The Rose Variations, page 22
Rose would attend the custody hearing, and that was the best she could do. She wasn’t sure where Meggy belonged, and her phone had become a hazard. If, when she sat down to work, she forgot to unplug it, the thing was sure to ring when she was in deep. And, often as not, when she plugged it back in, it was already ringing—Natalie or Guy about custody, or Ursula about her wedding, or Frances about Ursula’s wedding, or Alan about his new love, who was called James, Alan complaining to Rose that she had not yet met James, that she had not sat down to hear about James.
The conductor in Seattle was also calling about what he and Rose both assured each other was a minor difference over the direction Rose was taking with her symphony. His name was Stephen Orrick, and his interest in her work had been a boost, her best luck yet.
She’d met him at Wolf Trap, the national park for the performing arts—or, rather, he’d made a point of meeting her, though she’d recognized him at once. As reputed, he looked like Tchaikovsky—high fore-head, stiff brush of hair, bristling whiskers. He had raised from oblivion the Seattle Sinfonietta, had expanded it to a full-sized orchestra, had brought new audiences to new music, had gone national via radio, and now took frequent invitations to conduct everywhere else, adding radiance to his reputation and to that of his orchestra. At forty-seven, he was too old to be a Young Turk and too young to be an Old Master. This made him somehow easier to talk to. He was astoundingly friendly, almost deferential to Rose, as if she were the star and he the unknown. At that first meeting, he’d asked her to mail him everything she’d written. And she had, reams, with Lila’s help to decide what was finished.
The previous two seasons, he’d featured several short pieces of Rose’s work and each time brought her out to rehearse and took care to intro-duce her to audiences. Then he’d commissioned the symphony—in the name of Susan B. Anthony, true—but still, he seemed to have a real feeling for Rose’s music.
And he treated her as a friend. He sent her intriguing things from the Northwest: green almonds encased in hairy hulls, smoked salmon. He had an actual life outside music, revealed when she stayed as his houseguest. He cooked, gardened, and conducted a baby orchestra at his daughters’ preschool. Alexis and Starr, four and five, were a thorough part of every-thing he did. He took his afternoon “nap” sitting in a big chair with pillows behind him, propping up his ego, as he put it, while the little girls colored at his feet. He didn’t actually sleep then, but instead made conversation with his wife, Leslie, or with Rose, or he chatted on the phone.
Leslie, a violinist in the orchestra, made Rose especially welcome— flowers in the guest room and orchestra gossip, though, naturally, she omitted the gossip about her husband. Conductors were notorious for carrying on with women, and Rose had heard this about Stephen Orrick. Now that she knew him, she wouldn’t believe it. The cause of the rumors had to be jealousy. She’d spent hours alone with him, and he seemed to prize nothing above conversation. He liked to listen and he liked to talk. He was noisily political. Leslie rolled her eyes at his proclamation that he was more feminist even than she. But he walked his talk: made beds, mopped floors, cooked, and did the dishes. There was just no way to fault him. He had the energy of three men—or a woman and a half, as he put it.
The third week in May, Rose’s outline and thirty pages of score came due. Almost before her package could have arrived, Stephen Orrick called to say that he found the music a little somber, a bit on the edgy side for a birthday celebration. Rose was known for vivacity, for effervescence, for great self-assurance—she’d written Heart’s Apple, had she not? Spirit Mechanics and Bears in the Oats? Her work at its best, he thought, had a triumphal quality.
But effervescence was only one mode, Rose retorted, that of the twelve-year-old girl forever skipping through the daisy field. And she thought she might be coming to the end of bravado. There had to be something beyond it. Susan B. Anthony had lived a life of struggle. Surely the great woman knew moments of less than perfect self-assurance?
Unfortunately, there was little historical evidence of the doubts of Susan B. Anthony.
“Especially not on her birthday,” said Stephen Orrick.
Susan B. was, indeed, renowned for giving herself enormous birthday parties, at which she made speeches.
“Failure is impossible,” he said, quoting Anthony on her seventy-fifth birthday.
“I never said failure,” Rose told him. “This piece is not about failure.”
“Well, of course not,” he said. “Forgive me. Should I leave you alone?”
“Oh, no,” she assured him. She needed time to work, but she didn’t want to be left alone, least of all by him, by them, the Orricks. Her trips out to Seattle restored her to herself. She was their favorite guest, they said, not just Stephen and Leslie but the little girls too. She adored the girls, their mischief and their chumminess. They reminded her painfully of Meggy, and when she bought them presents, she always bought Meggy a third and set it aside for the future.
At the moment,Natalie was not allowing presents. Presents were termed materialism. That Natalie was against materialism certainly matched her circumstances. It wasn’t clear how she was getting by. A Frogtown chiropractor had employed her briefly, but she’d barely settled in at the reception desk when he decided he didn’t need her after all. And just when they’d gotten a good thing going: he adjusted the body and Natalie, quietly and unobtrusively, she said, adjusted the soul. When he let her go, the reason he gave was that he could not afford her. But he was paying her almost nothing, and Rose should see his swanky office. And Natalie had been doing extra for him, putting patients at ease in the waiting room, engaging them in healing conversations. Jesus Christ figured in, of course, but also astrology. For instance, Rose and Jesus were both Capricorns— did Rose know that?—and that’s why they both were so good at grasping the big picture. They didn’t fasten on to details. They were also good at forgiveness—like the way Rose had forgiven Natalie over Guy. Where was Guy, by the way? Had he and Rose perhaps gotten back together? No? Well, that was good; it must not be in the stars. Really not? Fine, good. Back to the subject of materialism. The chiropractor couldn’t afford Natalie. Money, materialism, had intervened. Did Rose understand how materialism had ruined the whole of society? Had she reflected on whether Meggy had really needed the expensive clothes and the Easter basket? What was the underlying message? What did Rose wish Meggy to learn?
Rose hadn’t been trying to teach Meggy anything. There wasn’t a message.
But Rose had promised her a mini-bike?
“Never,” said Rose. “And as for the dress, I just wanted Meggy to have something nice.”
But what Rose termed nice, Natalie suggested, was merely new. Wear something once, and it’s no longer new. Had Jesus Christ insisted on new garments? Why did Rose think He’d been born in a manger and not in the palace of a king? How could a little girl learn to cherish all of heaven and earth once she got the habit of craning into every store window?
Rose couldn’t think how to answer. Was it possible that a little pink dress could in some way harm Meggy? Could there really be something wrong with an Easter basket? A small but sparkling pile of things atop Rose’s piano awaited Meggy, for such time as Natalie once again allowed a material life. There was a canary feather in a block of Lucite; a leather coin purse from Afghanistan, soft and pleasantly stinky; and a jade ring in a felt box. To this, Stephen Orrick, when he learned of Meggy, added a blue china egg from Tiffany’s.
During his “naps” and late at night, after a rehearsal or performance, he liked to hear Rose talk. At first she’d been shy and, in the face of his well-ordered and very full life, afraid to reveal her own. But what she thought of as her chaos, he found intriguing. He couldn’t seem to get enough of Ursula’s wedding or of Alan and Frances’s peculiar arrangement, and tales of Natalie made him roar and gasp.
When he presented the blue china egg for Meggy in its blue box, Rose was pierced with gratitude but felt secretly, aggrievedly, nonsensically that it wasn’t nearly enough. She wanted Meggy to be Alexis or Starr—to have such a father and a life of plenty in a lovely old house. She, herself, envied Alexis and Starr—ridiculous, when Stephen was only a decade older than she and could never have been her father. Yet she found surprising com-fort in talking to him and felt very much better about her life in the terms she offered him: the heroine, calm amidst storms. So it was perhaps her own fault that he saw her as above her troubles, always rising triumphal.
“Come out and see us,” he urged her. “We’ll cheer you up.”
But she was cheerful enough and reasonably certain of the music, which was not so much gloomy as lucid; not somber, but free: Susan B. taking up and bearing her freedom. Rose would stay away from Seattle till she knew how to defend her ideas and had more of the score to show.
“Certainly,” he told her. “Take your time. We can always postpone.”
“Oh, no. No postponement,” she told him. Any working composer knew that postponement could mean cancellation. Postponement was the anteroom a conductor let you sit in awhile, before sending you out into the cold. Not that she thought Stephen capable of that. “I’ll be out in late June as planned,” she told him. That would give her time to finish classes, hand in grades, and write perhaps thirty more pages of her symphony.
Then, on a day at the end of May, on her way out the door to her last week of classes, she received a call from Guy—another alarm about Natalie. Guy claimed that Natalie had taken Meggy out of school, that she was being held truant, kept out of sight in the rooming house.
Rose went on to meet her class. The thought of Meggy cooped up in the rooming house troubled her. Still, given the season, it was hard to get upset about a little girl sprung from school. Rose’s students were loud and hilarious, and pranks were the order of the day. As she settled her books and papers at the front of the room, the sound system crackled to life and began to broadcast the bleating of a lamb. Another prank. This one got on her nerves. It was not a happy, frolicsome sound, but the cry of a young animal in distress, helpless and, worst of all, hopeful. Her students went into hysterics and Rose laughed, too, in spite of herself, as the little voice went on and on. Nobody knew how to shut the thing off. Rose dismissed her class and drove to Frogtown.
She stopped first at Lincoln Elementary School, which stood just down the block from the rooming house where Natalie lived. Meggy was at least registered at Lincoln School. On the playground, frantic simultaneous games of tetherball and soccer were underway, cut across by a game of tag between the boys and girls, in which the girls pretended indifference, prolonging the glamour of being tagged by a show of disgust and unwillingness to pursue, and then pursued. Meggy ought to be out there, tagging and being tagged, but Meggy was not in school that day, nor had she been seen at school the past two weeks, nor had the mother responded to calls.
Lukewarm sunlight fell harshly on the front of the rooming house. The broken sidewalk and ragged lawn seemed not so much self-accepting that day as defiant or possibly defeated. No one answered any of the buzzers. Rose tried the front door and found it unlocked.
The entryway swallowed her in a clammy chill. Behind closed doors, televisions tuned to different stations made war. Carpet remnants lined the hall, and, along its dark length, some child had dragged a fistful of crayons. An old woman, one eye crusted shut, directed Rose to the rear.
Natalie opened her door a crack and peered out from behind a chain. At the sight of Rose, her face showed surprise and then cunning. She whipped the chain aside, pulled Rose into the room, refastened the chain, and threw her arms around her sister.
Meggy lay asleep in the single bed, face down, wearing the Easter dress, which was now pinkish gray and flapped open at the back where the buttons had been. She rolled onto her side and revealed her thumb thrust deep into her mouth. Though asleep, she sucked hard, as though drawing nourishment from her own hand. Rose hadn’t seen her for weeks, and the strength of her feeling for the little girl took her by surprise. She wanted to seize her niece and run. Instead, they eased down, aunt and mother, either side of her on the bed.
It was afternoon, yet Natalie still wore her nightgown. “Are you sick?” asked Rose.
“Oh, no. Just short of laundry. You caught us unawares.”
From beneath the corner sink, a snarl of dirty clothes spilled out, tan-gled with the telephone cord. Natalie shoved at the pile with her foot. Under layers of dripping paint, the walls appeared to be sweating. Trudging steps approached in the hall. A toilet flushed so loudly it seemed in the same room with them. The school playground broadcast a distant din.
“Why isn’t she in school?” asked Rose.
“She can have a day off, don’t you think?”
Rose was not prepared for Natalie to lie to her. An instant shouting match was more what she’d expected. She let herself be led for a while. Natalie, at least, wanted Meggy with her. At least in this way, it had to be said, Natalie was a good mother.
“And how are you?” Natalie asked, snuggling up close. “You look a little lost.”
Rose laughed quietly. “Might you be adjusting my soul now?”
“Well,” said Natalie. “But I know how it is. To feel lost. To be lonely.”
“And next we’re going to hear about Jesus?”
Natalie chuckled. Rose chuckled with her. Childhood might have been easier for them if their father had succeeded in converting their mother to his sweet Jesus. It would have been more cozy for them if their mother had turned at least part of her energy to being kind. Rose could hear their mother’s harsh laugh and see the deprecating shake of the head like a tossing of branches above them in the bitter tree of life. For their mother, kindness was the province of the weak-minded. Rose was unprepared for her sister’s kindness. Natalie, sitting warm and close, so close that they breathed together, brought Rose a moment of unreasoning respite.
But then trudging steps came again and the toilet flushed deafeningly.
Meggy rolled over and gave a little snore. Rose cleared her throat. “Meggy’s been truant for two weeks. Why have you taken her out of school?”
A metal wardrobe with its doors hanging open displayed a dishpan, hot plate, kettle, and bag of oatmeal. Natalie hauled out the hot plate and plugged it in. “We’ll have a cup of tea.”
“None for me,” said Rose. “You need what you’ve got.”
Natalie rolled her eyes and filled the kettle. “Consider the lilies,” she said. The food shelf at church, if Rose had to know, had tea and oatmeal and macaroni for free.
“Macaroni?” Meggy croaked and sat up. “Are we getting macaroni?”
“Well, we’d have to get there early, remember?” Natalie replied. “Mac-aroni runs out by afternoon. Maybe Aunt Rose could drive over some morning and score us some?”
Meggy smiled and put her head down in Rose’s lap and fell heavily asleep again. Rose stroked her hair tentatively. Natalie seemed not to mind.
Anyway, their father was sending Natalie a few dollars, and a man in his Christian commune, a Mr. Greer, who’d seen a picture of Natalie holding Meggy, had felt moved to pay the rent. Like a guardian angel. Wasn’t that amazing? Mr. Greer had, in turn, sent a photo, which Natalie produced: a chinless face with a stripe of hair over a white forehead.
“What does he want, this Mr. Greer?” Rose wondered aloud.
“He wants to do good,” said Natalie.
Rose felt a spasm of guilty relief that she wouldn’t be taking on Natalie’s bills again, at least not for the moment. And why should she pay Natalie’s way any more than Natalie should pay hers? They’d had exactly the same start in life, Rose a mere ten months ahead of her. Did it follow that every-thing Rose had gotten for herself must also belong to Natalie? Rose sat benumbed, sunk in the pulpy mattress. Something shiny scuttled over her foot. She moved Meggy aside and went to the window, where heart-shaped catalpa leaves and spikes of flower buds pressed against the glass.
Then Meggy was up and at her side. “What about a mini-bike, Aunt Rose?”
“Meggy,” warned Natalie.
“This is where we pray,” said Meggy, raising her voice a little. Below the sill were squares of carpet padding. Meggy tugged Rose to kneel down beside her. “Like this. All night.”
“All night?” Rose turned to Natalie. “You’ve got her up praying all night?”
“We sleep in the day,” said Meggy. “But if you get tired praying, you can lean a little.” She slumped against Rose, grinning. “What about a mini-bike?” she murmured.
“You know,” said Natalie, “we can’t just wander out in the daylight. He wants her. He could snatch her at any time and I’d never see her again.”
“I don’t think so,” said Rose. “Guy’s not like that. And I’d get her back in school or the judge is going to think you’re crazy.”
“Aunt Rose needs to go to the bathroom,” said Meggy and tugged Rose upright.
“No, Meggy,” said Natalie. “It’s not a nice bathroom.”
“Aunt Rose might need to go.” Meggy unchained the door.
“Hmm,” said Rose. “Maybe I do.”
“Believe me, you don’t,” Natalie told Rose. “Honey, she’s used to some-thing nicer.”
“I can probably stand it,” said Rose.
“Suit yourself.”Natalie grimly motioned Rose and Meggy out the door.
Meggy placed her hand on the crayon stripes that ran down the hallway. “I did that,” she said and studied Rose for a reaction.
The bathroom gave out a sharp stink. Somebody’s comb, trailing hair, lay on the ledge beneath a cracked mirror, and the bathtub showed an oily ring. Cups and toothbrushes were jumbled over the sink and toilet ledge. Meggy pulled down her underpants, hopped on, and peed. Rose looked for soap to wash Meggy’s hands, but when she saw the cracked, muddy square on the soap dish, she let the girl finish rinsing with water.
