Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  I need some good news. I need Elaine to come through for me.

  Stop one: two people get on, four people get off.

  Stop two: three people get on, no one gets off.

  Stop three: I get off, because, as you know, stop three is mine. Deflated, I exit the bus, shielding myself from the rain with my backpack, when I almost bump into her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Elaine asks, nudging me back up the steps. Archie doesn’t ask for more money as Elaine slides her pass through the metal slot, just nods me through.

  “I thought—”

  “Faith, dear girl.” She pulls off her poncho and slides into the first available row of two empty seats. I sit beside her, brush off the water from my hair before it has a chance to explode into a frizzy mess. “But I guess that’s a lot to ask of someone in your position.” She tucks the poncho near her feet. “Got sidetracked, that’s all.” The bus lurches, then eases into traffic. “You were getting off back there. That where you live?”

  “Yeah,” I say flatly, so she can see I’m not too happy about it. “I used to live in Hammock Lakes. Do you know where that is?”

  “No, but it sounds pretty.”

  “It is. We had a pool and everything.” I’m instantly transported back there, to summers spent grilling with my dad and lounging on a raft until the sun went down.

  “Do you know the Singers?” she asks, interrupting my thought.

  “Who? No.” I shake my head.

  “Well, they must be neighbors of yours if you live back there. Mrs. Singer has some of the most beautiful yarn.” Elaine pulls out a multicolored ball, laced with threads of gold. “You can’t find a skein like this anywhere. Worth walking in the rain to get it, too.”

  Elaine dries her hands on her polyester slacks, then holds them out. “Portfolio, please.”

  I pull it from my backpack and place it in her hands. She flips through the pages, pausing at some, blowing through others. I make a mental note that she liked the trench coat that can turn into a vest by unzipping the midsection and sleeves. “Very nice. You’ve got some clever ideas here.” Then she closes the bright yellow folder and tucks it carefully into her crochet bag. “Don’t worry. It’s in good hands.”

  “I know.”

  Elaine turns to me. “I imagine it’s tough for you, Rosie. You’ve been tested, but you’ve got to have faith in people. There are some decent ones out there.” I immediately think of Mac and his uncle, knowing she’s right. Even though Mary warned me at first, I chose to have faith in John, and it paid off.

  She pulls out her hook and gets to work. “Perfect day for a long bus ride, don’t you think?”

  Most people would probably disagree with her. Sitting beside a cozy fire, bundled up in bed, watching a movie. Those are places you want to be on a rainy day like this. But as I look at Elaine, her head dipped toward a strip of yarn, I realize that this is her safe place, even after Ralph threatened to ruin it for her.

  “How’s your husband?” I ask, although it’s a stupid question and one I immediately regret asking. Some people can’t be healed, and by the way Elaine has described his condition, he could be like this for a long time.

  But she’s kind in the face of my stupidity. “He’s fine. Actually watched the news with me the other night while sipping on a cup of his favorite tea. Decaf with a cinnamon stick.”

  “That’s good.” It comes out a little too bright, almost fake.

  “Do you watch the news?” she asks. Something in her tone alarms me.

  “No,” I say, kind of embarrassed.

  “Big fire was started in someone’s backyard the other night.”

  I try to feign indifference, but my chest grows tight.

  “Real big fire,” she says, as if the size enhances her story. “Burned down a shed and then took out all the trees around it. Looked like a war zone.”

  “Wow.”

  “Young man who lived in the house. He was interviewed by one of the news people, that pretty one from channel six who has the short black hair and wears tight dresses up to her—” She catches herself, then continues. “Never mind. Anyway, she was interviewing this young man who looked mighty familiar.”

  I reach for my bag and riffle through it, in search of nothing.

  “The lightning bolts shaved into the side of his head. It was him. That boy who gave me a hard time on the bus.”

  “Really?” I do my best to sound surprised.

  “They say it was arson.”

  A flash of lightning pops in the sky. “How fitting,” Elaine says, and then a clap of thunder follows. It’s only a tad louder than the thumping of my chest. “This is what I’ve been talking about, though. Faith. Not just having it in people, but in the universe. I knew this kid would get what was coming to him, one way or another.” She snaps an odd look at me.

  Is it possible she suspects I’m behind this? There’s no way. I’m being paranoid. She’s already lifted the scarf she’s working on—colored strips formed like a rainbow—to admire her progress.

  I try to calm myself by sketching in one of my notepads, but it’s no use. I’m still kind of rattled. I pop in my earbuds instead and listen to music until the stop comes that drops me a few blocks from Goodwill. I just feel like the roaming the aisles for a while. When I pull the cord, Elaine pats her crochet bag and says, “It’s in good hands. I’ll pass it on to my daughter when she comes to visit Sunday.”

  “Thank you,” I say, because I don’t think I had said it yet.

  “Have a good weekend.”

  “I’ll try.” Thoughts of the dreaded wedding swiftly replace the ones I had been reliving in Ralph’s backyard.

  She grabs my hand before I leave. Her grip is surprisingly strong and warm. “Have a little faith, Rosie. It’s good for the soul.”

  30

  IT’S STILL DRIZZLING, but the worst of the weather has passed. And the dark gray sky has been replaced by sheets of dusty-rose-colored clouds. My mood has passed, too, thanks to Elaine, and it gives me the courage to approach Lucy with a request.

  I find her in her bedroom, assessing herself in a strapless gown before a full-length mirror. She doesn’t look half-bad for an old bride.

  She spins around when I knock on the door frame, announcing my presence.

  “Damn, it was supposed to be a surprise!”

  Her expression is borderline irritated, so I say, “I would’ve seen it in forty-eight hours, anyway.” Hoping to avoid an argument, I add, “It’s pretty. The shoes are nice, too,” I say, even though they’re hideous. White satin pumps? I thought those had all been dyed to pastels for proms in the nineties.

  “Thanks,” she says begrudgingly, still checking herself out. “Crappy weather, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pause. Listen to the rain.

  “Did you get a ride home?”

  “No, took the bus.”

  “I would’ve offered to pick you up, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, still hovering near the door.

  “Do my boobs look big in this?” She cups her hands around the lacy cream fabric.

  I’m thinking this is a trick question, so I play it safe. “Not really.”

  “Darn.” She reaches into the top of the dress and scoops up her breasts so they’re jammed up high on her chest. “That’s better.”

  I’m sensing a mood shift, so I go for it. “Can I bring a date?”

  “To what?”

  “The wedding.”

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

  “We just started . . . a few weeks ago . . . ,” I lie. She has no right to know the truth about anything anymore.

  Lucy grabs a cigarette from her dresser and lights up. I can’t believe she’s smoking in her wedding dress. “Where did you meet him, at school?” Hack
, muffled cough.

  “No, he’s a little older.”

  “How much older?” Suddenly she’s a concerned parent.

  “Twenty. He’s a junior at UM.”

  “A college boy,” Lucy coos, the concerned parent vanishing into her cleavage as she studies it between drags. “And where did you manage to meet him?”

  I’m not very good at thinking on my feet, but I am getting better. “Lou’s Deli.” This isn’t exactly a lie. “A bunch of us were there after school. A group-study thing.” But that part was. “Is it okay if I bring him?” I ask again, trying to stay on course, knowing I’ve taken a risk. But I didn’t know which came first—inviting Mac or asking Lucy if I could. The whole “professional ethics” thing could stop me in my tracks. But I’m still going to try.

  “Does this college boy have a name?”

  “Mac.” No last name necessary.

  “Help me with the zipper, will you?” She lays the cigarette in an ashtray, then backs up, lifts away her soft platinum hair. To avoid touching her skin, I use one hand to hold down the fabric and the other hand to unzip.

  “It fits you great,” I offer, knowing the compliment will help my cause. “I love these beads going down the back.”

  “You can bring him, Rosie, okay? But don’t think you’re snowing me.” She slips off the pumps and steps out of the dress, revealing a thin body, half my size. Then disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door. The tub faucet starts. “Make sure this date of yours wears something nice,” she calls out. “Don’t embarrass me.”

  My eyes dart to the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, beckoning me.

  “You still there?” she asks again. “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” I say, then pick up the cigarette and burn a nice big hole in the toe of one of those pumps.

  • • •

  Mary has been avoiding me since our little spat in Outdoor Emporium yesterday. I hate when we fight. It feels like a part of me is missing. She was cold at school today and said she had to study during lunch, so I joined Paula and the tangerine heads in the gym and let a bunch of guys try to impress us with their jump shots. I asked Mary to come over after school, but she said she was busy. That was the final straw that forced me to do some uncharacteristic begging for the Slaabmobile. Lucy had taken a bottle of something red into the bath with her, so when I knocked gently on the bathroom door a half hour later, she slurred out the location of her keys.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been behind this ratty wheel. Besides the filth, the stench has me rolling down the windows and holding my breath at red lights. Cigarette ash floats like bits of gray confetti every time I step on the gas.

  Mary’s house isn’t that far from mine, but it does require a bus transfer and six blocks of walking. I’m in no mood tonight and hope this rare opportunity to use Lucy’s car was worth the sucking up I had to power through in order to get it.

  I drive quickly through her neighborhood until I reach her street. As I approach her house, I expect to see light coming from her bedroom window, but it’s dark. I idle in front of her house, debating. I try texting again.

  u home? i’m outside

  No answer.

  A sick feeling starts to form in my belly. Has Mary dumped me? Think of Elaine. Have a little faith. Maybe she’s not home. Simple as that. And yet the longer I sit here across the street, having cut the engine and the lights, I’m beginning to think she’s done with me. Maybe our spat wasn’t just a spat after all.

  The light flicks on in her room. So she is home.

  i know you’re there—come outside

  Still no reply. I can’t hang out here all night. Lucy will sober up soon enough and wonder where her car is, forgetting she authorized my quick run to the drugstore for tampons.

  Suddenly, the front door opens and the globe bolted to the wall next to it pops to life. A man steps out, but remains fairly shadowed in the dim light. It must be Mary’s dad. I wave through the window I’ve got rolled down, but he doesn’t wave back. Maybe it’s not him, or maybe it is and Mary’s told him to ignore me.

  He keeps standing there and I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable. Surely he recognizes Lucy’s car and yet he doesn’t call out to me. He could be fighting with his wife. Maybe he hit her again, and that’s why Mary’s been so distant today. It’s possible.

  Mr. Perkins backs up and closes the door. A moment later, the globe sputters out.

  So I restart the Slaabmobile and drive off, waving aside swirling ashes, wondering if today was the day his fists had turned Mary’s way.

  • • •

  Fine. I’ll have to take another leap of faith, and this one without Mary’s support.

  After a long, hot shower, I put on my most comfortable pajamas and climb into bed. I steady myself before dialing Mac’s number so I’ll sound calm and confident. He answers on the third ring.

  “Hi, it’s Rosie,” I say, even though I assume he’s got me in his contacts list by now. At least I hope he does.

  “How are you?” It’s been two days since our meeting when he unloaded the bulk of what he’d discovered—the forged birth certificate, my mother’s job at Frontier, the fact that I was most likely born in Colorado. I had been kind of hoping to hear from him first, even if it wasn’t about the case. Maybe just to say hi.

  “I’m good,” I say. “You?”

  “Tired.” He yawns loudly into the phone, then apologizes for it. “Had two finals today.”

  “How’d they go?” I ask, realizing we never talk about his life, school, or what makes him tired.

  “Good, I think. Studied hard. Should pay off.” He sighs. “Look, I haven’t got any more news—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “That’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh,” he says, sounding kind of surprised. “What’s up?”

  It feels like he’s rushing me, and it’s sucking the faith right out of this call.

  I forge ahead. “Are you free Saturday night? I know it’s short notice.”

  “For what?”

  Breathe. Don’t sound too desperate. “Would you come with me to Lucy and Judd’s wedding? It’s nothing fancy. It’s not in a church or anything. Have you ever been to La Rosa’s? It’s an Italian restaurant in Coral Gables. ‘Do you, Judd, and you, Lucy, promise to make each other nuts for the rest of your lives? Yes? Terrific, let’s have some pasta.’ That’s all it’ll be.”

  “Slow down,” Mac says, then waits a beat. “I don’t think I should.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already told you,” he says, but in a nice way.

  “I know. Professional ethics. I heard you.” I pause, trying to come up with another angle. “So let’s not look at it as a date, okay? It’s not a date. It’s a . . . favor. You’re doing me a favor by not making me go alone.”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend Mary to go with you?”

  “Weddings require legitimate dates—scratch that. I didn’t mean date. I just meant, you should go with someone other than your best friend. I can’t exactly dance with her, you know?”

  “I’m not sure . . .” His voice trails off. I imagine his eyes scrunching up, his lean fingers raking through the long mess of brown hair. He’s trying to find the right words to blow me off.

  There is the longest pause, so awkward. I toss the covers, suddenly feeling hot. “Tell me if you don’t want to go. It’s fine.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe he actually said so.

  Deep sigh on his end. “It’s just not a good idea. Tell him I’ll be right there!”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, a friend arrived to pick me up for a game. That was my mom, letting me know he’s here.”

  “What kind of game?” I ask, hoping to extend our conversation in any way pos
sible.

  “Basketball, down at the school gym. Just a pickup game.” I don’t know what a pickup game is, so I ask, and he goes on for like five minutes explaining what it is and that they do it every Thursday night.

  “Sounds like fun,” I say, even though it doesn’t. I’m not much of a sports fan, but I do appreciate a good uniform and the odd color combinations that pop. “Well, I won’t hold you up.” I try to sound understanding, maybe even a tad pitiful.

  It works. “You’re not holding me up.”

  “Maybe I could come watch sometime. University of Miami isn’t that far from my house. And you know I’m good at taking the bus.”

  “I know.”

  I think I hear him yawn for the third time since he answered the phone. “Wow, you really are tired. You could hang out on the phone with me instead of racing back and forth on some court.”

  “It would mean a lot less running,” he jokes, which doesn’t sound like a no to me. I curl up in the covers and put an extra pillow under my head.

  “Talking on the phone isn’t against your professional ethics, is it?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  He hesitates, which makes me hope his mind is changing.

  “Hold on,” he says, and I wait for what seems like an eternity before he comes back on the line. “Okay. Let’s hang out.”

  “Really?”

  “I told my friend I was beat.”

  But he isn’t too beat to talk to me for the next two hours. It turns into the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a guy, and definitely the best. Way better than midnight calls with Ray. Mac and I don’t talk about sex or dirty things, but other things—important things, like my mother.

  “When you think about her, what’s the first thing that pops into your head?” he asks.

  “The way she looks now. I imagine she still has big poufy hair like mine, only short, maybe streaked with gray, and the only lines in her face are there from years of laughing. I hope she’s been happy all these years, even without me.”