Enigma Rose: A Novel

by SE Reynolds

  That was the day when I noticed Melissa and forgot about Rose. Sweet Melissa, all airy and spongy like angel food cake with her white-blonde baby curls framing her puffy cheeks. She was petite, soft, feminine, pure pink fluff. If we were in Chester, her nickname would be baby girl. I decided to be a proper suitor to Melissa. I courted her the best I could on a budget: a lunch date at the sub shop, a dinner date at TGI Friday’s, and a matinee. I invited her to the ROTC ball. What a vision she was in pink lace, definitely wife material.

  Melissa was a behavioral science major. She truly wanted to help people. Lord knows she helped me that day when she schooled me on who Rose really was. Melissa was my rock. She never wavered and never complained; she was solid and had a heart of a true want-to-be liberal. She believed in the underdog and in welfare checks and breaking the cycle of poverty with free education. She believed in women's clinics and homeless shelters. She had a real cause; she had a passion. But Melissa had a trust fund; she would never have to live anything she believed. She could help the underdog by day and sleep easy at night, knowing those causes she so passionately believed were just that, her cause; it would never be her plight. Unfortunately, Melissa's plight was much worse. Slowly the life force in JJ's and my life dwindled into a memory, pictures on our walls, and my Facebook page. Memories that would make most men grieve for a very long time, and I would have if Melissa died two days sooner.

  Chapter 7 – Virginia

  Misty is my only single friend; well, actually, she's my only friend. I lost all my friends that were part of a couple when Harry and I separated. I became contagious; I had the mid-life crisis disease. I was no longer a wife and mother but the selfish woman who left her beautiful home, charming British husband, and only child. My friends were afraid they would catch my disease or fear I would try and steal their husbands. If only my friends knew their husbands are nothing but big guts, stuffed into cargo shorts with tree-stump legs. I bet their dicks have retreated into their fatty pelvises.

  I live vicariously through Misty for most of my married life. She is drop-dead gorgeous, and she knows it. She reminds me of a slightly skinnier Marilyn Monroe. She has the same shocking bleach blonde hair, same full breasts, and same heart-shaped ass that I desperately wish I had. Misty adores the 1950's and emulates the styles of that time: pencil skirts with a sleeveless blouse, pencil leg jeans with tight-knit sweaters, anything form-fitting that shows off her hourglass figure. Misty was married once when she was in her early twenties, but it only lasted a year. She thought marrying a macho firefighter would be exciting, but Joe had low testosterone and a limp dick. Misty used to joke that her nicely shaped forearms will soon look like Popeyes if she has to keep whacking Joe off just to get him half hard. Misty, of all people, marrying a guy that can't get it up. Misty loves men and loves having sex with men, but unlike most single women in their early forties, she's not obsessed with them, nor does she put too much emphasis on them. They don't consume her; they are there to satisfy her immediate needs. Once she is satisfied and inevitably grows bored, she is on to the next one. I admire her for that.

  Misty has a successful career as a personal trainer. She just opened her own studio in Old Town Fairview. She cleverly named it You Want It. Her beauty attracts male customers who want her and women customers who want to be her. I met Misty at the gym fifteen years ago. She was my trainer for six months while I was trying to lose the baby fat. We were instantly attracted to each other and became best friends. I've never had sex with Misty, but if I were a lesbian, she would be my first choice.

  I show up at You Want It at 11:30 and am immediately taken back by the whiteness of the studio; it is almost morgue-like. There are no other colors in the place; even the free weights are white. At least a dozen men and women were wandering around the studio, looking at the equipment, and sipping on clear plastic cups filled with green juice. And as expected, Misty has the attention of a tall, slender man; he must be attractive because I can hear her flirty giggles as I approach.

  "V, you made it! I'm going to put you to work in a minute," she says as she hugs me.

  "How exciting this is, Misty, and so white."

  The tall, slender man doesn't fit in with the others who are wearing gym wear. He looks like a car salesman in his white dress shirt, loosened red necktie, and beige khaki pants. He sees me approach and directs his attention towards me, studying my face as if I have a booger in my nose. I quickly brush my hand across it just in case.

  "Oh, sorry, this is Joshua Steadman. Joshua, this is my oldest and dearest friend, V," Misty says as she slowly backs away from us.

  "I need to meet and greet. So, carry on," she says as she fades into the small crowd. Joshua offers me his hand to shake, but I'm too preoccupied with his name and face to notice. Both are familiar to me, but I can't make the connection, so I give up and shake his hand.

  "V?" he asks, tilting his head in fake wonderment.

  "Virginia, Virginia Barnes, Misty calls me that. Only she calls me that."

  "Oh! That's cute! The same name as my favorite commonwealth," he says while continuing to study me.

  I feel unsettled as his stare is like a bee trying to attach to a flower. I try to shake it off and escape it, but it keeps hovering around. He stands over me and crosses my line of personal space. I want to back up, but I can't, or maybe I don't want to. I'm very unsure at this point.

  "Mayor Steadman!" a woman yells from across the studio. "When are you going to lower the town tax, Mayor? "

  "I'm working on it, Delia! I'm working on it!"

  "Mayor? That's it! I knew I'd seen you before," I say as I step back into my own space.

  Joshua breaks his stare. His grin turns into a wide-mouth laugh, very hearty and loud. The small crowd glances our way.

  "Have you seen one of my boring mayoral speeches? I've given quite a few right here in town."

  "No, I haven't, but, honestly, I didn't know Fairview has a mayor until recently. I think I saw you on the news, or maybe it was a parade?"

  "Probably a parade. Mayors of small cities don't get a lot of news coverage unless something bad happens."

  The memory of Joshua and his pretty wife comes back to me. The float, the apple pie, her death. It must have been over a year since I saw the news story.

  "How long have you known Misty?" I ask.

  "Just met her today. I like to meet the small business owners in Old Town. I like to encourage them to buy from other small businesses and create jobs for our citizens in our community."

  Wow, he sounds like the perfect politician. And his staring; it's almost hypnotic but purposeful, making me feel like I matter.

  "Good answer! Well, nice meeting you, Joshua," I say in closing, hoping to end the formulated conversation. He ignores me.

  "What do you do, Virginia? Are you in the fitness industry?"

  "No, just a customer of fitness. I am an editor for a local publishing company, Rocket Publishing. Have you heard of it?"

  "No, not much of a reader."

  "A politician that doesn't read much? Hmm…I somehow related a politician to a historian. You know the saying, knowing our history keeps us from repeating the same mistakes. Ever heard of that?"

  "Yes, I think I was taught that in sixth-grade history. So, what is it about you reader types? Always quoting something they read, pulling it out at just the right time to impress. Well, I am impressed, Virginia."

  "I appreciate your smart-ass response, Mayor, and thank you for being so impressed by a sixth-grade quote, but I need to help Misty with whatever it is she wants me to do. Good luck to you and your, um, agenda."

  "Nice meeting you, Virginia."

  Does he think I'm stupid, trying to flatter me into a vote? I try to turn away; I can't wait to tell Misty about his cheesy politician comments, but before I can, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn back to see him again buzzing around in my space.

  "Do you want to get a drink some time?" he asks.

  I'm taken back a bit. Is he
asking me out while he is politicking? Is that okay?

  "Sure, I'm always up for a drink."

  I give him my number, and he immediately sends me a text acknowledging it. I now have Mayor Joshua Steadman as a contact in my phone. Impressive. A night out with a handsome guy, even if he's a cocky politician, maybe a nice distraction for me. It beats sitting at home listening to a one-sided conversation on the evening news followed by sex with my little pink toy.

  Chapter 8 – Virginia

  "Hey, Robert. What's up. It's a rarity when you call your old man. Is everything okay?"

  "Why haven't you responded to my messages? I've called you. I've texted you, and you keep ignoring me."

  "For fuck's sake, Virginia, where's Robert?"

  "He's sleeping, Asshole."

  "So, you stole his phone?"

  "I had to, Harry. You won't answer me."

  "That's because I blocked you."

  "Well, that's stupid; what if it's an emergency?"

  "Then you can steal Robert's phone and call me."

  "You fucking bastard!"

  "Stop it, Virginia. I am done with your insults, with your crazy late-night drunken texts, with everything that has to do with you. We talk about our son, his logistics, his care, and that's it. And if you continue to act like a crazy woman, I will get a restraining order against you, Virginia."

  "Oh, so you are innocent, a real victim. Wouldn't everyone like to know that Harry Burns is nothing more than a˗"

  "Shut up. Go to hell."

  "Harry! Harry! Don't hang up on me!"

  I desperately want to throw Robert's phone across the room, but it's his phone. He doesn't need a crack in the middle of his screen like mine. So instead, I gently put it down on the coffee table, pick up my phone and open the text I sent to Harry last night. From what I remember, it was benign, well, sort of.

  Robert needs some new summer clothes. I will take him shopping, but you need to pay half.

  I just bought him clothes. I'm leaving them at my house. You buy clothes for him and leave them at your house. This way, he doesn't have to take them back and forth in a suitcase.

  You are the reason he has a fucking suitcase, Harry.

  I'm warning you, Virginia.

  Fuck off, you little piece of slime, you degenerate.

  Is he offended by that? What a wimp! If only Harry knew that yesterday the Mayor of Fairview, Harry's Mayor, asked me out for a drink, he'd be so jealous he'd turn puke green. I hear Robert's footsteps coming down the stairs, so I quickly retreat to the kitchen and away from his phone.

  "Mom, I can't find my phone."

  "You must have left it down here, Cutie."

  "No, I didn't."

  Robert picks up his phone and quickly discovers it has been tampered with.

  "Mom, why are you calling Dad from my phone?"

  "Because he wasn't answering my texts. "

  "I wouldn't either."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "C'mon, Mom. I'm not an idiot. I know you hate him. I heard you yelling at him just now. It wasn't the first time, and it's getting really old. Just leave him alone. Maybe if you stay quiet for a week or two and be nice when you see him, he will unblock you."

  "If I be nice? If I be nice? Seriously?"

  "Stop it Mom. You are mad at Dad, not me. Go take it out on someone else. I'm going back to bed."

  I let Robert retreat upstairs, leaving me alone with my words, the words I choke down every time he takes Harry's side. So instead of doing something I will regret for the rest of my life, I make a cup of coffee, open Facebook, and check in on my favorite friend, Amanda, the most miserable, happy person I've ever trolled. She's become my guilty pleasure. If she only knew how disappointed I get when she skips a day of posting some uplifting message that screams, I'm really trying hard to be happy, but any day now, I'm going to blow my brains out, so please like my posts, please!

  Amanda truly makes me feel better, and for that, she is the most cherished Facebook friend I have. It didn't take me long to recognize her when she requested my friendship. I didn't have to pull out my high school yearbook searching for a name and a face similar to the profile picture staring back at me. No need because Amanda has the squarest face of any real person I've ever seen, but now her square face has gotten plump. It's odd, square and plump at the same time. She insists on hiding her gray with the blackest of black, almost purple, hair color. Like most women our age, we think going really black or really blonde will make us look younger. It doesn't; it only washes us out. We need depth and highlights to soften our aging features. We are forty-five, not twenty-five, Amanda!

  Amanda was not part of our original high school crew. She didn't live on Alleghany Court like the rest of my core group of friends. She was new. I remember her walking the halls of Garman High School our senior year, towering over every girl and boy that would pass her. I could see her coming towards me from the far end of the hall. I would immediately turn my head, hoping she'd get the hint and keep walking, but she never did. Eventually, I'd hear a "hey" echoing from the rafters, and there she was, hovering over me like a hawk ready to eat a chicken. Amanda evolved from being a casual "hey" in the hallway to our designated driver on a Friday night. She was very nice to us, us meaning the fun girls. We were always looking for a party, and Amanda was our transportation. She had an Oldsmobile with an extended back seat that could squeeze four of us in the back and three in the front, including Amanda. Of course, we were always looking for a party, preferably one with a keg. Amanda sacrificed the beer so she could drive us around and watch us making out with the boy of our choice.

  No one cared if Amanda had a good time as long as she didn't have a bad time. We needed to keep our designated driver around. She knew her role, and so did we. It was unspoken, and everyone got what they wanted: a good time, a sense of belonging, and a safe ride home.

  I accepted Amanda's friend request, not because I wanted to re-connect with an old friend, but because I'm morbidly curious about her. Did Amanda ever become the star of the show, or was she still just part of the supporting cast? I immediately reviewed her about info, wondering if she is happily married, in a relationship, or divorced, possibly between Match dates. Amanda says she is single, not divorced, but single: a spinster even by today's standards. Her relatives are her mother, brother, and niece. No husband for Amanda, but at least she can satisfy her motherly needs by babysitting her niece. There are lots of pictures of her pretend daughter. Despite the fact she is living such a lonely existence, her posts are always uplifting. She's blessed she has a good job, blessed she has a great family, blessed she has coworkers that motivate her daily, blessed for having the cuddliest of fur babies (a Siamese cat named Martini). She's blessed for the air she breathes and the piss she pees. Good for you, Amanda! Don't let your lonely existence and your square face get you down, but I see right through you. You are miserable. I bet you wake up next to your fur baby thinking about the easiest way to do yourself in without upsetting your family. Maybe you will wait until your fur baby dies, and then you can put yourself out of misery. You don't even get many likes on your posts, Amanda. No one would miss you even if you excused yourself from this planet. Your birthday would pop up on Facebook, and people would still wish you a happy birthday. I'm sorry, Amanda, for your bleak existence. But gosh, do you have to torture yourself? What does she have to say today? Please make it good, Amanda, please?

  Going back into the dating pool. New season, new attitude, wish me luck!

  "Yikes, Amanda, dating pool means joining an online dating site.

  That's what we do when we work, are old, and do not want to embarrass ourselves in a nightclub with all the twenty-somethings. If you insist on further disappointment, wait until you lose some weight, get some layers, and highlight your hair. Don't go as is! Oh god, please don't post the same pictures on the dating app you posted on Facebook. I know you were trying to be sexy, hoping some old high school crush would finally notice you. You know
the one I'm talking about, the picture with the camera hanging over your head looking down on you as you longingly gaze up, showing your cleavage. It screams I'm fuckable, I'm desperate, and I have to do this type of headshot, so you don't see my sagging face or the fat I've packed on over the years below my weight-induced big boobs. Amanda, don't you think it's better to be alone than set yourself up for complete humiliation? It will send you over the edge!"

  "Mom, who are you talking to?"

  "Huh?"

  "Who are you talking to?"

  "Amanda."

  Chapter 9 – Stacie

  Shortly after my date with my new bud, George, I developed a Ben and Jerry's addiction. My favorite flavor is Phish Food. It's a frozen melting pot of chocolate ice cream, chocolate candy fish, marshmallow, and caramel. It has 390 calories per two-thirds cup. It truly is a little piece of heaven in a tub. Leave it to me to be addicted to one of the highest caloric ice creams on the planet.

  I decided to go off the dating sites for a while and focus on myself, and, as of two weeks ago, I have twenty pounds more of me to focus on. So, here I go again. My diet choice this time is Keto. I've been on it for two weeks and have already lost ten pounds. I'm eating only bacon, steak, chicken, broccoli, kale, and cauliflower mash. My body is in Ketosis, so I am constantly burning my fat and not carbs. This is so hard. I'm craving fiber, I am constipated, and my breath smells like ass, or at least that's how my sister describes it. I'm not sure what ass smells like, but I'm certain it isn't good. One of the side effects of going on Keto is bad breath, so I am constantly chewing sugar-free Dentine. I'm not ready to go back on the dating sites. I need to lose another fifteen pounds before I put myself out there again.