Rosie (24 page)

Rosie kicked off her shoes and went off to climb in a tree. After a minute, Elizabeth looked over at one of the world's oldest banyan trees, expecting to find Rosie in its low, thick
branches, but found her, instead, three quarters of the way up the trunk of an aged pepper tree, shinnying up the dark gnarled bark like a baby gorilla. Elizabeth gasped involuntarily.

“Be
careful,
sweetheart—there aren't many branches.” Get the hell down off of that tree, you're going to fall and break your neck. She heard her mother's fearful voice, marveled again that anyone lived to adulthood. “Honest, baby. I can't take much more today. Come and sit here with me.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Thackery's station wagon appeared at the curb. The Fergusons looked at each other and stood.

The two women, virtual strangers until now, sat side by side at the kitchen table. Elizabeth had the sense that Sybil knew why she had come, just as Sharon had: the initial defiance on their faces, and fear fluttering just below the surface.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and put her elbows on the table, interweaving her fingers as in prayer, took a sudden breath and raised her brows, as if about to jump into a frigid lake, and turned to Sybil.

“I'm sick about this. It must be the hardest thing you'll ever have to hear.” Black button eyes, frightened and helpless like a child's. “But: several weeks ago your husband exposed himself to Rosie. In his study.”

“She
knows
she's not to come into the house when I'm not here.”

“Well, Sybil, that's not the point. The point is-that your husband exposed himself to my child and routinely makes Sharon touch his genitals.” Elizabeth shook her head.

“My husband is a very fine man,” said Sybil, beginning to cry.

“Maybe in some ways. But he's sick. He's hurting your daughter. Sharon needs to be protected from her father's abuse.”

“I've tried to protect her. I'd die for her.”

“Of course you have, of course you would.” Sybil looked urgently, beseechingly, at her. “But it isn't enough. He's done—and will continue to do—ugly, sick things to your child, to our Sharon. And now he's done it to Rosie, and I'm not going to sit by and let it happen again—to either of them.”

Sybil held her belly, as if she had cramps, and wept.

Elizabeth reached out and massaged her shoulders. “It's a nasty business, but it's not the end of the world. I've already called the Child Protection Agency. He's got to turn himself in to them.”

“What if he refuses?”

“Then I'm going to notify them, and a social worker will confront him, and if he still refuses and denies it, the police will be brought in.”

“He's not a criminal!”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.”

“He'd never hurt her.”

“Sybil! How can you say that? He
is
hurting her! He's a huge, male grown-up who takes sexual advantage of his own child!”

Sybil nodded her head, and tears streamed into the lap of her dress. Elizabeth got up and found a box of Kleenex.

“There's a chance he's going to be transferred. We may be moving.”

“It doesn't change things.”

“Palo Alto. He's been promoted.”

“Well, Sybil. What you've got to do is, get in touch with the Child Protection Agency here, get your husband involved in therapy, and then, when you move, continue treatment in Palo Alto. Because if you don't call them, I will. And if he refuses treatment, the police will be called. I don't want to see the girls on the witness stand.”

“I don't either.”

Sybil stopped crying.

“I tried to leave him once,” she said. “Before we moved to Bayview. He said he'd kill himself. I thought that—he had stopped doing it.” Elizabeth listened quietly.

“That's why Sharon needs you to step in,” she said.

Sybil dabbed at her nose. “Don't tell Rosie yet—that we may be moving. Sharon doesn't know.”

“Okay.”

“It was good of you to—look after Sharon like this.”

“Well, I love her, you know. She's one of the kindest, most gentle people I've ever known. You've done a beautiful job
raising her. Sybil, do it as soon as you can. Everything is going to be all right. Starting now. Painful and hard but all right.”

Rosie and Sharon were sitting outside on the bottom step of the house, hunched over, with their heads jammed between their knees, drawing in the dirt with sticks. Neither of them looked up. “Sharon?”

Sharon looked up, with her mother's black button eyes. Elizabeth sat down beside her. “I know your dad's a wonderful man, but he needs help. And so we're going to make sure he gets it. Okay? That's a girl.”

“They won't arrest him, will they?”

“No. Not if he agrees to get help.”

“You know what Sharon said? She said, ‘Why'd you have to go and open your big mouth?'”

“What did you say?”

“I said, Because what he was doing was wrong.”

“Good girl.”

They were on the way home, holding hands on the sidewalk.

“God,” said Rosie mournfully. “You're a great mother.”

James, the crafty ambassador, approached Elizabeth in the kitchen several days later, at the stove, where she stood navigating a garlic sausage flotilla through boiling water with a wooden fork, listening to the radio.

“I don't know,” he said, pressing his face between her shoulder blades. “I for one am just getting very sick of drinking.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm ready to quit.” He stepped away, and she turned to look at him.

“But you don't even drink that much.”

“I don't drink as much as you—but I drink too much. I think my work would be better.”

Elizabeth turned back toward the stove.

“Why don't we just—you know—
quit?”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

“I've already had several glasses of wine.”

“If you quit right now, you won't have a hangover tomorrow.”

“There's no point tonight, James. Really. I mean,
maybe
tomorrow.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, James, it's like when you're going to start what may be a long-term diet: you decide you're going to start tomorrow, you swear to yourself, and you spend the entire day gorging, because you'll be going without for so long. It's a tradition.”

James sat down at the table, mulling this over. “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow, then.”

Elizabeth stared down into the pot with unfocused eyes. After a minute, she shrugged her shoulders. “Okay.”

“Great! Good!”

Elizabeth nodded, turned to him, and grinned. “Okay, yes, tomorrow.” She raised her glass and toasted: “Tomorrow.” Then she sat down beside him. “It'll be great to quit.”

“She said dully.”

She smiled at James. “No, I mean it. One day I consciously realized that I was trying to break myself down, so that I'd hit bottom and
have
to quit. Because I didn't think I could do it otherwise. And I told myself that there would be a day—an inevitable, unavoidable day—when it would come to a head, and I would have to begin to recover from—this. Alcoholism.”

The word drowned out the Scarlatti horns. They both held their breath.

“Whoa,
shit!”
she exclaimed, looking around, bedazzled. “I'm having
a hot
flash.” She looked intently at James. “lllcoholism.”

He nodded.

She smiled at the glass of wine and took a big sip. “You know,” she said fondly, to the wineglass, “alcohol has been one of my very best friends. I used to look forward to drinking in the afternoon in the same way that I looked forward to seeing you again each night. God.” She set down the glass and scratched her head. “I knew there would be a
day
that was ... conspicuous, when I'd have to quit, but it's been more like a conspicuous couple of weeks. Starting with the day Rosie stole the money, when she and Sharon found me passed out ... and then, you know,
Thackery, and Leon,” and the puppy. “I mean, Jesus. What do I need, a burning bush?”

James smiled. “Oh, Elizabeth.”

She got up, with her wineglass, and went to turn off the stove. “These sausages are probably way overdone. Rosie should be home any minute—she's been at the fort with Sharon all day.” She picked up a fork, opened the oven, poked a potato, and turned off the heat. “Poor Sharon, and Rosie....”

The front door opened and slammed, and they turned toward the sound of heavy, hunchbacked trudging.

“Speak of the devil.” They heard her climb the stairs. “Will you go tell her that dinner is almost ready?”

Five minutes later, he reported back that Sharon was moving. That Mr. Thackery had been transferred.

Elizabeth exhaled wearily and dried her hands on a dishtowel. “Well, I'm not surprised.”

“I smell a rat.”

“Mrs. Thackery told me that he might be getting a transfer and promotion. And I told her that even if they moved I'd be double-checking as to whether or not they were getting intensive therapy.”

“Well, Rosie's
bummed,
but good.”

“I bet she is. I'll go see if she feels like eating. Or talking. I guess it's all right to leave the sausages in the water. Will you make a quick salad?”

“Sure.”

She took a sip of wine and left the kitchen.

“Can I come in?” There was no response, so Elizabeth opened the door and found Rosie lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling like a recent corpse.

Oh, Rosie.

“I heard the bad news. I thought you might feel like some company.”

Rosie rolled her eyes angrily, as if it was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard.

“There's not much I can say that will make you feel better. But at least they're only moving a couple of hours away.”

“Chhh.”

Elizabeth reached over and mussed up her soft, wild hair.

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Yeah.”

The losses in her daughter's life, now and prospective, descended on Elizabeth's chest like a leaden x-ray apron.

“Okay.”

“Don't go.”

Elizabeth sat back down on the bed and lifted Rosie into her lap.

“How would you feel if Rae moved away?” Rosie asked.

“I'd feel like
shit.
I'd be sore at the world. And at her.”

“You said everything would be fine.”

“It will. But it will be sad for a while.”

“Then there'll just be some other sad thing.”

“Well, sure, but—sometimes you get a long stretch of good days between the sad things.”

“Yeah, but who cares about
them
when you're having one of the
sad
things?”

“You've just got to remember sometimes you'll be on an upswing, everything's coming up roses, and sometimes you'll be on a downswing, a broken heart or depression, but although you never believe it at the time, you'll start an upswing again.”

“But Mama, it was my fault that Sharon has to move.”

“Oh, Rosie, listen. It wasn't even the tiniest bit of being your fault. It's Mr. Thackery's profession, his character, his problems—completely. Honest to God.”

They heard James coming up the stairs and stopped talking.

“Hi,” he said at the doorway.

“Hi,” said Elizabeth. James came over to them and sat at the foot of the bed. Rosie pulled at a coil of hair, unwound it, and pulled her head sideways, as if it were on a leash.

“Listen, I know how you feel,” he said. “Remember my best friend, Denny Hoods, who used to lift me up to the water
faucet?” Rosie nodded but did not make eye contact. “Well, we were inseparable from the time we were five until his family moved away, when he was thirteen. I was heartbroken.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He nodded.

“Did you cry?”

“Hey, man I told you, boys didn't cry. What we did was, I went over to his house the day he was leaving, and we wrestled on his lawn—not affectionately at all. We were red-faced and rough. Then for the next couple of weeks I skulked around the house, punishing my parents; laying all these creepy trips on them.”

“Then what happened?”

“I made a new best friend.”

Rosie scowled sadly. “Yeah, but I won't.”

“I promise, on my honor, that you will.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Let's go eat,” said Elizabeth.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Then keep us company,” said James.

Rosie picked at her food. James looked away every time Elizabeth poured herself another glass of wine.

“I think I'd better call Sybil,” Elizabeth announced as she made a leaning, wobbling stack of dishes and silverware. “Make sure they're doing something about it.”

“Don't call tonight, Mama.”

“Why?”

“Because, you know: there's all this stuff happening at their house already, like getting ready to move and stuff.”

The dishes clattered in Elizabeth's arms as she turned to go. “Yeah, I know, but moving doesn't get them off the hook.”

“James,” Rosie whispered when Elizabeth was out of the room. “I don't
want
her to call, she's
tight.”

“I know she is. But she'll pull it off.”

“God, I'm so sick of this.”

“Yeah, so am I. So is
she.
We're quitting tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, give me a break.”

“Honest to God, Rosie.”

“She's
quitting tomorrow too?”

James nodded. Rosie stared off into space.

“So tell me. Has your husband begun therapy yet?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“Sybil, either he has or he hasn't.” She poured an inch of burgundy into her wineglass.

“He has agreed to, Elizabeth, and we'll go, as a family, when we're settled in Palo Alto. And in the meantime, there's absolutely no chance of his doing it again.”

“And what guarantee do you have?”

“I have his word.”

“His word isn't good enough for me.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, I know how you feel—you're right, of course—but ... for the next two weeks, he's going to be working overtime trying to get his office ready for the move, training his replacement, and
I'll
be here supervising the packing—there's going to be very little free time.”

“Sybil. His word is not assurance enough for me that it won't happen to Sharon again.”

“Elizabeth, please. You have my word, we'll get counseling ... but in the meantime—”

“In the meantime, one of us is going to contact the Child Protection Agency, explain what his pattern has been and about your moving, and ask
them
what to do. Will it be me or you?”

“Elizabeth?”

“I'm dead serious. Notify the right people up here, now, explain that you'll be moving, and give them your new address. And ask them what they suggest.”

“ But—?”

“I mean it. Tomorrow.”

“All right.
I
will.”

“I'll call you tomorrow, in the evening.”

“No, don't. He'll be home.”

“In the late afternoon, then.”

“All right.”

“You were good,” James said from the doorway.

“Thanks.”

“Shall I give you a hand with the dishes?”

“Not tonight. Go keep Rosie company.”

He nodded and went to the living room.

She poured another glass of wine and tackled the dishes; in the other room, James put on a record, Dylan, “Blood on the Tracks.” Soapy dishes slipped through her hands, clusters of bubbles slithered down the side of her wineglass, and when the existential western soap opera “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts” played, she sang along with the refrain, watching herself wash dishes as she would watch television.

She could hear James and Rosie talking, but not what they were saying. To her, they were real, authentic, flesh and blood, she did not quite have this sense about herself. Is Elizabeth the woman washing the dishes, or the mind that hovers above this woman, watching her wash the dishes?

“Listen. ‘Tigers in India eating villagers-sixty—five dead to date.'
Sixty-five dead to date,
James.” Rosie looked up at him with a listless terror.

“Wow.”

“Oh, Rosie, don't read the paper before bed. You
know
it'll give you nightmares,” said Elizabeth, coming into the room.

“But I couldn't help it. It was just sitting here.”

“Come sit with us, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, the window seat gets crowded. I'll sit on the couch.”

Now Dylan was singing “Shelter from the Storm.” James was reading the pages he'd written that day, marking them up with a pencil.

“Come here, sweetheart. It's almost time for bed.”

“Noooooo,” Rosie wailed.

“Yes.”

“But I've been
good
I haven't even been bugging you.”

“Come here. I want to hold you.” Rosie got up and walked to her mother, head down and shuffling. Elizabeth reached out and drew Rosie to her side, as an elephant draws a trunkful of hay to its mouth. “I'm not making you go to bed as punishment, baby. It's because I care about you. You're a little, growing person, and you need sleep, like you need good food.”

“I'll never be able to fall asleep.”

“How come?”

“I don't know. Because I'm starving to death.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Yeah?”

Rosie nodded.

“Okay, then. Do you want a bowl of ice cream?”

“Yeah.”

“And then you'll go to bed?” Rosie nodded. “James?”

“None for me, thanks. I'm going to lose a few pounds.”

“Oh, James. You're just right.”

“I want to be lithe, and sexy, and evil.”

Elizabeth smiled at him.

The Fergusons went to the kitchen. Elizabeth got Rosie two scoops of peach ice cream, and another glass of wine for herself, and they sat side by side at the table. Rosie took a tiny bite and savored it. Then she mashed the ice cream against the side and bottom of the bowl, stirred it, whisked it into a thick liquid state, and began to eat it drop by drop.

“Come on, sweetie, don't dawdle. It's nearly ten.”

“God! You don't have to rush my eating!”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

Rosie lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Outside, lit by the moon, tigers milled around the rosebushes, licking their lips, prowlers in the garden. Little Black Sambo. Nothing to worry about; they'll be butter soon, for the pancakes her mother Black Mumbo will make. Amber eyes, tiger stripes—suddenly one of them leaps into a bush, emerges with Mr. Thackery, yelling and
bloody, between its teeth. The vision filled her head, and she stared, awestruck.

She dreams of tigers at an outside circus, jumping through hoops of fire. She is sitting ringside, with James and Sharon, when suddenly they hear the drone of approaching planes. “Bombers,” says James calmly, and the planes get nearer and louder. Elephants trumpet over the sound of the engines, the sky is red with the flames of distant bombings, and they sit waiting quietly in their seats for the end of the world.