by Anne Lamott
Five minutes later, Elizabeth kicked the front door to summon Rosie, as her arms were full of books.
“Rosie!”
After a minute she heard soft footsteps.
“Let me in, honey.”
“Mama?”
“Yeah?”
“I was bad.”
“Open the door this second.” She lowered the books to the ground.
“Very, very bad.”
Elizabeth threw open the door and pushed her way past Rosie, smelling smoke, expecting the worst (burning curtains, charred walls). Wild with adrenaline, sniffing like a basset hound, she came into the living room, spotted the black, wet hole in her six-thousand-dollar carpet, saw the bowl of water with which the fire had been put out, and began to shake so violently that she had to hold onto a bookcase. A thousand times, away from home, fantasies of her house in flames caused by negligence (an iron, a joint, an ember from the fireplace) had nagged and haunted her; today she might have lost a child or house. People did.
She spanked Rosie so hard that her palm burned as red as Rosie’s bottom. Rosie sobbed with pain and was sent to her room in disgrace.
“I’m so mad I’m seeing red!” her mother shouted up the stairs at Rosie, who lay face down on her bed, whimpering.
Elizabeth sank into a chair at the kitchen table, badly shaken by a cumulative sense of narrowly averted catastrophes, all the instances when blind luck had been the only determinant. Rosie might have set the house on fire. Children did, children died.
What the hell was wrong with Rosie these days? She was moody, withdrawn, and resisted leaving the house—hardly ever went to Sharon’s anymore, spent all day reading, moping ... like Elizabeth.
Elizabeth looked up at the measuring wall. Rosie was turning out like her, following her example. Elizabeth cradled her chin in her hands, despairing, hating the way she spent her time, waiting all morning for the hangover to wear off, waiting for it to be time to start drinking, waiting all the while for the unavoidable, inevitable day when she couldn’t fake it any longer, when she got too—had to give up and get help.
She went outside to work in her garden. She would deal with the carpet and Rosie later. She knelt by a bush of red roses: a breeze rustled trees, bushes, and grass; hidden birds trilled and warbled high, piping songs.
Come on, relax. Tend to your roses and they will tend to you. Here, now, this is it. This is fine. No secrets yet to be discovered. Relax.
She began to dig around in the dirt at the roots, picked out dead leaves and small weeds. Was Rosie jealous of James? No. Face the facts, Elizabeth, it’s your drinking. She stared at her dirty fingers. It’s tearing her apart, like your mother’s did you, when you were small. Remember? She nodded. The solution was to stop drinking, and she would, soon, honest. This time she really meant it!
Feeling a great relief, she resumed weeding, lifted a handful of rich earth to her nose, closed her eyes and inhaled (might have been sniffing coffee beans). She talked softly to the flowers, with affection, promised the rosebushes she’d get them some food in a moment and a nice glass of fungicide. She sprinkled granules of rose food, tamping gently, heeding only soil and roots, buds and branches. The sun broke through to Elizabeth, on her hands and knees, dirty hands and fingernails, aching knees, and her face had lost all isometric tension: she looked radiant.
At two she went upstairs to talk to Rosie, who was lying on her bed reading Hans Christian Andersen, and who looked up at her mother guiltily, scared.
“Hello,” said Elizabeth.
“Hi.”
“I need to talk to you, okay?” Rosie nodded and closed the book. Elizabeth came over and sat on the bed beside her, draped her arm across Rosie’s stomach, and sighed. “I’m sorry I spanked you so hard, okay? Will you accept my apology?” Rosie nodded and let her bottom lip tremble. “But goddamn it, baby, you could have burned down the whole fucking house. You were lucky. I was lucky. I might have lost you.”
“We can fix the hole somehow....”
“That isn’t the point. The point is that you broke your promise not to play with matches, you’ve wrecked a carpet which was a wedding present from your father’s grandmother—can you imagine what that carpet means to me?”
“I’m really, really sorry.”
“I know you are. But sorry doesn’t undo the damage.”
“Wull. You said you were sorry.”
“And I was.”
“So am I.”
“I know, I know, and I forgive you, but this time you were lucky—think about it, Rosie. Don’t think of the match, of just lighting one match for fun, think about the house in flames. Everything we own, all of James’s writing.” Rosie hung her head. “Promise that you won’t play with matches, and mean it.”
“I promise.”
“I love you, Rosie. I would die if anything happened to you.” Rosie nodded. “I must seem like a pretty messed-up mother to have—I am a pretty messed-up mother. But. No one could love anyone more than I love you. And: soon, things will—I will—get better.”
They looked intently at each other, mother and daughter: The Fergusons. They both tried to smile.
The phone rang while they were eating lunch, and Elizabeth rose from the table to answer it, hoping it was James.
“Hello?”
“I’m home!”
“Rae!”
Rosie’s mouth dropped open, and then she beamed.
“When did you get home?”
“Two minutes ago. Can I come over and play?”
“Yes, of course. Hurry.”
“Is Rosie there?”
“Yes. Rae! I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I’ve been so homesick for you both! I’ll be over in five minutes.”
Rae’s homecoming constituted a small miracle. The Fergusons stood waiting for her on the porch.
“I have to go look down the street,” said Rosie, dashing down the stairs and through the garden. “Here she comes,” she shouted, tearing through the gate and down the street to the left, leaving Elizabeth standing alone with her hands on her hips.
Rosie and Rae came into sight holding hands. Rae waved. She wore the same old jeans, baggy and faded, and her clogs knocked on the sidewalk, but her sweater was new, fuzzy and gray, and her hair was up, lazily. Elizabeth walked down the stairs and waited at the open gate. Rae. Thinner, it seemed, and tan, dark eyes crinkled up sheepishly. The women walked, silent and grinning, into each other’s arms.
Rae smelled of cigarettes, coconut oil, salt, and the alpaca sweater. They stepped apart to kiss. Rosie waited for them to be done.
“You look so pretty, Elizabeth. So do you, Rosie.”
“So do you. You’ve lost weight.”
“Fifteen pounds.”
“I have a million things to tell you.”
“Me too. You must never go away again.”
“Rae,” said Rosie, “you went away. We just stayed here.”
“Would you like a beer?”
“Sure.”
They sat on the porch, the women with ales, Rosie with grape juice.
“I got you both presents, but I left them in Sante Fe. The friends I stayed with will send them soon.”
“James lives here now,” said Rosie.
“I know. Elizabeth told me in a letter.” Rae looked over at Elizabeth. “You lucky duck.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Is it just—wonderful?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“I love James,” said Rosie.
Rae looked suddenly mournful. “I’m so jealous,” she said, and grimaced. “I mean, I swear to God, I’m also totally happy for you, really I am. Really I am.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I don’t think,” said Rae, “that I could handle it, if I didn’t know you get so j
ealous of my career.” They smiled at each other. “Aren’t I a scumbag?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth.
Looking at Rae, Rosie panicked, cringed. No way could she tell Rae about the hairy dick. She stared listlessly at her grape juice. No one noticed. Help!
“So, tell me about New Mexico.”
“God, it was great.”
“Are you over Brian?”
“Tsssst. Water off a duck’s back.”
“Yeah?”
“The guy was an asshole, Elizabeth. I don’t know why you kept pushing me into his arms.”
Elizabeth smiled. Rae lit a cigarette. The corner of Rosie’s mouth turned down: no one noticed.
Rae burst out laughing. The Fergusons watched.
“I gotta tell you both this one thing that happened.” Rosie and Elizabeth nodded. “And you’re both sworn to secrecy ... Okay. When I first arrived in Nambe, I was totally depressed about Brian, right? I was shuffling around moaning, I seen sunrise, I seen moonrise, lay dis ole darkie down.” Elizabeth smiled, and took a sip: God, I have missed you, Rae.
“But a few days after I got there, my friend introduces me to this guy named Peter, who’s pretty funny, and I kept hoping he’d call and ask me out. But he didn’t.”
“Is this going to be an uddult story?” Rosie asked.
Rae nodded. Rosie got to her feet.
“Oh, don’t go, sweetheart,” said Rae. “I can tell your mom another time.”
“No, that’s all right. I have to do this thing inside, and then I’ll come back out.”
“Promise?” Rosie nodded, and went to the door. Elizabeth shook her head, and took another sip.
“Go on with your story.”
“You really want to hear it?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“You’re not just saying that?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Okay, so there I am, down and out in New Mexico. One day I go into town and eat roughly ten pounds of Mexican food, then head for the drugstore for candy—it’s one of those savage pig animal days. I buy a bag of M&M’s, and a People magazine, which I take outside to read in the sun. In it, I learn that anorexics gobble down laxatives to lose weight. My eyes open wide, and I go back into the drugstore, and up to the pharmacist. The store’s crowded, and I sort of whisper to her that I need a good strong laxative. Well, she’s got a voice you could cut glass with, and she starts screeching laxative suggestions at me.” Rae threw back her head and laughed.
“She hands me the kind she uses, and it says, ‘the gentle laxative,’ but I can’t bring myself to say I want something ruthless, something called Dyno-Lax or something, so I buy it, and eat most of the box.”
“Then I go home to Eileen’s, raid the refrigerator, and wait for something to happen. But nothing does, nothing at all. And then, several hours and two snacks later, Peter calls and invites me to dinner that night.”
“‘Hope you’re hungry,’ he says.”
“‘Starved,’ I say. ‘Haven’t eaten all day.’”
“Oh, Rae.” Elizabeth laughed.
“Okay. To make a long story somewhat shorter, I get all dolled up, my black silk dress, pearls, sexy black heels, lots of makeup ... and we go out to dinner. Peter and I really hit it off. By now, I’ve completely forgotten about the laxatives. He invites me home for a nightcap, and we both know I’m going to spend the night.”
“When we get there, we have a brandy, and listen to records and then—I swear to God—he says he’s got blisters on his feet from jogging, and he’s got to soak them for a few minutes. I figure his feet are dirty or something, and we’re about to go to bed, so I say, ‘Fine, fine.’ He pours me another drink, hands me the new New Yorker, and goes into the bathroom. Closes the door, runs water in. the bathtub. I sit there reading happily, feeling like the sexiest woman alive, when all of a sudden I’ve got to shit so bad that my eyes are watering.”
“Oh, God! What did you do?”
“I sat there praying, squeezing my cheeks together, not blinking. I hear him running more water, he’s going to be in there forever, and I am dying, Egypt, dying. I am bursting. I have never, in my life, been more desperate.”
Rae began honking with laughter.
“So I decide my only chance is to shit in a saucepan or some-thing, and throw it out the window; honest to God, that was my plan. Fuckin’ A, mama, I’m thirty-two years old, in silk and pearls, the sexiest woman alive, thinking, He’ll never ask me out again if he comes out and I’m squatting over a saucepan....”
Elizabeth roared.
“But there was no other way! I’m wishing I was dead, I’m worrying that I’ll throw the saucepan out the window and it will kill a pedestrian and the police will come knocking at the door.”
Elizabeth held her sides.
“And then, miraculously, he emerges, and I smile prettily and say, ‘Oh, la-dee-dah, there you are,’ and I make it to the bathroom with one or two seconds to spare.”
The women sat laughing in the sun.
“Did he ask you out again?”
Rae shook her head. Elizabeth shrugged.
“Oh, well.”
“Boy, I missed you. Who else could I tell that story to?”
“It’s great to have you home. I missed you too. So did Rosie.”
“Is something bothering her? She’s never left during one of my stories before. Am I losing my touch?”
“Something’s on her mind. But she won’t tell what it is.”
“Well. Sometimes it’s just hard, being a kid.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in agreement.
“Do you know what the Arabic root for ‘child’ means?”
“Now, Rae, how the hell would I know what—”
“Well, see, the only reason I know is I read this book called Arabia while I was in Santa Fe.”
“Oh.”
“And ‘child’ means, among other things, ‘to intrude on and sponge off of, to arrive uninvited and impose upon.’ And it also means softness, and potter’s clay, and dawn.”
“Yeah?”
Rae nodded.
Elizabeth took a long sip of ale. “Potter’s clay.” Rosie’s turning out like me. “Dawn.” A new day, somewhere down the road...
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?”
“I think that if you were to ask me nicely, I would stay for dinner.”
“Good! I’m making lasagna—with sausage. Let’s go find Rosie, and cook.”
“All right.”
“Rosie!” Elizabeth called from the bottom of the stairs.
“What?” Rosie was lying face down on her bed.
“Come on down. Rae’s going to stay for dinner. Come help us make lasagne.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Rosie shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later. Rae took one look at her eyes and lifted her off the ground in a hug: Rosie clung to her for dear life.
Elizabeth watched them with a sad look on her face.
Rae set Rosie back down. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
Rosie scowled, shrugged.
“Don’t you want to talk about it? You’ll feel better.”
Rosie shook her head.
“Well, will you help us make lasagne? I’ve invited myself to dinner.”
“Okay.”
Elizabeth assembled the ingredients and together they began to make dinner. Rosie diced tomatoes from the garden for the sauce, while Rae sauteed ten toes of garlic in butter, and then added sausage. Elizabeth minced fresh basil and parsley.
“Would you like a drink, Rae?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m ready for a short one.” Elizabeth went to the cupboard, got down the scotch, and poured herself a drink.
Rosi
e glowered. Rae noticed. Elizabeth got some ice cubes from the freezer, and dropped them into her drink.
“You done with the tomatoes, Rosie?” Rosie nodded glumly. “Then take them to Rae. Now you can help me slice the cheese.”
Rosie scowled at the ball of mozzarella. “This stretchy stuff?”
“Yeah. But wait till I get back—I’ll just be a minute.”
Elizabeth took a sip of scotch and left the room. Rosie sat down at the table, and began tearing a paper towel into confetti-sized pieces. Rae turned to look at her.
“Come on, honey, out with it.”
Rosie squirmed, shrugged, said nothing. Staring down at the table, she saw in her mind’s eye the hairy purple dick, and flushed. Rae came and stood beside her.
“You’re having a hard time these days, aren’t you?” After a moment, Rosie nodded. Rae sat next to her and stroked Rosie’s cheek. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Rosie rubbed her eyes, miserable, squirming.
Rae pointed to the whiskey. “Is that what’s on your mind?”
Rosie shrugged and sighed deeply.
“You and me gotta talk,” Rae whispered. “Okay?” Rosie rubbed her nose. “Really we do—as soon as you’re ready. Maybe tomorrow?” Rosie shrugged. “And be nice tonight, okay?”
Rosie looked exasperated. Rae poked her in the stomach. Rosie doubled over, smiled.
CHAPTER 19
Much later that night, James stood guard beside Rosie while she said her endless prayers, kneeling at the bed. Her head was bowed, so loose black rings barely touched the back of her white flannel nightgown and fell forward across her cheeks to the tips of her fingers. Spindle-like arms draped with flannel jutted out like wings, and she looked as small and fragile as a figurine from a creche, something like a cross between the Little Drummer Boy and the Little Match Girl.
