Rose

by V. C. Andrews

  "You're so close to graduation, Rose. Don't be stupid."

  "Well, how are we going to manage, Mammy?" I asked. "Bills are raining down around us like hail."

  "We'll get by, somehow," she said. "Other people who suffer similar tragedies do, don't they?" she asked. It sounded too much like another of Daddy's promises floating in a bubble. I didn't reply, so her warning continued.

  At first she didn't tell me about her desperate pleas to her father, how she had belittled herself, and had accepted his nasty descriptions of her and of Daddy just to see if she could get him to advance her some money. In the end he relented and sent a check for a thousand dollars, calling it charity and saying since he would give this much to the Salvation Army, he would give this much to us. But he left it pretty clear that Mammy shouldn't ask him for another nickel. He told her he thought struggling, suffering, would be the best way for her to understand fully what a mess she had made with her life by not listening to him. It was very important for him to be right than generous and loving. When she finally broke down and told me all of it, she was shattered.

  "I used to love him." she moaned as if that had been something of an accomplishment.

  "Doesn't everyone love their fathers?" I asked.

  "No," she said with her lips twisting and writhing with her pain. "There are some fathers you just can't love, for they don't want your love. They see showing emotion as weakness. I can't even remember him kissing me, whether it was good night, good-bye or on my birthday."

  I decided Daddy had been correct about people like that: just cut them away as you would cut away so much swamp grass and keep your boat surging forward.

  After the funeral and the period of

  bereavement. I returned to school. The night before I told Mommy that I had decided I was going to pretend Daddy wasn't gone. He was just on some sales trip. I was doing what he always did when he was faced with unpleasant events and problems. I decided, I was ignoring death. She became angry as soon as I finished telling her.

  "I won't let you," she said. "You're not going to fall into the same traps I fell into, traps he set with his promises and his happy-go-lucky style. I let him mesmerize me, bedazzle and beguile me until I became too much like him. Look what it's gotten me!" she cried, her arms out. She turned to the mirror. "I'm old beyond my years because of all this worry and trouble.

  "No, Rose. No. Your father is dead and gone. You must accept the truth, accept reality, and not live in some make-believe world as he did, and as I permitted myself to live in as well. Now we have to find ways to make the best of our lives without him.

  "I'm sure wherever he is, he's belittling what happened to him and telling other souls to forget it. He's telling them they can't do anything about it, so just say. "Whatever' and play your harp. He's probably looking for ways to move on to another heaven or hell for that matter, trying to get himself thrown out," she said. She smiled, but she was crying real tears, too.

  I hugged her and promised not to ignore reality anymore. She forced me to confront it dramatically that night by helping her box all of his things, most of which she had decided to donate to charity.

  "If we only made enough money to use it as a write-off," she muttered.

  I hated folding his clothes and stuffing them in cartons. The scent of his cologne was still on most of them, and when the aroma entered my nostrils, it stirred pictures of him in my mind and the sound of his voice in my ears. I worked with Mammy, but I cried and sobbed, especially when I felt him twirling my hair and heard him reciting. "Your eyes are two diamonds. Your hair is spun gold. Your lips are rubies and your skin comes from pearls. My sweet Rose."

  Closing the cartons was another way to say, "Good-bye. Daddy. Good-bye."

  When we were nearly finished with the clothes in the closet. Mammy found a manila envelope under two boxes of old shoes in the far corner. She opened it and pulled out an eight by ten black and white photograph of a young woman. There was nothing written on the photograph or on the back of it and nothing else in the envelope.

  "Who's this?" she wondered aloud, and I looked at the picture with her.

  "You don't know?"

  She shook her head.

  The picture was of a woman who looked to be in her twenties. I couldn't tell the color of her hair, but it was either light brown or blond. She had a very pretty face with a button nose and sweet, full lips. There was a slight cleft in her chin. She had her hair cut and styled with strands sweeping up about her jawbone and she had high cheek bones with a smooth forehead. She looked very happy, as happy as someone who had found some great contentment in her life. There was that peacefulness in her eyes.

  "She's no relative of mine, and I don't believe she's a relative of his." Mommy mused aloud. "Of course, she might be a cousin I never met, but why wouldn't he have ever shown me her picture?"

  In the background we could just make out what looked like a large plantation house. a Greek revival with the grand pillars and style that were

  characteristic of some of the wealthier estates around Atlanta.

  "Well," Mammy concluded with a deep sigh. "it doesn't surprise me that he never showed me the picture. Just another thing he didn't think mattered. I suppose."

  She put it aside and we finished the work. I thought about the picture before I went to sleep and then I shrugged it off just the way Mammy had, thinking of Daddy's favorite word. "Whatever."

  Barry Burton had called and visited me during the bereavement period, and he was there to greet me at my locker when I returned to school in the morning.

  "Before you stumble on the gossip," he told me. "I want you to be prepared."

  "What gossip?"

  "There's talk your father deliberately killed himself, committed suicide."

  I felt the hot tears of fury and pain forming under my lids. What right did anyone have making up such stories about him and why did they care anyway? Were they all so desperate for gossip? Or was it just the girls who despised me for being more attractive than they were? All these little jealousies were like termites eating away the foundation of any friendships in this place, I thought, I hated them all.

  "If anyone does dare to say that in front of me..."

  "Someone will do it just to get you upset. I'm sure," he warned. I could tell from his tone that he more than anticipated it. It hit me as sharply as a rock in the forehead when I gazed into his eyes.

  "It's Paula, isn't it?" I asked.

  3: Secrets Paige 458

  He nodded. "Why?"

  He shrugged.

  "She's been telling people about how it was when she went over to your house to pick you up that night, things she supposedly felt or heard."

  "That's all a lie!" He looked down.

  "I think," he said softly. "that Ed was more interested in you than he was in her, and she learned that after we left them together. It didn't sit well with her. Remember English class and Shakespeare, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,''

  "This isn't English class and I don't care what Shakespeare or anyone else wrote. It's me and my family that's being scorned."'

  Was being attractive a curse or a blessing? Would I never have a close girlfriend because of that?

  "I don't know where she got the idea that I cared for Ed Wiley anyway. If he has a crush on me, that's not my fault. I never encouraged him. Bally:"

  He smiled.

  "I'm glad," he said. "Don't worry about it. Ignore her as best you can."

  "Whatever," I said.

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing. I've got to get to class."

  "Right."

  I know he stayed at my side as much as he could that day in hopes of preventing any problems, as well as because he really wanted to be with me. As it turned out. Paula was only a cowardly whisperer. She didn't have the courage to say anything aloud, especially anywhere near me. but I could tell from the way many of the students she had spoken to were looking at me and whispering that she had been spewing her verbal p
oison all around me. I was the one who eventually had to confront her, and confront her I did at the end of the day.

  I walked up to her quickly as she was leaving the building and I scooped my arm under hers, pulling her to the side. She was so shocked she could barely resist. I knew she was athletic and more physical than I was, but I was driven by such rage. I think I could have broken her into pieces. She knew it, too, and didn't challenge me.

  "I know you've been saving things about my family and my father, Paula. If you do it again,I'll rip out your tongue," I said so calmly, my eyes so fixed on hers, she could barely breathe.

  She started to stutter an excuse and I put my hand flatly on her chest.

  "Don't do it again," I said, digging the nail of my forefinger into her enough to make her back up. Then I walked away from her, my heart probably pounding louder and harder than hers.

  Barry had seen me take her aside. He was waiting in his car to drive me home. After I got in. I told him what I had done and said and he laughed.

  "You carried out a preventive strike. Good work," he told me. "You're going to be all right. Rose. You're going to be just fine."

  After we pulled into my driveway, he gave me a quick kiss before I got out of his car.

  "I'll call you later," he promised. "Maybe we can do something this weekend, huh?"

  "Maybe," I said.

  Somewhere very deep inside me, I sensed that grief would thin out no matter how thick and terrible it had been. I would never forget Daddy of course, but in time, he would grow distant. It would be as if we had let go of each other's hands and he had drifted back, back into the shadows, back into the vault of my memory.

  Spirited by my return to normal life, I was hoping Mommy would be somewhat revived in spirit when I entered the house. Soon our lives would start to resemble some of what they had been, but the moment I set eves on her. I knew it wasn't so, not yet.

  "What's wrong, Mommy?" I asked, She was sitting on the sofa staring at a dark, mute television set.

  "Mr. Weinberg hired someone else for the position at his insurance agency. He said he had made the decision before your father died or he would have given it to me. He looked sincere, even sick about it. but I don't want to be hired out of charity. I want to be hired because people believe I'm qualified.

  "Now what?" she asked the dark television set, "I've got to search for something I'm suitable for, and what am I experienced to do? Work in a fast-food restaurant, find a counter-girl job in a department store? They pay bare minimum wages. We can't survive on that."

  She turned to me. her eyes filled with rage as well as self-pity.

  "When you get married. Rose, don't put all your faith and hope in your husband. I should have developed some skill, some talent, some means of being truly independent. Who would have expected I would have to start over like some teenager at this point in my life?" she moaned.

  "I should just quit school and get a job. Mammy. I can finish my high school diploma later."

  "No," she said. She pulled herself up and sucked back her tears of remorse. "I've got an appointment at social services. We're entitled to some money and if we have to..."

  I didn't want to hear the word welfare, but it lingered on her lips. I could practically see its formation.

  "I'll at least look for a weekend job. Mommy. Please." She sighed and shook her head.

  "Where's your father when I need him to say his famous 'Whatever' now?"

  She rose with great effort and started out.

  "I'll start fixing something for dinner. Go do your homework or call a girlfriend and jabber on the phone. Rose. I don't want to see you lose your chance to live, too," she added and shuffled off.

  What a sad sight she made. It left a lump of lead in my chest. I had to swallow hard to keep the tears back. Daddy had let us down so badly. Even the memory of his smile was losing its shine for me.

  But I had no idea how much it would.

  Not until the door buzzer sounded an hour later.

  I was on my way down to set the table and see what else I could do to help Mommy. so I went right to the door and opened it. A stylish woman who looked to be in her late forties or early fifties stood there. She wore a navy blue three-button suit and had her reddish- blond hair done in a square cut with the front ends at a slant. She wore medium high heels and looked to be about five feet four or five. Her aquamarine eyes scanned me so intensely. I felt as if I was under a spotlight. She didn't smile, but her eyes were filled with interest and curiosity. Although I was absolutely sure I had never seen her before, there was something vaguely familiar about her. It came to me before I spoke. She had the same slight cleft in her chin as did the mysterious woman in the photo Mammy had found in the closet when we were packing Daddy's things for charity.

  "Am I correct in assuming that this is the home of Charles Wallace?'" she asked in perfectly shaped consonants and vowels, despite her thick Georgian accent.

  "Yes," I replied. I looked past her and saw the late-model black town car with a chauffeur in our driveway. He sat with perfect posture, staring stiffly ahead like a manikin.

  "I would like to see Mrs. Wallace," she said. "Who's there, Rose?" Mommy called from the kitchen. "My name is Charlotte Alden Curtis," the elegant woman told me.

  I stepped back and she entered. She looked at our hallway, the walls, the ceiling as if she was deciding if anything was contaminated.

  "There's someone here to see you. Mammy," I called back.

  "You are the daughter," the woman said. nodding. "Yes," she added as she confirmed something in her mind after studying me a bit longer. "His daughter."

  Mommy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Who is it?" she asked as she approached us.

  "My name is Charlotte Alden Curtis, Mrs. Wallace," she said and looked like she expected that would mean something to Mammy.

  "Oh," Mammy said, looking to me to see if I knew any more. I shook my head slightly, "Well, how can I help you?" Mammy asked.

  "I have come here to tell you exactly how you can help me. Mrs. Wallace," Charlotte Alden Curtis said. "May we sit and talk someplace? I am not accustomed to holding court in a hallway."

  Mammy just stared at her a moment and then snapped her head to the right, realizing the woman was waiting for a reply.

  "Oh, yes, of course. Right this way," Mammy said, leading her to our living room. She nodded at the sofa where I had left a magazine and I hurried ahead to get it and pick up the glass of lemonade I had left an the center table. "Please," Mammy said nodding at the chair across from the sofa.

  Charlotte Alden Curtis considered it as if she might turn dawn the suggestion and then sat slowly, leaning back and looking up at us. I realized we were both gaping. Mommy nudged me and we both sat on the settee.

  "What is this about?" Mommy quickly inquired.

  "Your husband," Charlotte replied with gunshot speed.

  "My husband? Oh." Mommy's body relaxed in a slight slump. "Does he owe you money?"

  Charlotte Alden Curtis lifted her eyebrows and pressed her shapely lips together so firmly, her otherwise narrow cheeks bubbled.

  "I am hardly a bill collector," she said. "Are you accustomed to bill collectors in designer clothes?"

  "'Well, who are you? What do you want?" Mommy demanded somewhat more firmly.

  "I am Angelica Alden's older sister, and what I want is justice, not money," she answered, "It has taken me some time to locate y'all. Your husband moved you people so often, apparently. Of course. I understand why.

  "My nephew Evan is something of a computer wiz these days. The computer is actually a godsend when it comes to Evan. He's confined to a wheelchair as a result of a spinal deformity that affected his legs. It was Evan who finally tracked y'all after I pleaded with him to do so. He never wanted to find your husband. I'm sure he could have done it way before this," she added. She paused and looked around the living room with the same expression of utter contempt.

  "I understand he's
dead," she added.

  "My husband passed away recently, yes," Mammy said. "Why did you want to locate him if it has nothing to do with money?"

  "Passed away," Charlotte muttered instead of answering. "He passed away some time ago, as far as I am concerned."

  "What is it you want. Miss-- or is it Mrs. Curtis?" Mammy asked, her voice now ringing with annoyance as well as impatience.

  "It's Mrs. Curtis. I am a widow. I lost my husband ten years ago. Congestive heart failure. He was pounds and pounds overweight, a heavy smoker and drinker, and stubborn as the proverbial mule. He had other self-destructive habits as well, but I won't get into that now.

  "Suffice it to say he left me well-to-do, wealthy enough to care for my wayward sister and her child all these years. My sister and I raised her boy. You can just imagine what a burden that has been. It's hard enough to raise teenagers these days," she said, looking at me, "much less a teenager with special needs."

  Mammy said nothing. She and I just stared and waited.

  "A little over a year ago, my sister Angelica passed away, too. She was in a brutal car accident, a head-on collision caused by a drunken redneck who still walks the earth and. I am sure, still overindulges himself in every way possible. One of those nephews of a judge with some influence. You know how those things can be," she added.

  "Her death had a very heavy impact on Evan, of course, but an even heavier one on me."

  Mommy nodded in sympathy, but still waited tensely to understand the point of this visit.

  "Well, what exactly can we do for you, Mrs. Curtis? At the moment we can barely do enough for ourselves." Mommy said.

  "I know just how tale that is. What I would like, what I'm proposing, is that you and your daughter come live with me and help me take care of Evan," Charlotte Alden Curtis finally said.

  Mommy smiled with confusion. "Pardon me?"

  "I can't bear the burden any longer and I shouldn't have to bear it alone," Charlotte continued. "It's aging me faster than I would like, to say the least."

  "I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Curtis. However...'"