Black Apple

by Joan Crate

  “Hey.” Cyril’s big hand rubbed her back. “You look scared. But it’s all right now. Frank won’t bother you no more. He knows he has to deal with me. Look, would you like a drink to get rid of them hiccups? Come on,” he urged. “It’s all right.”

  The bed was dimpled where Cyril or Frank had been sitting, and a chair was shoved close. A troop of dust bunnies under the bed shivered in the breeze that cut between the propped-open window and the door.

  “Sit down,” he said gently, indicating the chair. He shut the door. “Just one drink. Good stuff. Single malt. Frank and me was just celebrating the pay hike.” He handed her a cloudy tumbler.

  She took it, tippling the glass to her lips. The stuff smelled like the furniture polish remover she and Mrs. Rees used to scrub waxy buildup from the church floors, topped off with a dash of coyote piss, but she took a sip anyway, feeling it scorch her tongue. Closing her eyes, she gulped. The liquid burned all the way down to her stomach, and just as she was beginning to wonder why anyone would voluntarily drink such a concoction, a warm glow radiated through her.

  “I think it’s working.” She held out her glass, and Cyril sloshed more of the amber fluid inside. She took a gulp. “I am weak, but thou art strong. Jesus keep me from all wrong,” she sang, rocking on the chair.

  “I’ll get you some music.” Cyril rose from his bed and turned on his radio. “ ‘Fascination.’ I like that song. I heard it on the radio in the parlour.”

  “Madam?” he said, holding his hand out to her. “May I have the honour of dancing with you?”

  “Why not?” She teetered to her feet. “You know, one year, probably my fourth or fifth at St. Mark’s, Sister Cilla taught us the waltz. ‘One, two, three, one, two, three,’ Sister called out as she swung around the floor, her skirts swooping like crazy. She’s not the most graceful person in the world, and real tall. Not as tall as you, though.”

  Cyril placed his big hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her. “A dancing nun? You don’t say.”

  “Sister had the girls pair off by size, and each couple stumbled around the gym, saying ‘one, two, three, one, two, three.’ Yeah, like that. My friend, Anne, was sick, and no one else was close to my size, so Sister Cilla grabbed me and whirled me around until I thought I’d puke.”

  Cyril chuckled. “I can’t dance worth a damn,” he said, “and I wouldn’t try if I didn’t have half a bottle of scotch in my gut.” He drew her close until her nose was just below his armpit. She could smell American Beauty Rose soap and the damp cotton of his shirt. One, two, three, one, two, three.

  The song ended.

  Cyril kissed her forehead.

  A voice glided from the radio. “And this one goes out to all you miners and your wives. Requested by Madge, it’s Tennessee Ernie Ford with ‘Sixteen Tons.’ ”

  “Da-duh-duh-duh-duh-de-duh-duh,” she and Cyril chimed to the music.

  With a plush lavender towel wrapped around her Halo-shampooed hair, a man’s big arms around her, “Sixteen Tons” playing on the radio, and single-malt scotch blazing in her belly, she felt pure pleasure. The music guided her feet, and Cyril’s arm tightened at her waist. Her head fell back into music that lifted her through the humming air.

  Then the lavender towel toppled from her head. She reached to pick it up and stumbled, landing on Cyril’s bed. She laughed. A turtle on its back. She couldn’t seem to find her feet. When she closed her eyes, Cyril was laughing right beside her.

  Maybe God blinked. Maybe He chose that particular moment to test her. Or maybe Satan found the cracked-open window that poured tinny music and gleeful laughter into the night and projected his dark form through it.

  That had to be it, because Cyril felt safe to her: his American Beauty Rose smell and his big cool hands. He had saved her from the temptation of Frank, and he felt safe to her as he whispered, “Sweet little Rose Marie, just as sweet as she can be,” as his mouth opened on hers.

  He kissed her, long and slow, his fingers sliding over the cotton blouse Ruby had given her and she had taken in. When he cupped her breasts, she turned her chin to protest, but his mouth held hers and then a tingle skittered up her neck, down her ribs.

  She closed her eyes and kissed him back. As his hands reached under her skirt, she quivered and the thought of trying to control her dizzy body flitted through her mind. She should turn from Cyril, prop herself up, crawl over the rippling mattress, and stand up, if she could manage it. She should go to her room, and she would, but Cyril’s unhurried kiss and touch told her she had all the time in the world.

  Her entire body felt like a string of Christmas lights that had just been plugged in and she felt good, fully, dizzily alive. Besides, Cyril felt safe to her. Even as he pulled off her stockings.

  45

  Stud

  NIGHT, THIRSTY, DRANK up the dregs of the day.

  Rose Marie slept poorly, her dreams pulling her in and out of sensations and sleep, from drifting to struggle to paralysis, then back again in a nauseating vortex.

  She was in a river being carried by a strong current; she was drowning. Mother Grace threw her a rope, but it unravelled as soon as it hit the water. Mrs. Rees said, “Get out here, love, where it’s safe.” Rose Marie staggered up the bank, and there was Cyril, reaching. He pulled her to shallow water, but let go, and suddenly her school dress was heavy, weighing her down. She fell back in the water. She was being swept away. Up on the riverbank, Papa danced in his medicine shirt. Or was it Frank?

  She woke up shivering.

  She was standing at the top of the stairs at the old Mooney place. Cyril kissed her forehead. Frank flew forward, socking him in the face. Cyril pushed Frank down the stairs. She ran to the rectory, but Father Seamus blocked the door and wouldn’t let her enter.

  In the morning, she was groggy and disoriented, not knowing if it was Sunday, and she had to get ready for church, or a workday. Her dreams had left her so exhausted she could hardly climb out of bed. Why all these dreams? Why now?

  It was turning cold. Rose Marie had to pull on both pairs of woollen stockings under her long skirt and wear a sweater under her coat to walk to Our Lady of Sorrows. The pools of water in the road were frozen, and when she stepped on them, the sound ricocheted off the mountains, breaking open the day.

  In twenty days, she would return to St. Mark’s. In the meantime, she must steer clear of Cyril and Frank, she decided. No more talks on the porch. No more walks home from the Dominion. She would take a longer route to the old Mooney place, avoiding not only Frank but also Bertha Bright Eye slouching by the gents’ with her stains and bruises.

  * * *

  “Not even three weeks, is it?” Mrs. Rees exclaimed in the rectory. “I’ll be lost without you.”

  Rose Marie smiled. “You did just fine without me before.”

  “It wasn’t the same, dear.”

  A soft arm encircled her shoulders.

  “I’m sure going to miss you, Mrs. Rees,” she cried.

  “Lost without you.” Mrs. Rees sniffled. “I’ll make us a cuppa.”

  Minutes later, pouring tea, Mrs. Rees ventured, “Cyril Brown’s a good chap.”

  “What?” Rose Marie stiffened. How could Mrs. Rees know about Cyril and her? She hadn’t even confessed it. Oh, she just couldn’t face Father Seamus talking all over her in the confessional, shaming and condemning her. She touched Sister Cilla’s cross at her neck. “No kissing,” Sister had warned. “No hands under clothing. You don’t want to be ruined.”

  Was she ruined?

  “It’s just that Cyril fancies you. That’s what they’re all saying,” Mrs. Rees said. “You could do worse, you know.”

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, the temperature dropped further, and the sky turned the colour of the bottled ink she had written her school notes in. It was almost dark when they sat down to eat supper, and she could feel Cyril’s pale eyes on her. Frank’s dark eyes were watching her too.

  She studied the bowl of
stew in front of her. As soon as she was finished eating, she went straight to the kitchen. Let Ruby or Mrs. Mooney clear the table for a change.

  After washing the dishes, she crept down the hall as quietly as possible, past Frank’s room, past the parlour with the radio, stopping just before reaching the door to the porch. Thankfully, the night was too chilly to sit outside, but she stood on her tiptoes, peering through the window to make sure Cyril wasn’t waiting for her. Then she raced up the stairs to her room.

  She knew that Mother Grace had, on occasion, said St. Francis’s Spiritual Communion prayer when she wasn’t feeling well or, more likely, couldn’t force herself to confess to Father William. Just like Rose Marie, now, couldn’t face Father Seamus.

  I believe that You, O Jesus, are in the most holy Sacrament. I love You and desire You. Come into my heart. And please forgive me, Jesus, for my terrible sin of the flesh. Dear God.

  More water in her dream that night.

  Her long-ago creek had swollen. It swirled around her feet, grew higher, pulling at her thighs. “Help!” she screamed to the people onshore—pale figures she couldn’t identify—as she was swept up in the cold rush. She didn’t know where the river was taking her, and she couldn’t break from the current.

  * * *

  At Our Lady of Sorrows Church, she cleaned and served at the Peacock and Santorini baptisms, and a few days later at the Catholic Women’s League tea. One afternoon after polishing the monstrance, she climbed the ladder to wash Jesus on the cross. Kissing His feet, she asked Him to forgive her, to guide her, to show her a sign. Dear Lord, I don’t know what to do. At the end of each day, she walked through Black Apple, avoiding going home until the last possible minute.

  Cold air blew in from the mountains, freezing grass, trees, and her brain. Although she chatted to Mrs. Rees when they were together, afterwards she couldn’t recall what they had said. Cyril’s name came up from time to time. She changed the subject.

  It was the same situation with Mrs. Mooney and Ruby. They said things, she said things, then she wondered what they had talked about. At least Mrs. Derkatch wasn’t at the house anymore. Mrs. Mooney really had told her she wouldn’t need her help while Rose Marie was there. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Ruby snickered when Mrs. Mooney told them.

  Leaving the kitchen, Rose Marie went straight upstairs.

  “There’s snow in the air tonight,” Cyril said, stepping out of the shadows and scaring her half to death.

  “Heavens!”

  “It’ll be real cold for you to go to work in the morning, Rose Marie.”

  She shifted from foot to foot as he looked down at her. This man had been her friend.

  “You’ll need a winter coat.”

  She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say to him anymore.

  “Why don’t you meet me at McBride’s after work tomorrow and—”

  Deftly, she slipped by him and rushed into her room.

  * * *

  Again after supper, Cyril waited for her. “I’m not going to touch you or nothing like that.” He moved closer. “I’m worried about you, is all. That coat of yours ain’t gonna keep you warm walking to the church and back. Don’t even fit you right.”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, scurrying away.

  “Rose Marie, I want to talk to you,” he called after her.

  Safely in her room, she locked the door.

  Mother Mary, keep me safe from those who would do me harm. Whoever they are. Wherever.

  * * *

  The following night, Cyril was parked right outside the kitchen when she came through the door. He grabbed her elbow and tried to turn her, to make her look him full in the face.

  She lowered her eyes.

  “It’s all right, little girl. I just want to say something.”

  She tried to squeeze by him.

  “Please, Rose Marie.”

  She had nowhere to go except back where she’d come from. She spun around and pushed through the kitchen door.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ruby looked up from the kitchen table, where she sat smoking with Mrs. Mooney. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Sit down,” Mrs. Mooney ordered. “Here.” She handed her a cigarette. “You look like you need one.”

  Rose Marie brought the cigarette to her mouth, and Mrs. Mooney lit it. She drew the smoke deep into her lungs, then exhaled, floating away on its grey back. She wanted to float right into another house, another town, another life.

  “I know just what the doctor ordered,” Mrs. Mooney told her.

  “What?”

  “Ya need to learn how to play Stud.”

  “Stud?”

  Ruby and Mrs. Mooney laughed raucously.

  “Poker,” Ruby said.

  “Oh.” She remembered learning in catechism that gambling for fun, like bingo, wasn’t intrinsically evil. “I guess so.”

  “We bet with matchsticks. That way you can’t lose nothing.”

  “Thank God.”

  * * *

  The next day, Cyril started the afternoon shift, and Frank was back on days. As Rose Marie sat across from him at supper—hash, mashed potatoes, and peas—she could feel him watching her. She glanced up and saw a question in his eyes. Like the question in Cyril’s eyes. She ate a few bites, then picked up her plate and slipped into the kitchen.

  As she scrubbed the frying pan, she heard chairs scrape and Dwayne ask Frank if he wanted to go for a beer at the Dominion with him and Reg.

  “No,” Frank answered. “Think I’ll turn in early.”

  Ruby and Mrs. Mooney brought dirty plates and leftover food into the kitchen and the cleanup ritual began.

  After they finished, Rose Marie put her hand on the kitchen door, but thought better of swinging it open. Instead, she crouched down and peered underneath. Frank’s feet. Sure enough, he was waiting for her.

  “I thought you left,” Mrs. Mooney said as she came back to the sink.

  “I don’t want to see Frank,” she whispered.

  “Wouldn’t mind a game of Stud,” Mrs. Mooney said. “You, Ruby?”

  “You betcha. Rose Marie?”

  “Sure.”

  Rose Marie stayed in the kitchen that night, the next night, and the night after that. Mrs. Mooney and Ruby taught her about flushes, full houses, bluffing, shuffling, and wild cards. From time to time, one of them would reach into her pile of matches, light a cigarette, blow out the match, and drop it back in the pile. At ten minutes to nine, when Ruby pulled away from the table, put on her coat, and headed out the back door to the cab that took her to work, most of the matchsticks were blackened, and the kitchen air was blue with smoke.

  As they played cards, the women gossiped. Wong’s was running bets out the back door, Ruby said. Everyone knew that Mr. Tortorelli had died of “the clap,” and Mrs. Derkatch’s son had fathered half the babies born in the last year, according to Mrs. Mooney. “That’s from Dr. Radford, straight from the horse’s ass.”

  At first Rose Marie was shocked by the stories, then intrigued, and finally amused. “Heard anything new?” she would ask as she counted her matches at the start of each evening’s game. No one’s secrets were safe. Stories blossomed like cigarette smoke from the women’s lips.

  From time to time she heard Frank come from his room and stand outside the kitchen door, waiting, but he never came in.

  Rolfe Mooney’s name came up more than once.

  “A chip off the old block,” said Ruby.

  “Dying’s too good for him.” Mrs. Mooney nodded.

  “I know something about him,” Rose Marie ventured, and both women turned to her. “I saw him punch a man my first night in Black Apple. I think it was Billy Nimsic. I think he killed—”

  “Quiet!” hissed Mrs. Mooney. “Don’t say nothing you can’t prove. You don’t want that bastard on your back.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Ruby murmured as she shuffled the deck.

  * * *

  The
next evening, as Frank paced outside the kitchen door and Mrs. Mooney dealt cards, she turned to Rose Marie. “Cookie, you can’t hide from them two men forever. You can cut the tension round here with a knife.”

  “That’s a fact,” Ruby said, grinding her butt in the ashtray. “It ain’t no better at the hotel neither. Soon as Cyril got off shift last night, he went straight to the Dominion and straight at Frank. Dickie Gerard says to me, ‘What happened? I thought those two was buddies.’ I says, ‘A girl happened.’ ” She grinned, showing her big teeth.

  Rose Marie lit herself a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She knew that both Ruby and Mrs. Mooney expected her to do something. It seemed Mrs. Rees did too. But she didn’t know what to do and the words to ask them were lost in the snowstorm in her head. It had been building since the night she took the bath, since Frank and Cyril’s fight. Since Cyril had interfered with her. Since she had let him.

  Look to the future, she told herself, but she couldn’t see a damn thing but cigarette smoke.

  * * *

  Over lunch, she complained to Mrs. Rees that she still hadn’t heard from Mother Grace. Mrs. Mooney hadn’t received the rent yet, and no bus ticket had arrived in the mail.

  “I’m sure something will come soon,” Mrs. Rees consoled, spooning bread pudding into a dish for her. “Don’t you worry. If you don’t hear from Mother Grace soon, just let me know. I can’t do anything about your room and board, but I can speak to Father Seamus about getting you a bus ticket.” Mrs. Rees set the bowl in front of her then stroked her hair. “Cheap as a ha’penny, he is, but I think I can get him to agree.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Rees.”

  “You could always stay in Black Apple.” Mrs. Rees’s eyes were bright as she sat down across from her. “I could speak to Mattie McBride and see if she’d hire you as salesclerk at her store. Betty Watson is leaving at the end of the month to get married to Mario Olivera, who won’t give her a moment’s peace. Mattie will need someone. You could stay, dear, if you wanted. And if you wouldn’t mind, you could still come here once a week to help with the sewing.”