Rose Madder

“Oh don’t, not now, for Christ’s sake don’t lose it now.” He was shivering, and his headache had come back full force, pounding like a fist. The bright zigzags boogied and hustled around the edges of his vision, and his nose had begun to leak from the right nostril. The next woman who came into view was alone, and Norman recognized her-white hair on top, ugly varicose veins on the bottom. The woman who’d given him the Yogurt Pop. I got a pop for you, he thought, tensing as she started down the concrete path. I got a pop for you, and if you don’t give me the answers I’m looking for, and right away, you’re apt to find yourself eating every goddam inch of it. Then someone else came out of the little grove of trees. Norman had seen her, too-the fat, nosy bitch in the red jumper, the one who had looked him over when the guy in the booth called him back. Once again he felt that maddening sense of recognition, like a name that dances impudently on your tongue, darting back every time you try to catch it. Did he know her? If only his head wasn’t aching-She still had her oversized bag, the one which looked more like a briefcase, and she was pawing around in it. What you looking for, Fat Girl? Norman thought. Couple of Twinkies? A few Mallow Cremes? Maybe a-And suddenly, just like that, he had it. He’d read about her in the library, in a newspaper article about Daughters and Sisters. There had been a picture of her crouched down in some asshole karate posture, looking more like a doublewide trailer than Bruce Lee. She was the bitch who told the reporter men weren’t their enemies…'but if they hit, we hit back.” Gert. He didn’t remember the last one, but her first name had been Gert. Get out of here, Gert, Norman thought at the big black woman in the red jumper. His hands were tightly clenched, the nails digging into his palms. But she didn’t.

“Lana!” she called instead.

“Hey, Lana!” The white-haired woman turned, then walked back to Fat Girl, who looked like The Fridge in a dress. He watched the white-haired woman named Lana lead old Dirty Gertie back into the trees. Gertie was holding something out to her as they went. It looked like a piece of paper. Norman armed sweat out of his eyes and waited for Lana to finish her confab with Gert and come down to the toilet. On the other side of the grove, in the picnic area, desserts were now being finished up, and when they were gone, the trickle of women coming down here to use the bathroom would become a flood. If his luck didn’t change, and change soon, this could turn into a real mess.

“Come on, come on,” Norman muttered under his breath, and as if in answer, someone came out of the trees and started down the path. It was neither Gert nor Lana the Yogurt Pop lady, but it was someone else Norman recognized, just the same-one of the whores he’d seen in the garden on the day he’d reco

“Come around here,” he said, dragging her after him.

“Come on around here so I can talk to you. So I can talk to you up close.”

Gert Kinshaw was hurrying for the bathroom, almost ru

“Lana!” she called.

“Hey, Lana!” Lana came back up the path.

“I’m looking for Cathy Sparks,” she said.

“Have you seen her?” “sure, she’s throwing horseshoes,” Gert said, cocking a thumb back toward the picnic area. “saw her not two minutes ago.”

“Great!” Lana started in that direction at once. Gert cast one yearning glance at the comfort station, then fell in beside her. She guessed her bladder would hold a little longer.

“I thought maybe she’d had one of her panic attacks and just fired on out of here,” Lana was saying.

“You know how she gets.”

“Uh-huh.” Gert handed Lana the fax photo just before they reentered the trees. Lana studied it curiously. It was her first look at Norman, because she wasn’t a D amp; S resident. She was a psychiatric social worker who lived in Crescent Heights with her pleasant, non-abusive husband and her three pleasant, non-dysfunctional kids.

“Who’s this?” Lana asked. Before Gert could answer, Cynthia Smith walked by. As always, even under these circumstances, her weird hair made Gert grin.

“Hi, Gert, love your shirt!” Cynthia said smartly. This was not a compliment but just something the girl said, a little Cynthia-ism.

“Thanks. I like your shorts. But I bet if you really tried, you could find a pair that let even more of your cheeks hang out.”

“Hey, tell me about it,” Cynthia said, and went on her way with her small but undeniably cute fa

“Imagine him without the hair.” Lana did better than that; she covered the photo from the hairline up. Then she studied it more closely than ever, her lips moving, as if she were reading it rather than looking at it. When she looked up at Gert again, her face was both puzzled and concerned.

“I gave a Yogurt Pop to a guy this morning,” she began hesitantly.

“He was wearing sunglasses, but-”

“He was in a wheelchair,” Gert said, and although she knew this was where the work really began, she felt a great weight slip off her shoulders, just the same. It was better to know than not to know. Better to be sure.

“Yes. Is he dangerous? He is, isn’t he? I’m here with a couple of women who’ve been through a great deal of trauma in the last few years. They’re pretty delicate. Is there going to be trouble, Gert? I’m asking for them, not me.” Gert thought it over carefully before saying, “I think everything’s going to be all right. I think the scary part’s almost over.”

Norman tore off Cynthia’s sleeveless blouse, baring her teacup-sized breasts. He damped one hand over her mouth, simultaneously pi