Rose Madder (9 page)

“No.”

“Math? Accounting? Banking?”

“No!”

Anna Stevenson happened on a pencil amid the heaps of paper, extracted it, and tapped the eraser end against her clean white teeth. “Can you waitress?”

Rosie desperately wanted to say yes, but she thought about the large trays waitresses had to balance all day long . . . and then she thought about her back and her kidneys.

“No,” she whispered. She was losing her battle with the tears; the little room and the woman on the other side of the desk began to blur and soften. “Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a month or two. My back . . . right now it's not strong.” And oh, it sounded like a lie. It was the kind of thing that, when he heard someone say it on TV, made Norman laugh cynically and talk about welfare Cadillacs and foodstamp millionaires.

Anna Stevenson did not seem particularly perturbed, however. “What skills
do
you have, Rose? Any at all?”

“Yes!” she said, appalled by the harsh, angry edge she heard in her voice but unable to make it go away or even mute it. “Yes indeed! I can dust, I can wash dishes, I can make beds, I can vacuum the floor, I can cook meals for two, I can sleep with my husband once a week. And I can take a punch. That's another skill I have. Do you suppose any of the local gyms have openings for sparring partners?”

Then she
did
burst into tears. She wept into her cupped hands as she had so often during the years since she had married him, wept and waited for Anna to tell her to get out,
that they could fill that empty cot upstairs with someone who wasn't a smartass.

Something bumped the back of her left hand. She lowered it and saw a box of Kleenex. Anna Stevenson was holding it out to her. And, incredibly, Anna Stevenson was smiling.

“I don't think you'll have to be anyone's sparring partner,” she said. “Things are going to work out for you, I think—they almost always do. Here, dry your eyes.”

And, as Rosie dried them, Anna explained about the Whitestone Hotel, with which Daughters and Sisters had had a long and useful relationship. The Whitestone was owned by a corporation on whose board Anna's well-to-do father had once sat, and a great many women had relearned the satisfactions of working for pay there. Anna told Rosie that she would have to work only as hard as her back allowed her to work, and that if her overall physical condition didn't begin to improve in twenty-one days, she would be hauled off the job and taken to a hospital for tests.

“Also, you'll be paired with a woman who knows the ropes. A sort of counsellor who lives here full time. She'll teach you, and she'll be responsible for you. If you steal something, it'll be her who gets in trouble, not you . . . but you're not a thief, are you?”

Rosie shook her head. “Just my husband's bank card, that's all, and I only used it once. To make sure I could get away.”

“You'll work at the Whitestone until you find something that suits you better, as you almost certainly will—Providence, remember.”

“With a capital
P
.”

“Yes. While you're at the Whitestone, we ask only that you do your best—in order to protect the jobs of all the women who'll come after you, if for no other reason. Do you follow me?”

Rosie nodded. “Don't spoil it for the next person.”

“Don't spoil it for the next person, just so. It's good to have you here, Rose McClendon.” Anna stood up and extended both hands in a gesture which held more than a little of the unconscious arrogance Rosie had already sensed in her. Rosie hesitated, then stood and took the offered hands. Now their fingers were linked above the clutter of the desk. “I have three more things to tell you,” Anna said. “They're
important, so I want you to clear your mind and listen carefully. Will you do that?”

“Yes,” Rosie said. She was fascinated by Anna Stevenson's clear blue gaze.

“First, taking the bank card doesn't make you a thief. That was your money as well as his. Second, there's nothing illegal about resuming your maiden name—it will belong to you your whole life. Third, you can be free if you want to.”

She paused, looking at Rosie with her remarkable blue eyes from above their clasped hands.

“Do you understand me?
You can be free if you want to.
Free of his hands, free of his ideas, free of
him.
Do you want that? To be free?”

“Yes,” Rosie said in a low, wavering voice. “I want that more than anything in the world.”

Anna Stevenson bent across the desk and kissed Rosie softly on the cheek. At the same time she squeezed Rosie's hands. “Then you've come to the right place. Welcome home, dear.”

I
t was early May, real spring, the time when a young man's fancy is supposed to lightly turn to thoughts of love, a wonderful season and undoubtedly a great emotion, but Norman Daniels had other things on his mind. He had wanted a break, one little break, and now it had come. It had taken too long—almost three goddam weeks—but it had finally come.

He sat on a park bench eight hundred miles from the place where his wife was currently changing hotel sheets, a big man in a red polo shirt and gray gabardine slacks. In one hand he held a fluorescent green tennis ball. The muscles of his forearm flexed rhythmically as he squeezed it.

A second man came across the street, stood at the edge of the sidewalk looking into the park, then spotted the man on the bench and began walking toward him. He ducked as a Frisbee sailed close by, then stopped short as a large German Shepherd charged past him, chasing it. This second man was both younger and slighter than the man on the bench. He had a handsome, unreliable face and a tiny Errol
Flynn moustache. He stopped in front of the man with the tennis ball in his right hand and looked at him uncertainly.

“Help you, bro?” the man with the tennis ball asked.

“Is your name Daniels?”

The man with the tennis ball nodded that it was.

The man with the Errol Flynn moustache pointed across the street at a new highrise loaded with glass and angles. “Guy in there told me to come over here and see you. He said maybe you could help me with my problem.”

“Was it Lieutenant Morelli?” the man with the tennis ball asked.

“Yeah. That was his name.”

“And what problem do you have?”

“You know,” the man with the Errol Flynn moustache said.

“Tell you what, bro—maybe I do and maybe I don't. Either way, I'm the man and you're just a greasy little halfbreed cockgobbler with a very troubled life. I think you better tell me what I want to hear, don't you? And what I want to hear right now is what kind of problem you've got. Say it right out loud.”

“I'm up on a dope charge,” the man with the Errol Flynn moustache said. He looked sullenly at Daniels. “Sold an eightball to a narc.”

“Ooops,” the man with the tennis ball said. “That's a felony. It
can
be a felony, anyway. But it gets worse, doesn't it? They found something of mine in your wallet, didn't they?”

“Yeah. Your fuckin bank card. Just my luck. Find an ATM card in the trash, it belongs to a fuckin cop.”

“Sit down,” Daniels said genially, but when the man with the Errol Flynn moustache started to move to the right side of the bench, the cop shook his head impatiently. “Other side, dickweed, other side.”

The man with the moustache backtracked, then sat gingerly down on Daniel's left side. He watched as the right hand squeezed the tennis ball in a steady, quick rhythm. Squeeze . . . squeeze . . . squeeze. Thick blue veins wriggled up the white underside of the cop's arm like watersnakes.

The Frisbee floated by. The two men watched the German Shepherd chase after, its long legs galloping like the legs of a horse.

“Beautiful dog,” Daniels said. “Shepherds are beautiful dogs. I always like a Shepherd, don't you?”

“Sure, great,” the man with the moustache said, although he actually thought the dog was butt-ugly and looked like it would happily chew you a new asshole if you gave it half a chance.

“We've got a lot to talk about,” the cop with the tennis ball said. “In fact, I think this is going to be one of the most important conversations of your young life, my friend. Are you ready for that?”

The man with the moustache swallowed past some sort of blockage in his throat and wished—for about the eight hundredth time that day—that he had gotten rid of the goddam bank card. Why hadn't he? Why had he been such a total goddamned idiot?

Except he knew why he had been such a total goddamned idiot—because he'd kept thinking that eventually he might figure out a way to use it. Because he was an optimist. This was America, after all, the Land of Opportunity. Also because (and this was a lot closer to the nub of the truth) he had sort of forgotten it was there in his wallet, tucked in behind a bunch of the business cards he was always picking up. Coke had that effect on you—it kept you running, but you couldn't fuckin remember
why
you were running.

The cop was looking at him, and he was smiling, but there was no smile in his eyes. The eyes looked . . . famished. All at once the man with the moustache felt like one of the three little pigs sitting on a park bench next to the big bad wolf.

“Listen, man, I never used your bank card. Let's just get that up front. They told you that, didn't they? I never fuckin used it once.”

“Of course you didn't,” the cop said, half-laughing. “You couldn't get the pin-number. It's based on my home phone number, and my number's unlisted . . . like most cops'. But I bet you already know that, right? I bet you checked.”

“No!” the man with the moustache said. “No, I didn't!” He had, of course. He had checked the phone book after trying several different combinations of the street address on the card, and the zip-code, with no luck. He had punched ATM buttons all over the city at first. He had punched buttons until his fingers were sore and he felt like an asshole playing the world's most miserly slot machine.

“So what's gonna happen when we check the computer runs on Merchant's Bank ATM machines?” the cop asked. “We're not going to find my card in the
CANCEL/RETRY
column
about a billion times? Hey, if we don't, I'll buy you a steak dinner. What do you think about that, bro?”

The man with the moustache didn't know what to think about it, or anything else. He was getting a very bad feeling. A bitch of a bad feeling. Meanwhile, the cop's fingers went on working the tennis ball—in and out, in and out, in and out. It was creepy how he never stopped doing that.

“Your name's Ramon Sanders,” the cop named Daniels said. “You got a rap sheet long as my arm. Theft, con, dope, vice. Everything but assault, battery, crimes of that nature. No mixing it up for you, right? You fags don't like getting hit, do you? Even the ones that look like Schwarzenegger. Oh, they don't mind wearing a security tee-shirt and flexing their pecs for the limousines in front of some homo club, but if anyone actually starts hitting, you guys go flat in a hurry. Don't you?”

Ramon Sanders said nothing. It seemed by far the wisest course.

“I don't mind hitting,” the cop named Daniels said. “Kicking, either. Even biting.” He spoke almost reflectively. He seemed to be looking both at and beyond the German Shepherd, which was now trotting back in their direction with the Frisbee in its mouth. “What do you think of that, angel eyes?”

Ramon went on saying nothing, and he tried to keep a poker face, but a lot of little lights inside his head were turning red, and a dismaying tingle had begun to shake its way through his nerve-tree. His heart was picking up speed like a train leaving the station and heading into open country. He kept snatching little glances of the big man in the red polo shirt, and liking less and less what he saw. The guy's right forearm was totally flexed now, veins fat with blood, muscles popped like freshly risen breadrolls.

Daniels didn't seem to mind Ramon's failure to answer. The face he turned toward the smaller man was smiling . . . or appeared to be smiling, if you ignored the eyes. The eyes were as blank and shiny as two new quarters.

“I got good news for you, little hero. You can do the stroll on the dope charge. Give me a little help and you're as free as a bird. Now what do you think about that?”

What he thought was that he wanted to go right on keeping his mouth shut, but that no longer seemed like an option.
This time the cop wasn't just rolling on; this time he was waiting for an answer.

“That's great,” Ramon said, hoping he was giving the right one. “That's great, really excellent, thanks for giving me a break.”

“Well, maybe I like you, Ramon,” the cop said, and then he did an astounding thing, something Ramon never would have expected from a screwhead ex-gyrene like this guy: he plopped his left hand into Ramon's crotch and began giving him a rubdown, right out in front of God, the kids on the playground, and anybody who cared to take a look. He slid his hand in a gentle clockwise motion, his palm moving back and forth and up and down over the little patch of flesh which had more or less run Ramon's life ever since two of his father's buddies—men Ramon was supposed to call Uncle Bill and Uncle Carlo—had taken turns blowing him when he was nine years old. And what happened next was probably not very extraordinary, although it seemed
very
fucking bizarre right then: he began to get hard.