Mystical Rose

by Richard Scrimger

  He did say I was beautiful. I can hear it. I can hear it even now. Did he say anything else? Did he say goodbye? I don’t know. But he did call me beautiful. Am I really, I said. Am I really beautiful?

  And in the morning, there was the sun, and the wrapped box on the desk. Silver paper with a true-love bow and a note inside. A gift for me on my birthday.

  You bet you’re beautiful, sweetheart, said the man at the hotel bar.

  My face must have registered shock like one of those meters you carry around to test if the connection is live. Ruby’s mouth opened in a carmine O, fringed with teeth and leaking cigarette smoke and hoarse laughter.

  Careful, Orville, she said.

  The man looked put out. Already said my name’s Wilbur, he said. And can’t a man pay a compliment to a … ahem, a beautiful lady like Rose here? Have another, he said.

  Thanks, said Ruby, downing her manhattan — the perfect drink for our trip, she’d already called it. Numerous times.

  I didn’t mean you, said the man, Orville — there now, I’ve got me doing it — Wilbur, the nice faintly drunk young man from advertising. I meant Rose here, he said.

  She turned serious. Rose is beautiful, isn’t she? said Ruby. You are right, Orville. I’m glad the two of you are hitting it off so well.

  I glared at Ruby, but she was already laughing at the man on the other side of her, a fat man with a loud suit and a drink in each hand.

  Hi there, Dad, said a young voice behind Albert.

  He grunted without turning round. Junior, he said.

  The man was a younger version of Albert, tall and thin, long faced, large nosed, but without the hair. He was almost bald. I wondered what Harriet would make of him.

  How have you been doing, Dad?

  Fine.

  Harriet wasn’t with me this morning. She promised she’d come one day soon. I nodded to Junior. A nice young man with dandruff on his dark suit. I wondered how you could have dandruff without hair. Albert didn’t introduce us, so I turned to go. Gracefully on my good leg, trailing my not-so-good one. Albert stopped me. Rolled his chair right at me. His eyebrows fell over his eyes, making his glance stern and reproving. I smiled over my shoulder, not coquettish or anything, but a woman’s smile at a man who likes her looks. You know the one.

  Where are you off to, Mavis? Albert asked me.

  I’m Rose, I said. Remember?

  You are a silly girl, Mavis, he told me. I turned away to hide my smile. It was a bit of a thrill being called a girl. Took me back.

  Oh, Dad. Oh, no. Junior stepped forward to grab the back of his father’s wheelchair. He smiled at me too, but not like his father. He was embarrassed. Come on, Dad, we have to go, he said, pulling the wheelchair around.

  Goodbye, Albert called over his shoulder. See you soon, Mavis.

  Bye, I said.

  Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your own mother? Albert demanded. Junior wheeled him away without a word.

  At the card table the fat lady was writing something on a scorepad. The little man picked his hearing aid off the table and tapped it, the way you tap a microphone to see if it’s working. He winced. It was working. The other lady was making faces at him. Funny faces, I thought.

  The place was called Pierre’s. Long and narrow, with a bar down one side and booths on the other side. A dance floor at the back, with a quiet band, or maybe the talk was loud. The bartender’s name was Max. He pushed his hair around when he wasn’t making drinks and emptying ashtrays. Wilbur was explaining his work to me and Ruby. I was listening. Ruby was flirting with the man on the other side of her.

  Wilbur’s job was breaking down the people who bought things into groups. If we know who you are, he said, looking at me, we know how to sell you our product. He smiled with nice teeth. He liked talking about his work.

  Even if it’s … shoes, I said, trying to think of something I didn’t want to buy right now. My shoes, bought that day in Broad’s, Fifth Avenue, were killing me.

  Don’t you like shoes?

  All right, not shoes. Oh … wrenches, then, I said. Or a brace and bit.

  We wouldn’t try to sell you wrenches, he said. We wouldn’t waste our time on you with wrenches. We’d try to sell you what you wanted. What you’dve bought anyway. Only you’d buy ours, instead of the other guy’s.

  Like Lux soap, I said, instead of Palmolive.

  The interested look on his face went suddenly deeper. The difference between noticing a handsome man in the distance and having a handsome man come up and ask you for a light. Which brand of soap do you buy? he asked me.

  Whichever is the cheapest, I said. Though I do like the advertisements for … Ajax.

  Ajax? He couldn’t believe it. Ajax? The thundering hoofbeats getting louder and louder as the white knight gets closer to you. … Really, he said.

  I nodded. I always see him as a stern man, I said.

  Tough with dirt, he murmured.

  But just, I said. And gentle underneath.

  Ruby was talking to a bald man with a huge ring on his pinky. He wiped his forehead a lot, and he had a lot of forehead to wipe. The pinky ring flashed in the barlight.

  Pardon me, Rose, but are you over thirty?

  I stared. A woman doesn’t answer personal questions, but I was flattered to think that the issue might be in doubt.

  I am over thirty, I said. Though, really, Mr. — I mean, Wilbur — I can’t see what business it is of yours?

  My agency has the Ajax account, he said. Nationwide. I’m very … I’m interested in my work. Over thirty … well well, and of course you’re under forty-five. And you’re … single?

  Widowed, I said. It was getting easier to think of myself that way; it was on all the forms.

  He nodded. Widowed lady, between thirty and forty-five, he murmured, wriggling a little. Do you … pardon the personal nature of this question … own your own washing machine?

  I nodded. His eyes shut. There were little drops of sweat on his eyelids. It was pretty hot in the bar. In the back the musicians were playing something slow and sultry.

  Perfect, he said. Just perfect. Do you want to dance? he asked, leaning towards me. I could smell his hair.

  Wilbur, I said. I’m not like that.

  Yes you are, Rose. He opened his eyes. Statistics is an exact science, he said.

  Was I surprised to hear the noise at my door? I must have been expecting it, to have heard it, faint as falling snow against the heavy panels. I must have been privy to the plan. I must have known, acquiesced, at some point led him to understand that his presence was expected at my chamber door in the house where he lived.

  My new room was not lovely, not large, not tidy, not well appointed. It sat at the back end of the third floor hallway, beside the broom cupboard, across from Parker’s cosy little den. It had been a furniture storeroom, and it still smelled of rotting leather and lumber, and squirrels. The window was small and hard to open, and faced north. All the tower maids wanted it. It’s not fair, said Mrs. Porson in her raspy voice, that Rose should get her own room. She hasn’t been here as long as me!

  Shut up, said Parker. Shut up the lot of you. Make me sick, you cackle on like a parcel of hens.

  We were all in the back kitchen. You know, I can still smell the lamp black. And the soot from the fireplaces. And the polish we used on the shoes and leather.

  But you promised me, pouted little Maureen, Parker’s favourite. You promised, she said, standing next to the stout matronly housekeeper, staring up with her little-girl face. Ringlets, dimples, figure as tight and trim as a boy’s. We all tried for boys’ figures back then, heaved ourselves down with hawsers and wraps to avoid flapping.

  You promised, Parky, she said, greatly daring. None of the rest of us would have called her Parky to her face.

  Rose gets the new room, said Parker. Final. I have orders.

  I stared out the window, disturbed because I was being singled out, because I knew what was going on. Because I didn’t know.


  The back kitchen window overlooked a lane leading down to the stables — garage, I should say, though there were horses there too, still. Mr. Davey was burning trash in a big bonfire. Snow fell, the fat stupid surprised snowflakes of early spring, which vanished as soon as they touched anything.

  Orders, rasped Mrs. Porson. From who, I wonder?

  Orders from Master Robbie, said Maureen, in a whisper I was meant to hear.

  Shut up, Parker said again. My orders come from Lady Margaret.

  He came to me that night. I heard him, bumping down the corridor. I sat up in bed, thinking, This isn’t right. Excited, though, eyesight sharp, heart bumping around like a bee in a bottle, flesh atingle. The door was in the wrong place. What was wrong? Not used to the room. I listened as hard as a shrew listens in the dead of night, sensing the owl floating overhead. I swallowed. Wondered what it would be like.

  I heard his voice, muttering. Hush, I wanted to shout. Hush, you fool. She’ll hear you.

  The door handle turned. The door opened inward. Was that right? I saw his shadow in the shaft of hall light. A hunched crooked shadow, moving forward inexorably. Was that right?

  He called my name.

  Mavis, he called hoarsely. Mavis, it’s me.

  The lady beside me in the bus with beds — the lady in the bed beside mine — has hair the colour of Maine lobsters. Cooked ones. There’s a lot of it and it’s spread all over the pillow. She’s moaning again. All about her nephews and nieces not coming to see her. All about the tragedy of her life. Diabetes. Pollution. Kids today who don’t know what they’ve got. Who don’t pay attention. It’s all happening to her. Babies that cost twenty thousand dollars. Babies that die of neglect. It’s awful, the world is awful, and she can’t stand it.

  The nurse comes swaying over to us and says, There there. The bus turns a corner, sharply, and I slide a bit in my bed. The nurse steadies me. The lady beside me moans some more.

  My daughter, I say, but the lady next to me doesn’t let me finish, she’s like an express train going right through to the end of the line, no matter who’s waiting to get on.

  Don’t talk to me about daughters, she says. My sister has daughters, the ungrateful swamps. All they ever do is complain.

  My daughter — I say.

  One of them teaches family planning, she says. Can you believe it? A niece of mine teaching family planning!

  My daughter used to work in the legal profession, I say. Titles, wills, statements of claim, all sorts of things.

  Family planning, she says. Telling people how not to get pregnant. I asked her how she could do that. What do you say when they come to you for an abortion? I said. Thought that would shut her up, but it didn’t. She smirked as proud as Lucifer.

  My daughter isn’t proud, I say.

  And suddenly the old bitch starts to cry. I can hear these harsh racking sobs that come from down deeper than the varicose veins in your ankles. Way down deep. All my life, she says, I wanted children. I tried and tried, and I couldn’t have them. All my life.

  She turns away. I don’t know how to comfort her. Can You help? You’re right there. Maybe she’ll listen to You.

  And, by the way, how come some babies cost twenty thousand dollars, and other babies are thrown away? What kind of system is that? Don’t look sad, that’s no answer.

  Rose, Rose, he said.

  Hush now.

  Rose, Rose, I want you so much. A widow with her own washer and dryer.

  Yes, Wilbur.

  His kisses felt odd. Not bad, but wrong. If there’s a difference. His arms around me, dancing, had felt wrong too. I’d never … I mean, even with Robbie I …

  Maybe it was because it was a hotel room. I’d seen enough movies. I knew what happened in hotel rooms. Knowing Ruby, I could guess what was happening in our hotel room right now. We were in Wilbur’s room. Same hotel, different view out the window.

  But — what are these? he said.

  What do you think they are? What do they look like?

  Not very experienced, Wilbur.

  You’re not supporting them the right way. Women with children are supposed to have underwiring — usually with girdles attached. Not that you need a girdle, Rose, you’re as slim as a willow wand.

  Thank you, I said.

  But you should take better care of your profile. In a fitted garment with underwiring, you’d really stand out in a crowd. See — like that.

  He showed me how I’d look, supporting me with his hands.

  I’ve got one with underwiring at home, I said. It’s uncomfortable.

  He pulled me down onto the bed.

  I was sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair. Not much of it left, but I felt like brushing it. The nurse was making up my bed. I wasn’t really sick yet, so I had a bedroom of my own at the Villa. Harriet was going to visit me any day now.

  Snowflakes brushed against the windowpane, knocking softly, wanting to be let in. Like fingertips. I shivered.

  Mrs. Rolyoke?

  Yes, dear. I turned my head away from the window. The nurse had a belt in her hand. Striped and made of ketchup — I mean terry cloth. A man’s pyjama belt.

  Is this yours, Mrs. Rolyoke? she asked.

  I knew what to say. I kept my face still and said, I don’t know.

  I just found it in your bed.

  I don’t know how it got there, I said.

  It belongs to Mr. Morgan, doesn’t it?

  The whole scene was a dream. I knew I’d been here before. Don’t know, milady, I said.

  The night nurse said she saw him coming out of your room last night. Do you … know anything about that, Mrs. Rolyoke?

  About what? I said.

  I made my face blank. And after a moment she went away.

  Harriet was embarrassed. So was the bald young man sitting next to her. I suppose he couldn’t use the shampoo that stops dandruff, because he didn’t have any hair to wash.

  I remembered then, the young man was Albert’s son. Albert called him Junior. We were sitting on a bench in a meeting room — me and Harriet and Junior. Albert rolled back and forth in front of us, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

  A lot of people think I remind them of someone, I said. Remember that man who thought I was Gene Tierney?

  Mother, please.

  Standing in front of the Woolworth store on Bloor Street, and he wanted my autograph. Remember?

  Yes, Mother. But Mr. Morgan here doesn’t think you look like his wife. He thinks you are his wife. And you seem to … to welcome his attention. Don’t shake your head like that, Mother, it’s true. The nursing staff have noticed.

  I wasn’t shaking my head to disagree, just to get my hair out of my eyes.

  It’s wrong, Mother. I want it to stop.

  Junior nodded his head emphatically. You don’t do any good playing along, ma’am, he told me. My dad’s not playing around. I’m sorry to say it but he’s not. He really does get people mixed up with … my mother.

  Never mind, I said, reassuringly. I’m always getting people mixed up. Just yesterday I called someone a cyclamen, would you believe it. She was so upset. I told her, cyclamen is diffidence and modesty. You should be relieved, I could have mistaken you for a columbine.

  They all looked puzzled. I tried to remember what I’d just said. Couldn’t. I smiled brightly at Albert, who was bent over with his head on one side, trying to look up my skirt. Silly man.

  That nightmare again. The horror of a child lost in the water. I ran down the path to the water’s edge, and up and down the beach, feeling the pebbles underfoot, hearing the wash of the waves. I stared and stared until my eyes were sore and red, frantic with worry, wondering what had happened, was it even now not too late to somehow alter what had happened.

  Mama Mama Mama.

  I heard the cry, very faint but persistent. I’m here, Harriet, I cried. Harriet, is that you?

  And there was her body, lying dead, just like her friend had told me. She was dead,
and the water poured out of her mouth. Mama mama mama.

  And I realized that I was the one calling out.

  Oh God, oh that’s good. Oh my God, he said.

  Oh Orville, I said.

  He paused.

  I mean Wilbur. I wish Ruby hadn’t started that.

  Tell me what you’re thinking, he said. Tell me what you want me to do.

  I … don’t know, I said.

  Do you feel that? he said.

  It was dark in his hotel room, and I couldn’t see what it was.

  And that? He was panting, his body slick with sweat.

  Very nice, I said politely.

  One hand I felt, milking in vain. None there since Harriet, and that was quite a while ago. She was off to college now, studying political science. Wilbur’s other hand was lost in darkness and chenille, until —

  Hey, I said.

  Did you feel that?

  Oh, yes.

  Wilbur’s voice came from far away. Liked that, did you?

  I didn’t reply. He went on moving his hand, if that’s what he was doing.

  I was in a pitch-dark cave of feeling, pierced by an unexpected shaft of light when the sun hit exactly the right angle. I was aware of splendour and wonder, veins of delight. How long had they lain there, unnoticed? I was the possessor of great riches in myself.

  The sound of water was everywhere, dripping and plashing. I was filled with longing. The water streamed down the walls, pooling at my feet. I arched my back to breathe deeper, and the water fell faster and faster, filling the cave, bearing me up and up. I felt my lungs expanding, as if they would burst. I felt … I felt …

  Who, Wilbur asked later, as the cigarette smoke spiralled ceiling-wards, is David?