Rose and Jimmy-John ate their doughnuts in silence. I glanced at Mom a few times until finally she caught my bleak look and interpreted it correctly. All she did was give a quick shake of her head. I got the message. Work it out. Give it time. Blah, blah, blah. But I wasn’t sure I could take much more. How were we going to think up and complete an entire project when Rose wouldn’t even speak? I’d lose my mind.
As soon as Rose swallowed her last bite and downed the glass of milk, I suggested we go into the living room and look through the poetry anthologies we had. Rose nodded and left the table to follow me. At the doorway she hesitated and turned to look at Jimmy-John who was devouring a second doughnut. My mom read her confusion correctly.
“Don’t worry about Jimmy-John, Rose,” she said brightly—too brightly, I thought. “He will be just fine here with me. We might even play a game of Go Fish.” She turned to the little boy and beamed. “Would you play a game with me, Jimmy-John?” He nodded with eyes, big and round with wonder, I guess, or, maybe, fear.
I shrugged and turned my attention to the bookcase in the living room, running a finger across the spines of the books lined up on the three shelves. Selecting four volumes, I handed two to Rose who sat on the floor just watching me.
“Okay. Start looking,” I ordered, and plopped down as far from her as I could without being too obvious. Her stench was already making me nauseous.
Totally clueless about her effect on me and without hesitating a second, Rose opened one of the volumes and began turning pages. I half-heartedly leafed through a book until I came to a poem that was fairly appealing. I handed the book to Rose and pointed to the page.
“How ’bout this one?” I asked.
Rose read the poem in silence then returned the book to me. “It’s okay,” she said.
“But do you like it?” I was getting more and more peeved by the second. “Or do you want to pick one? Come on, Rose, we haven’t got an eternity to do this, you know.”
Rose nodded and resumed poring through the book. I sighed and leaned back against the couch. I tried to be patient. After all, I was the one who’d insisted Rose have an opinion, but after ten minutes of watching her leaf through two books, I gave up in disgust.
“C’mon, Rose.” I gritted my teeth. “Hurry up. Just pick one.”
Rose didn’t say a word, but instead, held out the book. I took it and read the title of the poem that interested her. “The Daffodils” by William Wordsworth. I read through one stanza and shrugged. I thought it horribly insipid but wasn’t about to object or it’d take her a zillion years to pick out another one.
“Fine. I don’t care. I guess this is as good as any. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, though. I’m like brain-dead at the moment.”
Rose continued to stare at the pattern in the green and brown carpet, tracing it with a finger. I was at my wits’ end and was just on the verge of jumping up and escaping to the kitchen when she spoke.
“Do you have…any colored paper? Like we use at school?”
“You mean construction paper?” I asked, a little ticked off that she didn’t even know what it was called.
Rose nodded. I jumped to my feet and bounded across the room to a five-drawer chest in the far corner. I opened the bottom drawer and took out sheet after sheet of brightly colored construction paper and called over my shoulder, “Well, come on, pick the colors you want.”
Rose selected several sheets of bright yellow, orange, and green. I handed her a pair of scissors, some tape, and a small stapler, and then sat back on my heels.
“Is there anything else you need? What are you going to do? I haven’t the foggiest what you’re up to here.”
“I’m going to make daffodils,” Rose said.
“Daffodils? You mean, out of paper? Isn’t that a bit lame for ninth grade?”
Rose just shrugged and proceeded to fold a piece of yellow paper. She snipped here and there. Folded and unfolded. Creased and curled. Added green pieces and orange. In less than five minutes, she held up a flower so exquisite that I sucked in my breath.
“Whoa. That’s awesome, Rose. I mean it. I had no idea you could do anything like that. Let’s show my mom.”
Scrambling to my feet, I shoved Rose ahead of me into the kitchen, where Mom and Jimmy-John played Go Fish. Mom smiled then acute surprise lit up her face when she saw what I held.
“Look what Rose made, Mom.”
Mom took the paper creation, turned it around and around, then held it up so Jimmy-John could see. “Oh, Rose,” she breathed, “this is beautiful. How did you do it? What a talent. This is exquisite. Unbelievable, really.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking at Rose with blossoming curiosity. “She just started snipping away at the construction paper and then, ta-da. There it was as if by magic or something.”
“Well, it looks to me like you girls will have some project when you’re finished. What poem are you doing? ‘The Daffodils,’ by any chance?”
“You guessed it. Now I’m getting excited. This is going to be better than I thought.” I couldn’t help but grin at my mother with relief.
For the next hour we made paper daffodils. It had taken some deft maneuvering of clumsy fingers before I caught on how to do it, but Rose was a patient teacher. When I finally held up my first flower, Rose clasped her hands together and smiled. Shocked me somewhat to see how pretty her smile was. It changed her whole face. My dad would even like her teeth. They looked white and straight—better than mine, actually.
“That’s good, Kate,” she said, eyes down.
“Thanks.”
When my dad pulled into the driveway half an hour later, Rose and Jimmy-John were ready to go. It had been prearranged that he would drive them home after work since it would’ve taken them hours to walk. No offers had been given from their end to pick them up, and I wondered whether their folks even knew they were here. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my business, and I sure as heck didn’t want it to be.
At first I wasn’t going to but after a nudge from Mom, I put on my coat to accompany them. Mom smiled and nodded as she watched me follow our guests out the door. I knew I’d won a few points for my graciousness. Fine. I needed them.
We drove the three miles to the Coughlin place in silence. Dad drove down their driveway, right up to the house, even though Rose asked him to drop them off by the mailbox. Dad, however, would have none of that.
“Nope, no can do,” he said. “A chauffeur always takes his esteemed occupants right to the door.”
Rose and Jimmy-John scrambled out of the car as though being timed or something. I lowered my window to say a final good-bye; trying my best to be polite and, anyway, Dad was watching. Suddenly the door to that dismal, shriveled up house was yanked open. A rumpled looking man stepped across the threshold. Barefoot, wearing a dirty undershirt and torn jeans, and holding a bottle of beer in his left hand. He looked like a guy you’d see in some alley downtown.
“Where you damned kids been?” he shouted. “Hell, I been lookin’ all over the damned house for ya.”
That tone wouldn’t sit well with Dad. Preparing to hear him chew the guy out, I was surprised when he leaned toward my open window and smiled. “Hello, Sam. Remember me? John Merrick? The kids have been at our house working on a school project. Your wife gave them permission, I believe.”
Sam Coughlin scowled. “Aw, Jesus. Bertie don’t tell me nothin’. She up and went t’work and didn’t leave me no note or nothin’. Good for nothin’ woman.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Dad said. “It wasn’t the kids’ fault, so don’t blame them. They had a good time. As I said, they’re working on a school project. Be all right if Rose comes back tomorrow? I think they need a little more time, don’t you?” His glance spoke volumes so I nodded.
Rose stood at the foot of the porch stairs, shaking her head with a stricken look in her eyes. She looked petrified. I knew Rose had enjoyed working on the project at our house and had basked in the
praise Mom and I’d given her. So why was she so abhorrent at the thought of returning? Then it struck me like a lightning bolt. Rose didn’t want to leave her little brother home without her.
“Uh, Jimmy-John can come, too,” I said.
A wave of relief so noticeable that I was afraid Sam Coughlin would see it and be angry, washed over Rose. She nodded and her bobbing head reminded me of one of those stupid bobble head dolls people put on their dashboards.
Sam Coughlin sent a stream of spit to the ground and then squinted at his kids for a moment. “Yeah, okay. Sure. They can go, as soon as they finish their chores.” He screwed up his face.
“Great.” Dad’s smile widened. “We’ll pick them up at eleven. That be okay?”
Sam Coughlin shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Why th’ hell not.”
SIXTEEN
Saturday morning over a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I pondered the predicament I found myself in. Rose had turned out to be full of surprises. Her amazing talent in creating the paper daffodils plus her possessive concern for her little brother bewildered me. Still totally repulsive—stinking to high heaven—but now she also intrigued me even more. The whole thing was off the charts in the weird department.
Mom appeared from around a corner, and I snapped out of my reverie. “Penny for your thoughts.” She joined me at the table with a cup of steaming coffee.
“Not worth a penny.” I sighed. “My mind keeps wandering in and out of this really impossible maze.”
“Thinking about Rose Coughlin, huh?”
“Yeah. How’d you guess? Written all over my face?” I grimaced.
Mom chuckled. “No, but it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. Are you concerned about her coming over again today?”
“Yes and no. I mean, I’m sort of resigned to the idea of her being my partner in this stupid project. I’m even kind of excited about what we’re doing. Half of me can’t wait to see the class’s expression when they get a load of it.” I put my spoon down and leaned back in the chair. “But, gosh, Mom. The other half of me is still totally turned off. Didn’t you smell her yesterday? I mean, it wasn’t as bad as it is sometimes—guess she wasn’t having her period—but she still smelled pretty bad. Didn’t it bother you that she was in your kitchen and sitting on the chair cushions and everything? I’m embarrassed to say this but, well, after we took them home last evening, I crawled into the back seat and took a sniff of the seat to see if it smelled from them sitting back there. And, oh gosh, Mom. It did. You could smell them. It’s like they never change their underwear. I nearly gagged. I hurried and got the spray stuff and really gave it a good dousing. Doesn’t that freak you out?”
“Well, yes…” Mom put her coffee cup down and sighed. “Of course I found it disconcerting to be too close to her. But I put it out of my mind and concentrated on her good qualities. Thought about how that Catholic nun—you know, Mother Teresa?—Tolerated working in the slums of Calcutta. Poor Rose. Underneath that less than desirable exterior there is a very pretty girl. Her eyes, for one thing. Did you notice how startling blue they are?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“If she had her hair styled to show off her lovely features, she’d be quite attractive.”
“Styled? How about just plain old washed?”
“Of course. A good hot bath and shampoo would do wonders for the both of them. Poor, poor kids. I hate to think how miserable their lives are. It just makes me livid. I could shake Roberta for doing this to her family. Just shake her.”
“Yeah. I get this really creepy feeling when I think about how the Coughlins live. I know Dad told you how Mr. Coughlin acted when we dropped them off last evening. The man was totally gross. Drinking beer and wearing this horribly dirty undershirt and jeans that hung down so you could’ve seen his butt crack if he’d bent over, and Mom, he spits. Right in front of us. It was nasty. I’m so lucky that you and Dad are my parents. When I think about having parents like Rose’s, I feel sick to my stomach. I think if I was Rose I’d kill myself.”
Mom reached over, patted my hand, and nodded. “We have a lot to be thankful for. A lot.”
At five minutes to 11:00, Dad was backing the car out of the garage so I called good-bye to Mom and ran outside to join him. Climbing into the front seat, I buckled up and let out a long sigh. Dad only grinned like this was some kind of adventure he was embarking upon and backed out onto the street. We drove in silence. I didn’t even bother to turn on the radio. When we pulled up to the deplorable little cardboard house, there was a lump the size of Alaska jamming my throat. I hated this place with a passion.
“Do you want me to go to the door?” Dad asked with a worried frown creasing his forehead.
“Can’t we just honk?”
“No. I don’t like doing that. Wouldn’t do it if this were Nancy we were picking up.”
“Fine. Then I’ll go.” I got out, marched up the sagging porch steps to the door and knocked hard twice. I waited. I was just about to knock again when the door suddenly was flung open. Sam Coughlin, wearing the same dirty undershirt and torn jeans from yesterday, stepped out and blinked in the late morning sunshine like he’d just emerged from a cave or something.
“What?” he barked, spraying me with spit.
I winced but managed to keep my voice steady. “Hi, we’re here to pick up Rose and Jimmy-John.”
“What? Rose? Who th’ hell are you? I ain’t buyin’ nothin’ so get th’ hell outta here!” he bellowed.
Before I could say what jumped into mind—something that would’ve shocked my mom—Dad trotted up to the porch to join me. Pushing me behind him, he stepped up to Sam Coughlin. This time he wasn’t smiling.
“Sam. Sam, it’s John Merrick. We talked yesterday, remember? Your kids are coming over to our house to work on a school project. Remember?” He peered past Sam, searching the room behind him. “Where’s Bertie? Is Bertie home?”
Sam Coughlin leaned against the doorjamb, hiccupped then burped. “Bertie? Hell, Bertie’s gone to wait tables at the IHop. Whaddya want with Bertie, huh? You got eyes for her or somethin’?” He leaned menacingly toward Dad, and I was afraid he was going to hit him. Dad, however, sidestepped, and Sam caught himself just before falling over. I swallowed a triumphant crow.
Dad wasn’t through though. “Sam, where are the kids? I’m taking them back to our house…now.” Dad wasn’t fooling around.
Something in my dad’s voice must have gotten through to Sam because he suddenly yelled over his shoulder. “Rose, Goddammit, Rose. Get your snot-nosed brother and come here.” He squinted up at Dad, who was several inches taller, and delivered a crooked smile. “Don’t know why you even want ’em. Both are brats. Good for nothin’ most of th’ time. ’Ceptin’ Rosie, now and again. Rosie has her good points. She comes in handy now ’n’ then.”
I had to hand it to Dad. He didn’t lose his cool. He didn’t say another word but continued to gaze at the pathetic man before him; kind of staring him down, doing that Crocodile Dundee eye-thing. Rose and Jimmy-John appeared, skidded into the room then stopped behind their father. He waved them on like everything was okay.
“G’on.” he bellowed “Get movin’. You’ve kept th’ Merricks waitin’ long ’nough.”
“Thanks, Sam. We’ll take good care of them.” Dad’s smile was back in place as he ushered us to the car.
The drive back to our house was strained even though Dad tried hard to keep the conversation light. “So, Rose, does your dad work nights?” He glanced in the rearview mirror at the two huddled together in the back seat.
“Sometimes,” Rose said in a breathy voice.
“Hmm. And your mom works at IHop?” he continued his gentle probing.
“Yes.”
“That’s neat. We, uh, enjoy eating there once in a while, after church, on special occasions…” His voice trailed off as though uncertain where to go from there. I knew he didn’t want to embarrass Rose with a lot of patronizing questions but was seething from unbridled c
uriosity. He knew he was walking on thin ice, conversationally speaking. She wasn’t stupid, after all. She knew the impression her father had made.
I turned in the seat and looked at my classmate. Rose stared at something on the floor, but Jimmy-John’s big eyes were glued on me like I had snakes for hair or something. Unnerving.
“Hey, Jimmy-John, did you know they have a new baby gorilla at the St. Louis zoo?” I said, desperate to wake the kid up.
The Coughlins both looked at me then. Jimmy-John put his thumb in his mouth. Rose’s eyes bored into mine. I turned back around and focused on the road ahead. Man. All I’d said was there was a baby gorilla at the zoo. Sheesh.
Dad pulled into the driveway, and we piled out and hurried into the house, where Mom greeted us with her usual cheery, Mrs. Holly Homemaker smile.
“Well, hello again. Ready to get to work?” she asked almost in a singsong voice.
Mom took Rose’s sweater and hung it in the closet. The closet. I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from protesting. I had a coat hanging in there. Now it and all the rest would smell like that disgusting sweater. I could’ve shaken my mother right then and there. Rose was watching the whole charade, and it occurred to me that Rose actually feared losing the disgusting thing. No danger in that department. I coveted it like I did appendicitis.
Rose and I got right down to business and worked for an hour on the project, making more daffodils and cutting out intricate letters to put on the large cardboard box we’d already covered with blue and green paper. The project, when finished, would be a cube illustrating the poem.
We were busy, gluing when Mom called from the kitchen, “Hey, guys, come on in and have some lunch before you continue.”
Rose got up and followed me to the bathroom where we washed up. I watched, from the corner of my eye, as she picked up the bar of soap and sniffed it appreciatively. They probably didn’t even have a bar of soap in their house. The idea was so abhorrent, I swallowed twice.
By Any Other Name Page 8
