Chapter 10
Rose threw back three shots, while Henry had two, after they finished cleaning the kitchen in silence. Rose could play “normal,” with the rest of the world. At least to keep Magdalena’s pregnancy a secret, but she would not let Henry off the hook. He had ruined part of their marriage with his secrets.
After the dishes she went into the yard for air. What a joke that was. The air was fat with black, grainy smog. But still she stayed, drawn across the grass where muted light shone from the Tucharoni’s windows. Softened by the fog, their house looked as though it was part of a storybook scene, and all that went on in that house was warm and loving.
Rose snuck up close to the window and rubbed a corner of one wavy pane with her finger. From the foothills, the song of the mill narrated. The flying shear, the familiar sound of steady slicing through steel, calmed her heart, as though she’d been birthed from the womb of a steel mill instead of a woman.
Through the window Rose watched Magdalena at the Tucharoni’s tiny Italian-tiled kitchen table, surrounded by their many family members. They were sandwiched like chipped ham in white bread, spilling out, dropping off the sides. Mrs. Tucharoni, Tony’s mother, stood behind Magdalena. What was Magdalena doing there?
Mrs. Tucharoni ran her plump fingers through Magdalena’s auburn hair, while the rest of the family listened to what ever she was saying. Magdalena smiled and threw her head back in a laugh. Was Tony really the father? The Tucharoni boy?
The entire family raised their mismatched glasses in a toast and Mrs. Tucharoni kissed the top of Magdalena’s head as though Magdalena had been her daughter for the last sixteen years. Rose bit the inside of her cheek. They looked so happy, all of them, like they actually loved one another. Being jammed in that house like kielbasa in Bob the butcher’s cabinet apparently suited them.
Rose glared at Tony, hoping her gaze would burn a hole through the glass, searing the center of his forehead, dropping him on the spot. But she imagined her nursing instincts would take hold and she’d be in the kitchen, easing him back to life. She squeezed her eyes shut to the image of him on top of Magdalena. There was no scenario with Tony Tucharoni pleasant for Rose.
Magdalena should take care of the baby without him. Rose couldn’t allow Magdalena to give up the baby for adoption as she had done with Theresa. If only the pregnancy could just disappear. Like those women Rose often cared for after taking home-concocted tonics, or abortions performed by certain doctors who didn’t live in Donora.
Rose covered her ears as though she could block out the sound of her own horrifying thoughts. There were lots of ways to get rid of a baby. Many were unsafe, some never worked, and worse, some did. Rose knew that would not save Magdalena’s soul—erasing the pregnancy. And there was no way for Magdalena to raise the baby alone. There was no way to reverse what she had done.
Magdalena was smart, but green as hell. She had no idea what she had done in having sex with that boy. The Pavlesics would be maligned forever. The next five generations would sit around kitchen tables squawking about the downfall of the house of Pavlesic. How could Henry’s life have ended up like it has? For a fella who struck out Mel Ott three times, here he was just like everyone else, turning out loose daughters and aimless sons.
Henry’s voice came through the fog, calling for Rose. She wandered back toward the mottled light glowing near the door. When she got close enough, Henry stepped out with her tweed coat and nurse’s bag. “Bonaroti called. Skinny’s down the Merry-Go-Round. Trouble breathing.”
Rose turned away from Henry and he slid the coat over her arms. “Not unusual.” She was relieved to have an excuse to leave for a while.
Henry brushed lint from her shoulders. “Folks are sicker by the minute. Fog’s worse.” Henry said.
She faced Henry and buttoned the coat-collar, wishing he’d head back into the house.
He stepped closer. “Bonaroti didn’t want to take any chances.”
Rose wanted her warm gloves, but wasn’t about to delay leaving to get them. “Umhmm.” She reached for the bag.
Henry moved it out of her grasp. “He insisted you go.”
Rose nodded. She knew what Henry needed from her right then. She cleared her throat and grasped the bag handles, her hands covering his. She wanted to say all was forgiven, that there was much more for them to worry about.
They stared at each other and finally Henry released his grip on the bag. Rose settled it over her forearm and Henry stepped back. He pulled a set of knit gloves from his back pocket.
Rose pulled them on. “Thank you.” She felt a twinge of affection stir.
Henry dug his hands into his pockets. “Rose.”
“Henry,” she said.
“Better go.”
And, she did. Heading down the back hill, she thought of Skinny, her plan of action. She was sure it would be the usual type of call where he wanted a little attention more than anything else. Rose glanced back at the Tucharoni home and shook off her tormented thoughts. At least there was someone who needed her and she would not fail to be there.
* * *
The night lit up from the blast furnaces at the bottom of the hill, so powerful, not even the fog could keep the blazing shades of red under its cloak. She shuffled along, down the steps, feeling each one with her foot as though blind. The railing was moist from the dewy humidity, and seeped through her knitted gloves. She steadied herself, as though she’d never walked those steps before. Her heel caught on a crack in the cement and she fell, spinning backward and down. She grasped the metal, her nurse’s bag falling off her shoulder and she dangled there, butt nearly on the next step down. She wrenched herself upward, groaning.
“Nurse Pavlesic.” A voice came from a few steps above Rose. She could see just their feet stopping next to hers and felt their arms latched under her armpits, across her chest, heaving her upward. She turned and looked up into Mr. Sebastian’s face. She yanked down her crooked coat that had hiked up past her waist and felt for her hat, realizing she hadn’t put it on.
“Is everything all right? Theresa?” Rose said. She wheezed in the dense, heavy air, trying not to be noisy like Theresa and every respiratory case she’d dealt with the last few days. Her heart pummeled inside her chest. The words, “my daughter,” kept shooting around her brain. She knew it didn’t make sense, but there was no denying the connection she felt to Theresa.
Mr. Sebastian leaned down from two-steps above. “She’s having her usual problems, it was rough earlier though. After you left she turned the color of summer plums.”
Rose wrapped her arms around herself. “Jesus, did Dr. Bonaroti come?”
“No, no, like I said, this is all very commonplace, it comes and goes.”
Rose stared, not believing what she was hearing, the casual tone. “Well, call him next time. Call me.” Let me take care of her, Rose thought. I’m her mother, me.
“I will, Nurse.” He cleared his throat then stepped down another two stairs, meeting Rose at eye-level. “I’ve come up here every night for the last week. Did you know that?”
Rose looked away; the odor of whiskey accompanied his words. She hoped he didn’t drink as heavily as his wife seemed to. Both turned and started inching downward—their conversation as stilted as their steps. How would she have known that the man spent each of the fourteen nights he’d been in town, up on her hill?
“Magnificent view,” he said. “Not tonight of course. Overlook Terrace’s is much different. That’s a mistake, being there, across from the zinc mill. Theresa’s fragile, wheezing for years, but this is making it much worse.”
“So, you’ve come over here to check out the real estate?”
He stared at the side of Rose’s face. Her hand instinctively went to her ear, brushing her hair over the double lobe, out of habit.
He finally looked directly at Rose. “No. I’ve been coming here to talk to you, but I always change my mind before knocking on the door.”
She didn’t feel she
had to be coy with Mr. Sebastian. Rose assumed his concerns with the clinic were more practical than Mrs. Sebastian’s. He would want to know the money was well spent, but not be worried about whether the choice to fund the clinic would allow for fashionable dinner parties and balls with fancy people. Rose suspected that partially drove Mrs. Sebastian’s decisions—the prospect of a glitzy social life with those not associated with Donora’s healthcare situation.
“What? Your whole family just swoops in when the mood strikes?” Rose said. “Your wife wasn’t as shy.”
“No, well, like I said, I did not actually knock. But I like spontaneity, I admit it.”
“Pfft. It has its place. So? How can I help you? I have to make a call down at the Merry-Go-Round. It’s probably nothing, but people are particularly sick these past two days.”
Sebastian and Rose hastened their pace down the stairs; he occasionally took her elbow when her foot would lose ground on a step.
“Well, I kept coming to talk to you about the clinic, but something kept me from knocking on your door. Then I met you, saw you with Theresa and I’m even less sure we’re making the right decision. My wife is against spending money on the clinic—says she wants to see her money erected with brick and lined with marble walls and such.”
Rose didn’t have time to waste. She knew Skinny was probably mildly affected by the overbearing fog of the day, but she needed to be sure.
“Spit it out. Are you funding the clinic or not?”
He stopped and Rose stopped with him. He blew out air and crossed his arms. Rose looked down the hill to where Mr. Sebastian was staring. Rose was confused. A man in his position in the mill should not be this concerned with a small chunk of money donated to a cause that benefitted an entire town. Yank the money and be done with it or hand it over.
“It has value,” he said.
Rose suddenly understood how much he loved Theresa. She realized right then that seeing Rose care for his daughter must have had an impact. He must have come to believe everyone deserved the kind of treatment his daughter did. Still, she wondered why he was gazing down the hill like the mills were his lost love.
“I know what happened with your husband,” Mr. Sebastian said, clearly done with his end of the discussion of the clinic.
“It’s a small town,” Rose said. Her face flooded hot; relieved the fog was so thick he couldn’t see her embarrassment. It wasn’t any of his business, her husband losing his job for no good reason.
“He’s wrong, you know.”
Rose’s neck tightened. She wiggled her shoulders to loosen up the tension and flipped her hair back, brushing it behind her ears. She could feel her anger growing. She had no choice but to defend Henry.
“My husband meant well. He cares. In a way different than most. We’re hoping he gets his job back. Work is plentiful around here until you don’t have any,” Rose said.
Mr. Sebastian was staring past her again. Rose looked behind her to see what drew his attention. Nothing.
“You look familiar Rose. Have we met before the other day?”
Rose caught her balance as she stepped from the last stair onto the sidewalk that ran down Fifth Street to Meldon, and the Merry-Go-Round bar where a sick man was awaiting her arrival. She wanted to scream. Yes, he’d seen her before. Every day when he looked at his daughter he could see Rose’s face. Theresa was her baby and Rose wanted her back. She’d wanted her back for twenty whole years. But, if there was one thing Rose was sure of, she never met the family who adopted her baby so many years before.
Rose tapped her foot and sniffled, trying to be calm. “No. We’ve never met. Any chance of Henry getting the old job back? Maybe give him a shift at the Zinc mill?”
You owe me for a lifetime with my flesh and blood, Rose thought.
“There’s always a chance, but I don’t know. I’ll talk to his supervisor…”
Rose fixed her gaze hard on Sebastian’s. What bullshit.
Rose knew men were not very observant when it came to even the most important life events and she could not imagine that he’d remember what she looked like if he had seen her the day Rose gave her daughter away. She hoped he’d finish what he started to say about Henry losing his job so she stayed silent.
“I should be satisfied that Donora has such a compassionate nurse as you—that no person, even strangers go neglected. Theresa is lucky you’re here. And I’ll talk to my wife about rethinking her cause. I’ll tell her Nurse Shaginaw’s plan may not—”
“Dottie Shaginaw? What’s she got to do with it? She’s never been a supporter of our clinic. Thinks all the money should funnel into the mill hospital. As if the only people who count in town are the ones turning iron into steel. As if the rest of us are useless byproduct. As if she’s better than—”
Rose did not approve of her rivalry and insecurities entering into a discussion with the one man who could convince his wife to pay for the clinic. So she shut the hell up.
“Doc wants me to stop by tomorrow to check on Theresa.” Rose started walking across McKean, heading to Meldon, satisfied Mr. Sebastian had no idea who she was.
“Hurry on to your patient. Your husband must be very understanding of your position in the community to have you gone most of the day and half the night.”
Rose bit the inside of her cheek as she held back her words. Normally, Henry would barely register her comings and goings because he’d be resting up for his shift at the mill. The thought of Magdalena shocked her again. Perhaps she had been gone too much. But, hell, they’d been in school. Both of them good students, good kids, what good would it do to sit around listening to the soaps all damn day, if she could get her housework done and be a nurse? Yes, she was gone day and night but she had not been negligent.
Rose nodded, not wanting to push her luck with him, and they moved down the sidewalk. The echo of their shoes reached Rose’s ears, over the din of the mill, making her aware of their silence. The only things she wanted to say to him were improper; she wanted his daughter to know she was the woman who gave birth to her.
When they reached Meldon Avenue, Mr. Sebastian tipped his hat and Rose ducked under the roof that hid the door to the bar, relieved to be back in her element, ready to nurse someone back to health and feel as though she actually served a purpose.
* * *
The entrance to the Merry-Go-Round bar had a roller skate for a door handle. Skinny had screwed it into the wood when a brawl between a womanizer and a cuckold resulted in the original handle being knocked off. With a tug the door yawned open and a drape of blue cigarette smoke whooshed past her with warm heat. She fruitlessly waved the smoke away and stepped inside.
Rose hooked her coat onto the arm of one of the dilapidated coat-racks and heard it groan in protest. Across from the racks was a U-shaped bar. Eleven men sat like sculptures, only their arms moving to raise their beers to their lips. It wasn’t until Mr. Bresner waved her over that any of them looked her way. Their faces drooped with drink, as though their facial features had been melted by alcohol and endless shifts in the mill. Not even their eyes managed to hold their normal shape, even blinking too big a movement to make.
“Skinny?” Rose shouted as she walked past the bar heading toward the backroom.
One bar-sitter shoved his thumb over his shoulder toward the back door Rose was already heading for.
Rose pushed through the backroom door and flicked the light switch to the right of the door. Skinny was splayed across a cot; his enormous belly rose and fell with guttural snores. Rose snatched the evening paper from his desk, spread it on the chair then lay her bag on top popping it open. She hooked the stethoscope into her ears and paced across the sloped wooden floor to Skinny. His lungs were remarkably clear for all the mucus shuffling around. Definitely upper-respiratory—that was good. As though seven moves of the stethoscope was the charm, Skinny shot up throwing Rose back on her ass.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Rose tripped over her breaths.
“Nice gam
s, Rosie,” Skinny said. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, peering at her from his drooping posture, head bowed, breathing hard.
Rose’s dress had shimmied up her thighs to her garters. She scrambled to her feet and smoothed her dress. “I don’t have time for this shit,” Rose said. “Bonaroti called, squawking about how you had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
“Nah-uh, he said that? That man’s an alarmist.” Skinny said.
“People are getting sick. Schmidt nearly died today.”
“I heard.” Skinny rattled off the list of mostly men who were having trouble breathing that day. Rose knew these men all had compromised health before, before, what? Rose shook her head, she knew what before was. The fog. The money made from three miles of thriving mills was a trade-off, the smoke, a sign of success and pride. Some people were weaker than others, but Rose knew a good life was better than a long one.
“Well I’m glad I’m not counting on you to mourn my almost death some day.”
“You’ll outlast us all, Rosie.”
“Oh Christ, I hope not.”
The valley was always foggy and its men were strong, the strongest of their kind. Yes, the soot was a nuisance, making three times the work that other women had on a daily basis. Yes, the men did bone-crunching work, but they were born of steel, even the ones who emigrated from other countries, even those fellas had steel in their blood, strength like no other, or they would not have found their way to a place like Donora to do work like they did. People just end up where they’re supposed to be.
“What?” Skinny clapped his hands in front of Rose’s face. “People end up where they’re supposed to be? What in hell’s half acre are yunz muttering about?”
Rose shook her head—she didn’t realize she had spoken aloud her thoughts. She put the stethoscope into her ears, ordered Skinny to relax, and placed the metal face along several spots on his back. Skinny rambled about some fellas from Pittsburgh busting several bar stools earlier that day. Rose was satisfied with Skinny’s pink color, but warned him to take his history seriously, to call right away if he experienced any more trouble.
After the Fog Page 19
