Later, as the four traveled down the road to Applecarrie, he told his sister-in-law,
“Those people didn’t even try to make nice!”
Rosie’s mom couldn’t have cared less about Marlon’s sensibilities. She was deep in thought, planning and scheming, about how things would be from then on. Wanted to make certain to set Rosie straight right from the get-go.
“We’re gonna give you a perm’nent. I’m tired of seein’ that long, straight hair hangin’ down . . . now, that you’re such a big girl, doin’ big girl things. And, we’ll keep all that stuff Martin gave you, but don’t count on ever puttin’ it to use. I don’t have room in my house for it, so Marlon’ll just put it in the carport closet till we get this court business settled. Then, I’ll put it in a flea market. Let one of those folks sell it for me. Help pay for the baby formula and whatever food you eat.”
Rosie had very pretty hair—the color of taffy after it’s been pulled, shiny, healthy and, truly long. She had acquired a most unique combination in skin type—the fair complexion of her mother with a slight blush in her cheeks, yet, with some amount of olive pigmentation from her daddy that protected her from sunburn. She wasn’t at all sure about this permanent. She’d never had one, but she knew she’d have no choice in the matter. And, all the way to Applecarrie, Rosie’s mother refused to let the child hold her baby.
“Since the baby’ll be bottle-fed, there’s no reason he can’t stay in my bedroom.”
The woman told Marlon to put the baby bed in her room. She pulled out anything else she found among the things from Martin’s she thought she’d need—diaper bag, baby bottles, bibs, crib sheets, towels and such.
“All the rest goes in the closet.”
As did Rosie’s beautiful white and yellow quilt . . . into the closet where roaches laid their eggs and feces indiscriminately, chewed up paper and paste, where mice did just the same. And, as though Rosie were in kindergarten just beginning to read, the woman had stuck signs on the doors leading into the house that read, “Mommy’s door.” Inside, she’d placed more signs—“Mommy’s chair”, “Mommy’s kitchen”, “Mommy’s
bathroom.” On the baby’s bed, she placed a similar sign. It was blank but the message was clear. From that point on Rosie was to understand that, when she put her arms down into the bed to pick up her child, she’d be trespassing.
“It’s as though Beelzebub himself whispers in their ears—so uncanny is their knowledge of evil and cruelty. Hosea 12:7 tells us that there are some people who ‘ . . . love to oppress’.” Martin’s pastor explained.
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Sometime around 1:30 the next afternoon Rosie heard her mother in the bathroom clanking things around, dropping stuff, running water in the tub, getting things out of the cabinet. She yelled to Rosie to,
“Git in here. Now’s as good a time ta do this as any.”
She was ready to apply the perm. Rosie, as usual, was expected to hop-to.
Rosie was in the same shorts and shirt she’d worn to bed. Somehow getting out of them and into pajamas didn’t seem important—maybe, not even advantageous. Her mother hadn’t noticed the crumpled clothes . . . or chose not to mention them . . . as she combed through the girl’s hair using a fine-toothed comb. While she had a large comb for herself with thick, widely spaced teeth, she had always, since babyhood, used the other, smaller on Rosie, invariably pulling the fine strands of hair since she never stopped in mid-stroke. Beginning at the top of the head, she dragged the tool, tangles and whatever hair came out with them until she reached the end. Up until the little girl was three, Rosie would cry, beg and plead
for her mother to stop pulling, not to comb her hair. Once or twice the little tyke took matters into her own hands and got up, started walking off.
Rosie’s mother, sitting on the sofa, said, “Rosie, come back here.”
Very matter-of-factly, the baby girl said, “I don’t want to,” and kept walking.
The mother, taking a step or two, grabbed up the child with a jerk, returned her to the sofa whereupon she slapped the top and sides of the baby’s head with the comb, snarling through her teeth,
“I could pull out every hair on your head!”
When the two got to their destination—the store, usually—the woman started the entire process over, again. By the time they walked through the door, Rosie had huge tears puddling in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.
*
It seemed to take the woman forever to get all the perm rollers wound and every strand of hair bound inside the papers. Rosie sat as still as she could, enduring the twists and yanks, the occasional curse word. And, now and then, her mother wasn’t satisfied with a curler, so she dragged it down, pulling out hair in the process. If the girl happened to make a small utterance in her throat or move her body ever so slightly, her mother would say, “Here. You do it, if you think you can do better. I’m trying to get this mess taken care of before the baby wakes.”
As in old, she hit Rosie a time or two with the comb. Rosie was confused: if she were “doing big girl things,” she, certainly, wasn’t receiving the respect “big girls” usually receive. When the child could no longer restrain a small fidget, the woman plopped the wet curlers into her lap and stomped out the door. Rosie sat on the toilet seat—some curls up, some hanging down, everything dripping—with not a notion of how to give herself a permanent.
From the sound of things, the woman had moved onto other chores in the kitchen. Rosie began to cry quietly upon the seat, still holding her hands full of curlers. Knowing her mother to be powerfully and determinedly resolute, she only knew to do what she’d done so many times in the past. She got up, walked to the kitchen and entreated her mother to complete the job, adding the required, contrite apology.
Her mother was gratified and returned to the bathroom ordering Rosie with the authority of a slave driver to sit down. The child understood any maltreatment from then on must be endured stoically, without response. There was no telling what another reaction on her part might achieve, but it, most certainly, would be worse than anything that had gone before. She wandered back in her mind to the bedroom her daddy had put together for her, let her put together for herself, and pictured the beautiful brush and comb she placed on her vanity, the set the men and women at the nursing
home had given her. Huge tear-drops plopped out of her eyes onto the hands folded in her lap, head down-turned so her mother could better curl the hair at her neckline. Then, she sat for some time longer while the lotion did its trick.
The baby boy began to cry in his bed, but Rosie was in no position to go check on him. Her heart was breaking. She wanted so much to be taking care of her little, newborn son, holding him in her daddy’s home in their new rocking chair, introducing him to new things—toys and nature and her love, singing with the old folks, reading the Bible with her daddy, working in the garden. She cried for quite some time—as did her little son—before she heard her mother’s shoes tap the floorboards in the hall and proceed into the bedroom to check on the baby.
Rosie had a problem gauging time, but it seemed like she’d been sitting on the toilet seat for at least an hour. Her neck ached from keeping her head lowered lest the ammonia drip down her back. Her behind had long since lost feeling except for the uncomfortably twitchy sensations compressed and irritated nerves send out.
Rosie’s mother came into the bathroom laughing, more than 30 minutes past the longest suggested time for leaving the solution in the hair.
“My, where’s the time gone?! That little boy and I were havin’ such a great time, I completely forgot about you in here.”
Marlon’s truck crushed the rocks in the drive.
Rosie was acutely aware—had been for years—of its own unique sounds: how the tires pulled over the broken stones, the sounds the engine made, even Marlon’s own personal way of very slowly moving forward, sto
pping just shy of the carport, taking his time to open the door and get out . . . the sound of his feet coming up the concrete walkway, up the steps, into the house.
Rosie realized she was in a most vulnerable position. Her body stiffened as she bent over the bathtub for her mother to pour water over the curls. When Marlon came to the bathroom door, her heart began to skip beats. It felt like it was pinched into a tiny space, like it would burst from her chest. She could hear blood pulsing in her ears and felt a little dizzy. He did the unthinkable—he sat down directly behind Rosie on the toilet seat.
Her mother made a noise of exasperation, “You’re gonna have to keep your head down, Rosie, or you’re gonna get water all over my floor. Well, you’ll just have to get it up, then, won’cha.”
As the woman said this, pushing Rosie’s curled head farther down toward the tub, the girl felt the toe of Marlon’s big shoe wedging and pushing itself between her feet which she had moved together when she heard him come to the door.
“Bend your knees a bit, Rosie. You’re jus’ too tall for me.”
Rosie complied, but no more than she absolutely had to. Marlon and her mother began chatting amongst themselves about this and that: who’d won the bowling tournament, the wreck he’d passed coming home, how he’d stopped to help but the cops had the thing covered by that time. They both had a good laugh when he told about a new man on the team. He’d made such a fool of himself—real picky—brought his own shoes and ball, then couldn’t play the game. Marlon slapped his thighs as he leaned back on the commode laughing, then proclaimed he was going to get himself a beer. Did Rosie’s mom want one?
“No. Gotta finish this, first. Then, I can relax.”
As the man got up off the seat, he ran a finger lightly up the inside of Rosie’s thigh, quite high. The girl’s legs began to quiver—long, lovely, straight legs, very much like a delicate gazelle.
Gym class at school the year before held some promise for the child . . . a hopeful coach sent a note home that she had the makings of a very nice runner, wanted Rosie on the team. It wasn’t something her mother wanted her to do, so nothing came of it. All the woman had to do was drop a few things, slam some doors, give Rosie her most efficient evil-eyeball glare and Rosie lost all interest.
She felt her knees on the verge of collapse. She knew the man would be back and altered her stance as imperceptibly as possibly so that her head was still down to please her mother but her legs were together. When he returned, sat on the toilet, he, again, pushed and wedged his toe slowly, persistently between Rosie’s feet, managing to get his entire foot in. When he tapped repeatedly on
the backs of her knees to make them bend, the girl’s body pitched forward, almost falling into the tub.
Marlon’s huge, strong arm wrapped around her waist as he laughed good-naturedly evil. He was having fun. He pulled her up and proceeded to stand her on her feet, running a finger lightly over her episiotomy still highly tender and sensitive from the delivery. A warm flush beginning at the top of Rosie’s head progressed downward. Her body betrayed her as she yearned for more . . . not the act, particularly, but the touch and what passed for love. Marlon knew she would. This time he’d fix it so the child never, again, thought herself worthy of his brother and all he represented. With a little time, she’d even forget the bond a mother has for her child.
“She’ll be throwin’ that baby away and leapin’ into my arms, legs spread wide as ah eagle wings,” Marlon anticipated unto himself.
“Who’s little pardnah are ya?” he mocked. “When you git your hair all prettied up, you come sit on ole Marlon’s knee. We’ll pick up where we left off.”
Rosie’s mom laughed and slapped the man on the arm.
She and Marlon were not alone in their propensity toward insightful revelations. Rosie had never heard the words “sadism” or “masochism;” however, she knew in her heart that the two people meant nothing good for her, that Marlon’s love was extremely dangerous, destructive and self-serving. She knew deep down inside that it would take all that her intellect could muster to drive a wedge between him and the feelings he’d introduced into her life. She would have to “will”.
“I will dredge him out of my life. I will go into my baby when my mother goes out.” Her heart told her so.
{Mr. Bill was thinking back on the little Rosie, the one who quietly, with polite determination, turned her back on her mother, walked away saying, “I don’t want to.” Her innocent courage made him chuckle. “But. she comes by it rightly—Martin is a fine man.”}
And, as well, a miracle happened in the twinkling of her eye. Rosie happened a scant glance, askance, at Marlon . . . his large frame standing over six feet high, arms of no obvious muscular definition and construction yet strong and solid, determined in their lack of conscience. Suddenly, she perceived his belly, hugely distended, pendulous over the top of his breeches as being filled with stagnant, rancid water and years’ old feces, every cell turgid with rottenness, decay and purulence. She was repelled, repulsed and she despised him—despised him that he had the nerve to touch her—her daddy’s daughter.
It was her blessing that she didn’t recognize her own body’s measure in her uncle since she had inherited those longer, taller lines from the same gene pool—long, slender, straight and strong legs, elongated torso. The fine, delicate, fragile, facial features were strictly her daddy’s.
29
And the long, lovely, lively taffy-colored hair was rendered a shade of beige-blonde, burned, crotcheted and lack-luster . . . a nest created by a confused and tormented mother bird in which every strand strained toward its own, individual expression and each quarter inch, bent stubbornly into an opposing angle . . . blousing, standing out as if the child had held her head before an oscillating fan while some onlooker took to it with vigor and spray starch. Rosie would have almost gotten by with the new “do” since her eyes were for her baby, only, and he hadn’t seemed to notice: she had watched for his reaction on her first approach. His eyes were steady upon hers. She’d decided she’d, simply, stay away from the mirror as much as possible.
Amazingly, if Marlon registered any slight response at all, Rosie was certain it was anger at his sister-in-law for the mess she’d perpetrated upon his object of love. He seemed to grow increasingly irritable as the days went by, as Rosie cared less and less about brushing her hair. He, even, braved a disgusted look at the woman, now and then, venting his anger in ever so slight and petty ways and remarks. Rosie’s mother had her own reasons for the crime and wasn’t about to let Marlon
effect her mood which was most euphoric. She had accomplished her masterpiece and gloated upon his anger.
If anyone outside the family just happened to mention Rosie’s new style, which they’d not be doing since the woman rarely let the girl out of the house, she’d, simply, glisten her eyes into a loving smile and say,
“That little baby of mine keeps me so busy—I completely forgot the time. ’Fraid I left Rosie to cook a little over long. Thank goodness, it’ll grow out . . . or we can cut it all off. Start over, again.”
Then, she planned to laugh good-naturedly as though she suffered under the error right along with her daughter.
*
Clarence had his own philosophy about what constitutes “mess,” a category into which he would have assigned Rosie’s hair. Margaret walked into his study one evening and found him sitting behind his desk, staring into the trash can.
“Watcha doin’, Hon?” she quizzed.
In a voice filled with utter amazement, he replied, “I just realized what makes ‘clutter.’” He waited for her response. When none came . . .
{“Actually, she was speechless.” Mr. Bill had a keen understanding of Meggie’s nature. “The boy should, too—he’s been with her long enough—but he gets carried away.”}
. . . Clarence continued,
“It’s angles.” He was quite delighted with himself, giddy, even, with wonderment. “It’s angles! I’ve been looking into this can, puzzling over why it contains a mess.”
“’Cuz you put it there, ya dummy,” Margaret, thinking to herself.
“It’s got too many angles!”
“Ooo-kay.” Maggie was filled with her own wonderment—why a grown man, graduate of Mertz’s Business College, would spend even two minutes of thought on the subject.
“When you leave the dishes . . .”
Margaret was just about to protest with great indignation, proclaim, strongly, she didn’t do such a thing, when he cut her off.
“I know, it’s rare, but it does happen, now and then.” Margaret’s feathers, once more, threatened to rustle, so the dear man backed up and took another running jump.
“Ok. For sake of harmony in the O’Casey
household, let’s say, when some filthy, crumby housewife out there leaves the dirty dishes for a day or two on the sink. Forks, spoons, knives, cups, plates, pots, pans, spatulas—all that accumulates on the drain. Yes? And, she hasn’t bothered to arrange things—stack the plates and cups, gather up the utensils in a line, nest the pots and pans. You know. Ok, ok . . . you don’t know, but some folks out there know. Bits of left-over casserole, pieces of bread, un-eaten cantaloupe, all that’s left on the plates. Egg yolk in the skillet . . . grease with two-day-old bacon bits. See? Ok. Now. All of it presents its own angles and our brains love order. Our eyeballs love order; they embrace it, whether we realize it or not, and they’re greatly connected to our brains. It all produces angles with almost no clean, smooth, blank surfaces.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 16
