Skyview Mall was open. The hairdresser to whom she was assigned understood what Rosie wanted, but protested briefly.
“It looks so pretty this way!” she said.
“Yes, I guess it does,” Rosie replied, “but I hate it anyway.” So the beautician did her thing, and the surprised protests she expected from Bill when she saw him that evening did not come.
“Your hair’s shorter, but otherwise you look the way you did when you first came into the shop,” he said.
“I think I like that.” She hugged him.
“Good.”
“Want Chinese for supper?”
“Only if you promise to stay over again.”
“All promises should be so easy to keep,” he said, smiling.
Monday’s headline: ROGUE cop SPOTTED IN WISCONSIN Tuesday’s headline: POLICE MUM ON KILLER COP DANIELS Wednesday’s headline: ANNA STEVENSON CREMATED; 2,000 IN SILENT MEMORIAL MARCH Thursday’s headline: DANIELS MAY BE DEAD BY OWN HAND, INSIDERS SPECULATE On Friday, Norman moved to page two. By the following Friday, he was gone.
Shortly after July 4th, Robbie Lefferts put Rosie to work reading a novel about as far from the works of
“Richard Racine” as it was possible to get: A Thousand Acres, by Jane Smiley. It was the story of an Iowa farm family, except that wasn’t what it really was; Rosie had been costume designer in the high-school drama society for three years, and although she had never trod a single step in front of the footlights, she still recognized Shakespeare’s mad king when she encountered him. Smiley had put Lear in biballs, but crazy is still crazy. She had also turned him into a creature that reminded Rosie fearfully of Norman. On the day she finished the book ('Your best job so far,” Rhoda told her, “and one of the best readings I’ve ever heard'), Rosie went back to her room and took the old frameless oil painting out of the closet where it had been ever since the night of Norman’s… well, disappearance. It was the first time she had looked at it since that night. What she saw didn’t surprise her that much. It was daylight in the picture again. The hillside was the same, overgrown and rather ragged, and the temple down below was the same (or about the same; Rosie had a sense that the temple’s queerly skewed perspective had somehow changed, become normal), and the women were still gone. Rosie had an idea that Dorcas had taken the madwoman to see her baby one last time… and then Rose Madder would be going on alone, to whatever place creatures like her went when the hour of their deaths had at last rolled around. She took the picture down the hall to the incinerator chute, holding it carefully by the sides as she had held it before-holding it as if she feared her hand would slide right through into that other world, if she should be careless. In truth, she did fear something like that. At the incinerator shaft she paused again, looking fixedly one last time at the picture which had called to her from its dusty pawnshop shelf, called with a tongueless, imperative voice that could have belonged to Rose Madder herself. And probably did, Rosie thought. She lifted one hand toward the door of the incinerator chute, then paused, her eye caught by something she’d missed before: two shapes in the tall grass a little way down the hill. She ran a finger lightly over the painted surface of those shapes, frowning, trying to think what they might be. After a few moments it came to her. The little blob of clover-pink was her sweater. The black blob beside it was the jacket Bill had loaned her for the motorcycle ride out Route 27 that day. She didn’t care about the sweater, it was just a cheap Orion thing, but she was sorry about the jacket. It wasn’t new, but there had been good years left in it, just the same. Besides, she liked to return the things people loaned her. She had even used Norman’s bank card just that once. She looked at the painting, then sighed. No sense keeping it; she would be leaving the little room Anna had found for her soon, and she had no intention of dragging any more of the past with her than necessary. She supposed she was stuck with the part of it that was lodged in her head like bullet-fragments, but-Remember the tree, Rosie, a voice said, and this time it sounded like Anna’s voice-Anna who had helped her when she had needed help, when she’d had no one else to turn to, Anna for whom she hadn’t been able to mourn as she’d wanted to… although she had cried rivers for sweet Pam, with her pretty blue eyes always trained for “someone interesting.” Yet now she felt a sting of sorrow that made her lips quiver and her nose prickle.
“Anna, I’m sorry,” she said. Never mind. That voice, dry and slightly arrogant. You didn’t make me, you didn’t make Norman, and you don’t have to accept responsibility for either of us. You’re Rosie McClendon, not Typhoid Mary, and you’d do well to remember that when storms of melodrama threaten to engulf you. But you have to remember-“No, I don’t,” she said, and slammed the painting together on itself, like someone closing a book with authority. The old wood upon which the canvas had been stretched snapped. The canvas itself did not so much tear as explode into strips which hung like rags. The paint on these rags was dim and meaningless.
“No, I don’t. Not anything, if I don’t want to, and I don’t: Those who forget the past-”Fuck the past!” Rosie cried. I repay, a voice answered. It whispered; it cajoled. It warned.
“I don’t hear you,” Rose said. She pulled the flap of the incinerator open, felt warmth, smelled soot.
“I don’t hear you, I’m not listening, it’s over.” She shoved the torn and folded picture through the door, mailing it like a letter intended for someone in hell, then stood on tiptoe to watch it fall toward the flames far below.
Epilogue. THE FOX-WOMAN
In October, Bill takes her out to the Shoreland picnic area again. This time they go in his car; it’s a pretty fall day, but too chilly for the motorcycle. Once they’re there, with a picnic spread before them and the woods around them flaming with fall color, he asks her what she has known for some time that he means to ask her.
“Yes,” she says.
“As soon as the decree comes through.” He hugs her, kisses her, and as she tightens her arms around his neck and closes her eyes, she hears the voice of Rose Madder deep in her head: AH accounts now balance… and if you remember the tree, it will never matter, anyway. What tree, though? Tree of Life? Tree of Death? Tree of Knowledge? Tree of Good and Evil? Rosie shudders and hugs her husband-to-be even tighter, and when he cups her left breast in his hand, he marvels at the feel of her heart pounding away so rapidly beneath it. What tree?
They’re married in a civil ceremony which takes place midway between Thanksgiving and Christmas, ten days after Rosie’s decree of non-responsive divorce from Norman Daniels becomes final. On her first night as Rosie Steiner, she wakes to her husband’s screams.
“I can’t look at her!” he screams in his sleep. “she doesn’t care who she kills! She doesn’t care who she kills! Oh please, can’t you make him stop SCREAMING?” And then, in a lower voice, trailing off:
“What’s in your mouth? What are those threads?” They are in a New York hotel, staying over on their way to St Thomas, where they will honeymoon for two weeks, but although she left the little blue packet behind, still at the bottom of the bag she carried with her out of Egypt, she has brought the ceramic bottle. Some instinct-woman’s intuition will do as well as any other name in this case, she reckons-has told her to. She has used it on two other occasions following nightmares like this one, and the next morning, while Bill is shaving, she tips the last drop into his coffee. It’ll have to do, she thinks later as she tosses the tiny bottle into the toilet and flushes it down. And if it doesn’t, it’ll have to do, anyway. The honeymoon is perfect-lots of sun, lots of good sex, and no bad dreams for either of them.
In January, on a day when billows of wind-driven snow come driving across the plains and over the city, Rosie Steiner’s home pregnancy kit tells her what she already knows, that she is going to have a baby. She knows something more, something the kit can’t tell her: it will be a girl. Caroline is finally coming. All accounts balance, she thinks in a voice not her own as she stands at the window of their new apartment, looking out at the snow. It reminds her of the fog that night in Bryant Park, when they came home to discover Norman waiting. Yeah, yeah, yeah, she thinks, almost bored with this idea by now; it comes almost with the frequency of a nagging tune that won’t quite leave your head. They balance as long as I remember the tree, right? No, the madwoman replies, in a voice so deadly clear that Rosie whirls on her heels, heart thudding sickly all the way up in the middle of her forehead, momentarily convinced that Rose Madder is in this room with her. But although the voice is still there, the room is empty. No… as long as you keep your temper. As long as you can do that. But both things come to the same, don’t they?
“Get out,” she tells the empty room, and her hoarse voice trembles.
“Get out, you bitch. Stay away from me. Stay out of my life.”
Her baby girl weighs in at eight pounds, nine ounces. And although Caroline is and always will be her secret name, the one that goes on the birth certificate is Pamela Gertrude. At first Rosie objects, saying that, with their last name added to the second, the child’s name becomes a kind of literary pun. She holds out, with no great enthusiasm, for Pamela Anna.
“Oh, please,” Bill says, “that sounds like a fruit dessert in a snooty California restaurant.”
“But-”
“And don’t worry about Pamela Gertrude. First of all, she’s never going to let even her best friend know that her middle name is Gert. You can count on it. And second, the writer you’re talking about is the one who said a rose is a rose is a rose. I can’t think of a better reason to stick with a name.” So they do.
Not long before Pammy turns two, her parents decide to buy a home in the suburbs. By then they can well afford it; both have prospered in their jobs. They begin with stacks of brochures, and slowly winnow them down to a dozen possibles, then six, then four, then two. And this is where they run into trouble. Rose wants one; Bill prefers the other. Discussion becomes debate as their positions polarize, and debate escalates into argument-unfortunate, but hardly unheard-of; even the sweetest and most harmonious marriage is not immune from a tiff every now and then… or the occasional shouting-match, for that matter. At the end of this one, Rosie stalks out into the kitchen and begins to put supper together, first sticking a chicken in the oven and then putting water on for the corn on the cob she has picked up fresh at a roadside stand. A little while later, while she is scrubbing a couple of potatoes at the counter beside the stove, Bill comes out of the living room, where he has been looking at photographs of the two houses which have caused this unaccustomed (dissension between them… except what he has really been doing is brooding over the argument. She does not turn at his approaching step as she usually does, nor does she when he bends and kisses the nape of her neck.
