After the Fog by Shoop Kathleen

Author:Shoop, Kathleen [Shoop, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-04-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Thursday, October 28th, 1948

Rose sat up in bed and reached across expecting to feel Henry’s vacated spot. But her hand whacked warm flesh. She flopped back onto the pillow and flung her arm across her forehead as she tried to piece together the events of the last few days.

Not only wasn’t Henry on the night shift, but he had no shift to work at all. She swung her feet off the bed and sat on the edge wiggling her toes. She hoped the movement might jar her empty memory and get her blood working its way back through her body. She looked toward the mirror on the wall and patted her matted hair. Her pale, sunken face disapproved of the night before.

Drunk as a skunk came to mind as she recalled the previous night, but not many details. Mostly she was struck by a heavy sense of regret. Henry stirred and rolled toward her, rubbed her lower back, massaging her tailbone. The spot that always seemed to ache.

“John came in early this morning. You were dead asleep,” Henry grumbled. “Said he did speak to the Notre Dame scout.”

Rose felt the weight on the bed shift and heard Henry flick open his Zippo lighter, inhaling fresh smoke. She glanced at him, remembering Johnny had gone to drop off some booze for the scout as a little “welcome to Donora,” gesture.

He drew on the cigarette with one hand; his other hand cradled a yellow piece of paper, his poetry no doubt.

Rose tossed the clock onto the bed. “What’s with this damn John business? His name is Johnny, end of story.” She strained to hear the morning noises but didn’t hear much. She was normally the conductor of such morning noises, but the smell of coffee was clear and present.

“Ahh, the boy’s growing up is all,” said Henry. “Call him John once or twice and it will be over.”

“What was his answer? He’s coming?”

Henry pulled Rose onto her back and looked down into her eyes. “The scout?” he said. “Of course.”

Rose did not have time for fooling around, hugging or anything of the sort. She squirmed away and went to her washbasin. The water was polluted, tinged grey from multiple uses and made her pause before dousing her rag in it.

“So Johnny’s coming around, eh? I knew he would. He’s a good boy, did what I said, everyone’s happy.”

Henry looked away.

Rose shrugged, took her Camay bar and headed to the bathroom annoyed that no little night-time fairy entered her room and changed the water in her wash basin. Or a maid, a girl as Mrs. Sebastian had called her. Rose had been so worried that her first baby might have been raised in squalor by some childless woman who wanted slave labor—a little girl to do what she didn’t feel like. Rose should be grateful Theresa grew up wealthy. Yet, something was wrong with the picture of Theresa’s life. Something didn’t fit.

In the bathroom she smacked the roof of her mouth again with her tongue, then threw water right from the faucet into her mouth.

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