I’m not asking a lot, she wanted to say. Just visit her once in a while, that’s all. Sit with her one evening so I can get out, catch my breath. So little, yet it would help me so much.
The memory of her grandmother’s most recent stroke cut through Rose like the cold December wind outside. In May, eight months ago, but it had seemed more like winter then than now. The only blessing was that now Nonnie was silent, except for the garbled sounds she made. She sat in front of the television all day, her mouth frozen in that odd twisted smirk, as if she were laughing inside at some secret joke.
Regaining her speech would take some time, the doctor said, because the words were scrambled in her brain. Like she’d say “door” if the phone was ringing, or “pillow” when she needed to use the toilet. Though now at least she could hobble to the bathroom with a cane.
Still, I’m the one who has to handle it all. Dress and feed her before I can leave her with Mrs. Slatsky, then off to work without a moment to myself, an hour crammed on the subway. All day juggling the phones, taking dictation, typing for Mr. Griffin. Then back at night, exhausted, wanting only to relax and close my eyes. But first Nonnie, feed her, clean her if she’s had an accident, help her with her medicine. And is she the least bit grateful? Half a dozen times in the night, she pounds her cane on the wall, waking me up. Just for the pleasure, I swear, of making me get up, come to her, see what she wants.
Rose hated feeling resentful, but she couldn’t help it. What would it would be like, she wondered with a pang of longing, if she could walk away, leave her grandmother and that dark, hot little box of an apartment which was slowly suffocating her to death?
If she could move away. And marry Brian.
She pictured it then, so clearly, the house they would live in. Airy rooms painted in pastels, windows wide open to let the sun in. And a garden, even just a strip of grass, a few tulips, a tree or two.
There would be just the two of them, Brian and her. Each morning, the miracle of waking up to find him beside her in bed, then the joy of a whole day together, not just minutes snatched here and there when she could steal away from Nonnie.
Then her sunny rooms faded into gray reality. Her heart sank.
[96] Who would take care of Nonnie? There was scarcely enough to pay Mrs. Slatsky for what little grudging help she gave, much less a full-time nurse or a convalescent home. And forget about Marie. Clare too. She remembered the time she’d called Clare, pleading, begging her to come and help.
And Clare’s soft, placating voice had crooned over the long-distance connection, “You mustn’t feel you’re alone in this, Rose. God is with you.”
And believe it or not, a few days later, a box came in the mail containing a leather-bound book of Psalms and a scapular medal that had been blessed (her note said) by the late Pope John himself.
Rose had slammed them both into the trash can. Then wept, ashamed at herself for the sacrilege she’d committed.
“Thanks, Father, I appreciate it.” Pete’s voice broke into her thoughts.
And Rose knew, just looking at him, that Pete was apologizing to Father for what was inside the crumpled envelope he’d just slipped him. The Church expected a minimal donation, but on Pete’s salary as a clerk at Do-Rite Hardware on Ocean Avenue, it was probably only a fraction of the minimum.
Rose thought guiltily: Here I am, wallowing in self-pity, as if I’m the only one with a problem. Marie and Pete, my God, how on earth do they manage?
She followed them outside, while Clare lingered in the vestibule, talking shop with Father Donahue. Sunlight glittered off the hoods of parked cars, off the dirty snow chunked along the curb. Rose shivered, wishing she had something better than this worn camelhair coat to keep herself warm.
The baby began to fuss, squirming against Rose. She rocked him, pretending it was her own baby she was holding, hers and Brian’s. Someday we’ll be married, but it won’t be like this.
Brian, at Columbia, would be finishing his dissertation this year. So he’d be through with his assistantships, and he could land a full-time appointment at Brooklyn or even Kingsborough. Maybe then she could afford to give up her job, go to college herself. Put Nonnie in a nursing home or, dammit, just send her railway express up to Clare in Syracuse.
No matter what, as long as she had Brian, everything would turn out all right.
[97] “Here, give him to me,” Marie was saying, her breath puffing out in a frosty white plume. “It’s time for his bottle. And don’t he let you know it. A pair of lungs on this kid you wouldn’t believe.”
Rose eased him into her sister’s arms. “He’s beautiful, Marie. You’re lucky. Three perfect kids.”
And free, too, of Nonnie.
For a moment the grimness left Marie’s face, and her eyes lit up, moist with pride and yearning. “Yeah, they’re okay.”
While Marie fidgeted with the baby, Rose reached into her purse. A twenty, that’s all she had. For groceries, and she’d intended to buy a baby gift with what was left. Well, little Gabriel wouldn’t miss a rattle or a pair of booties, and Marie could use the money.
She folded the bill in half, and when Pete wasn’t looking, slipped it into Marie’s hand.
Marie flashed her a startled look, then quickly lowered her eyes, two bright spots of color appearing on the bleakness of her once-pretty face. She jerked her head in a sheepish nod of thanks, and Rose caught the hard glint of tears in her eyes.
The awkward moment passed, and Marie, baby balanced against one arm like a sack of groceries, was moving ahead, brisk with purpose.
“Hey listen, kiddo, I hate to run out on you and the Virgin Mary back in there, but we’ve gotta go. Pete had to practically beg his boss for the time off, and if he’s late ... well, you know. It took him six months just to find this job, shitty boss, weekend shift and all. Anyway, I left Bobby and Missy with my neighbor Kathleen, and she’s got two of her own. She’ll be climbin’ the walls if I don’t get back soon.”
“It’s okay,” Rose said. “How about stopping by next Sunday, after church? Nonnie’s usually in a pretty good mood then. Besides, she hasn’t seen the baby.”
Marie frowned. “What’s the point? We’d just get into a fight, like always. Nothing’s changed. If anything, she’s worse since she got sick. Jesus Christ, I don’t know how you stand it.”
Rose wanted to scream out, I don’t know how I stand it either. It’s worse than you can possibly imagine. But who else is there?
But she held herself in. No use unloading on Marie. She shrugged, and said quietly, “I have to.”
Rose held her sister’s gaze. She stared into eyes the same odd [98] pale blue as Nonnie’s, but more human, a glimpse into the heart that lay beneath her tough brittle shell.
“I always envied you,” Marie said in a voice that was softer, more earnest than her usual one. “You’re stronger. Smarter. Not like Clare and me. We took the easy way out.” Her hand shot out, thin cold fingers gripping Rose’s wrist. “Don’t let her beat you, Rose. Don’t ever give up.”
Rose drew back, thrown off balance. She was astonished. Marie? Envious of her?
“Shit.”
Pete’s cry tore her attention from Marie. Rose turned, saw him staring angrily at his car, a battered green Valiant speckled with rust. A ticket flapped under one windshield wiper.
He ripped it free, then turned to deliver a savage kick to the red-tagged parking meter. “Two minutes, those bastards. They couldna give us two more fuckin’ minutes.”
“C’mon, Pete, no sense gettin’ all worked up about it now,” Marie cajoled wearily. “There’s nothin’ we can do.” She turned back to Rose, giving her hand a quick little squeeze. “Hey, listen, thanks, for the ... you know. Every little bit helps. Come see us sometime, anytime, I’m always home. Hell, where else would I be?” She jerked her head toward the church entrance. “Say goodbye to the Blessed Virgin for me, will you? I’m not up to it. One more minute of staring into that halo of hers and I’ll go blind.”<
br />
Like an alleycat landing on its feet, Marie was her old self again, leaving Rose wondering if she had imagined the other Marie of a moment ago.
Rose couldn’t help but laugh. It was true about Clare. Yet she felt ashamed somehow, having such uncharitable thoughts right here on the steps of Holy Martyrs.
“I will,” Rose promised. She kissed Marie’s cold cheek, and waved to Pete, who was already in the car, gunning the engine.
She felt torn between loving her sister, and wanting to throttle her.
Now to deal with Clare, as if she didn’t already have enough to handle. Sweet, saintly, helpless Clare. She watched her sister emerge from the church, screwing her face against the harsh light like a baby, her petulant child’s mouth rounding in a small O of disappointment when she saw that Marie had gone.
[99] “Marie couldn’t wait,” Rose told her. “She was in some kind of hurry.”
“Oh, my fault,” Clare answered cheerfully. “Father and I got so caught up, we lost track of the time. I’m afraid we had a little disagreement. Father thinks it’s bad for the Church, this Vatican Council of Pope Paul’s. I didn’t think so at first, but I suppose Father must be right. ...”
Rose felt a prickle of irritation. Why didn’t Clare ever hold out for her own opinions? They should have taken some of the starch from her wimple and put it in her backbone.
She checked her watch. “We have plenty of time before your bus. Why not come back to the apartment? Nonnie would like that.”
“Nonnie, yes.” Clare nodded. “You know, Rose, I say a rosary for her every day, and I’ve asked Father Laughlin to include her in the daily blessing.”
A foul taste came into Rose’s mouth, as if she’d eaten too many sweets. How easy it was for Clare, with her rosary beads. Rose could almost hear their gentle clicking in her head. How nice, to kneel in the cool quiet of a church, ticking off your worries one by one, while others sweated.
Rose, resentment simmering inside her, strode down the steps, up the sidewalk, not looking to see if Clare was following, not caring.
Then Clare’s voice was beside her, a bit out of breath, wafting on a cloud of white steam like the Holy Ghost. “God is with you, Rose. He hears your prayers. He won’t forget you.”
Suddenly Rose felt the urge to hit her sister. “Did you hear what happened to Buddy Mendoza?” Buddy used to live next door, an old schoolmate of Brian’s.
Clare’s face, pink with cold, turned a slapped-looking red. It was no secret she’d had a crush on Buddy once—until Nonnie’d found out, and put an end to it.
“Buddy? He ... he went into the Army, didn’t he?”
“He was in Vietnam. They shipped him home last month ... what was left anyway. His face was blown away, I heard. And most of his brain. They keep him alive with machines.”
Rose heard the sharp intake of Clare’s breath, saw her make the sign of the cross. And was instantly ashamed. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling unbearably guilty. Ugly, that’s what she was becoming. Ugly and mean, just like Nonnie.
[100] Avenue K now. They were passing Suds ’n’ Duds, where she washed Nonnie’s soiled sheets every Saturday, and Eva’s beauty shop next door, with its row of dusty plants in the window, where she took Nonnie for a wash and set while the laundry spun in the big blue dryers.
God, deliver me from evil, she prayed silently.
Then, turning up the brick pathway to their apartment building, into the dark lobby smelling of pine disinfectant.
Trudging up the long flights, Rose imagined the worst, as always, Nonnie dead, another stroke. She felt a moment of dizzying hope, followed by crashing guilt. How could she wish her own grandmother dead?
Rose turned her key, and held the door open to let Clare in ahead of her.
Then suddenly Clare was screaming, a shrill piping sound.
Rose pushed ahead of her into the living room, dark, lit only by the ghostly glare of the television set, a nauseating smell rising up, gagging her, like the stink of an overflowed toilet.
Mother of God, what—?
Then she saw. Nonnie. Sprawled face down on the plastic runner that ran diagonally across the living-room carpet, her quilted pink robe flapped open to reveal the thin white sticks of her legs. Dead? Oh God, no. And she’d caused it, by wishing it.
Rose knelt, light-headed with a mixture of fear and wild hope, as she grasped the wrist that was no more than a shank of bone draped in loose, sliding flesh.
Then Nonnie stirred, moaning. The horrible swamp smell was stronger now, making Rose want to vomit.
Swallowing hard, Rose thought: Oh Lord, she couldn’t make it to the bathroom so she went in her pants. She must have fallen trying to get there. Damn Mrs. Slatsky for leaving her alone.
The squawking of the TV seemed suddenly too loud, as if the volume had been turned up all the way, making Rose’s head throb. Some stupid game show. A lady in a gorilla suit jumping up and down and screaming over the refrigerator she’d won.
Rose wanted to scream too, or to laugh madly. This was her prize, the rubber chicken behind Door Number Three. A mean old lady lying in her own shit.
She twisted to look up at Clare. “Help me get her up.”
[101] But Clare just stood there, fidgeting with the rosary beads that dangled from her waist, blue eyes wide and blank. Her round baby face frozen in disgust.
“Clare!”
“Do ... do you think we should move her?” Clare fluted anxiously. “Suppose something’s broken.”
Nonnie was stirring now, trying to sit up. Rose slid an arm under her shoulders, and managed to hoist her to her feet single-handedly. She wasn’t heavy; it was like lifting a bundle of dry leaves, damp and rotting underneath. Saliva dribbled from the sunken corner of her mouth, as Nonnie wrestled with the guttural sounds in her throat, struggling to shape them into words.
Damn Clare and her rosaries. Why didn’t she help?
Anger fueled Rose, made her strong. Supporting the old woman, she managed to drag Nonnie to the bathroom. She wrestled her out of her robe, and somehow got her into the tub. She cranked on the water, and reached into the cupboard for a washcloth. Now came the disgusting chore of washing her.
Just don’t think about it. Thinking makes it worse.
Rose imagined a giant hypodermic needle filled with Novocain, numbing her from head to toe. She would go through the motions, but in her mind she would be somewhere else.
With Brian. Tonight. They’d planned to spend it together, and she would let nothing interfere. Not even if Mrs. Slatsky couldn’t stay with Nonnie.
Brian had said he needed to talk to her about something. Something important. Dear God, let him say he can’t wait, that we should get married right away, not in a year. I need him so much.
A horrible noise roused Rose from her longings.
“Gaaarraghhhh.”
Nonnie was trying to say something. Rose felt warm spittle spray against her cheek. Nonnie’s pale eyes rolled frantically from Rose to the open doorway.
“Gaaaaarrrrraaagghhaa.”
Finally, Rose understood. Clare. Nonnie wanted Clare.
Rose stared down at her grandmother’s withered, gray-white body floating in the dirty bathwater. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
Nonnie didn’t give a damn for all the backbreaking times Rose [102] had carried her, the grinding routine of feedings, and this ... cleaning up her disgusting messes.
She only wanted Clare.
And where the hell was Clare?
Rose found her sister on her knees on the plastic runner where Nonnie had lain, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Rage then, so fierce, like a gale blowing through her, a roaring in her head, a burning in her chest. She wanted to slap Clare, slap her senseless right there where she knelt.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger drained away. “She wants you,” Rose said, too tired to fight, sinking down on the sofa, hearing the sigh of the plastic slipcover.
Clare blinked her eyes open, and smiled, as sweet and blameless as a baby awakening from a nap. “Yes ... of course.” She rose, smoothing her skirt, moving soundlessly into the next room on her thick crepe-soled nun’s shoes.
Think about Brian, Rose willed herself, dropping her head into her clenched hands, struggling to shut out the smells and the wild shrieking laughter of the television. Soon it’ll be just us. Always ...
Rose was floating.
Far from her grandmother, and the hellish apartment on Avenue K. Far from anything and everything that caused her pain.
In the warm hollow their bodies made under the covers, Brian’s long frame stretched loose alongside her, she felt herself drifting on the gentle swells of his breathing, the pumping of his heart. Safe. Peaceful.
Brian, sweet Brian. Her lover. How strange it had seemed in the beginning, thinking of him that way. She remembered her pleasure the first time, her sickening guilt, then bursting into tears. And Brian, distraught, thinking he’d hurt her. Each of them reassuring the other, and then somehow they were doing it all over again.
Nine years ago. Mother of God, had it really been that long?
Rose had stopped going to Confession after that. What was the use? No point in telling God she was sorry, when she knew perfectly well she was going to keep right on doing it. And how could she stop? Loving Brian was the only thing that kept her alive.
[103] She could only hope that God, in His infinite mercy, would somehow understand and forgive her.
Rose shifted, propping herself up on her elbow so that she was facing him. Over the ridge of his shoulder, she could see out the window, a street lamp glowing in a fairy ring of mist, islands of snow dotting the South Field green. And off to the right, the brick and slate hulk of Butler Library.
How many times had she lain just so, looking out the second-floor window of Brian’s Hartley Hall room? Dreaming of the day when they wouldn’t have to sneak time to be with each other.
Soon, she promised herself. Another year at the most. Then we’ll be together, just like we promised each other. I’ve waited this long, so I can wait a little longer, can’t I?
Garden of Lies Page 12
