by Sarah Willis
On Monday she goes to work, thinking that Jennifer might sneak home while she’s at the office—it would be just like Jennifer to be home when Rose returns, as if nothing ever happened. It is exactly what Rose believes will happen.
But Jennifer does not just appear, and Rose has dinner with Peter, Betsy, and the absence of Jennifer. Peter does his best to cheer her up by talking about a science project that involves building a volcano. Betsy quietly clears the table and does the dishes. Rose could enjoy this, the facade of a family; this would be something she could live with.
She thinks of calling Simon, but she’s afraid she will beg him to forgive her for what she said, and she won’t do that. She will not beg, so she does not call.
The next morning the police phone her at work. Jennifer has been picked up as truant. Rose goes to the police station, signs some papers, and takes Jennifer to McDonald’s because she doesn’t want to take her home yet. She doesn’t want to begin all over again, being a widow with three children. “I’m so miserable,” she tells Jennifer as her daughter eats french fries.
“I’m sorry,” Jennifer says. “I’m sorry I ran away. It was stupid.”
“Why do you hate me?” she asks, not sure she wants to know.
“I don’t.” Jennifer looks her right in the eye. Rose wants to believe her.
“I won’t drink anymore,” she says, “if that’s it. I’m done.” She doesn’t drink all that much anyway, just now and then, when things get really bad, but if that’s the problem between her and Jennifer, then she’ll stop.
“Thanks. That would help.”
“What else would help?”
“I don’t know.” Jennifer crumples up the wrapper. She ate three hamburgers, and Rose finds some satisfaction in the fact her daughter is so hungry. “I get mad. Sometimes I forget Daddy, like whole days go by, and I hate myself for forgetting him. What’s the matter with me?”
“You never cried. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you have to do that. How about we go to a counselor? I think we should.” She doesn’t want to do this; she doesn’t want her privacy invaded, but she’s pretty sure she won’t be confiding in Simon again, and they both might need someone to talk to.
“No. I’m not going to a counselor. I can cry all by myself, if that’s what you think I should do. I just can’t stand seeing you with men. It makes me crazy. I know that’s not fair. I know it. So date Simon. I don’t care. I think he’s a dork, but do what you want.”
“Gee, thanks, Jennifer. Thanks a lot.” She looks at her daughter, the long, straight, unwashed hair parted in the middle, the ratty winter coat she got at a thrift shop, her sad, pale face, and Rose feels sorry for her. She herself had so much going for her when she was fifteen. So many interests. “Look. Things have to change. I’ll quit drinking, but you have to do something, too. Got it?”
Jennifer nods.
“Okay. Here it is. I’ll quit drinking, and you join the swim team and the Spanish Club, and spend weeknights at home doing homework, and no counselor. Deal?”
“Deal. But I get to talk about Daddy sometimes.”
“No taping pictures to the walls. I see him just fine in my head, Jennifer. Don’t think I’ve forgotten him. I loved him, too. You know what you don’t get, Jennifer? That I know what love is. I want it again.”
“All right, fine,” Jennifer says. But what her daughter doesn’t know, but Rose does, is that it’s already too late for her and Simon.
She calls him that night to tell him that Jennifer’s back. He says he’s glad for both of them. He asks if she’s going to send Jennifer to a counselor, or a drug treatment program. This is a test, to see if she wants him in her life.
“No, we’ve worked something out.”
“Good for you,” he says.
When she hangs up, she wants a drink so bad that she pours a full glass of plain old ginger ale and gulps it so quickly she nearly gags, then she pours another glass of ginger ale and guzzles it, too. Now there’s no room in her for anything else. She goes up to bed and crawls under her covers and screams against the pillow. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!” Jennifer thinks she has forgotten Michael, but she hasn’t.
Less than two weeks later, on a Friday night when all her kids are out of the house, Rose takes the bottle of Jim Beam out from behind the mixing bowl and has just one drink. She’s all alone on a Friday night. She deserves one drink. Saturday night she has two, because one just doesn’t do it.
Drinking gives her an excuse to cry. And she’s angry; drinking seems like giving the world a good slap in the face. And, finally, she’s an adult and it’s perfectly legal.
Chapter Twelve
I added that last part to my mother’s story, about why she began to drink again. Her strawberry ice cream has melted in the bowl, but she has managed to scrape out every last bit of hot fudge.
I never knew that my mother loved Simon, or why they stopped seeing each other. I am very sorry for the two of us, who we were back then. No matter the point of view, no matter who you listen to, it wasn’t a very good time.
It’s 1969, and Rose works as a secretary for a large public relations firm downtown. Sometimes she feels as though she has stepped back in time, to her first job at the law firm where she worked when she was twenty. The styles have changed, but the conceit is the same. This is the world of business. Art is only something to subscribe to. She misses the easy laughter and crude jokes of the theatre people, but she finds that, once again, she’s very good at this, being a secretary.
She wonders if she’d sue her employers for sexual harassment if something like that happened again. Yes, she would. Would she marry Michael, knowing he was going to die and leave her with three children and debts she never knew they had? She thinks she would, but she’s not sure.
As for her family; Peter is beating himself up with exercise, and Betsy walks around looking at the ground as if it might split in two. Rose has seen Betsy on her hands and knees watching ants crawl into cracks. What the hell is that all about? And her deal with Jennifer? The Spanish Club lasted three weeks, the swim team, four. And just last week Rose smelled pot in her daughter’s bedroom, who’s seldom home anyway. At least Peter and Betsy sit down with her for a nice dinner. Rose appreciates the kindness her other two children show her, but she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Does it mean she’s supposed to be happy?
And the world’s so big that it scares her more than interests her now. There’s a war her son might be drafted to go fight. Just that thought alone makes her numb. She’s a widow with three children and she needs to pay the rent. How can she fight a war? Oh, others do, but they all seem so innocent. People die, no matter what you do. No matter how much you care. Caring is worth a hill of beans. She isn’t up to it anymore.
A year and four months after Simon drove off, Rose is forty-three, standing by a lilac tree. She holds a vodka and tonic and talks to Larry Miller, the owner of the public relations firm, and Kathy, his wife—he has a hearing aid and she has eyebrows drawn on like the sharp outline of two hills. It’s been hot all day, but now there’s a slight breeze. A good-looking man with a gray goatee walks over. He’s wearing a well-ironed Hawaiian shirt and crisp beige slacks.
“Joe!” Larry says, holding out a hand. “You came! Kathy, you remember Joe, don’t you? The Lutts’ son? And this is Rose Morgan. Rose, Joe Lutt. Rose is a secretary in our firm. Rose, I’m trying to talk Joe into joining us. Be nice now.”
“Pleased to meet you, Rose.” Joe Lutt holds out a hand and she shakes it. “And Mrs. Miller, of course I remember you. You brought over a chicken casserole after my dad died, and we talked in the kitchen for a long time. It’s been years, but I remember that talk well. It helped me get through a bad time. Thanks again.”
Kathy Miller smiles gently. “Well, we loved your father, Joe. We still miss him. He was a very good man.”
Rose watches them talk, thinking she should leave, but she doesn’t really want to move from this place that smells of lila
cs, where kind people stand and talk about death as if it’s something you can get over with some dignity left.
“So, how long have you been with the firm, Rose?” Joe asks. He has a disarming smile.
“Oh, too long, much too long. You’re thinking of joining us?”
“Well, Mr. Miller here has made me a very nice offer. I’ve promised to let them know by the end of next week. They’re making it pretty tempting.”
“Do you live in Cleveland?” she asks.
“I used to. I work with McMillian and Peters in Kansas City, but . . .” He looks down at his drink, seemingly bashful for a moment, but then smiles that smile again. “I’ve just gone through a divorce, and I’d like to put that and a few other things behind me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t,” Joe says.
“Joe and my son used to play football on the same team in high school,” Larry Miller says, patting him on the back. “I remember that graduation. Nineteen forty-nine. Kathy cried the whole time. Blew her nose so loud during ‘Pomp and Circumstance, ’ I thought she was a trombone.”
“You were no dry creek bed, yourself,” Kathy Miller says. “So don’t pretend you were. Besides, no one wants to hear your old stories. I do hope you’ll take up Larry’s offer, Joe. Oh, my, I need my drink refilled.”
“I know a hint when I hear one. Excuse us, Rose. Joe. Call me as soon as you make up your mind.”
“I will.”
Rose is left standing by the lilac tree with Joe Lutt, who, she has just figured out, is four years younger than she.
“Do you play croquet?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Then you need to learn. No one’s playing right now. We’ll have the court to ourselves. Care to try?”
She almost says no, thanks. She comes that close to walking away and going home. But then she thinks about going home. “Okay,” she says. “You’re on.”
To teach her how to play croquet, Joe wraps his hands around hers on the mallet and she feels foolish. She’s played this game before. Why did she say she hadn’t? Within minutes they’re making suggestive jokes about the ball going through the hoops. He wins the first game and they shake hands. When she wins the next game, Joe whoops, lifting her into the air and giving her a spin. His hands brush her breasts when he lowers her to the ground. She’s not sure how she feels about that—or doesn’t like how she feels about that. Either way, she gives him her phone number when he asks.
When she gets home, she knows Joe will call her soon. She’ll have to head off the whole Jennifer situation.
She’s got to be over it by now, Rose thinks, heading upstairs to where the music from the attic broadcasts Jennifer’s presence. Jennifer has her own life now, friends, boyfriends, marijuana. That ought to be enough to keep her occupied. She doesn’t need the game of Get Rose anymore.
Neither she nor Jennifer have keep their promises, but it hasn’t been that bad. They ignore each other very well. It’s a shame it has to be that way, but it works.
She opens the door to the third floor and walks up. There’s no door at the top. Her daughter is naked in bed with a boy.
“Jennifer!”
The boy turns quick as a cat and pulls a blanket over his exposed privates. Jennifer leans around from behind him. She says, “Sorry, Mother.”
“Who are you?” she asks this boy in her daughter’s bed. “I want your name.”
“Neal,” he says. The scared look on his face makes her think he’s telling the truth. But it doesn’t really matter what his name is.
“Go home, Neal. I don’t want you to come here ever again. I don’t even want to see you on this block. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get dressed and leave. And you, Jennifer, get dressed and come downstairs. We need to talk.” She turns and goes down the stairs. Her legs are shaking. It seems every damn time she is ready to say something, it’s not quite enough.
The boy leaves, then Jennifer comes downstairs. Rose waves to the chair across from the couch she’s sitting on. She doesn’t want her daughter to sit anywhere near her.
“We can’t have this,” she says. “I can’t take it, really I can’t. I’d like to be able to leave the house and not worry about what I’m going to find when I get home. Jesus, Jennifer, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, I guess. That’s why I’m so popular.”
She can’t breathe. This is her daughter?
“I hope you used birth control. I wish I had.” She knows she shouldn’t have said that, but she’s so mad. “Here’s the new deal. You live your life, but you damn well better let me live mine. I’m going on a date, and you better not say boo. Got it?”
Jennifer nods. She looks a bit shocked. Good. For once Rose gets the last word. She stands, goes up to her bedroom. Peter and Betsy will be home soon. She will have a good cry, then go make them all a nice dinner.
Sitting on her bed, Rose wonders if there was a moment just now where she was glad about what she saw because it gave her the upper hand. What has happened to her? What happened to the girl who loved politics and ran the school newspaper, who volunteered for the blind and waited for the man whose soul she could feel with the touch of her hand? She has come so far from the little girl who changed her name to Rose. She has become a widow who wants a date so badly she could make a deal like she just did with her daughter. But she has been pushed to it. There’s no doubt she has been pushed too far.
My mother goes out on dates with Joe, coming home at two in the morning. We kids are old enough to take care of ourselves, or not. That’s up to us. I take care of myself just fine, and I take care of my boyfriends. But even though I’m sixteen, my mother won’t let me drive. She says I smoke pot and do drugs, so I can’t drive her car. I can’t imagine why she says that, she has no proof. I tell her it stinks. She says I have made my own bed, and now I must lie in it, which is a big fucking joke to her, since I never make my bed. “That’s life,” she says. She says that a lot.
But we keep fooling each other. One day she comes home with a bracelet in a gift box. The bracelet has different colored stones with flat bottoms. “I thought you might like this,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. I do like it. It’s something I would really wear.
“Just want you to know I love you,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. “Love you, too.” It feels awkward to say this, like speaking Spanish—which I did so badly I just gave it up.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I forgot to make it,” I say. “Pork chops, but they’re frozen.”
“Pizza, then?”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” she says. “Pizza it is.”
The four of us eat pepperoni pizza and plan a vacation to Maine next summer. We talk as if it might happen. I feel like I’m watching a commercial. It’s hard to swallow.
Rose knows exactly what she’s getting into; a relationship that won’t last. Not only is Joe younger than she is, he’s too wild for her. He takes her to dimly lit bars and they stay until the place closes, and sometimes he slips a hand under her skirt, right there in a public place. He’s careful not to take it too far; he’s never really crass, never really sleazy, but she wonders if he’s holding back, playing it safe with the Irish widow. It’s like he’s slumming in reverse. She imagines his usual girlfriend: blond, teased hair, not too smart. He may be a mover and shaker in the public relations world (his clients include the makers of name-brand products she uses every day), but there’s something about his smile; he just looks too pleased with himself.
But when he’s looking at her, she’s a goner. So, if he’s using her to see how far the widowed, hardworking secretary, mother of three, will go, well, she’s using him for the same thing; she’s curious about how much of a fool she can be. When it’s not fun anymore, she’ll call it off, if he hasn’t already. Already she can see it coming.
&n
bsp; Some days, even for weeks, I forget about my dad. I’m almost seventeen; there are a lot of other things to be interested in, and I have found most of them. I’m going to be an actress, and I try out for The Glass Menagerie, the play our school is doing this year. The day after the tryouts, I read the cast list posted on a bulletin board. My name is not on it anywhere.
I’m straight today. Believing with all my heart that I would get a role in this play, I haven’t smoked or dropped anything, so it’s harder now to ignore my feelings. I go out behind the school where the windows are high up and no one can see me, and sit down against the wall, my knees to my chest in a huddle with myself. I can’t act for shit and I’m failing most my classes. The cement under my butt is cold. It’s December, fifteen degrees out, and these stupid tears are freezing my face.
I walk to the parking lot by the beauty school, and there’s a car, idling. The windows are fogged. It’s Lannie, who sells pot and stuff to the kids before school. He’s nineteen or twenty, with slicked-back hair and dark eyes. I knock on his window and he rolls it down.
“Yeah?”
He recognizes me because I’ve bought acid and pot from him, but he doesn’t know my name. I know his name, everyone does.
“Let me in,” I say. “My ass is freezing off out here.”
He looks at me for a second, up and down, not hiding what he’s looking at. He nods. I go around the car and get in.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Fucking school,” I say. “I’m through with it. I’m never going back. I’m done.”
“Yeah? And you’re here in my car ’cause?”
“ ’Cause I’m cold and I want to get out of here, and I want to get high. If you’re going anywhere, I’d like a ride. I have a ten for a nickel bag.”
“Where you going?”
“I don’t care.”
“And your name is?”
“Jenny.”
“You friends with Lisa and Chuckles?”
