After the Fog

by Kathleen Shoop

  “You can cough all you want,” he said, “but we need to talk. It’s life or death, Rose, and I need your help.”

  Rose pulled the rag away from her mouth, her hand dropping to her side. Was he really going to talk about himself after what had just happened?

  “That’s your ‘what now?’ Look, I know that look.”

  “Look Rose,” Buzzy took the phone and replaced it on its cradle. “Skinny was my friend. But, he’s gone now and I made a mistake. I was going to try to go behind your back. Maybe get the cash from Auntie Anna.” He looked away. “Or Henry, or well, you know how things go. And I’m…” He covered his face, his lips quivering.

  “Get the hell outta here. You’re not asking me for money, Buzzy Pavlesic. No way. Now? And with Skinny, his body not even cold? You’re unbelievable!”

  Buzzy stepped forward arms open, wanting a hug, but Rose stiffened and snatched the phone from its base, turning her back on Buzzy. She pushed the cradle down repeatedly, trying to get a free line. People were dying and this guy’s asking her to help him play another round of poker.

  “Rose,” Buzzy’s voice quivered. “They’ll kill me. They’ll break me limb from limb. Please. I know I screwed up before, but I’m begging you. I’ve never begged. Please.”

  Rose stopped pressing the cradle and by pure luck, the line opened and Alice the operator’s voice shot through the receiver. Rose asked her to place a call to Matthews to come and pick up Skinny’s body. Alice told her there were three more families who needed Rose immediately.

  Rose hung up the phone and started back through the kitchen to the hall.

  “Rose? Sis, please. They’ll hurt me, listen to me, please.”

  Rose waved Buzzy off as she swept by, setting out to take care of people who deserved it, who through no fault of their own were fighting off death. Not like Buzzy, some phony guy bellowing for fake help. That kind of thing, she had no time for.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, October 30th, 1948

  Rose had worked through the night with the eight docs in town, the firemen and anyone else who could help until the fog got to them, too, and they needed to head home for rest. At nine in the morning, Doc demanded she go home for breakfast and a chance to see a few minutes of the football game that would change her son’s life forever. Despite the poor quality of the air, the football game wasn’t cancelled. Autumnal fog was a part of half the games they played every single year. Rose and the rest of Donora were betting that after three full days of this heavy fog, on Saturday it would be gone. And, there was an important man coming for dinner that night. That dinner was the part she could actually control.

  Bonaroti understood, same as everyone in town, that football was everything to a mill town kid needing a scholarship. Rose agreed reluctantly to go home to eat, freshen up and to watch some of Johnny’s game but she would only do it if she were assigned calls to families on the hill near Legion Field.

  At home, she washed down her body, and hearing Henry snoring in bed, found she was still angry with him. Though it surprised her that the long night hadn’t deadened her anger, she was relieved that she wouldn’t have time to dwell on it. Not with what lay ahead.

  Rose moved quickly, washing clothes she had forbidden Sara Clara to touch, checking the icebox for the roast that she would cook for the Notre Dame scout that night. She would stop at Humphrey’s Grocer for beans later. All the while she kept putting the phone to her ear, listening for a connection to the operator to make sure someone wasn’t trying to reach her.

  Sometimes the phone would ring and she’d get an up update on the fog and the people it was affecting. Sometimes with the line busy, she would move to the next chore, telling herself that she would find a way to do her job, see Johnny’s football game, and knock the black socks right off the scout from Notre Dame.

  She heard someone on the stairs. Johnny was gathering his football uniform together.

  He grumbled past her while she scrubbed the stain of one of Henry’s shirts. “Okay son?” Rose said.

  “Yeah, no, yeah, nothing, Mum. I thought you’d be out to work by now.”

  “I just got home,” Rose said.

  Rose thought his unusual moodiness was nerves about the game. He always played his trumpet or sax before each game to relax him and Rose thought he was headed to his room to belt out some tunes before heading up the hill to the field on Waddell. She wasn’t usually home to hear him play but today her schedule had been upended and instead of just leaving, she was just arriving.

  By ten o’clock in the morning, after a solid hour in the cellar, scrubbing this, rinsing that, hanging mounds of laundry, Rose hauled a basket of mending up the cellar stairs, and headed to her bedroom where she would sit and put an end to an eternal stream of holes that marred everyone’s socks and stockings.

  She stepped into the hall and saw the entire family, except Johnny, gathered outside the front room. She heard instruments being tuned. She expected to hear a blast of hot trumpet air or moody sax tunes, but she heard, instead, the distinct sound of a violin. It sounded as if more than one person was playing. An angry, choppy tune giving way to a smooth, rolling phase almost made Rose cry.

  She shifted the basket to her hip and slumped toward her family, quietly absorbed in what was going on in the room. The music stopped, startling her then started again, the bold notes of a violin, underscored by a cello.

  “Heavenly,” Sara Clara whispered, standing behind Rose. “Isn’t it? We thought you’d gone to work! John’ll be so pleased. I knew you’d want to hear. I do so love when he plays that sweet violin of his. His interview is going beautifully. I just knew it would!”

  Rose ignored Sara Clara, and worked her way through the clot of family members, bumping them with the basket and peered into the room. Two men sat with Johnny as he played. She looked from the musical group to Henry, Leo, Auntie and Unk, standing there, heads cocked, drawn to the music like dirt to an open wound. The notes mesmerized, full and rich, as though an entire orchestra had gathered right under their noses.

  The hair on Rose’s neck stood up. Why in hell, before the biggest game of John’s life, was he was hosting a concert and why did everyone but Rose know about it? She glared at Henry.

  But Henry’s eyes were closed. He was leaning against the wall with eyes shut and a smile, as though the music was filling his soul with what Rose had removed the day before.

  Leo had bent down by Rose and picked up a piece of paper that was on the floor. “Here!” he said, handing it to her

  Rose read: “Do not disturb, “Scout” from Julliard to see John Simon Pavlesic.” It was written in Johnny’s chicken scratch. Underneath, Henry’s scrawl, “Good luck son, you can do it!”

  Rose looked back toward the room. She’d always been a busy woman, but how was it possible? Johnny was such an accomplished violinist and she didn’t know that? He mentioned learning other instruments, but she didn’t realize how serious he was. She recalled what Joey Saltz had said. Now this written exchange between father and son. Rose had been pushed aside, yet again.

  Rose flushed at the betrayal. She had been working after all, not spending her days at tea parties, having her hair done up at the parlor. She would not be pushed aside again. What the hell was she waiting for? Johnny was her son and she had a right to know what was going on. Rose strutted into the living room, stopping across from Johnny in his undershirt and football pants, playing the violin.

  Rose couldn’t help but be taken by the way his fingertips worked the strings, the bow sliding over one string then the next as though he’d been playing the violin since leaving the womb. The brass instruments were always what he played in his band and at school.

  A stumpy man played the cello. His thick arms strained his suit coat at the seams while a hat was pulled down nearly over his eyes. Johnny’s music teacher, Mr. DeTurk, stood with his arms crossed watching and grinning as if he had struck a coal seam in his back yard. He raised his steepled fingers to his lip
s as the rest of the Pavlesics squeezed into the room, listening and watching in awe.

  When the music ended Rose couldn’t form words. She couldn’t even form thoughts. She was as moved as if she had been witness to the miracle of the loaves and fishes. But, she was emotionally and physically tired from the last day and most of all, she felt betrayed.

  She moved the clothesbasket to her other hip as Johnny shook the cello player’s hand and gave a bow to his family. His face was radiant, his eyes glowing. Rose was impressed with how happy he looked. Henry slipped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

  “That boy is good, Rose. He is not just some high school band member.”

  Rose bit her lip. Sure, the kid could play but that didn’t mean anything.

  Johnny took the basket and set it next to the wall and then took Rose’s hand and led her across the room to the cellist who was now showing Leo how to use the bow. “Mom, this is Michael Turnbow. He’s the director of strings at Julliard. And you know my teacher, Mr. DeTurk, right?”

  Rose nodded and smiled and told herself to be cordial. Since when was Julliard in their college conversation? Rose shook the man’s hand and then Mr. DeTurk’s.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pavlesic,” Mr. DeTurk said. “I know you’re aware of the degree of raw talent John embodies, I know how much you want him to do what’s right, get an education, set goals.” He glanced at Johnny smiling. “We’re so lucky this wretched fog only delayed Mr. Turnbow, but it didn’t keep him away for good.” He laughed and Rose wondered what in the world was so funny. “Juilliard can offer John all the polish he lacks. He belongs there and I’m so pleased to know a family like yours understands his gift.”

  Rose wanted to wring DeTurk’s neck. He knew nothing of what she thought. She was ashamed and angry and certain music was not a solid career path. Not even with a trip to Julliard first.

  She frowned at Johnny long enough for him to get the message she was not happy and then she ushered the entire bunch into the kitchen for a pre-game meal. Everyone but Johnny. He was nearly late for pre-game warm-ups and Rose didn’t care if the Pope himself was sitting here listening to Johnny play, she would not allow him to be late for his game.

  Rose walked Johnny to the door so he could leave for pre-game. Mr. Turnbow regaled the rest of them with stories of music in New York.

  Rose didn’t want to argue with Johnny. She was hurt he’d kept this secret. Another child hiding something. The hurt pulsed inside, making her want a shot of vodka.

  “That was really good, that playing with Mr. Turnbow.” Rose brushed his hair off his forehead. “It’s a lick better than playing on some man’s back porch up in the Hill. I know you love music. You’ve convinced me. I agree you should play in a band in the off-season, between semesters, the whole shebang. You made your point. You are good.”

  Johnny closed his eyes then smiled at Rose.

  “But now, you go on and show ‘em, Johnny, show those football scouts, what you’re made of, show ‘em what you want, what you can do with that arm of yours.” Rose squeezed Johnny and whispered into his ear. “Everyone is town’s counting on you. It’s not just us.”

  He pulled away and grinned. “I know, Mum, I will. I’ll show them.”

  Back in the kitchen Rose was beyond solicitous to her guests, and enjoyed hearing Mr. Turnbow say how talented her son was. They were not going to think she was a poor hostess, even one put on the spot. She would have wiped their asses if they asked her to, just to prove she wasn’t a complete wretch. The cello player raved about Rose’s breakfast and in his sincere delivery, Rose found herself charmed and even felt a bit guilty when he left.

  When they shook hands he also handed her some paperwork in a linen, cream-colored envelope and promised that at least half of Johnny’s tuition for the first year of school would be covered. Rose felt disingenuous smiling, knowing there was no way in hell Johnny would attend Julliard over Notre Dame. No way in hell.

  * * *

  Henry felt some solace knowing Rose didn’t attend Johnny’s games. Her work, housework, and fear she’d witness Johnny breaking his neck kept Rose away. So, Henry arranged for a money exchange to occur at the game. Thank the Lord for Dottie and her kind, wealthy soul. Her three thousand dollar loan would cover Buzzy’s gambling debts. Luckily she’d gotten the funds together without drawing attention from her parents.

  Before her hospital shift she’d give Henry the money, and he would wait for one of Fat Gordon’s goons to collect it. Buzzy was in hiding, somewhere, to keep his legs and fingers intact until the money shuffle was complete. This was a plan Henry could live with. He would have to. He hated lying to Rose, but he couldn’t let Buzzy be maimed or worse, even if he was a jackass.

  Henry made it to the Legion Field just as the marching band was heading into the stands. Not that he could see the individual band members clearly as their black and white uniforms hid behind the fog. The robust music the band normally played while filing into the bleachers came out as more of a bleating, mooing sound, the darkened field making even the most surefooted horn-blower pay more attention to where he was stepping than to what he was playing.

  Henry waited behind others to head into the bleachers and squinted, looking for Johnny. Although shocks of the football players’ orange uniforms peeked through the blackened air, creating a hazy auburn glow, he couldn’t identify where exactly his son stood. Henry was anxious standing there with Unk, hoping his breathing would be okay outside; the old man insisted on attending and Unk had blackmailed Henry into agreeing.

  “I slaved in that mill since I was 13.” He had poked at Henry’s chest, his voice quavering as he was clearly trying to sound firm. “I served in the first world war, I’ve lived with Auntie Anna for what feels like centuries. I deserve to see my grand nephew do his family, this whole town proud.”

  Henry had opened his mouth to argue, but Unk put his hand up to silence Henry.

  “I know that brother of yours owes a shitload of cash to that old fuck Fat Gordon. I’ll blow the whole shebang to old Rosie if you don’t take me with you.”

  Henry had sighed and plopped Unk’s felt hat on his pointy noggin. He couldn’t leave the man in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and listening to the roar of the crowd up the hill, crying because he couldn’t be there to see his nephew play. And while Henry planned to spill everything to Rose once he got everything level and right, he was not ready to confess yet another scheme. Besides, Rose never came to the games.

  “Rose’ll kick my ass if you drop dead, Old Man,” Henry said at the field. He patted Unk on the back after a fit of coughing. The toots and thumps of the band, the smell of popcorn and grilled hot dogs, normally invoked pleasure, but all the coughing and hacking by every person who passed, worsened his morose mood.

  Henry maneuvered Unk up three rows of the bleachers, through the murky swirl of air, stepping on toes, bumping into knees and feeling his way until he found a space big enough for them.

  He craned his neck to see Dottie. She wasn’t the type of woman to be late for her shift. She cared for Henry, he knew that, and a lot, but she had a job to do and she wasn’t about to sacrifice it for him. She was just like Rose. Except, well, except for the fact Dottie wasn’t his wife.

  Henry felt a hand on his shoulder, spun around to Dottie in the row behind him, smiling like an angel. She slipped a paper bag over his shoulder, and Henry reached for it clasping Dottie’s hand. She slid hers out from under his, patting him as she leaned over and kissed Henry on the forehead then disappeared without a word.

  Two racing heartbeats later, the bag of money inside his jacket, Henry felt another hand, a vice-grip on his shoulder. When Henry turned he was up close with an unshaven, pompadoured man, mouth opened in a snide grin, a tooth missing in front. Henry couldn’t miss the whiskey on his breath. Henry reached for the bag and passed it back over his shoulder, not wanting to share even the shortest conversation with this man.

  The man scrunched up his face and laughed like
a hyena. Henry was glad the sounds of the football game drowned out the man’s chilling cackle. With a final squeeze of Henry’s shoulder, the man released him and was gone.

  Henry’s posture relaxed and he let out the air he’d been unconsciously holding. He rubbed his forehead, and ran his hand through his hair, waiting for his blood pressure to return to normal. The chill of committing another act of betrayal, no matter how noble, receded from his mind.

  That is, until he looked down the bleachers, past Unk and down one row, and only two people away. Rose was sitting there, staring at him. Henry saw her through the fog, and could tell she was wondering what the hell Henry had been up to with the cloak and dagger act.

  A roar came from the crowd, starting from down below. The fans sitting the lowest could see through the fog the best. Another roar, the fans on their feet, cheering, at something good. Henry could not see, but Rose turned away from him, overwhelmed by the people near her, tugging, cheering saying Johnny had just made a first down. Henry could hear them say Johnny was impressing the hell out of every scout.

  Henry grinned, heard a man next to him congratulating him. He hadn’t realized anyone had taken the seat. Mr. Sebastian. Henry almost felt a pang of compassion; the man was out of his element but clearly wanted be part of the people in town. But, then the man started chattering, bending Henry’s ear about something, it was hard to hear with all the cheering but something about family secrets, the value of keeping them, and keeping your name clean and clear.

  What the hell was Sebastian blabbering about? Henry wished he’d shut up because he was too preoccupied with his son’s playing, Unk’s coughing, and scared shitless about what his wife just witnessed to make sense of what the blowhard was trying to get across.