“How long have you known about this?”
Henry played with the chenille knots on the spread and nodded. “Ah, Jesus Christ, Rose, does everything have to be about you? That’s what’s got your hair on end, isn’t it? Your perfect world is crumbling because your husband is trying to do the right thing and so is your daughter. You don’t want the embarrassment.”
Rose couldn’t have been more off-balance if he had hit her. Who did he think he was, ferreting around in her thoughts, thinking he knew anything at all about what was inside her mind, the secrets she kept.
She poked her finger through the air at him. “Don’t tell me what I think or why I think it. All I’ve ever wanted was this family to be secure and happy.”
“Can’t you be as generous with us as you are with your patients? For once. Cut your own family some slack for fuck sakes.”
Henry’s scolding voice belied his casual posture. His tone was unfamiliar. Rose scrambled to her feet and stalked to her closet where she yanked an old dress over her head then shoved her feet into scuffed black pumps.
“Every damn thing I do in this world is for our family. Everything. Why don’t we just start hanging our underwear on the outside lines from now on? Oh, and why not get Johnny to knock-up a few gals while we’re at it. And let’s see, well, we can all have a luau in hell because that’s where everyone in this house is headed. Magdalena doesn’t have the excuse of stupidity or alienation of affection like me—”
“What the hell are you talking about Rose?”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Rose balled her fists and slammed them onto the dresser—a fit like patients she’d seen in Mayview. Who was she kidding? She shuddered like some of her bunkmates used to in the orphanage, the silent rage seeping from their bodies when no one was looking. Rose could feel her past rolling back toward her like a molten steel-filled ladle.
“Stop it.” Henry said. “Nothing has been decided. Magdalena wanted your guidance. I’m sure you still have a chance to offer it if you can get past this bullshit. Whatever the hell is going on in your head. You’re more than happy to help every pregnant girl and woman you stumble across in the name of community nursing. How do you think that makes your daughter feel?”
“And what about your bullshit?” Rose said. “What the hell would make you put our entire family in jeopardy to help one colored man out in the mill as though it would change anything if you opened your big trap.”
Henry sprung to his feet. “You think I’m a failure—an ex-baseball player, a poet who keeps his writing to himself, a man in a mill doing a brainless job. But to me, being a poet and working in that mill are related and neither is brainless. Auden seems to think writers transform invisible thoughts into concrete items—words. I help make the most useful metal in the world out of slivers of the very earth we stand on. That mill is poetry in action, if you look past the obvious dirt and hardship associated with it. My life’s been good in that mill, but if I overlooked this injustice—that would make me a failure. If it hadn’t been thrown into my face, maybe I could have gone along with everything, but, well, it was the right thing to do. You do that all the time; stick up for those who need it—the world beyond yourself. I would have thought you’d be proud. My life should mean something, too.”
Rose grunted. Why the hell was he always dragging Auden into everything, like the poet was there, moderating, like Auden gave a damn about their family and its problems?
“You’re not a failure,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Do you? You ran back to Donora as fast as your feet would take you. I know you wanted to go to college but you were too scared to do it.”
Henry raised his hands as though doing a monologue on stage. “Everything we fail to be—” Henry said.
“Stop quoting Auden! You sound stupid.” Rose opened and slammed her underwear drawer. The conversation meandered down paths she hadn’t ever explored.
“I was paraphrasing! And why don’t you stop hoarding things! It makes you desperate.” Henry stood, bent forward, rage ripping at his muscles, he pointed to Rose’s closet. “I know what you hide in that closet. And it’s not just that you hoard canned goods and whiskey. You hoard who you are, your feelings, your love. You have to control everything! Sometimes life is not yours to control.”
Rose bit her bottom lip. He was wrong. She loved her family fiercely with all the affection she’d never shared with anyone. She dismissed his assessment as it being “just Henry,” to being ultra-sensitive.
“Someday you’ll thank me for having food stores.” She was only trying to be sure that the family could survive the next time all their money went to some sick relative or broken windows or new refrigerator. The depression was barely over, the war, just seconds from being over, she was protecting them.
All these noble things, yet all she felt was dishonor. Control, her ass. Rose felt a surrendering calm hit her and her voice was steady once again. Yes, Rose controlled what she could, but it was only for the sake of everyone in that family.
“The right thing, isn’t always the right thing, Henry,” Rose said. “There are subtle differences you might not be used to navigating.”
“My point exactly.”
“Well, then I guess we’re clear.” Rose did not mean to be condescending, yes, yes, she did. He deserved it after keeping that kind of secret with their daughter. He deserved to feel bad for weaseling his way into his daughter’s life, taking Rose’s place, being more of a mother than she was.
“We’re clear all right,” Henry said. “And I am stunned that you of all people would face your daughter’s situation in this way. Hiding, avoiding, punishing. Of all people. I know it’s not what you planned, but why would you act like this? The entire time we’ve known each other…you know what Rose? Just forget it. Suffice it to say I’m deeply disappointed.”
“That makes two of us.” Rose jumped and covered her ears when Henry left, the door struggling over the ugly rug, finally slamming shut making it sound as though a bomb had detonated right in their own bedroom.
Henry attacked a stain at the kitchen counter although he knew the brown, whatever it had been, had sunk deep inside the veneer and would never be freed from its Formica grave. Still he had to move, to do something to mask the anger-infused, fear cocktail that swirled deep in his belly.
Behind him at the kitchen table sat Johnny and the fellas in his band. Everyone else was gone for dinner to other homes. Auntie Anna and Unk only got out of the house once a week for dinner at the Croatian Club. This time Sara Clara and Buzzy were more than happy to take them. Thankfully Magdalena was having dinner at the Tucharoni’s. Rose simply needed a few minutes to pull herself together, and if Magdalena was gone, that would help. Henry pulled at the strings of Rose’s apron which he’d tied around his neck, feeling as if a rock were boring into the base of his neck vertebrae.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rose at the doorway to the kitchen. She did it often, observing the family, just as he did. She’d told him it was because she appreciated such a loving family after her life in the orphanage. He had believed her until this afternoon. He wanted to understand her rage, and would have understood it better if she had screamed bloody murder at Magdalena, like she would have done in much lesser circumstances, but this. This unwillingness to speak to their daughter didn’t make sense. It was not like Rose at all.
To the outsider, Rose appeared cold, always the calm clinician, even toward her children. People often talked behind her back, Henry had heard it himself, when drunken lips loosened up in any one of the bars in town.
But people also admired Rose, needed her when their lives were at their worst, thought she could be funny, all those things. But Henry always thought those drunken ramblers were wrong when they thought her dedication to nursing was evidence she wasn’t devoted to her family. She was simply more efficient than the rest of the world, at everything she did.
And so Henry filled in her parenting gaps
and coddled the children when Rose backed away for one reason or another. But now this fear had risen. Fear he didn’t know his wife at all.
Henry pushed his shirtsleeves over his forearms, breaking into a sweat. He drizzled the brown juices over the top of the roast one final time then pulled it from the oven.
He turned toward the table with the roasting pan. Rose wiped her brow with the back of her hand, straightened her back then waltzed across the floor as though nothing had changed in her well-ordered life. Henry was relieved to see her pull on her cloak of normalcy. He wished he could do the same when it came to thinking of her.
Though Henry was not pleased his daughter had gotten pregnant, the revelation did not evoke disgust or hate or anger toward her. He didn’t know how or why, but he had an underlying feeling that all would work out for Magdalena. And he was not the religious one. He marveled at how Rose’s religion seemed to agitate her more than comfort her. Yet, there he was, feeling, when it came to Magdalena, as though Jesus himself had descended to support him.
Henry held up the roasting pan in Rose’s direction in case she wanted to take over the meal. She looked away then sat at the table.
Henry brought the food to the table.
Pierpont elbowed Rose, grinning. “Mrs. Pavlesic, shouldn’t you be doing the dishes right about now?”
Rose was slow to meet Pierpont’s gaze and the boy drew back, glancing at his band mates for a clue to what was happening.
Rose must have realized she had done something odd and she pushed away from the table and did the dishes. Henry felt a stab of sorrow. A small change in Rose’s behavior felt as big as the news of the pregnancy.
The meat was so tender it nearly turned to stew right on his plate. Every swallow met with tightened muscles.
Conversation worked around the table, Rose nodding occasionally to show she was paying attention. Henry knew that everyone sitting there was aware of Magdalena’s situation. Strange, as smart as Rose was, as intuitive as she could be when it came to her work and the lives of the families she serviced, she clearly did not surmise she was the last to know. While Henry thought that was peculiar, he allowed an influx of relief over the matter to settle in. It would be one less thing he had to apologize for once all his lies finally surfaced.
* * *
Johnny sat at the kitchen table watching his mum pretending to scrub the dishes and his dad forcing half-chewed roast down his gullet. Johnny’s eyes stung as he kept the banter bouncing around the table to avoid admitting their world was about to shift.
Damn Magdalena. Always demanding the attention. At the time he was going to give his parents the biggest news of his life. Normally it was her unusual intellectual achievements that turned her spot on earth toward the sun. This time, it was her ruined girlhood blotting him out, as usual.
And now, as he was plotting to break his mother’s heart to save his life, Magdalena went ahead and ripped Rose’s heart clean out of her chest. There was nothing left inside there for Johnny to break.
Johnny’s stomach wrenched tight as he watched his parents avoid each other, his father with that damn hound-dog mug, his mother accidentally dropping plates and spending far too long cleaning up the broken pieces.
At least Johnny had seen his dad’s hound-dog frown before. The time his father was caught in a lie. A lie only Johnny was privy to. Until the past few days anyhow. The mug was back and he hated to see his entire household whisper and clutch at scraps of secret conversation, behind Rose’s back. His mother’s silence scared the hell out of him. But he had to be brave. He had to be like her. It was what she taught him even if she wouldn’t see it that way.
“Mum, we’re headed over to the Tap Room to play tonight.”
“Oh, playing in the big venues these days, are you?”
The fellas laughed around the table. His mother seemed to shed her angst as though he’d been mistaken it had been there in the first place. It shouldn’t have surprised him; she did not know she was the last person to know about Magdalena.
There was no turning back now. He had to get it off his chest. Rose’s gaze lifted to meet Johnny’s. He took a swig from an Iron City beer bottle. That would spark her back to normal.
Rose waved Johnny over and took the beer from his hands. She chugged the entire bottle.
Johnny’s friends flooded out of the kitchen, and Johnny stood there waiting for Rose to respond. She looked away. Never speechless, this one, yet there she was, mouth dead still in her head.
“You okay, Mum?”
“Sure, what’s not to be okay? I’ve got beer, a son headed to some college on a football scholarship, a daughter headed to Pitt, what’s not to be okay, Johnny boy? I mean besides all of us burning in hell and all.”
He cracked a smile and glanced at his father. She thought everyone was going to hell pretty much and often they could joke about it.
“No drinking, Johnny. You’re great at what you do. You have a gift from God, you are a gift from God. You don’t need confidence in a bottle like some folks.”
Henry dropped his coffee mug onto the table with a thud. Johnny watched as Rose caught his father’s gaze, his tight mouth and discreet headshake, signaling something to his mother—what it was Johnny wasn’t sure.
“Oh all right,” Rose said, “I suppose your father’s right. I certainly don’t need to tell you again that you can be anything you want if you just apply yourself. But, you’re too young for drinking. That Lacey boy died of drinking too much with his gang and the Tremens fella passed out at the wheel of his car. No drinking. When you’ve graduated from college you can have sixty beers a day for all I care. You have a big game on Saturday then dinner will be here with the Notre Dame scout.”
“That it?” Johnny said.
“Of course that’s not it. But that’s all I’ll say for now.”
Johnny broke into a grin. “Seriously? That’s all you’ll say?” He was losing his nerve. He needed to tell his mother he would not meet with the scout, that he didn’t want him coming to dinner, that she would never understand how he felt. He wanted to scream that her life is exactly as she wanted it. But that didn’t mean she could force everyone into her mold for how the world should be.
“Let’s make a deal, Rose, my dear mother,” Johnny said, knowing he’d always had good results with charm more than whining.
“Now you’re an Atlantic City dealer, are you?”
“Seriously. You’ve never really even listened to me play more than when I practice. Mr. Patrick said I’m talented. In the real way. If you come see me play and leave without understanding truly how good I am, then I’ll drop it. November 6th, I’m playing with this fella up in Pittsburgh. Louisiana Red’s his name. He plays with Crit Walters. Up his house in the Hill. Right on his porch, this amazing gathering, with amazing music…”
Henry went to the sink and filled a glass with water.
His mother stiffened. Johnny was pushing her, even with her ability to act as though nothing was wrong. “Johnny,” Rose said, “I’m being really patient after a really hard day and I’m telling you...”
He couldn’t take it anymore. The charm would have to go. Johnny shifted his weight and grimaced. “Don’t call me Johnny. My name is John. Please.”
Rose forced a smile. “Johnny. John, nah, shit, I can’t call you John. You’re my baby, my Johnny. My boy. Sorry. You’ll have to live with it. And, I just, well, I have heard you play. I know you’re talented. That doesn’t make it a good career choice. Certainly not playing with some guy in the Hill on his porch. Louisiana Red? On a porch…” Rose sighed then looked at Henry.
She smoothed Johnny’s hair back and shook her head. “Go ahead. Go on to the Tap Room. But take that Old Granddad from the cupboard and welcome the scout to Donora tonight. Just drop it off at the hotel before you head to the Tap Room. We’ll talk about next week, next week.” Rose said.
Johnny bit his lip then straightened. Was she really dropping this? Small steps, his mother had alwa
ys told him. “So that’s it?”
“Do what I say and that’ll be it.” She held her finger up. “And, the fog. Watch your step out there.”
Henry turned from the sink where he was scrubbing the roasting pan and glared at Rose.
Suddenly Johnny felt the need to smooth things over as he always did.
“And Dad,” He said. “I wrote three poems the other day. In the style of Auden, then Blake. You were right, seeing how two guys could write about the same things so differently, really showed me a lot. It’ll work for that college essay Mum’s always bending my ear to write. Poetry? That’ll sizzle their grey-matter, don’t you say?”
He had failed to tell them the truth, what he had planned. He felt so trapped between what he wanted and his need to please his parents. He wanted the same things as his mother, he just knew he could do it in a different way. Why didn’t she believe him?
Rose forced her smile, her cheeks looking like they would burst from tension. Johnny longed to see his mother’s real smile.
“That’ll knock their socks off for sure. You know, Mum, it will. I promise.”
Henry grabbed his son and gave him a jerky hug before turning him into a headlock. “Now get out of here or you’ll be up all damn night.” They scrambled across the linoleum then Henry released Johnny and went back to the sink.
Johnny couldn’t leave without coaxing a real smile from his mother, at least trying to.
She was staring at her hands, pushing a cuticle back with her thumbnail. When Johnny didn’t move away she finally looked up at him. He gave her a cheesy grin and did a little jig to the tune of In the Mood.
She didn’t dance with him as usual. She crooked her finger at him and he moved closer. She cocked her head to the side, looking into his eyes like she’d discovered an alien on the street then she ran her finger along his jaw line. She put her hand on his chest as though she was feeling his heartbeat.
“What, Mum?”
She shook her head and looked as though she was going to cry. Rose never cried and Johnny couldn’t stand there and see it for the first time. And so he left, feeling as though he would never manage the path through life that he had chosen, but not willing to give up trying. It was not like him to quit, no matter who stood in his way. Even if the person in his road was his mother.
After the Fog Page 18
