Rose Madder (13 page)

Yes. No matter how nice it might be, the room would be a place where dozens of single, low-income people had lived before her and more dozens would live after her. But it was going to be an important place, all the same. These last five weeks had been an interim period, a hiatus between the old life and the new. When she moved into the room she had been promised, her new life—her
single
life—would really begin . . . and this picture, one Norman had never seen and passed judgement on, one that was just
hers,
could be the symbol of that new life.

This was how her mind—sane, reasonable, and quite unprepared to admit or even recognize anything which smacked of the supernatural or paranormal—simultaneously explained, rationalized, and justified her sudden spike reaction to the picture of the woman on the hill.

I
t was the only painting in the aisle that was covered with glass (Rosie had an idea that oil paintings usually weren't glassed in, maybe because they had to breathe, or something), and there was a small yellow sticker in the lower lefthand corner. $75
OR
? it said.

She reached out with hands that trembled slightly and took hold of the frame's sides. She lifted the picture carefully off the shelf and carried it back up the aisle. The old man with the battered briefcase was still there, and still watching her, but Rosie hardly saw him. She went directly to the counter and put the picture carefully down in front of Bill Steiner.

“Found something you fancy?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She tapped the price-sticker in the corner of the frame. “Seventy-five dollars or question-mark, it says. You told me you could give me fifty for my engagement ring. Would you be willing to trade, even-Steven? My ring for this picture?”

Steiner walked down his side of the counter, flipped up the pass-through at the end, and came around to Rosie's side. He looked at the picture as carefully as he had looked at her ring . . . but this time he looked with a certain amusement.

“I don't remember this. I don't think I've ever seen it before. Must be something the old man picked up. He's the art-lover of the family; I'm just a glorified Mr. Fixit.”

“Does that mean you can't—”

“Dicker? Bite your tongue! I'll dicker until the cows come home, if you let me. But this time I don't have to. I'm happy to do it your way—even swapsies. Then I don't have to watch you walk out of here with your face practically dragging on the floor.”

And here was another first; before she knew what she was doing, Rosie had wrapped her arms around Bill Steiner's neck and given him a brief, enthusiastic hug. “Thank you!” she cried. “Thanks so much!”

Steiner laughed. “Oh boy, you're welcome,” he said. “I think that's the first time I've ever been hugged by a customer
in these hallowed halls. See any other pictures you really want, lady?”

The old fellow in the topcoat—the one Steiner had called Robbie—walked over to look at the picture. “Considering what most pawnshop patrons are like, that's probably a blessing,” he said.

Bill Steiner nodded. “You have a point.”

She barely heard them. She was rooting through her purse, hunting for the twist of Kleenex with the ring in it. Finding it took her longer than it needed to, because her eyes kept wandering back to the picture on the counter.
Her
picture. For the first time she thought of the room she would be going to with real impatience. Her own place, not just one cot among many. Her own place, and her own picture to hang on the wall.
It's the first thing I'll do,
she thought as her fingers closed over the bundle of tissue.
The very first.
She unwrapped the ring and held it out to Steiner, but he ignored it for the time being; he was studying the picture.

“It's an original oil, not a print,” he said, “and I don't think it's very good. Probably that's why it's covered with glass—somebody's idea of dolling it up. What's that building at the bottom of the hill supposed to be? A burned-out plantation-house?”

“I believe it's supposed to be the ruins of a temple,” the old guy with the mangy briefcase said quietly. “A Greek temple, perhaps. Although it's difficult to say, isn't it?”

It
was
difficult to say, because the building in question was buried almost to the roof in underbrush. Vines were growing up the five columns in front. A sixth lay in segments. Near the fallen pillar was a fallen statue, so overgrown that all that could be glimpsed above the green was a smooth white stone face looking up at the thunderheads with which the painter had enthusiastically filled the sky.

“Yeah,” Steiner said. “Anyway, it looks to me like the building's out of perspective—it's too big where it is.”

The old man nodded. “But it's a necessary cheat. Otherwise nothing would show but the roof. As for the fallen pillar and statue, forget them—they wouldn't be visible at all.”

She didn't care about the background; all of her attention was fixed upon the painting's central figure. At the top of the hill, turned to look down at the ruins of the temple so anyone viewing the picture could only see her back, was a woman. Her hair was blonde, and hung down her back in a plait.
Around one of her shapely upper arms—the right—was a broad circle of gold. Her left hand was raised, and although you couldn't see for sure, it looked as if she was shading her eyes. It was odd, given the thundery, sunless sky, but that was what she appeared to be doing, just the same. She was wearing a short dress—a toga, Rosie supposed—which left one creamy shoulder bare. The garment's color was a vibrant red-purple. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, she was wearing on her feet; the grass that she was standing in came almost up to her knees, where the toga ended.

“What do you call it?” Steiner asked. He was speaking to Robbie. “Classical? Neo-classical?”

“I call it bad art,” Robbie said with a grin, “but at the same time I think I understand why this woman wants it. It has an emotional quality to it that's quite striking. The
elements
may be classical—the sort of thing one might see in old steel engravings—but the
feel
gothic. And then there's the fact that the principal figure has her back turned. I find that
very
odd. On the whole . . . well, one can't say this young lady has chosen the
best
picture in the joint, but I'm sure she's chosen the most
peculiar
one.”

Rosie was still barely hearing them. She kept finding new things in the picture to engage her attention. The dark violet cord around the woman's waist, for instance, which matched her robe's trim, and the barest hint of a left breast, revealed by the raised arm. The two men were only nattering. It was a
wonderful
picture. She felt she could look at it for hours on end, and when she had her new place, she would probably do just that.

“No title, no signature,” Steiner said. “Unless—”

He turned the picture around. Printed in soft, slightly blurred charcoal strokes on the paper backing were the words
ROSE MADDER.

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “here's the artist's name. I guess. Funny name, though. Maybe it's a pseudonym.”

Robbie shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then saw that the woman who had chosen the picture also knew better.

“It's the name of the
picture,”
she said, and then added, for some reason she could never have explained, “Rose is
my
name.”

Steiner looked at her, completely bewildered.

“Never mind, that's just a coincidence.” But was it? she
wondered. Was it really? “Look.” She gently turned the picture around again. She tapped the glass over the toga the woman in the foreground was wearing. “That color—that purply-red—is called rose madder.”

“She's right,” Robbie said. “Either the artist—or more likely the last person to own the picture, since charcoal rubs away fairly rapidly—has named the painting after the color of the woman's chiton.”

“Please,” Rose said to Steiner, “could we do our business? I'm anxious to be on my way. I'm late as it is.”

Steiner started to ask once more if she was sure, but he saw that she was. He saw something else, as well—she had a fine-drawn look about her, one that suggested she'd had a difficult go of it just lately. It was the face of a woman who might regard honest interest and concern as teasing, or possibly as an effort to alter the terms of the deal in his own favor. He simply nodded. “The ring for the picture, straight trade. And we both go away happy.”

“Yes,” Rosie said, and gave him a smile of dazzling brilliance. It was the first real smile she had given anyone in fourteen years, and in the moment of its fullness, his heart opened to her. “And we both go away happy.”

S
he stood outside for a moment, blinking stupidly at the cars rushing past, feeling the way she had as a small child after, leaving the movies with her father—dazed, caught with half of her brain in the world of real things and half of it still in the world of make-believe. But the picture was real enough; she only had to look down at the parcel she held under her left arm if she doubted that.

The door opened behind her, and the elderly man came out. Now she even felt good about him, and she gave him the sort of smile people reserve for those with whom they have shared strange or marvellous experiences.

“Madam,” he said, “would you consider doing me a small favor?”

Her smile was replaced with a look of caution. “It depends on what it is, but I'm not in the habit of doing favors
for strangers.” That, of course, was an understatement. She wasn't even used to
talking
to strangers.

He looked almost embarrassed, and this had a reassuring effect on her. “Yes, well, I suppose it'll sound odd, but it might benefit both of us. My name is Lefferts, by the way. Rob Lefferts.”

“Rosie McClendon,” she said. She thought about holding out her hand and rejected the idea. Probably she shouldn't even have given him her name. “I really don't think I have time to do any favors, Mr. Lefferts—I'm running a little late, and—”

“Please.” He put down his weary briefcase, reached into the small brown bag he was holding in his other hand, and brought out one of the old paperbacks he'd found inside the pawnshop. On the cover was a stylized picture of a man in a black-and-white-striped prison outfit stepping into what might have been a cave or the mouth of a tunnel. “All I want is for you to read the first paragraph of this book. Out loud.”

“Here?” She looked around. “Right here on the street? In heaven's name, why?”

He only repeated “Please,” and she took the book, thinking that if she did as he asked, she might be able to get away from him without any further foolishness. That would be fine, because she was starting to think he was a little nuts. Maybe not dangerous, but nuts, all the same. And if he
did
turn out to be dangerous, she wanted to find out while the Liberty City Loan & Pawn—and Bill Steiner—was still within dashing distance.

The name of the book was
Dark Passage,
the author David Goodis. As she paged past the copyright notice, Rosie decided it wasn't surprising she'd never heard of him (although the title of the novel rang a faint bell);
Dark Passage
had been published in 1946, sixteen years before she was born.

She looked up at Rob Lefferts. He nodded eagerly at her, almost vibrating with anticipation . . . and hope? How could that be? But it certainly
looked
like hope.

Feeling a little excited herself now (like calls to like, her mother had often said), Rosie began to read. The first paragraph was short, at least.

“It was a tough break. Parry was innocent. On top of that he was a decent sort of guy who never bothered people and wanted to lead a quiet life. But there was too much on the
other side and on his side of it there was practically nothing. The jury decided he was guilty. The judge handed him a life sentence and he was taken to San Quentin.”

She looked up, closed the book, held it out to him.

“Okay?”

He was smiling, clearly delighted. “Very much okay, Ms. McClendon. Now wait . . . just one more . . . humor me . . .” He went paging rapidly through the book, then handed it back to her. “Just the dialogue, please. The scene is between Parry and a cab-driver. From ‘Well, it's funny.' Do you see it?”

She saw, and this time she didn't demur. She had decided Lefferts wasn't dangerous, and that maybe he wasn't crazy, either. Also, she still felt that queer sense of excitement, as if something really interesting was going to happen . . . or was happening already.

Yes, sure, you bet,
the voice inside told her happily.
The picture, Rosie—remember?

Sure, of course. The picture. Just thinking of it lifted her heart and made her feel lucky.

“This is very peculiar,” she said, but she was smiling. She couldn't help herself.

He nodded, and she had an idea that he would have nodded in exactly the same way if she'd told him her name was Madame Bovary. “Yes, yes, I'm sure it seems that way, but
. . . do
you see where I want you to start?”

“Uh-huh.”

She scanned the dialogue quickly, trying to get a sense of who these people were from what they were saying. The cab-driver was easy; she quickly formed a mental picture of Jackie Gleason as Ralph Kramden in the
Honeymooners
reruns they showed on Channel 18 in the afternoons. Parry was a little harder—generic hero, she supposed, comes in a white can. Oh, well; it was no big deal either way. She cleared her throat and began, quickly forgetting that she was standing on a busy streetcorner with a wrapped painting under her arm, unaware of the curious glances she and Lefferts were drawing.