“I’ll tell you how,” Rosa quickly said. “I saved all my pennies, nickels, didn’t buy that cheap stuff the other girls bought. By the time I was twenty-three I had enough to come to America.” She frowned and shook her head. “But that very first year in New York was terrible—I never told you about Antonio, did I? “
“No, but can you tell me later?” Virginia said. “I need to use the bathroom.” And with an apologetic grimace that said This is urgent, she disappeared through the doorway.
***
Rosa was angry. The woman couldn’t wait one minute to hear the end of the story? Rude, that’s what she was, for all her fine airs. Rosa rinsed out the frying pan and carefully dried it. No one could blame her if it rusted.
As she put the pan in its place in the cabinet, she was thinking about Antonio. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t told Mrs. B about him. It would have given the wrong impression, that Rosa was a fool. And it didn’t matter any more what had happened with Antonio, because she had sure learned her lesson. Now there wasn’t a man in Manila or New York or the whole United States—whole world—she’d trust. Finished with that, thank God.
Several strips of bacon were draining on paper towels on the counter, and a slice of toast had sprung up in the toaster. If Mrs. B had ever gone hungry, she wouldn’t be wasting good food like that. Rosa decided she might as well eat it, since Mrs. B had offered. She folded the toast around the bacon. When she took a bite, the bacon broke into pieces. Crisp, just the way she liked it. She hadn’t had bacon in a while. One-ninety-five for half a pound? Did those crooked Puerto Ricans think she was made of money? Bad, ugly people.
But then she thought of Frankie. Black eyes and gold skin and the whitest teeth she had ever seen. Two months ago he had offered to carry one of her grocery sacks. At first she had said No, thinking he would steal it. But when she saw that angel smile, she couldn’t resist. Even though he wasn’t more than ten, he had carried the bag all the way to the fourth floor and set it down at her door. When she had asked him his name, he had said Francesco but to call him Frankie. She had offered him two quarters, but he had shaken his head and said “I’m out of here,” and had run down the steps. He had carried her groceries again the next week, but that time he had come into her apartment, and she had opened the package of doughnuts and given him one and a Pepsi. Every Saturday after that he seemed to be waiting for her when she bought her groceries. He carried them home and came in and had a doughnut and a Pepsi. He talked about school and what games he liked to play and once he had told her the whole story of a pirate movie he had seen. He was so smart. And when he was ready to leave, she took a damp cloth and wiped the doughnut’s powdered sugar off his chin. Maybe this week she would splurge and buy a chocolate cake and then she would wipe the chocolate off his chin.
As she gathered up the wet towels in the bathroom and stuffed them into the hamper, she began to think about the son she might have had if Antonio hadn’t taken her to that wicked doctor. He would be grown now, and have a wonderful job and be living in an apartment as beautiful as the Bs’. He would never have been like the hoodlums outside the bodega, grabbing old ladies’ purses and selling drugs and having babies that welfare had to look after.
Once she had stopped and told the hoodlums they should be working, and one of them had unzipped and taken out his thing and asked if she had a job for him. They’d all laughed, and she had hurried away, her face burning. Later she had thought what she should have said: That teeny tiny little thing wouldn’t do a speck of work for me. She laughed as she imagined the look on his face. That would have shut him up for life.
What chance did Frankie have, growing up around those hoodlums? She had told Mrs. B about him, and Mrs. B had been very interested and had said he sounded like a wonderful boy. Rosa thought that if she worked it right, brought Frankie over to meet them, the Bs would love him as she did and then they would do something for him. They were good people and maybe they would send him to a private school so he could escape the rotten neighborhood. And then they’d send him to college at MIT, where their son had gone, and he would learn all about computers. No, not MIT—it was too far away in Massachusetts and she’d never see him. Columbia, maybe, where Mr. B had gone. And when Frankie graduated in his black cloak and that flat black hat they wear, she and the Bs would be there and he would come to where she sat and kiss her and thank her. And she would say, Dear boy, you’re quite welcome but you must also thank the Bs. The Bs were good people and they deserved some of the credit.
She rolled the clothes hamper into the laundry room and dumped it over to separate out the whites. Mr. B wore white jockey briefs and once she had seen a smear of shit on one pair. She laughed, remembering that. With all his fancy manners and all his money he couldn’t even keep himself clean. It was disgusting, handling other people’s stinking clothes. Not that she would ever mind washing Frankie’s. He could bring them to her every weekend. There wouldn’t be any shit on them.
***
Virginia slipped down the hall to her study, to work on her new book, Two’s Company. She spent ten or so minutes carefully examining the drawings she had already done, adding a little color here, smudging a line there, getting in the mood. This was the one that would do it, win her a Newbery or a Caldecott. Hey, why not a Nobel? She laughed, remembering that she had once thought it might be a Nobel. When she had first begun to write and had just read Faustus she had asked herself whether she would choose love or genius if Mephistopheles offered her the choice. What a fool she had been. Cursed with a small talent, she had settled for love, and that had worked well enough, better than most—if she didn’t think about that stupid secretary. The male climacteric: a new job, a new locale, or a new wife. That’s when they had bought this place. So far so good. And she was happy working, though her creations were not Anna and Vronsky but Mabel Mouse and Dennis Dog. Well, she sure wouldn’t win any Newbery if she didn’t write it. She slid the top off the box of crayons.
Mabel and Dennis are great pals and often tease Carmel Cat by dancing the tango around the kitchen, dipping and twirling and laughing. Now that had been great fun to draw. Big Dennis swooping down and placing little Mabel on his paw so she could dance as his partner, while off in the corner yellow-eyed Carmel seethes so that her whiskers seem to be vibrating. One day when Dennis is asleep, Carmel goes after little Mabel. That’s where Virginia had stopped at three o’clock the night before. Now she prepared to draw the next scene, when Mabel comes awake as Carmel’s claws are descending toward her.
Virginia selected a gray crayon with a pinkish tinge that added a little life to the gray. She bent down to her drawing board and began to sketch in Mabel’s head. The door opened and there was Rosa.
“You don’t mind if I just take a minute, do you?” Rosa said. She was carrying a bucket of water and cloths. Without waiting for an answer, she set the bucket down and began to flick a cloth over the chair rungs and then leaned over Virginia’s shoulder to dust the top of the drawing board. “What’s that thing?” she asked, pointing the dust cloth at the illustration.
“A mouse.” Virginia set the crayon back in the tray and rested her hands in her lap.
“That’s supposed to be a mouse?”
Virginia felt the heat rise into her face. “I’m not trying to make it photographic.” She sounded more defensive than she intended, and so she added, “Stylized, to give the mouse some individuality, personality.”
“Looks kind of pink.” Rosa peered closer and laughed. “I never heard of a pink mouse.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.” Virginia blew off the flecks of dust that had fallen from Rosa’s cloth onto the drawing. “And it isn’t pink.” The look she had imagined on Mabel’s face was fast receding. A few seconds more of Rosa and the vision would be gone.
“You know, I could write a really interesting book,” Rosa said, running her cloth over the top of the drawing board. “Life I’ve led.”
“I’m sure you
could.” Now go, Virginia thought. Just get out of here.
“My book would be for grown-ups, not little kids,” Rosa said. “Nothing fancy, nothing what did you call it? Stylized? No. Just the truth, like little girls selling themselves or living off the garbage. People would be really interested in that.”
Virginia leaned closer to the drawing. Was the head all wrong, the nose too pointed, the ears grotesquely large, like stupid Mickey Mouse? Maybe she would have to start all over again, reconceive the whole stupid book. Weeks wasted. “I wish you wouldn’t come busting in when I’m working,” she said.
“What?” Rosa took a step back.
“This isn’t diddling,” Virginia’s voice rose, “though you seem to think so. This is my work and I need quiet and privacy. And mice are not all the exact same color. So please don’t come in here annoying me with your opinions.”
Rosa drew herself up and lifted her chin. “I apologize if I’m bothering you. I’m just trying to do my work. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to speak. Yes, I can come back. It doesn’t matter if I’m late getting home. That isn’t as important as a pink mouse.” And she was out the door.
That’s it, Virginia thought. The situation was intolerable. It was bad enough to have her breakfast ruined, but now her work. Though Rosa had often come in while Virginia was working she had never commented on a drawing before, never laughed at one, never presumed to judge. So arrogant, so full of herself. Rosa had to go. No matter the book deadline, no matter an inch of dust on every surface, no matter the dirty laundry piling up. She’d give Rosa a month’s pay, wish her well, say goodbye. Today. Now. Virginia took the checkbook out of the drawer and wrote out Rosa’s wages. Damned if she would put up another moment with that obnoxious woman.
Rosa was finished. She would never allow that woman to yell at her again. She’d quit, walk out. And she wouldn’t lower herself to demand to be paid for the half-day though she was owed it. Let the bitch choke on the money. That woman had never done a day’s work in her whole life. Playing with crayons like a little baby, drawing stupid pictures that didn’t look anything like what they were supposed to. A pink mouse? Ha. And then saying, Get out, when Rosa was just trying to do her work, earn the little bit of money she was paid. That woman didn’t care that Rosa would be late getting home. Just cared about herself and her stupid books that not even a five-year-old would like. Rosa slammed the bucket down on the kitchen floor with such force that some of the sudsy water splashed out. Let that woman mop it up.
***
When Virginia finished writing the check, she took a quick look at the drawing. Perhaps Mabel’s color was a little off, the gray-pink too upbeat, almost frivolous. A tad of yellow might add the right tone. She picked up a yellow-gray crayon from the box and sketched in over the pink. Not bad. This made Mabel look jittery, as though her fur was gooseflesh. Virginia began to color in the rest of Mabel’s body, first with the pink-gray, then little tinges of the yellow-gray. She stepped back to take a look. Rosa had been right: Mabel had been too pink.
My goodness, how awful to be arguing with the help. They had these little misunderstandings occasionally, when Rosa over-stepped. But had she been too quick with her anger? Had she been rude to Rosa? All the woman had done, really, was comment on the drawing. She shouldn’t have, but would firing her be the right thing? Lawrence would complain at the dust accumulating, the laundry not done. She had to acknowledge that Rosa was wonderful help, so meticulous, proud to make the place shiny and clean, working even as she talked. Rosa was an honest person, a good person, making her way all alone in a foreign country. And there was that little boy she found so fascinating and wanted to help. Suppose she couldn’t get another job. Even if she did, some of those agencies were robbers, their clients little more than indentured servants. Oh, yes, Rosa could be obnoxious, but being obnoxious hardly justified firing her—particularly when she herself was so very pressed by the book deadline.
Rosa went to the hall closet. She would be glad to be free of this stupid job and that spoiled, useless woman pretending that playing with crayons was work. Probably have a heart attack if she tried to scrub a floor and faint if she ever saw shit on a pair of underpants. Rosa told herself she would never work again for anyone who stayed home and made trouble. At all her other jobs the people were off at work and left her check on the hall table. She’d find something else for Tuesdays.
She leaned against the doorjamb and untied her sneakers. “I’m out of here,” she said. That’s what Frankie said after they had finished with their Pepsis and doughnuts. Maybe she wouldn’t buy the chocolate cake until she got another Tuesday job, but she’d still have doughnuts on Saturday. Frankie expected it.
But what about his schooling, what about college? She had intended to bring him to see the Bs very soon, to get things started. She was sure they wouldn’t be able to resist him. Mr. B would know which private school was best for Frankie and they would be happy to pay the tuition. After all, both their kids were computer people and didn’t need money. And to be honest, Mrs. B was a generous woman. When Rosa stayed a few minutes late to do special jobs, polish the silver or clean out the closets, Mrs. B always gave her an extra twenty dollars. Not really a bad woman.
Rosa tried to remember whether or not she had said she was quitting. Of course she was glad she had let Mrs. B know she was furious and wouldn’t allow anyone to speak to her that way. But she was pretty sure she hadn’t said anything definite about quitting.
Virginia tore the check into small pieces, dropped the pieces into the wastebasket, and turned again to the drawing. At a good stopping moment, she would invite Rosa to join her in a cup of tea. When she had a book deadline, she didn’t get out during the day and actually it was nice to have someone in the house with her.
***
Rosa retied her sneakers and went back to the kitchen. She took a cloth from the tray and mopped up the spilled water. Perhaps before she left today, she’d ask if she could bring Frankie to meet the Bs. She was sure Mrs. B would adore Frankie.
Bridge
Norman had been an actuary, quite successful, and quite happily married as those things go. He had expected to die before his wife, Betty, and was at something of a loss when that did not happen. The everyday of his life bewildered him, and he slowly lost weight on frozen food, the dust devils grew into mountains under his bed, and the only people he saw were his neighbors mowing their lawns and the postman delivering junk mail. The empty house felt like a vast and frigid cave.
After Norman had moped around for four months or so, his son, who lived in a distant city, persuaded him to move to a retirement community where he would be entertained and cared for and the son would not have to worry about him anymore. Norman had visited Ridgeside Retirement Residence, had found the food more palatable than frozen chicken dinners, and enjoyed being fawned upon by the rather buxom assistant manager. And so he sold his house, bought an apartment at Triple R, and moved in.
This assistant manager was a good-hearted calculating soul. She knew that if she left Norman just lying around for more than a few days, he’d be snagged by the most acquisitive of the Triple R widows. She had a better use for him than that. As they rode the elevator up to the freshly painted apartment, scrubbed clean of all evidence of the deceased who had occupied it and where Norman would live until he needed to go to the infirmary, she stole a glance at him. He was no beauty, rather chinless, and so thin and bony that it looked as though a coat hanger was holding up his jacket. But she had a plan, and beggars can’t be choosers. “Do you play bridge?” she asked.
“Oh, sure,” Norman replied.
The assistant manager knew from his tone that he really wasn’t much of a bridge player but being male didn’t want to admit there was anything he didn’t know or couldn’t do. “Well, then, you’ll be very popular here,” she said with a sly wink.
After the first two days during which Norman condensed his seven rooms of furniture to fit into a one-bedroom apartment an
d sent the rest and most of his books and mementoes into storage so that his son could throw them away when the time came, he was once again at a loss for something to do. So he went wandering around the Triple R premises, pretending to examine the poolroom, the pool, the putting green, none of which interested him in the least. He walked out to the edge of the Triple R grounds, thinking he might investigate the slight incline that lay beyond a thicket of vines and thorns. But he realized that the thicket concealed no telling what vicious snakes and rats, and so he turned away and continued his aimless walking around the manicured lawns.
Three elderly widows—Millie, Jean, and Charlotte—were sitting on the stone bench in the rose garden. The sudden death of their bridge fourth, Angela, had left the three feeling restless and querulous. For nearly five years they had had their daily bridge game, something to look forward to in the morning, something to occupy the afternoon, something to rehash over dinner and through the evening. Of course, they had occasionally had their little unpleasantnesses. When someone fails in what should have been a lay-down slam, the partner would have to be a saint not to express at least a tad of resentment. But if given a choice in a secret ballot, they would probably have preferred each other’s company to that of anyone else, including their children and even their grandchildren.
From time to time one or another roused herself to speak. Millie pointed out the deadheads the gardener had as usual failed to remove. Jean lamented that her children had missed their last visit. Charlotte declared that Triple R’s menu had been exactly the same for three months. Their daily bridge game had held their lives together and without it, each felt quite alone on her own little island.
As the assistant manager was taking a break from planning Triple R’s next social gathering, she glanced out the window, and there was Norman and there were the three bridge players. She had been worried about the women ever since Angela had been “called away on more important business,” as she called it. Now the hour to solve two problems had struck, and she came whirling out of the building, calling, “Norman. Norman, I want you to meet some wonderful people.”
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