100 Years of the Best American Short Stories

by Lorrie Moore

  The kitchen was warm and Dennis felt at home again. The kettle was simmering for tea, the cats lay curled or sprawled as they chose, and Dennis sat within himself smiling a sunken smile, cleaning his pipe. In the barn Rosaleen looped up her purple gingham skirts and sat with her forehead pressed against the warm, calm side of the cow, drawing two thick streams of milk into the pail. She said to the cow: “It’s no life, no life at all. A man of his years is no comfort to a woman,” and went on with a slow murmur that was not complaining about the things of her life.

  She wished sometimes they had never come to Connecticut where there was nobody to talk to but Rooshans and Polacks and Wops no better than Black Protestants when you come right down to it. And the natives were worse even. A picture of her neighbors up the hill came into her mind: a starved-looking woman in a blackish gray dress, and a jaundiced man with red-rimmed eyes, and their mizzle-witted boy. On Sundays they shambled by in their sad old shoes, walking to the meeting-house, but that was all the religion they had, thought Rosaleen, contemptuously. On week days they beat the poor boy and the animals, and fought between themselves. Never a feast-day, nor a bit of bright color in their clothes, nor a Christian look out of their eyes for a living soul. “It’s just living in mortal sin from one day to the next,” said Rosaleen. But it was Dennis getting old that took the heart out of her. And him with the grandest head of hair she had ever seen on a man. A fine man, oh, a fine man Dennis was in those days! Dennis rose before her eyes in his black suit and white gloves, a knowledgeable man who could tell the richest people the right things to order for a good dinner, such a gentleman in his stiff white shirt front, managing the waiters on the one hand and the customers on the other, and making good money at it. And now. No, she couldn’t believe it was Dennis any more. Where was Dennis now? And where was Kevin? She was sorry now she had spited him about his girl. It had been all in fun, really, no harm meant. It was strange if you couldn’t speak your heart out to a good friend. Kevin had showed her the picture of his girl, like a clap of thunder it came one day when Rosaleen hadn’t even heard there was one. She was a waitress in New York, and if ever Rosaleen had laid eyes on a brassy, bold-faced hussy, the kind the boys make jokes about at home, the kind that comes out to New York and goes wrong, this was the one. “You’re never never keeping steady with her, are you?” Rosaleen had cried out and the tears came into her eyes. “And why not?” asked Kevin, his chin square as a box. “We’ve been great now for three years. Who says a word against her says it against me.” And there they were, not exactly quarrelling, but not friends for the moment, certainly, with Kevin putting the picture back in his pocket, saying: “There’s the last of it between us. I was greatly wrong to tell ye!”

  That night he was packing up his clothes before he went to bed, but came down afterward and sat on the steps with them, and they made it up by saying nothing, as if nothing had happened. “A man must do something with his life,” Kevin explained. “There’s always a place to be made in the world, and I’m off to New York, or Boston, maybe.” Rosaleen said, “Write me a letter, don’t forget, I’ll be waiting.” “The very day I know where I’ll be,” he promised her. They had parted with false wide smiles on their faces, arms around each other to the very gate. There had come a postcard from New York of the Woolworth Building, with a word on it: “This is my hotel. Kevin.” And never another word in these five years. The wretch, the stump! After he had disappeared down the road with his suitcase strapped on his shoulders, Rosaleen had gone back in the house and had looked at herself in the square looking-glass beside the kitchen window. There was a ripple in the glass and a crack across the middle, and it was like seeing your face in water. “Before God I don’t look like that,” she said, hanging it on the nail again. “If I did, it’s no wonder he was leaving. But I don’t.” She knew in her heart no good would come of him running off after that common-looking girl; but it was likely he’d find her out soon, and come back, for Kevin was nobody’s fool. She waited and watched for Kevin to come back and confess she had been right, and he would say, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings over somebody not fit to look at you!” But now it was five years. She hung a drapery of crochet lace over the frame on the Billy-cat’s picture, and propped it up on a small table in the kitchen, and sometimes it gave her an excuse to mention Kevin’s name again, though the sound of it was a crack on the ear drums to Dennis. “Don’t speak of him,” said Dennis, more than once. “He owed it to send us word. It’s ingratitude I can’t stand.” Whatever was she going to do with Dennis now, she wondered, and sighed heavily into the flank of the cow. It wasn’t being a wife at all to wrap a man in flannels like a baby and put hot water bottles to him. She got up sighing and kicked back the stool. “There you are now,” she said to the cow.

  She couldn’t help feeling happy all at once at the sight of the lamp and the fire making everything cosy, and the smell of vanilla reminded her of perfume. She set the table with a white-fringed cloth while Dennis strained the milk. “Now Dennis, today’s a big day, and we’re having a feast for it.”

  “Is it All-Souls?” asked Dennis, who never looked at a calendar any more. What’s a day, more or less? “It is not,” said Rosaleen, “draw up your chair now.” Dennis made another guess it was Christmas, and Rosaleen said it was a better day than Christmas, even. “I can’t think what,” said Dennis, looking at the glossy baked goose. “It’s nobody’s birthday that I mind.” Rosaleen lifted the curtain of the corner shelves and brought out a cake like a mound of new snow blooming with candles. “Count them and see what day is this, will you?” she urged him. Dennis counted them with a waggling forefinger. “So it is, Rosaleen, so it is.” They went on bandying words. It had slipped his mind entirely. Rosaleen wanted to know when hadn’t it slipped his mind? For all he ever thought of it, they might never have had a wedding day at all. “That’s not so,” said Dennis. “I mind well I married you. It’s the date that slips me.”

  “You might as well be English,” said Rosaleen, “you might just as well.” She glanced at the clock, and reminded him it was twenty-five years ago that morning at ten o’clock, and tonight the very hour they had sat down to their first married dinner together. Dennis thought maybe it was telling people what to eat and then watching them eat it all those years that had taken away his wish for food. “You know I can’t eat cake,” he said. “It upsets my stomach.”

  Rosaleen felt sure her cake wouldn’t upset the stomach of a nursing child. Dennis knew better, any kind of cake sat on him like a stone. While the argument went on, they ate nearly all the goose which fairly melted on the tongue, and finished with wedges of cake and floods of tea, and Dennis had to admit he hadn’t felt better in years. He looked at her sitting across the table from him and thought she was a very fine woman, noticed again her red hair and yellow eyelashes and big arms and strong big teeth, and wondered what she thought of him now he was no human good to her. Here he was, all gone, and he had been so for years, and he felt guilt sometimes before Rosaleen, who couldn’t always understand how there comes a time when a man is finished, and there is no more to be done that way. Rosaleen poured out two small glasses of homemade cherry brandy. “I could feel like dancing itself this night, Dennis,” she told him. “Do you remember the first time we met in Sligo Hall with the band playing?” She gave him another glass of brandy and took one herself and leaned over with her eyes shining as if she was telling him something he had never heard before.

  “I remember a boy in Ireland was a great step-dancer, the best, and he was wild about me and I was a devil to him. Now what makes a girl like that, Dennis? He was a fine match, too, all the girls were glad of a chance with him, but I wasn’t. He said to me a thousand times, ‘Rosaleen, why won’t ye dance with me just once?’ And I’d say, ‘Ye’ve plenty to dance with ye without my wasting my time.’ And so it went for the summer long with him not dancing at all and everybody plaguing the living life out of him, till in the end I danced with him. Afterwards he walked ho
me with me and a crowd of them, and there was a heaven full of stars and the dogs barking far off. Then I promised to keep steady with him, and was sorry for it the minute I promised. I was like that. We used to be the whole day getting ready for the dances, washing our hair and curling it and trying on our dresses and trimming them, laughing fit to kill about the boys and making up things to say to them. When my sister Honora was married they took me for the bride, Dennis, with my white dress ruffled to the heels and my hair with a wreath. Everybody drank my health for the belle of the ball, and said I would surely be the next bride. Honora said for me to save my blushes or I’d have none left for my own wedding. She was always jealous, Dennis, she’s jealous of me to this day, you know that.”

  “Maybe so,” said Dennis.

  “There’s no maybe about it,” said Rosaleen. “But we had grand times together when we was little. I mind the time when my great-grandfather was ninety years old and on his deathbed. We watched by turns the night—”

  “And he was a weary time on it,” said Dennis, to show his interest. He was so sleepy he could hardly hold up his head.

  “He was,” said Rosaleen, “so this night Honora and I were watching, and we were yawning our hearts out of us, for there had been a great ball the night before. Our mother told us, ‘Feel his feet from time to time, and when you feel the chill rising, you’ll know he’s near the end. He can’t last out the night,’ she said, ‘but stay by him.’ So there we were drinking tea and laughing together in whispers to keep awake, and the old man lying there with his chin propped on the quilt. ‘Wait a minute,’ says Honora, and felt his feet. ‘They’re getting cold,’ she says, and went on telling me what she had said to Shane at the ball, how he was jealous of Terence and asks her can he trust her out of his sight. And Honora says to Shane, ‘No, you cannot,’ and oh, but he was roaring mad with anger! Then Honora stuffs her fist in her mouth to keep down the giggles. I felt great-grandfather’s feet and they was like clay to the knees, and I says, ‘Maybe we’d better call somebody’; but Honora says, ‘Oh, there’s a power of him left to get cold yet!’ So we poured out tea and began to comb and braid each other’s hair, and fell to whispering our secrets and laughing more. Then Honora put her hand under the quilt and said, ‘Rosaleen, his stomach’s cold, it’s gone he must be by now.’ Then great-grandfather opened the one eye full of rage and says, ‘It’s nothing of the kind, and to hell with ye!’ We let out a great scream, and the others came flying in, and Honora cried out, ‘Oh, he’s dead and gone surely, God rest him!’ And would you believe it, it was so. He was gone. And while the old women were washing him Honora and me sat down laughing and crying in the one breath . . . and it was six months later to the very day great-grandfather came to me in the dream, the way I told you, and he was still after Honora and me for laughing in the watch. ‘I’ve a great mind to thrash ye within an inch of your life,’ he told me, ‘only I’m wailing in Purgatory this minute for them last words to ye. Go and have an extra Mass said for the repose of me soul because it’s by your misconduct I’m here at all,’ he says to me. ‘Get a move on now,’ he said. ‘And be damned to ye!’”

  “And you woke up in a sweat,” said Dennis, “and was off to Mass before daybreak.” Rosaleen nodded her head. “Ah, Dennis, if I’d set my heart on that boy I need never have left Ireland. And when I think how it all came out with him. With me so far away, him struck on the head and left for dead in a ditch.”

  “You dreamed that,” said Dennis.

  “Surely I dreamed it, and it is so. When I was crying and crying over him”—Rosaleen was proud of her crying—“I didn’t know then what good luck I would find here.”

  Dennis couldn’t think what good luck she was talking about. “Let it pass, then,” said Rosaleen. She went to the corner shelves again. “The man today was selling pipes,” she said, “and I bought the finest he had.” It was an imitation meerschaum pipe carved with a crested lion glaring out of a jungle and it was as big as a man’s fist. Dennis said, “You must have paid a pretty penny for that.” “It doesn’t concern ye,” said Rosaleen. “I wanted to give ye a pipe.” Dennis said, “It’s grand carving, I wonder if it’ll draw at all.” He filled it and lit it and said there wasn’t much taste on a new one, for he was tired holding it up. “It is such a pipe as my father had once,” Rosaleen said to encourage him, “and in no time it was fit to knock ye off your feet, so this’ll be a fine pipe some day.”

  “And some day I’ll be in my tomb,” thought Dennis, bitterly, “and she’ll find a man can keep her quiet.”

  When they were in bed Rosaleen took his head on her shoulder. “Dennis, I could cry for the wink of an eyelash. When I think how happy we were that wedding day.”

  “From the way you carried on,” said Dennis, feeling very sly all of a sudden on that brandy, “I thought different.”

  “Go to sleep,” said Rosaleen, prudishly. “That’s no way to talk.”

  Dennis’ head fell back like a bag of sand on the pillow. Rosaleen could not sleep, and lay thinking about marriage; not her own, for once you’ve given your word there’s nothing to think about in it, but all other kinds of marriages, unhappy ones: where the husband drinks, or won’t work, or mistreats his wife and the children. Where the wife runs away from home, or spoils the children or neglects them, or turns a perfect strumpet and flirts with other men: where a woman marries a man too young for her, and he feels cheated and strays after other women till it’s just a disgrace: or take when a young girl marries an old man, even if he has money she’s bound to be disappointed some way. If Dennis hadn’t been such a good man, God knows what might have come out of it. She was lucky. It would break your heart to dwell on it. Her black mood closed down on her and she wanted to walk the floor holding her head and remembering every unhappy thing in the world. She had had nothing but disasters, one after another, and she couldn’t get over them, no matter how long ago they happened. Once she had let entirely the wrong man kiss her, she had almost got into bad trouble with him, and even now her heart stopped on her when she thought how near she’d come to being a girl with no character. There was the Billy-cat and his good heart and his sad death, and it was mixed up with the time her father had been knocked down, by a runaway horse, when the drink was in him, and the time when she had to wear mended stockings to a big ball because that sneaky Honora had stolen the only good ones.

  She wished now she’d had a dozen children instead of the one that died in two days. This half-forgotten child suddenly lived again in her, she began to weep for him with all the freshness of her first agony; now he would be a fine grown man and the dear love of her heart. The image of him floated before her eyes plain as day, and became Kevin, painting the barn and the pig sty all colors of the rainbow, the brush swinging in his hand like a bell. He would work like a wild man for days and then lie for days under the trees, idle as a tramp. The darling, the darling lad like her own son. A painter by trade was a nice living, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him boarding around the country with the heathen Rooshans and Polacks and Wops with their liquor stills and their outlandish lingo. She said as much to Kevin.

  “It’s not a Christian way to live, and you a good County Sligo boy.” So Kevin started to make jokes at her like any other Sligo boy. “I said to myself, that’s a County Mayo woman if ever I clapped eyes on one.” “Hold your tongue,” said Rosaleen softly as a dove. “You’re talking to a Sligo woman as if you didn’t know it!”

  “Is it so?” said Kevin in great astonishment. “Well, I’m glad of the mistake. The Mayo people are too proud for me.” “And for me, too,” said Rosaleen. “They beat the world for holding up their chins about nothing.” “They do so,” said Kevin, “but the Sligo people have a right to be proud.” “And you’ve a right to live in a good Irish house,” said Rosaleen, “so you’d best come with us.” “I’d be proud of that as if I came from Mayo,” said Kevin, and he went on slapping paint on Rosaleen’s front gate. They stood there smiling at each other,
feeling they had agreed enough, it was time to think of how to get the best of each other in the talk from now on. For more than a year they had tried to get the best of each other in the talk, and sometimes it was one and sometimes another, but a gay easy time and such a bubble of joy like a kettle singing. “You’ve been a sister to me, Rosaleen, I’ll not forget ye while I have breath.” He had said that the last night. Dennis muttered and snored a little. Rosaleen wanted to mourn about everything at the top of her voice, but it wouldn’t do to wake Dennis. He was sleeping like the dead after all that goose.

  Rosaleen said, “Dennis, I dreamed about Kevin in the night. There was a grave, an old one, but with fresh flowers on it, and a name on the headstone cut very clear but as if it was in another language and I couldn’t make it out some way. You come up then and I said, ‘Dennis, what grave is this?’ and you answered me, ‘That’s Kevin’s grave, don’t you remember? And you put those flowers there yourself.’ Then I said, ‘Well, a grave it is then, and let’s not think of it any more.’ Now isn’t it strange to think Kevin’s been dead all this time and I didn’t know it?”

  Dennis said, “He’s not fit to mention, going off as he did after all our kindness to him, and not a word from him.”

  “It was because he hadn’t the power any more,” said Rosaleen. “And ye mustn’t be down on him now. I was wrong to put my judgment on him the way I did. Ah, but to think! Kevin dead and gone, and all these natives and foreigners living on, with the paint still on their barns and houses where Kevin put it! It’s very bitter.”

  Grieving for Kevin, she drifted into thinking of the natives and foreigners who owned farms all around her. She was afraid for her life of them, she said, the way they looked at you out of their heathen faces, the foreigners bold as brass, the natives sly and mean. “The way they do be selling the drink to all, and burning each other in their beds and splitting each other’s heads with axes,” she complained. “The decent people aren’t safe in their houses.”