Rose Madder

“Can I help you?” Although the man with the moustache outside The Wee Nip had frightened her and the pregnant woman had amazed her, neither had made her cry. Now, at the sound of this voice, the tears came-there was nothing at all she could do to stop them.

“I hope someone can,” Rosie said, wiping at her cheeks with her free hand.

“I’m sorry, but I’m in the city all by myself, I don’t know anyone, and I need a place to stay. If you’re all full I understand, but could I at least come in and sit for awhile and maybe have a glass of water?” There was more silence. Rosie was reaching for the button again when the ti

“The man in the Travelers Aid booth at the bus station. David Slowik.” She thought that over, then shook her head.

“No, that’s wrong. Peter. His name was Peter, not David.” “did he give you a business card?” the ti

“Yes.”

“Please find it.” She opened her purse and rummaged for what felt like hours. Just as fresh tears began to prick at her eyes and double her vision, she happened on the card. It had been hiding beneath a wad of Kleenex.

“I have it,” she said. “do you want me to put it through the letter-slot?”

“No,” the voice said.

“There’s a camera right over your head.” She looked up, startled. There was indeed a camera mounted over the door and looking down at her with its round black eye.

“Hold it up to the camera, please. Not the front but the back.” As she did so, she remembered the way Slowik had signed the business card, making his signature as large as he possibly could. Now she understood why.

“Okay,” the voice said.

“I’m going to buzz you inside.”

“Thanks,” Rosie said. She used the Kleenex to wipe at her cheeks but it did no good; she was crying harder than ever, and she couldn’t seem to stop.

That evening, as Norman Daniels lay on the sofa in his living room, looking up at the ceiling and already thinking of how he might begin the job of finding the bitch (a break, he thought, I need a break to start with, just a little one would probably be enough), his wife was being taken to meet A

“Come on,” one of the women said. Rosie thought her name was Consuelo. She had a wide, disfiguring scar under her left eye and down her left cheek.

“A

“Who’s A

“A

“Boss-lady.”

“What’s she like?”

“You’ll see.” Consuelo opened the door of a room which had probably once been the pantry, but made no move to go in. The room was dominated by the most fabulously cluttered desk Rosie had ever seen. The woman who sat behind it was a bit stout but undeniably handsome. With her short but carefully dressed white hair, she reminded Rosie of Beatrice Arthur, who had played Maude on the old TV sitcom. The severe white blouse/black jumper combination accentuated the resemblance even further, and Rosie approached the desk timidly. She was more than half convinced that, now that she had been fed and allowed a few hours” sleep, she would be turned out onto the street again. She told herself not to argue or plead if that happened; it was their place, after all, and she was already two meals to the good. She wouldn’t have to stake out a piece of bus station floor, either, at least not yet-she still had money enough for several nights in a cheap hotel or motel. Things could be worse. A lot worse. She knew that was true, but the woman’s crisp demeanor and direct blue eyes-eyes that must have seen hundreds of Rosies come and go over the years-still intimidated her. “sit down,” A

“I guess it’s actually Rose Daniels,” she said, “but I’ve gone back to McClendon-my maiden name. I suppose that isn’t legal, but I don’t want to use my husband’s name anymore. He beat me, and so I left him.” She realized that sounded as if she’d left him the first time he’d done it and her hand went to her nose, which was still a little tender up where the bridge ended.

“We were married a long time before I got up the courage, though.”

“How long a time are we talking about?”

“Fourteen years.” Rosie discovered she could no longer meet A

“About thirty-six hours,” she said after a bit of mental calculation.

“Give or take.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosie kept expecting forms which A

“Now tell me about it. Tell me everything.” Rosie drew a deep breath and told A

“That’s what I call my rocker,” she said, blushing so hard that her cheeks felt as if they might be on the verge of smoking.

“I know it’s stupid-”

A

“What did you do after you made your mind up to go? Tell me that.” Rosie told her about the ATM card, and how she had been sure that Norman would have a hunch about what she was doing and either call or come home. She couldn’t bring herself to tell this severely handsome woman that she had been so scared she’d gone into someone’s back yard to pee, but she told about using the ATM card, and how much she’d drawn out, and how she’d come to this city because it seemed far enough away and the bus would be leaving soon. The words came out of her in bursts surrounded by periods of silence in which she tried to think of what to say next and contemplated with amazement and near-disbelief what she had done. She finished by telling A