After the Fog

by Kathleen Shoop

  On the way home, Henry had run into Johnny’s friends. They had already dropped Johnny home because he was too drunk to play in the band that night. They’d said that instead of dropping the booze off to the scout, Johnny had drunk half of it himself. Like true friends would, the boys made sure the scout would come to dinner after the game on Saturday, but Henry wasn’t sure how they’d hide the fact Johnny never delivered the expensive booze as Rose had ordered him to do.

  Now even in the safety of his own house, he felt small as if he were some helpless kid. And his thought to come clean, disintegrated at the sight of Rose kneeling in prayer in their bedroom. They’d both had enough for one day. Normally he’d coax Rose out of her prayers and into bed, but that night, he just needed to be near her.

  He sighed. He wished he’d had her faith. Not that he didn’t believe in God, he just couldn’t stomach the rigmarole of organizing the great being who gave and took life from all into a series of behaviors and chants and expectations that no one honestly ever upheld.

  Still, he thought some of her religious behaviors might seep into his skin and save them both. He knelt beside her and put his elbows on the bed like hers, hands clasped, eyes closed, searching for a prayer he might recite.

  He felt Rose move and when he opened his eyes and turned she was already sliding her arms around his neck, straddling him, covering him with kisses as desperate as he felt.

  He grabbed her ass and pulled her into him with a clean jerk. Her head fell to the side; she smiled without opening her eyes, and pressed her pelvis into him. He dove into her neck and worked down her cleavage with his lips, his fingers working the buttons of her dress. He pushed the neckline of her dress over her shoulders and ran his hands around her back, unhooking her bra in one movement.

  She wiggled out of the bra and leaned back on her hands, as if she were sunbathing. He grabbed at her, wanting every bit of her in his mouth. With one arm around her waist he lifted her off his lap, to the floor, him between her legs. He stopped kissing her long enough to unbutton the rest of her dress to the hips and pulled the whole thing over her lifted ass. He tossed the dress aside and ran his fingers down her lips as he pushed against her. She nipped his forefinger, and he pulled her underpants off.

  “What do you want, Rose?”

  “You, inside me.”

  “Nothing else?”

  She shook her head and pulled him down by the shirt, kissing him so hard his bottom lip began to swell. He kept his weight off her body while she worked his belt off, his jeans, then his boxers. She grabbed him around his penis and he thought he might come right on her.

  She moved her hand around his balls and back up his shaft before wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him into her. She ran her hands over his back, latching on like he couldn’t get inside far enough to fill up whatever it was she was missing.

  He rolled onto his back. She perched on him, moving slowly, her hair dropped over one shoulder and their gazes connected. In that moment, Henry saw kindness, relief, and love, in Rose’s face. If not for that, he might wonder if she even liked him.

  Henry watched Rose come on top of him. Her pink face relaxed, and she appeared twenty years younger, the way she had the first time he met her, the day she made him love her, feeling like it was the first time he figured out a body could feel that way.

  He got up on his elbows and took Rose’s face in his hands, kissed her. He tasted salt on his lips. Was she crying?

  He laid back down, Rose on top and she squeezed him harder, as though their connection was keeping her alive. And, they fell asleep like that. Neither one bothered to clean up. Neither one bothered to even move.

  Chapter 11

  Thursday, October 28th, 1948

  Rose sat up in bed and reached across expecting to feel Henry’s vacated spot. But her hand whacked warm flesh. She flopped back onto the pillow and flung her arm across her forehead as she tried to piece together the events of the last few days.

  Not only wasn’t Henry on the night shift, but he had no shift to work at all. She swung her feet off the bed and sat on the edge wiggling her toes. She hoped the movement might jar her empty memory and get her blood working its way back through her body. She looked toward the mirror on the wall and patted her matted hair. Her pale, sunken face disapproved of the night before.

  Drunk as a skunk came to mind as she recalled the previous night, but not many details. Mostly she was struck by a heavy sense of regret. Henry stirred and rolled toward her, rubbed her lower back, massaging her tailbone. The spot that always seemed to ache.

  “John came in early this morning. You were dead asleep,” Henry grumbled. “Said he did speak to the Notre Dame scout.”

  Rose felt the weight on the bed shift and heard Henry flick open his Zippo lighter, inhaling fresh smoke. She glanced at him, remembering Johnny had gone to drop off some booze for the scout as a little “welcome to Donora,” gesture.

  He drew on the cigarette with one hand; his other hand cradled a yellow piece of paper, his poetry no doubt.

  Rose tossed the clock onto the bed. “What’s with this damn John business? His name is Johnny, end of story.” She strained to hear the morning noises but didn’t hear much. She was normally the conductor of such morning noises, but the smell of coffee was clear and present.

  “Ahh, the boy’s growing up is all,” said Henry. “Call him John once or twice and it will be over.”

  “What was his answer? He’s coming?”

  Henry pulled Rose onto her back and looked down into her eyes. “The scout?” he said. “Of course.”

  Rose did not have time for fooling around, hugging or anything of the sort. She squirmed away and went to her washbasin. The water was polluted, tinged grey from multiple uses and made her pause before dousing her rag in it.

  “So Johnny’s coming around, eh? I knew he would. He’s a good boy, did what I said, everyone’s happy.”

  Henry looked away.

  Rose shrugged, took her Camay bar and headed to the bathroom annoyed that no little night-time fairy entered her room and changed the water in her wash basin. Or a maid, a girl as Mrs. Sebastian had called her. Rose had been so worried that her first baby might have been raised in squalor by some childless woman who wanted slave labor—a little girl to do what she didn’t feel like. Rose should be grateful Theresa grew up wealthy. Yet, something was wrong with the picture of Theresa’s life. Something didn’t fit.

  In the bathroom she smacked the roof of her mouth again with her tongue, then threw water right from the faucet into her mouth. She lathered and scrubbed herself with her Camay beauty bar, and a hangover induced queasiness swept over her. She covered her mouth and examined herself in the mirror, her graying skin, and swallowed her nausea. She noticed a black speck under her forefinger nail and once the sickness died back she grabbed the Camay again.

  Rose dug her nail into the Camay and moved it over the surface of the soft cake, trying to dislodge the dirt particle. As she worked the soap into her nails, Rose couldn’t help her mind from wandering down different paths, to the clinic’s funding, to Henry, Magdalena, Buzzy, Sara Clara, that damned to hell Dottie. All of them fought for Rose’s attention, but it was Theresa she couldn’t push away. If she could just read her file and see her again she would know the truth and she would know what to do next. She was Theresa’s nurse after all. And as a nurse, Rose could do anything.

  * * *

  In the bedroom, Henry shuffled around, pulling a clean, collared shirt and casual slacks from his dresser. Rose reached behind her to hook her bra; feeling like that simple movement was too much activity after the night before. How much did she drink? She was no lightweight. She tried to recall the night’s events.

  Rose froze, hands still behind her.

  The bar. Jack Dunley. Buzzy. Mr. Sebastian.

  It all swarmed back.

  She dropped her hands and covered her mouth. She couldn’t put it all together, but she felt like she’d done something wro
ng. Had she?

  “Hen, I saw Mr. Sebastian and he seemed to imply you didn’t get fired for sticking up for the colored fella, that it had something to do with this fog? And then Jack Dunley, now that I’m thinking about it, he seemed to think it had more to do with Dottie…the day your foot was injured.”

  Henry buttoned his shirt, avoiding her.

  Rose sat on the bed with her stockings and garters. She would wear her robe until it was time to put on her uniform. Rose wasn’t sure she wanted Henry to clarify what any of that meant. Maybe she should let it go. Be one of those women who just did enough in life to get by. But she couldn’t let that happen…she couldn’t keep from questioning.

  “How the hell does Dottie’s name keep popping into every damn conversation I have lately? The Sebastians, Doc Bonaroti, too. She doesn’t know about Mag—” She stopped smoothing one stocking just before she was to lock it into place, remembering Dottie had been at the bar with Buzzy and his crew.

  Henry combed his hair, parting it in the mirror. Though he didn’t make eye contact with Rose she saw it in his reflection, the surprise in his eyes, the surrender.

  “I didn’t think I’d have to tell you why exactly I got fired,” he said. “I thought I’d be back at work. Stupid in light of things.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Well, which is it? Is something going on with you and Dottie or Dottie and your brother or are you just on a mission to save the less fortunate souls of Donora?”

  Henry laid the comb on the dresser and sat beside her. She spilled sideways into his shoulder and then straightened, tugging the second stocking on and making a run with a jagged nail. She nearly burst into tears at the sight of the tear. She didn’t even know the truth, but she didn’t have to. All she knew was Henry had kept yet another thing from her and that was all that mattered.

  She rubbed her temples, listening to Henry’s rendition. She couldn’t look at him, but she felt the bed rise when he stood. He paced as he told his story of his breakdown at work. Rose kneaded the bridge of her nose and peeked through her fingers at Henry, his hands moving for emphasis as he explained that he had lost his mind. That he had been feeling sorry for himself, with the kids headed off to college the next year, remembering all the promise his life held as a baseball player and college bound kid.

  “And then, there was the colored fella standing there, being shit on by some fucking hunky and I had just met with Bonaroti and he’d filled my melon with all that bull about the impurities coming from the mills.”

  Rose straightened and wrapped her arms around her waist squeezing her bony midsection. Henry’s face was alive as she hadn’t seen it in twenty years.

  Henry knelt in front of Rose, massaging her knees. “And I just went nuts. I scaled the crane like a fucking monkey, jumping around, screaming about all this injustice in the world, these big things like poison in the air and the fact the colored man was treated like vermin and really, inside all I was doing was yelling about the fact that I, the guy with all the promise, finished things up with nothing even close to his potential…then, getting down, I stepped in the wrong spot at the wrong time and some slag splashed out, onto my heel…”

  Rose ran her hand through Henry’s hair then patted his shoulder. She knew what Henry meant, but it was no excuse to act such a fool that you get fired. Rose wanted to tell him to toughen up because there was no room for this horseshit in their lives. Wouldn’t she just love to do the same, go crazy for all the injustice in the world?

  “And Dottie?”

  Henry turned away and stood.

  “Hen? What does any of what you just said have to do with neb-nose Dottie? Your brother was in that bar playing cards last night, with Dottie, looking over his shoulder.” Rose felt her insides shifting around, as though her body knew something her mind didn’t want to admit.

  He sighed and sat on the bed, his back to Rose. “Nothing to worry about. Same old stuff that always has you upset with Dottie. Nothing that means anything. And Buzz left the bar. I’m sure he was gone before you were even done with your call to Skinny. It’s not like you sat there all night drinking or something.”

  Rose flinched and stole a glance at Henry. Had someone called him and told him she was boozing it up with another man? He sure was friendly the night before and no one would have called that morning, so, he couldn’t know how she’d been drinking. Even if he did, it wasn’t as though she’d done anything wrong, even if she felt like she had, even if she couldn’t really remember.

  Rose attached the final latch from garter to stocking and dug her fingers into Henry’s arm. “Dottie doesn’t know anything about Magdalena, does she? She’s been around an awful lot lately and I don’t like her weaseling into our lives, I don’t like her knowing things that aren’t hers to know.”

  Henry held Rose’s gaze. “You should worry more about drinking too much while making calls than what Dottie’s up to, don’t you think?”

  Rose released Henry’s arm and smoothed his shirt where she’d been gripping him. She nodded and as she got to the door she thought she heard Henry sigh. The kind of sigh a person let go when he realized he’d just gotten out of a mess by the skin of his teeth. So she drank too much the night before. She deserved a little drink now and then. She stopped there.

  “I believe you Hen. I do.” She had to. If she couldn’t trust Henry, even after he kept a secret with Magdalena, whom could she trust? Rose glanced over her shoulder, catching the sight of Henry buckled over, head in hands. Was his posture that of a man who’d told a lie and another and at least a third in the hopes of making the first go away? No, it was man who needed to find a job and that would best be done without Rose coaching him all the way. She would trust Henry and focus on her responsibilities. Someone had to keep things right. And, that would have to be Rose.

  * * *

  Rose drummed her fingers on her forehead, giving herself a pep talk. A little headache never hurt anyone. She’d grown accustomed to Leo being with her. That day, she’d come to appreciate the mental diversion Leo afforded, his presence gently leading her from the life she could no longer control to nursing, where she seemed to be master of her universe.

  She stalked into the yard then stopped, struck by the darkness, and checked her watch for the time. Was she earlier than she thought? The fog was heavy and she had to hold her wrist close to her face. She tilted it to catch a sliver of light and read the time. She was not late for work at all.

  Now this was unusual fog. Rose coughed and snatched at the air, trying to capture a chunk of it, as though that were possible. And yet, in a way it was. She could taste the metals in her mouth, the grainy remnants of the mills. She coughed again, stuck her head inside the door, yelling to Unk and everyone who was listening that Unk should not go out that day. If she could feel the heaviness of the fog, if it could make her sputter, then it was no time for someone with health issues to gallivant around Donora.

  “Ellooooooooo!” Mrs. Tucharoni’s Italy-infused voice carried through the fog to Rose.

  The woman must have guessed Rose came out of the house when she opened the door and a bright enough light pushed into the yard through the fog. Rose stepped quietly, hoping to disappear into the blackness without having to talk to the woman who birthed the boy who’d impregnated Rose’s daughter.

  But, as though Mrs. Tucharoni had headlights for eyes, she cut Rose off in the yard, waddling faster than Rose would have thought she could.

  “Have to go, Mrs. Tucharoni. See you later,” Rose said, and heard a string of Italian words tossed at her back as she strode away.

  Too much to do. First she had to stop at the Saltz home to work on Joey’s polio-stricken legs. Rose’s stomach clenched at the multi-layered nursing tasks required. Henry’s words came back to her—she was compassionate with her patients. She was, but she kept her distance. She had to if she wanted to continuously traipse through the guts of her neighbors’ broken down lives. She returned to where Mrs. Tucharoni was standing an
d pointed at a sheet hanging from the clothesline.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow one of these, right?”

  Mrs. Tucharoni raised her chin toward the sheet in agreement then grabbed Rose’s arm as she reached for the sheet. Rose turned; the scent of lemon wafted from the woman’s freshly washed hair.

  “Sara Clara.” Mrs. Tucharoni said slowly. “She have shower? Shower for Magdalena. For baby. I want to say—”

  “Later,” Rose knew how rude she was being, but hearing that yet another decision had been made for her, that another person was planning something for Rose’s daughter without her permission, that people were talking about this as though perfectly normal, was too much for her to take. Didn’t any of these people realize that each reference to this pregnancy was a knife in her spine? It was a blatant reminder that she had not been Magdalena’s confidante at any stage leading up to and past her discovery her daughter was pregnant. Control of her life was an illusion.

  Rose stomped away. She didn’t have time for musing about things she could not change so she wrapped herself in a plan of action for her patient, Joey Saltz. It was where Rose wanted to live forever, where no one caused her trouble that she couldn’t handle.

  Mrs. Tucharoni called again and Rose froze. The woman couldn’t see Rose, but her voice, what she had said, what was behind the words, suddenly hit Rose. She had not become the mother she thought she would. But she couldn’t help it. She had no choice in the matter. She would never be like Mrs. Tucharoni, the mother who could look at a pregnant teen and think it was a good thing. Rose looked back into the fog and though she couldn’t see through it, she could clearly see her life.

  Work had saved her once and it would again. Rose realized she couldn’t depend on Henry, or his family, or her children. She straightened her shoulders, and headed for Joey Saltz’s; through fog so dark she couldn’t see the curb of the sidewalk, the street lamps illuminating only an arms-length of space below them. She hadn’t been the kind of mother she wanted to be. Obviously, her family thought she fell short, keeping secrets from her, and with that realization, she turned her feet, her mind, toward work.