The Girls on Rose Hill (15 page)

Rose

"Oh no, Molly. How could you?"

Molly bit her lip. "She found a picture. What else could I do?"

I shook with temper. "Tell her you couldn't remember. Lie. Anything!"

"Don't you think I would have lied to her if I could? Ellen's not stupid. The resemblance was too strong. I had to tell her." Molly stroked my arm. She stared at me for a moment and then said hesitantly, "But that's not the worst of it."

"Mother of God, what else?"

"She drove to his house last week."

I was silent then. I'd spent years deflecting Ellen's periodic questions about her father. I couldn't even remember the last time she'd mentioned him. Why? Why now?

"Rose," Molly said, "believe me, the last thing I want to do is upset you and I wasn't even sure I was going to tell you. But, I want you to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

"For Ellen's questions. Apparently, the visit did not go well. I only got this second hand from Paul, but Denis doesn't want anything to do with her. Paul said she's upset, and you know how Ellen can be. If she brings it up, or starts attacking you the way she does, I want you to be prepared. And if it's too much for you, I can make sure that you're never left alone with her."

"I don't need to be protected from my own daughter," I snapped.

Molly sighed. "Rosie, it's me you're talking to. I know how Ellen is. I know how she treats you."

In as strong a voice I could manage, I said, "She's been excellent daughter. She's dropped everything to be with me. And we haven't fought once."

"I know," Molly said in a more conciliatory voice. "She's been wonderful. And I want her to continue being wonderful."

"This is all your fault!" I shouted, close to tears. "You've ruined everything! Just get out. I want to be alone."

"Calm down."

"Oh sweet Jesus, can I not have ten minutes to myself? Leave me alone, Molly. I mean it."

Molly, her face mottled with emotion, walked out and closed the door behind her.

My throat parched from the unaccustomed shouting, I reached over to get a glass of water. I silently cursed as my now unreliable hand knocked the glass from the bedside table. I hoped that the crash wouldn't bring Molly or an attendant into my room; I needed a few minutes alone. I'd had a solitary life, especially since my mother died, and all this constant company drained me. The small talk drove me mad. At least twenty times a day someone asked me if I was all right. I had terminal brain cancer. The daughter I adored was in a constant state of agitation or anger. I had some hard things to say to her, things I hadn't had the courage to say for the last forty years, and now I was running out of time. So no, I felt like telling them, I wasn't all right.

But of course I never said this. I'd say "I'm fine." Fine. I'd tell the teachers who eyed my constant bruises that I was fine, just clumsy. I told my aunt my first few months home from the convent that I was fine, that I didn't mind nursing Peter. I told my mother when I was suffering from morning sickness that I was fine, that I must've of caught a stomach virus.

Fine. I should have "she was fine" engraved on my tombstone.

Molly forgot to lower the shade and the afternoon sun filled the room and hurt my eyes. The small gnawing pain that this morning's demerol shot had made manageable, had grown in intensity. I hadn't asked for another shot; Ellen was due this afternoon and I needed to remain lucid.

Oh, how I longed for one of my mother's hot toddy's. Whenever I had a cold, she'd wrap me in the old quilt her mother sent from Ireland and make me a hot toddy with the Irish whiskey she hid from Peter. How I loved the soft oblivion it provided. The world was a safe place as I drifted off while my mother stroked my hair. Until that St. Patrick's Day in 1966, Kitty's hot toddies and communion wine were the only alcohol that had ever passed my lips.

St. Patrick's Day. I almost didn't make it to Brooklyn that night, but at seventeen Molly was too young to be let out on her own. Molly badgered her own mother for a month to be allowed to attend the St. Patrick's Day party her older boyfriend was throwing with his fellow police cadets. Auntie Margaret told Molly that either her father would accompany her to the party or me. Margaret always viewed me as a steady sort and thought I could be trusted to chaperone her flighty young daughter.

Kitty sulked about having to miss the Irish American Society's annual St. Patrick's Day dance, but Margaret must have piled on the guilt in order for Mama to grant me a weekend pass. While I wasn't particularly excited about spending an evening peeling young men off of Molly, I was happy to escape Rose Hill, if only for a few days.

"Is that all you brought with you?" Molly asked, slightly horrified as I carefully laid out a navy blue skirt and white cotton blouse on her bed. "We're going to a party, not a funeral."

I tried not to be too insulted; Molly was not known for her tact. "That's all I have," I said simply. I didn't tell her that it was my best outfit.

"Rosie, you can't look like Sister Mary Miserable tonight. Bobby will think I'm a big baby if he thinks my mother sent you along to watch me. You need to look like a girl who wants to have some fun. You know what I mean?"

I laughed. "Not really."

Molly dug through her overstuffed closet and pulled out a pink, form fitting dress. "Mom bought me this dress last week. I think it'll look great on you; we'll just need to pin it. And can I do your makeup and hair? Please?"

"Sure, but don't make me look like a clown."

"I'll make you look beautiful. You'll see."

While she didn't succeed in making me look beautiful, but she certainly made me look different. Auntie Margaret almost fell into her cup of tea when the two of us came down to the kitchen.

"Molly, what have you done to my poor niece?"

"Oh, don't listen to her, Rosie. If it was up to her we'd be wearing saddle shoes and poodle skirts!"

Auntie Margaret admitted defeat and said, "Have a good time you two, but be home by eleven. Don't make me send your father down after you."

I winked at Auntie Margaret as Molly rushed me out the door. While we walked the five blocks to Lenihan's Pub on Third Avenue, Molly filled me in on her six month romance with Bobby Connelly. Molly chattered on about Bobby and I listened, amazed by how different my cousin's life was from my own. She spent her days passing notes in biology class and giggling on the phone while I made dinner and changed bedpans. I wasn't jealous of Molly's life as much as I felt far removed from it. I'd graduated from high school less than three years earlier and yet I felt a million years older than pretty Molly.

My Uncle John had said at dinner that Lenihan's was usually a real old timer's bar. However tonight, except for the proprietor, Donal Lenihan, who stood behind the bar like an old crow, there wasn't a soul in the pub over the age of twenty-five. The cadets, many of whom had marched in the parade in Manhattan, were proudly decked out in their dark gray uniforms. Men outnumbered the women by at least three to one so we were greeted by loud cheers and catcalls when we entered the crowded pub. Drunk cadets swarmed us until the brawny Bobby fought them off. With a proprietary arm around Molly, Bobby led us to the bar.

"Donal, three beers," Bobby shouted over the din.

I raised my eyebrows at Molly, but she hissed at me, "Just pretend to drink yours if you want. Don't embarrass me."

I didn't want to make a scene so I smiled and pretended to sip the warm sudsy beer. No one was looking at me anyway so it was easy enough to pour the unwanted beer onto the pub's sawdust floor. More and more young policemen and their heavily made up dates squeezed into Lenihan's. Tired of being jostled, I sidled my way past the boisterous cadets and found a relatively uncrowded corner. From there, I observed Molly and counted the number of drinks she had. Fortunately, Molly was more concerned with making sure her lipstick didn't smear than drinking the sour beer, so I didn't need to intervene.

For the next hour I stood quietly in my corner and drank in the scene. To see so many people my own age laughing and flirting was enjoyable after my many months of exile, even if I wasn't an active participant. No one bothered with me except for the occasional cadet who told me to smile or offered to refill my plastic cup with cheap beer. That was until a blonde cadet walked up to me with a tray of shot glasses.

The cadet handed me a shot glass filled to the brim. "It's not St. Paddy's Day without Irish whiskey."

"Oh, no thank you," I said primly.

"I know you were sent to babysit Molly. I don't think she wants to leave anytime soon, so here, take this. It'll help pass the time."

The young man had such an engaging smile I didn't have the heart to refuse him. I lifted the shot glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Molly's bodyguard." The young man drank his shot in one gulp. Not wanting to be outdone, I followed suit. The whiskey burned my throat and my eyes teared. I looked up to see if my new friend noticed, but he and his tray of spirits had already moved onto to the next group of revelers.

The next hour passed much as the last with more singing and drinking. Molly found me twice to accompany her to the ladies room, where my sole purpose was to tell her whether she had enough lipstick on. I warned her that we would need to leave soon, but she pretended not to hear me as she hurried back to Bobby. After each visit I returned to my dark corner and continued to observe the party. My blonde friend visited me again and pressed another whiskey on me. The second affected me more than the first and I soon swayed to the music.

The crowd eventually thinned. Feeling guilty after leaving me on my own for so long, Molly finally waived me over. Bobby found us two seats by the bar. Bobby was telling us boastful stories of his football playing days at neighboring Xavier High School when my blonde friend from earlier took the seat next to me. "Still on guard duty?"

I smiled. "Yes."

"Hey, Connelly, when're ya gonna let this lady go home and go to bed. She's been a good sport."

"Rosie's having a great time, aren't you, Rose?" Molly shot me a death stare. "She's doesn't want to go home yet."

"I don't want to go home yet," I parroted back to my new friend.

He laughed. "Well, in that case we'd better get you another one of those whiskey's that you like so much. Pop," he said to wizened old man behind the bar, "four whiskeys."

Molly was so grateful to be allowed to stay out a little later that she said nothing when her ex-nun cousin knocked back a whiskey like a pro. And she said nothing when the blonde cadet put his arm around me as the four of us got together for a photo.

When there were only a few stragglers left, the bartender threw a ring of keys at my friend. "It was your party, boyo, so you can lock up."

My friend caught the keys expertly, as if he'd done so a hundred times before. "Night, Pop."

"Night, Donal," Bobby said. Bobby turned to my new friend and said, "Hey, Denis, one more round before we go."

Denis hopped over the bar and poured us, along with the three remaining stragglers, another round of whiskey. Molly didn't even attempt to drink it, but I on the other hand swallowed it straight back.

"That's my girl, Rosie," Denis said.

I smiled. I wasn't sure at that point whether I was drunk or not, given that I'd never been drunk before, but I did feel a certain lightness, a looseness. The three stragglers soon left.

After he finished the whiskey, Bobby said, "I'd better walk these ladies home."

"Aw, you gonna leave me all alone?" Denis asked me.

I smiled at him.

"It's okay, Bobby. I can walk her home," Denis said.

Molly, eager to walk home alone with Bobby, said, "Okay, Rosie. I'll leave the side door open for you," and then quickly grabbed her coat and dragged Bobby out the door before I could change my mind.

Denis followed them to the door and locked it behind them. He then called over to me, "You like to dance, Rosie?" Without waiting for a reply he walked over to the jukebox, punched in a few buttons and a slow song, I couldn't remember which one, played. He then took my hand and we swayed to the music. After the song ended, he led me across the floor, toward the back of the bar. Through the fog of the alcohol, I thought clearly, "I can take this chance. I can do this."

In a back room littered with papers, he gently kissed me. I willed myself not to flinch as his hands explored my body over Molly's dress. As if in a dream, I soon found myself laying beneath him, naked, on an old couch, its upholstery torn and reeking of stale beer. His movements were smooth and well practiced. He barely seemed to notice when I cried out in pain.

When it was over, Denis rolled over on his side and almost instantly fell asleep. I listened to his drunken snores and laid there, still. When I thought enough time had passed, I climbed over Denis' almost lifeless body and got dressed. I felt slightly dizzy, from both the whiskey and the close, rank air of the room. The crisp air of the dark Brooklyn streets cooled my fevered skin as I walked the five blocks back to Auntie Margaret's. I crossed myself when I passed the Visitation convent, only two blocks from Margaret's house, and said a quick prayer in front of the statute of Our Lady. A prayer asking for forgiveness for my recent sin. A prayer that, nonetheless, God would grant me a blessing from that sin.

A cough from the corner of the room brought me back to my hospital bed, back to my current prison. I opened my eyes, and even without my glasses, saw the outline of my daughter.

"What time is it?" I asked, my voice rough from sleep.

"After one. Are you hungry? They brought by lunch a half hour ago, but I can ask them to bring you something."

I reached for my glasses and once they were on, Ellen came into focus. Her short, somewhat severe haircut had grown out a bit, and framed her face in soft blonde waves. Her eyes looked even bigger than normal in her thin face. Her mouth was a slash of red against her pale skin. In her hand she held something tightly. It looked like a piece of paper.

"What do you have there?"