by Robyn Carr
They had a second glass and Jennifer’s cheeks began to glow with the warmth of good wine and conversation. What had Louise said? Take her with a grain of salt? Why, Rose was wonderful. Sitting here in Louise’s chenille robe, her hair less than an inch long and her eyebrows growing in all funky, Rose would have no idea how alike they were. If she had met Rose two months ago, they might’ve gone shopping together. Or to one of the fancy Las Vegas spas.
Eventually Rose’s eyes fell to Jennifer’s toes, sticking out from under the robe. Her toes were bright red. She hadn’t thought anyone would notice. She found the polish under Louise’s sink and it was old.
“Nice color,” Rose said. “I believe it’s called Matador.”
Jennifer shrugged. “I was just playing around.”
“There’s more to you than meets the eye.”
“Well...probably not.”
“Hmm. Well, is there anything you would like to ask me? About the house, the town, whatever?”
“Yes. Would it be helpful if I took care of Louise’s yard? Since I’m here?”
“It might be,” she said. “But Alex is used to doing it and might take offense.”
“Well, then, when does he come?”
“I’m afraid it’s just whenever he has the time or the inclination. Why? You don’t want to be surprised again?” Jennifer blushed. “Oh, phoo, get over it. If I blushed for every time a man saw me in my underwear, I’d have high blood pressure.”
“I can’t believe he told you!”
“He was... What should I say? Maybe as surprised as you.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you shouldn’t quit your day job.”
* * *
Jennifer couldn’t wait to email Louise after Rose’s visit. She was at the computer that night before going to bed.
Dear Louise,
Well, I finally spent some time with her—Rose. She brought over a bottle of wine to toast my summer with Alice. So thoughtful. And she is funny. A little outrageous. She told me that you two hit it off instantly, even though you were very different. But she seems to be the kind of person you can’t help but like—she’s so direct and honest.
Tell me, Louise—how is your son, Rudy?
Love,
Doris
The very next morning:
My Dear Doris,
So, she descended on you. Well, it took her much longer than I thought it might. I wasn’t sure she’d give you a whole day much less a week to yourself. Try to imagine us thirty years ago. I was a fifty-year-old academic working ferociously on the Equal Rights Amendment while Rose, at forty, was hiring showgirls for casinos after years of being a dancer herself. I don’t think she wore much while she danced, if anything. Single, many men, flamboyant, exploitive. We were at opposite ends of the female spectrum.
But Rose might know more about women—having worked with them, hired them, managed them—than I, with my Ph.D. in women’s studies. We joined forces in getting that shelter in the city up and running—we both saw the need for a place for sheltered women in need even if they weren’t wives. Even if they were, for example, girlfriends or showgirls or even prostitutes.
But look out for that wine trick. She’ll get you drunk and make you talk.
Love,
Louise
Jennifer took closer notice of her neighbors. Rose drove a yellow Mustang convertible, usually with the top down and her flaming red hair wrapped in a long silk scarf. Alex drove an SUV—but she saw him leaving and returning so seldom that she couldn’t figure out his schedule, nor did she have a clue what work he did. She planned to ask Rose the next time they got together.
She saw Rose being picked up for what looked suspiciously like dates by two different men on two separate evenings. One was silver-haired, one was balding, but both were pretty classy-looking and came for her in nice cars. Alex, on the other hand, was never seen with a female. But that was no indication there wasn’t one in his life; he could be going to her house. Their houses.
Rose left her house one afternoon, returning with a few grocery bags and a bunch of fresh flowers. Alex left and returned with peat moss for the yard. Since Louise had been gone, Rose had not been seen in the diner. Alex, on the other hand, had been showing up more often.
She was a long way from having them figured out. But she envied the normal look of their lives.
When she was slipping off to sleep she found herself thinking about them, creating rich fantasies in which she was just like them—one of the ordinary neighbors. A real person. Someone with a good uncomplicated life.
* * *
She was awakened one night by a fierce pounding on the door, accompanied by the doorbell and Alice’s bark. Jennifer’s heart was thumping and terror gripped her. Her first thought was that they had found her. The bedside alarm clock announced 2:22. She wrapped the chenille robe around her and, without turning on any lights, went to the door.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Me. Hedda.”
She opened the door immediately. Hedda held Joey, her arms crossed under his bum, his long, skinny legs dangling. His head rested on her left shoulder, her backpack on her right. She was looking down, then slowly raised her eyes.
“Do you have room on the couch, Doris?” she asked.
The shock of seeing these kids here, like this, had paralyzed her tongue. “Ah, yes! Of course!” She held the door open.
Alice stepped back also, wagging her tail. Hedda entered, head down, and dropped her backpack just inside the door. She moved toward the couch, carrying her heavy load. He was sound asleep—she must have carried him all the way from her house. Blocks and blocks. Alone. At two in the morning.
“No, Hedda. Let’s put him in my bed. I have to get up pretty soon for work, so I’ll take the couch.”
“I can’t do that to you,” she said.
“Come on,” Jennifer said, leading the way.
Left without a choice, she followed. She laid Joey gently on the white sheets. “I’ll get a cloth and wash his feet,” she said softly.
“No, don’t bother with that—you might wake him.” She grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bedroom. “What’s going on?”
“Um... My mom has company,” she said, eyes downcast.
“Does she know where you are?”
She looked up. Clearly she was so embarrassed. But of all the people she could have gone to, she came here. Jennifer wasn’t even sure how she knew which house was Louise’s.
“She won’t even know we left. When she wakes up, she’ll think we went to school.” She shrugged. “So, no biggie.”
“Oh, Hedda,” she said.
“Don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
Aside from a whispered “thank you” the next day at the diner, nothing more was said about the incident. Jennifer wanted to tell her she understood that kind of instability, but the right moment seemed to elude her.
The one thing she was able to do was tell Hedda, “It’s okay to come over. No matter what time of day or night.”
And Hedda said, “Thanks. It doesn’t happen that often.”
But Jennifer suspected it did.
six
As if it had happened in a split second, Jennifer became aware of a town full of roses in full bloom cast against the emerald-green of the grass and trees. The rains of winter had given way and the bright spring sun brought out the color. Everywhere she looked, thorny sprigs had exploded into velvety roses in every imaginable color, while in the Midwest and northeast the ground was still covered with snow.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said to Buzz. “I’m from the Midwest, where roses are tough and hard to keep going. Neighbor women were out in their hats and gloves every single day, coaxing them to stay
alive and bloom.” She remembered it was the bane of her grandmother’s existence. She called her roses finicky and stubborn and cranky. She worked relentlessly to keep those rose bushes going, year after year, through snow and frost and bunny rabbits; it was like a part-time job. And hers were only red and pink. Around Boulder City there were yellow, white, lavender, even black, not to mention the two-toned petals and varying crossbreeds.
“Because the rose is a desert plant,” he said. “They like the fall and winter, but they love the spring. Summer’s the only season they’re not wild about. The heat’s a little tough on them—they lay fallow.”
“Someday I show you a real garden,” Adolfo promised. “My Carmel, she is the queen of roses.”
“I’d love that,” she said, surprising herself. Was she accepting an invitation to someone’s home? Jennifer was getting very brazen. It was perhaps surviving an evening and bottle of wine with Rose that made her so. That, and being overlooked by Nick’s henchmen.
She wanted to know more about these new friends but never seemed to find the right moment to ask them for the more personal details of their lives. But there was someone she could ask. Someone who’d been having breakfast at the diner for thirty years.
Dear Louise,
I find I’m growing very attached to my new friends, yet I don’t know very much about them. I’m getting to know Rose better, little by little, but Buzz is such a sweet mystery. He seems committed to helping people in small but significant ways—I can’t help but wonder why he didn’t marry and have a family. And Adolfo, what a gem he is. Has he been with Buzz for a long time? Sometimes they seem like a little old married couple. And my Hedda, my dear Hedda—I might be getting too attached to her. It appears her life is just about as unstable as mine was at that age, but for entirely different reasons. Just the other night she came pounding at the door in the dead of night with her little brother hoisted over her shoulder—looking for an empty couch for the night because her mother had “company.” Now I find myself sleeping with one eye open in case she should need me.
Love,
Doris
My dear girl,
I asked Buzz that same question once—why hadn’t he married. He shrugged his shoulders and said he asked someone once, but she had someone else in mind. I didn’t have the nerve to pry, but I’ve always wondered if it could have been Gloria. They’re awfully tight. He’d do anything for her. As for Adolfo, you describe his relationship with Buzz perfectly. Even though they sometimes squabble, even though I’m sure Adolfo could find more profitable employment—they will never part company. When you do have a chance to meet his family, don’t pass it by. They are an amazing group and will embrace you as though you’re one of them.
And little Hedda—I’m so glad she has found you. None of us knows much about her, but having seen her mother just a few times, I see problems. She’s an angry young woman who seems to feel unjustly burdened by her children. You can’t possibly be too attached—the two of you will make a formidable team.
Love,
Louise
* * *
After work, and after walking Alice around the park so she could visit with other dogs, Jennifer was again at the library. She was there at least twice a week but had not noticed the small stack of flyers with her face on them. They sat at the very end of the checkout desk along with other flyers advertising classes, programs and local entertainment. She wished she could ask how long they’d been there, but that would be too telling. Had Lou left them a couple of weeks ago? Had he been back? She had no way of knowing since she had never paid attention to any of the handouts.
She went into the stacks, selected her books, making sure one was at least as large as the flyer. She went through the process of borrowing from Mary Clare, who always had a comment. “You’re going to love this one, Doris. It’s great.”
“I noticed a lot of titles by this author.”
“You can get through at least spring on her stuff, if you like it. How’s Alice?”
“She’s great. She gets a little more exercise with me than she could with Louise, and I think I’ve loosened up those stiff old joints. She’s moving around a little better.” She gathered her books. “Thanks, Mary Clare.”
Jennifer went to the end of the counter and took her time looking through all the flyers and leaflets. She slowly read through a bright orange advertisement of the community theater group’s new program, perused the local garden club’s meeting dates, gathered up sheets on Pilates, yoga and tai chi in the park. She put her books right on top of the flyers with her face on it and when she picked them up again, all the missing-person flyers came away with her.
Rather than panicked, she felt very serene about this move. That girl didn’t look like her. If Nick’s goons could look right at her and not see her, her disguise, hiding in plain sight, was working fine. She wouldn’t pass muster that easily with Nick, but Nick was very likely to hire this hunt, not participate personally. He was more interested in poker. Still, the flyers had to go.
A wry smile rose to her lips as she tried to imagine Lou even thinking to go into the library to leave them. She had always considered him too dense to connect her love of reading to the library. Was he smarter than she realized or had Nick made the suggestion? Nick was very conscious of her always having a book going. She was never without one.
She had a sudden and crystal-clear memory of her youth—in one of the schools she attended when she was fifteen or sixteen. She had tested well and her English teacher and counselor said, “You’re college material, Jennifer.”
“Funny, ha-ha,” she returned. “I don’t think anyone in my family could manage—”
“Your scores are incredibly high. You could get a good scholarship. You should think about this. Tell your mother.”
But she couldn’t tell her mother something like that. Cherie was too fragile. If she was manic, it could send her into a whirlwind of applications, visiting universities, and who knew what else. If she was depressed, feelings of inadequacy might send her to bed for weeks. In either case, she could never leave her. And her grandparents were teetering on the edge of poverty. Her grandfather had been a bus mechanic before retiring, and every bit of his savings plus most of the equity in their little house had been spent getting Cherie out of this or that jam. College was a notion no one in her family could even entertain.
But she had nurtured a secret dream that she could somehow further her education, collect some big fancy degree and feel, every single day, that she was making some kind of significant contribution. It wouldn’t hurt to pick up a nice paycheck at the end of the day. Like Louise—smart and independent and doing something that mattered. How about going off to a foreign country for months at a time to study and write? It was a rich fantasy, but short.
That was a long time ago.
She thought about the flyers clutched under her books. To be on the safe side, she went to the post office to buy a book of stamps and look around, but she didn’t see any reflections of her former self there.
Not only did she not look like that woman anymore, with every passing day she felt less and less like her. At first she had been so shocked by how plain she was underneath all the hair and makeup, but she was growing so comfortable in this new skin. She had even thrown caution to the wind and bought a pair of khakis that, while not tight, were not as loose as the men’s pants she had worn for a month. Khakis and a polo for work now. And at home she shrugged into a pair of jeans for her daily hike, right after she destroyed the flyers.
There was a small park across the freeway from which you could see the huge beauty of Lake Mead. She had spied it the week before and thought that in warm weather it would be the ideal place to lean up against a tree and read for an afternoon. It sat at the base of a small mountain and in front of a complex of condos and town homes. The landscape sloped down toward the lak
e, and there was nothing to obstruct the view. Since there were also swings, two tennis courts and a baseball diamond, she assumed it had been built for those condo tenants, but it was not fenced and didn’t appear to be private. Today seemed like a perfect day to relax under that tree.
She read for a while, but her eyes and her mind wandered, drawn by the massive blue beauty of the lake at the base of the hill. She thought about the flyers, thought about what she would study if she could go back to that day the counselor had told her she was college material, and even thought about what wine she might buy to return the favor to Rose. She thought about how good it felt—having come so far despite the tough times. And now, who could argue that sitting here, under this tree, wasn’t the perfect life? She had a sense that nothing could go wrong, nothing could hurt her.
She nodded off and began to dream of wearing gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed hat, tending roses that grew along a fence from which she could see the ocean. Behind her was a house; an old country house with a peaked roof, dormer windows and a porch.
In this dream she became two people—herself and her grandmother. As she clipped the flowers, swept the porch, sat in a rocker with a bowl of snap beans in her lap, her grandfather sat in the opposite chair with his newspaper in his. They had never lived in such a house; theirs had been a brick rambler in a Columbus suburb on a fairly busy street. But this old house seemed familiar somehow. She could hear the ocean, the mighty waves, and feel the sea breeze on her face.
Her grandfather spoke her name. “Doris. Just don’t move.”
She heard the hissing of the water and told her grandfather she would be still. She smiled at him—why not move? she wondered.
“Doris,” he whispered.
Why did he call her that? That wasn’t really her—
She opened her eyes and for a moment she was not sure she was awake. She was surrounded by many beasts—four-legged, hairy beasts with incredible horns.
“Shh...” someone said.
