A Good Distance

by Sarah Willis

  After walking out of the law firm, Rose has given herself three weeks to relax before looking for a new job. Her twenty-third birthday is next month—it’s time for a whole new life to begin. She will never work for lawyers again. She thinks about working for the newspaper and sends them a résumé, but she never hears back. In the classifieds there’s a notice for a receptionist at the local theatre. The theatre. Well, why not? That sounds fun. She desperately wants to have fun. She wants to go out dancing, to movies and plays. Why not work where it would be fun?

  Rose looks around the apartment that she shares with Laura and decides to move out, get a place of her own. She never doubts for a second she’ll get the job as a receptionist. By the end of the week she has moved into a new apartment, a one-bedroom, and will start work at the theatre in two days. Standing in the middle of her new living room, she shouts, “Yippee!” It’s the stupidest thing in the world to shout, so she shouts it again and bursts into a fit of giggles to beat the band. She forgets to go to her mother’s for Sunday dinner. She even forgets to call her mother and tell her she has a new address and phone number. She doesn’t really forget, she just doesn’t do it.

  The next week she feels so guilty she brings flowers along with the wine. “How kind,” her mother says. They say grace. They eat their meal. When Rose leaves, she doesn’t write down her new number on a slip of paper to be thrown out.

  The theatre is alive like nothing Rose has ever seen before. During the day, actors pace the floors, stretch their voices, gossip in back hallways, rehearse on empty stages that gradually fill with props, furniture, and hand-painted sets. Techs argue as they carry flats down narrow halls. Saws buzz and hammers wrench nails from wood to be used again and again. Costumes are cut and sewn, recut and dyed. Wigs are dusted and men walk around with makeup on. Flats fall over in dress rehearsals and spotlights miss their marks, but sometimes everything goes perfectly and the feeling of a small miracle makes everyone happy and excited. Actors, techs, designers, directors, and the women who work in the box office go out for drinks in the evening, not getting home until two in the morning. The few men who call her Honey call everyone Honey.

  A little after a year at the theatre, Rose is fixed up on a blind date with a pharmacist, a man with a grin like the Cheshire cat; his mouth seems too large for his face, and when he smiles it’s almost frightening. She says yes to the second date because there is something fascinating about him, she just can’t figure out what. He lives an hour away, and at first they see each other only on Saturdays nights; months and months of Saturday nights go by, and each time he drops her off at her apartment building, kisses her goodbye at the front steps, waits in his car until she turns on a light, then drives off. He hasn’t tried anything sexual; at the end of five months they have only kissed—and awkwardly. His mouth is just too big; his lips are like soft mountains, and she’s not ever quite sure where she is. But he’s a terrific dancer.

  One Saturday night, he tells her that he loves her. “You’re Catholic, right?” he says, immediately after proclaiming his love. He know this, so she just nods. “I don’t believe in sex before marriage,” he says, then, “Will you marry me?”

  Rose is intrigued by the fact that he’s still a virgin. They must be the last two adult virgins on earth, so maybe they are meant to be together. She hasn’t felt his soul in her fingertips, but that’s just a fantasy of her youth, and she is no longer young. She’s twenty-four. She tells him she’ll think about it, then a week later she says yes, because she’s curious what saying yes might do to her. Will she love him more if she says yes, and will he want to make love to her, if they’re officially engaged? Neither of these things happen, and they go on as usual, except now they see each other on Fridays and Saturdays. She begins to notice that he doesn’t have much to say, and wonders why she didn’t notice it before.

  Ten months after her engagement, Rose realizes there’s nothing fascinating about him at all except for his large mouth. She breaks off the engagement as kindly as she can, and finds she doesn’t have the energy to cry about it for very long. A month later she begins to date again, with a vengeance. She’s sick to death of being a virgin. She almost goes all the way with an actor, a funny man who can make her laugh so hard she cries, but she pulls out of his arms at the last moment, saying she’s sorry. God, she’s so stupid, she tells herself that night as she sleeps alone. Why not do this, this thing her body so obviously wants? Why does she get so tense? A few weeks later she sees her funny boyfriend kissing an actress behind a stage wall. Heck, she will give up on men. She’s done with them. She’s just fine on her own, thank you. She gets another cat and names him Pinocchio.

  On February 7, 1953, the same day that Ginger Rogers marries Jacques Bergerac, Rose walks down the theatre’s back stairs, and a man she’s never seen before comes bounding up, carrying a stack of scripts under one arm. He has a mass of black hair, and his skin is the pale white that actors tend to have, shaded by dark stubble as if he’s forgotten to shave this morning. He has deep-etched wrinkles splaying from the corners of his eyes and his ears are large. His eyes are black, like his hair. Rose notices every detail in the few seconds they stand there on the stairs staring at each other.

  “And who might you be?” he asks Rose.

  “Rose O’Neill,” she says.

  “Well, I’m Michael Morgan. Very pleased to meet you, Rose.” He steps up one step and offers her his hand. There is a slight electrical twitch as they touch—from the dry air, she tells herself firmly. His hand is warm. His knuckles large.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” She wants to ask him what he’s doing here, on the stairs in her theatre, but the cat has caught her tongue. He’s smiling at her, looking her right in the eyes. She slips her hand out of this much-too-long handshake and blushes. Damn it, she hates blushing.

  “Well, Rose, I’ll be seeing you,” he says with a smile.

  Rose feels she has been promised something. She goes back to the box office and acts as if it is just an ordinary day. At lunch a girl from costumes mentions there’s a new director at the theatre, a man named Michael Morgan who’s been hired to direct just one play. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  That night Rose has a vivid dream. She’s an old woman who remembers loving Michael more than anyone she has ever loved, and being loved that way in return.

  Chapter Five

  My mother’s fallen asleep in the car. We haven’t gotten her stockings, but she’ll never remember she wanted them. And she looks so peaceful I don’t want to wake her up. Just as I used to do when Jazz was a baby and asleep in the car, I turn on the classical station and drive out of Fairmount until the houses become sparse and the trees take over. It’s raining gently. The trees are a deep, wet black, and the gold and orange leaves plait the ground like a damp Oriental rug. Crows perch on the high, bare branches as if they own the world.

  I pull into the gravel parking lot of a public park and turn off the car. I feel very alone here in this car, the rain blurring the world. I miss my daughter; the baby asleep in the car seat. I miss my mother, the one I used to know and tried so hard to love. I miss knowing my aunts and uncles and cousins. I miss my husband. I wonder why his name has come to me last, and why I should miss him at all, since he has not left me, yet.

  She’s still asleep when I pull into my drive. I close the car door carefully behind me so it doesn’t bang and wake her up. She should be safe enough in the car for a few minutes. Todd’s motorcycle is parked in the garage. I’d like some time alone with him, just a few minutes would be nice.

  He’s in the kitchen, showered and changed, so he must have been home for a while. He’s wearing those well-worn jeans that look so good on him, and a soft, old gray sweatshirt that’s older than our relationship. I don’t say anything, just walk over and lay my head against his shoulder. Then we both speak at once, in whispers; we are so used to being overheard. “Hello,” he says. “She fell asleep in the car,” I say. There’s a moment while we’re b
oth afraid to speak again, to interrupt something that feels fragile and rare. He tilts up my chin and we kiss. His hands are calloused and rough against my skin, and our kiss gets pretty hot. It’s been a long time since we kissed like this.

  Todd nods his head toward the stairs. “If she’s asleep, can we . . . ?” I know what he means. Why can’t he ask me to make love, and why can’t I say I love you? We are like kids, whispering, sneaking about. Afraid to speak about sex or love.

  I want to go upstairs with my husband but my mother could wake and wander out of the car, go off looking for her home, which, in her case, could be anywhere from the East Coast to the West Coast, depending on her time frame. If I go upstairs with Todd, I’ll be worrying the whole time and he’ll know it. But I have a better idea. A way to make him happy—which will make me happy—and keep my eye on my mother.

  I smile as slyly as I can and walk over to the kitchen door to look outside. The car’s in full view through the window. The bottom half of the door is wood. I can see my mother’s curly head of hair pressed against the glass of the car’s window. She’s still sleeping. “Come here,” I say to Todd. He looks puzzled. “Trust me,” I say.

  I move him around so his back’s against the door and he’s facing me. I glance out the window one more time. She’s not moving at all. I have a few minutes, at least. Enough time. I lower myself to my knees. I hear Todd protest, a sound between a no and a moan. I say, “Shhh,” and unzip his fly, then reach inside his pants to pull out his cock, which begins to straighten out immediately. I put my mouth around it and hear him moan again. His hands are on my shoulders, and they press down. I know him; he is torn between thinking I shouldn’t do this—please just him—and wanting this so badly that his hands hold me in place against his better instincts. I can’t help grinning with his cock in my mouth. I hope he can feel that, my grin. It takes less than two minutes. There’s a lot of moaning coming from above me. If someone were in the backyard, they could see me through the hall window. It makes me very excited.

  When I’m done, I stand up. He opens his eyes, a stunned look on his face. Behind him, through the window, my mother still sleeps.

  “That’s not quite what I meant,” he says.

  “Complaining?” I ask.

  He shakes his head no. “But what about you?”

  “I got what I want,” I tell him. And I did. As hot as I am, I am completely satisfied. I feel so accomplished. I’ve made my husband happy and not taken the chance that my mother might wander off. Superwoman. I feel like cooking something complicated and serving it on fine china. Painting the bathroom. Cleaning the whole basement while singing opera.

  “Will you keep your eye on her while I go brush my teeth?” I ask, blushing. He nods. We’re both smiling idiotically, but upstairs, as I look in the mirror, I start thinking. I didn’t say I love him, and yet I’m satisfied. Is he? As I come back downstairs, I see the red light blinking on the machine. It’s my sister. “Jennifer,” she says, “it’s me, Betsy. I guess you’re not home. Just remember, money’s not a problem. If the home’s good, maybe you should get her in there before things get worse. Let me know what you decide to do. Bye.” I hear in her voice the same relief that was in mine, that she got my machine, not me. I also hear the question in her statement: Why are you not home, her voice says. And I hear a smugness in her mention of money. And I wonder how many sisters have to say who they are. I’ve read all this into a fifteen-second recording of a voice a thousand miles away.

  Why the hell do I want her to like me so much? I erase the message.

  Rose wakes up and wonders what she’s doing in a car. Panicked, she looks around. Where am I? Whose car is this? Is it locked? She’s not the type to wake up in a strange car—or is she? Reaching for the handle to open the door, Rose cries out at the sight of her wrinkled hand. Just moments ago she was twenty-six. She was happy. In love. Not old!

  She opens the car door, so relieved it opens that her chest hurts. She steps out, but her legs don’t work as she thought they would. Old legs! She stumbles and falls to her knees on the grass just outside the car. With the shock of hitting the ground, she remembers getting into this car with a nice lady and her daughter. The word daughter sticks in her head like a piece of taffy—thick, something she has to pull at to get the taste and shape. My knees hurt, she thinks. Then she can’t think right. Just the word, stockings. Then, daughter. She begins to cry, and calls out, “Michael!” But he’s dead. She knows that. Then she doesn’t, and she yells his name louder.

  A lady comes running out of the house. “Mother! Are you all right?” Rose knows this is her daughter. Just look at her face! Of course it’s her daughter. But then she wonders, is it? She could be wrong. Maybe the woman said Mary, not mother. She has already forgotten what was said. If this woman is not her daughter, and Rose calls her Jennifer, they will think she’s crazy and lock her up. She’s terrified of being locked up. She’ll have to say something but hide the fact she’s so confused. Rose tries to get up on her own, but the woman who she thinks is her daughter takes her hand and helps her up.

  “Thank you,” Rose says.

  “Are you hurt?” the woman asks. Is this Tiffany? The name Tiffany is strong in her head, like a rock marking the place for something. She knows, at least, that whoever Tiffany is, she likes her. She is not so sure she likes her daughter. Sometimes she does. Not always.

  “No,” Rose says. She looks at the house. She lives here. She doesn’t know why, but she does. She remembers thinking she didn’t live here, getting angry and screaming at someone, and she’s embarrassed that she made a fool out of herself. Hell, she thinks. Screw them. This is what she says when she gets upset, and she’s oddly satisfied that she knows that about herself. Screw them all, she thinks again. She walks toward the house. I’m not going to throw any fits, she thinks. I will simply go into this house and up to my room. The image of what that room might look like wavers and won’t take shape.

  The woman walks beside her with a hand on Rose’s arm. They go in the house, through a kitchen with dark cabinets. The room needs some color. Something red or orange. She can’t imagine living here. Does she? “Stupid house!” she says. So what if she said it out loud.

  The living room doesn’t even have rugs. Who would live in a house with bare floors? There’s a gate across the steps, and that upsets her. She stops. This gate has something to do with her. It’s to keep her locked up. She tenses and thinks she will turn and run, but two things occur to her: One, she probably can’t run very fast with these stupid old legs, and two, it’s a pretty sorry excuse for a gate. She laughs, knowing her laugh is a bit of a cackle—she was told that once. By whom? Then before the woman can unhook the gate, Rose steps over it, holding on to the banister, using every muscle she owns not to trip. Then she walks upstairs. She doesn’t know where she’s going, she can’t picture it, but her body seems to know what to do, and she’s going to trust it.

  Rose walks into a room that has a bed with rails, and adult diapers in the corner, and words written on things, labels meant for some stupid old woman. Me, she thinks. I’m some stupid old woman. “Hell’s bells,” she says.

  The woman, whoever she is, has followed her into the room. “Let me look at your knees,” she says.

  “Leave my goddamn knees alone,” Rose says, and then is immediately afraid. Is this someone she can offend?

  “I just want to make sure you’re not hurt.”

  “Rat’s ass,” Rose says. Then, “I’m fine. I’m . . .” The word she wants is not there. It’s nowhere, not even on the tip of her tongue. It’s a word not invented yet.

  “Tired?” the woman says.

  “Yes!” Rose says. I’m goddamn tired. She doesn’t think she said this last part aloud. She sits in the chair by the bed. “Leave me alone,” she says, not caring anymore if she’s being rude.

  “Are you sure?” The woman looks both worried and relieved.

  “Oh, go on.” Rose waves her away.

 
“I’ll be back up soon,” the woman says, with a nod. “We’ll play cards.”

  “Oh, fine,” Rose says, just to get rid of her. She wants to be alone and think. She’s very afraid to think, but she’s desperate to do so. “Close my door,” she says.

  The woman nods and does as Rose asks. She could be my daughter, Rose thinks. I suppose she is.

  Rose closes her eyes. Inside is a woman of twenty-six. With her eyes closed, Rose can see very well.

  Chapter Six

  Every time Rose turns a corner at the theatre, she sees Michael standing there, looking at her. She has this crazy idea that he’s doing it on purpose, waiting around corners for her.

  One day he comes to the box office. “Hey there, Rose, will you do me a favor?”

  “And what favor would you like, Mr. Morgan?” Rose asks. The older woman who works with Rose in the box office busies herself studying a brochure.

  “We’re out of the greenroom and on the stage. We need an audience. Will you come watch? They’re getting tired of my face.”

  “Sure,” she says. As if they could really be tired of his face, she thinks.

  She watches a run-through of the first act. He doesn’t interrupt the actors as other directors do at this stage in rehearsals. Michael lets them stumble through it, then when it’s over, he goes up on the stage and draws the actors around him like a cocoon. Reading notes from a yellow legal pad, he talks so softly she can’t hear what he says. The actors nod. Some ask a question. This takes time, but she stays in her seat, transfixed by the whole silent scene. She is taken by this man so many look to. When he’s done, he hops off the stage and struts up the aisle. He knows she’s watching him. He’s a director, but she can see the actor in him.