronto book, I guess; Harriet’s number would have been unlisted.

I still don’t understand the reason for the other clipping in the file folder. A Wild West show from the turn of the century, complete with war paint and snake oil and knives thrown at a spinning girl. And in front of a crowd of people, sporting, said Estelle, a pair of sideburns like the prophet Amos in her Bible at home, was Mr. Rolyoke. Uncle Rolyoke she called him. He had his hands on an old woman’s forehead. Except for there not being a question mark at the end, the headline was the same as Harriet’s. Quite a coincidence.

Funny that Lady Margaret would keep that shot of Mr. Rolyoke; you’d think she’d want to hush up her husband’s dubious beginnings.

What? Is it humankind You’re smiling at, or just me and my stupidity?

Anyway, Estelle asked did I want the photo, because otherwise
she would just throw it out. I said no thanks. I already had a copy of the
A Miracle?
article. I thanked her for her trouble. I didn’t really know the Rolyokes very well, I said.

If he had left everything to Harriet it would have made a difference, wouldn’t it? She’d have been a lawyer. Don’t think I’m complaining; he didn’t owe us anything. He’d been more than kind to me and Harriet both. I think well of him — better than well, really. Kind of — don’t laugh. Kind of the way I think about You.

You’re welcome.

Anyway, a legacy from Mr. Rolyoke would have made a real difference to Harriet. And to me, I suppose.

What was that? Stephen Bluestone? Yes, You’re right of course. It would have made a difference to him too. He’d have been a cripple.

All these would-have-beens.

Rise, my love, my fair one, and come away. He used to say that to me, sitting with me in my empty window frame, staring up at the moonlit night. He always spoke so beautifully, David Lawrence Godwin did. I loved him so much; it was an honour to love a man like that. But I’d like to know one thing, I told him. Do you … love me back? Just a little?

Of course if he’d answered, Yes, a little, then I’d have hated it. And if he’d answered, No, not at all, I’d have ordered him away. But he always gave the correct answer — My love, he’d say, I do not love you a little. How could I love you a little? I love you more than the stars and moon, more than the grains of sand in the beach, more than the leaves on the trees. David was big on enumerating the size of his love, the number of bakery trucks he owned, the volume of dough — cubic tons, I think, I pictured rooms full of the gooey stuff — that his employees turned, every day, into bread and rolls. Did I say David? Geoff. I meant Geoff. Geoff the charitable baker, not David the fictional soldier, wounded in The War.

How could I ever have got them confused? I must be worse than I thought. I’m reminded of the time Harriet and I discussed my memory problem, back before I broke my ankle. We were up in the apartment, drinking tea and staring out at the grey clouds that looked close enough to touch. Would it have been the only time we spoke of it? Maybe. Just because I don’t remember any other times doesn’t mean there weren’t any.

You’re going to have to take me to the doctor’s, Harriet, I said. I’m starting to forget things.

Like what? she said.

How should I know what? I said. I’m the one forgetting. You should be telling me what, I said. You’re the competent one.

She turned away as if she couldn’t look at my face. We’ve already been to the doctor, she said. We were there this morning. You forgot the visit.

I thought back, but couldn’t make a picture. Not that one anyway. What did we talk about at the doctor’s office? I asked.

Forgetting things, she said.

Good, I said, and she nodded Mm hmm. We drank tea for a moment. It began to rain. Did the doctor cure me? I said.

She snorted. I’ve always been able to make her laugh. Evidently not, she said.

Geoff was a good man, a hairy man who said he loved me. And not just me. Harriet is such a nice girl, he said. So talented. Do you remember her wind band meeting in my shop, Rose? My first shop, he added. I remembered.

Such a smart girl, he said. Arguing your case in front of the judge — and just a child at the time. When you told me that story, Rose, I was so proud of her. Proud the way a father is proud of his
daughter. I was honoured to attend her graduation. And I would be honoured to be a second father to her now.

It was summer, but it must have been late because the front room was dark. We were alone, me at the window, Geoff on one knee in front of the fireplace. I turned on our new floor lamp. Geoff squinted up at me, shading his eyes from the trilight bulb. Say yes, Rose, he begged. Make me the happiest of men.

Oh, Geoff, I said. This is so sudden.

Not for me, Rose. He smiled, stretching his face flat so that two quiffs of nostril hair poked out, like a pair of rabbits peering from neighbouring burrows. When his face relaxed they receded again. It was a phenomenon I’d noticed before.

I’m not poor, he said. The baking business has done well. Do you know how many trucks I have at my beck and call? he asked.

I said I didn’t know. Guess, he said.

Why didn’t I love him? Why? A good man, hard working and never mean, he’d earned his success. He deserved a chance to show off to the woman he loved. I didn’t resent his delivery trucks or his manicure. He wasn’t ugly, and anyway I’d have been forty years old — forty-two, if that was the year Harriet graduated. Who was I to pick and choose? It’s not as though John Gilbert was hanging around our back door.

It was a bit of a shock seeing him for the first time on screen.
Arabian Love
, wasn’t it? He reminded me of my imagined portrait of Lieutenant David Godwin. I gaped all the way through the movie, and made sure I got to see
While Paris Sleeps
and
Truxten King
and
Cameo Kirby
when they came to the Arlington Cinema. It was as if I’d drawn a picture of a flower never before seen, and then found it in a meadow. Anyway, by the time I might have
married into the bakery business he was out of pictures, Hollywood’s and mine. 1952? Would that be right? I didn’t have George Brent hanging around the door either.

Come on, guess how many trucks I have, Geoff demanded. Guess high.

A million? I said.

Yes, smile. I can smile with You now, but it wasn’t a nice thing to say. Geoff was a gentleman, he reddened and climbed to his feet. Please think about my offer, he told me, pressing my hand in his. His nails gleamed in the lamplight, diamonds stuck on a hedge of thick dark hair.

I’ll never forget your kindness before the war, I said. When you gave away food every day to the poor people who couldn’t find work.

Why didn’t I want to marry him? Why didn’t I say yes and swoon into his arms?

Was I envious of his success? Doesn’t seem right. I think — now this is funny; I feel funny right now — I think it was his wanting to be Harriet’s second father. I remember shivering when he said that, thinking to myself,
She already has a second father
.

But why? What’s scary about a second father? Gert had one. What am I missing? Was I thinking about You? Was that the point? Even thinking about it now I get a shiver.

Maybe it’s the cold. Isn’t it cold! And noisy. I can hear the rush of water. It’s a huge noise, a flood. I’m choking on it. Water in my lungs. Choking to death. Drowning from inside. Old man’s friend, they used to call pneumonia. With friends like that …

Oh, Mama. Why are you so cold? Don’t turn away. Don’t you know who this is? It’s me, Rose. It’s me. Your daughter. Don’t be cold. Don’t be cold. Oh, Mama! Help. Help me now. I’m cold. I want you. I want you. I’m cold. I want you! I want! I want!

“Poor thing.”

Is it You? A dazzling white uniform, a worried expression. A huge and powerful pair of hands.

I feel the last grains of life trickling away, salt through the egg timer. My three minutes are up. Harriet is a shadow. The nurse is a shadow. They are staring down at me. Harriet is holding my hand. Dr. Berman is a shadow. Is it his white uniform?

“Poor thing.”

No. It’s another white uniform. Brighter, and with gold braid. Is it Yours? Do You pick me up and button me inside Your uniform jacket? I’m still cold.

Noise all around. People screaming, running, sliding past. Water everywhere. Splashing over the floor. Furniture bumping around. Bodies floating.

Goodbye, doctor. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Harriet. I wonder why you never married. None of my business, I suppose, but a mother can’t help wondering.

I wonder how many Germans Mr. Davey killed before his tank blew up?

I wonder why Parky is so mean to me? She likes to look at me. I can tell.

I wonder why Gert is mad at me. I never even kissed Billy.

I wonder why the corn doesn’t grow. Daddy is disappointed, I think. Only he never says so. He never says anything. Victor, can you understand Daddy? Mama and I can’t.

Isn’t that a lovely sight: a carpet of flowers spreading over the field in front of me. Let’s see, I have daisies, hollyhocks, larkspur, dianthus and petunias.

Goodbye, Harriet. Goodbye. Your hands are so cold.

Look, Uncle Brian’s car has Diamond Impermeable tires. Guaranteed to withstand punctures.

I want Mama. Mama.

Old and young and drowning. Is this the future I never had, or the past catching up to me? I feel everything. I feel warm water inside me, cold water all around me. Sea water. I feel Mama’s arms, and Harriet’s, and Robbie’s, and Yours. Phrases drift back to me: a telescoping of time, says Dr. Sylvester, is one of the effects of the disease. Breaking down the barriers of time in the brain, so that she lives in the past as vividly as in the present.

So rich my life would have been, if not for that sea water. Filled with love and striving, fear and hope, and an occasional miracle. So full. And so real.

No one suggests prolonging my life, I see. Are You sure of that? Harriet — such a sensible, competent girl — isn’t going to cry, Save my mother at all costs! Another day, even another hour, is worth any kind of … You’re sure? Ah well. I can’t blame her.

I want to live.

I’m not cold any more. I’m not anything. I can feel a gentle rocking motion, back and forth, back and forth. The water’s cold but
I’m not cold. I can hear voices from a distance, saying, Careful. Put her down gently. I can hear someone crying. Harriet cried at her daddy’s funeral. I never cried at my daddy’s. Poor Harriet. Poor Daddy.