“Yeah, probably threw it in the trash,” Cynthia said.
“I was just a kid. But your picture reminds me of it, Rosie.” Pam peered at it closely.
“Yep,” she said, “no wonder. I can see the woman breathing.” They all laughed then, and Rosie laughed with them.
“No, it’s not that,” Cynthia said.
“It’s just… it looks a little old-fashioned, you know… like a schoolroom picture… and it’s pale. Except for the clouds and her dress, the colors are pale. In my De Soto picture everything was pale except for the river. The river was bright silver. It looked more there than the rest of the picture.” Gert turned to Rosie.
“Tell us about your job. I heard you say you got a job.”
“Tell us everything,” Pam said.
“Yes,” Anna said.
“Tell us everything, and then I wonder if you could step into my office for a few minutes.”
“Is it… is it what I’ve been waiting for?” Anna smiled.
“As a matter of fact, I think it is.”
“It’s an optimum room, one of the best on our list, and I hope you’ll be as delighted as I am,” Anna said. There was a stack of fliers perched precariously on the corner of her desk, announcing the forthcoming Daughters and Sisters Swing into Summer Picnic and Concert, an event which was part fundraiser, part community relations, and part celebration. Anna took one, turned it over, and sketched quickly.
“Kitchen here, hide-a-bed here, and a little living-room area here. This is the bathroom. It’s hardly big enough to turn around in, and in order to sit on the commode you’ll practically have to put your feet in the shower, but it’s yours.”
“Yes,” Rosie murmured.
“Mine.” A feeling that she hadn’t had in weeks-that all this was a wonderful dream and at any moment she would wake up beside Norman again-was creeping over her.
“The view is nice-it’s not Lake Drive, of course, but Bryant Park is very pretty, especially in the summer. Second floor. The neighborhood got a little ragged in the eighties, but it’s pulling itself together again now.”
“It’s as if you’ve stayed there yourself,” Rosie said. Anna shrugged-a slender, pretty gesture-and drew the hall in front of the room, then a flight of stairs. She sketched with the no-frills economy of a draftsman. She spoke without looking up.
“I’ve been there on a good many occasions,” she said, “but of course that’s not what you mean, is it?”
“No.”
“A little of me goes out with every woman when she leaves. I suppose that sounds corny, but I don’t care. It’s true, and that’s all that really matters. So what do you think?” Rosie hugged her impulsively, and instantly regretted it when she felt Anna stiffen. I shouldn’t have done it, she thought as she let go. I knew better. And she had. Anna Stevenson was kind, there was no doubt about that in Rosie’s mind-maybe even saintly-but there was that strange arrogance, and there was this, too: Anna didn’t like people in her space. Anna especially didn’t like to be touched.
“I’m sorry,” she said, drawing back. “don’t be silly,” Anna said brusquely.
“What do you think?”
“I love it,” Rosie said. Anna smiled and the small awkwardness was behind them. She drew an X on the wall of the living-room area, near a tiny rectangle which represented the room’s only window.
“Your new picture… I’ll bet you decide it belongs right here.”
“I’ll bet I do, too.” Anna put the pencil down.
“I’m delighted to be able to help you, Rosie, and I’m so glad you came to us. Here, you’re leaking.” It was the Kleenex again, but Rosie doubted it was the same box Anna had offered her during their first interview in this room; she had an idea that a lot of Kleenex got used in here. She took one and wiped her eyes.
“You saved my life, you know,” she said hoarsely.
“You saved my life and I’ll never, ever forget it.”
“Flattering but inaccurate,” Anna said in her dry, calm voice.
“I saved your life no more than Cynthia flipped Gert downstairs in the rec room. You saved your own life when you took a chance and walked out on the man who was hurting you.”
“Just the same, thank you. Just for being here.”
“You’re very welcome,” Anna said, and for the only time during her stay at D amp; S, Rosie saw tears standing in Anna Stevenson’s eyes. She handed the box of Kleenex back across the desk with a little smile.
“Here,” she said.
“Looks like you’ve sprung a leak yourself Anna laughed, took a Kleenex, used it, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
“I hate to cry. It’s my deepest, darkest secret. Every now and then I think I’m done with it, that I must be done with it, and then I do it again. It’s sort of the way I feel about men.” For another brief moment, Rosie found herself thinking about Bill Steiner and his hazel eyes. Anna took the pencil again and scratched something below the rough floor-plan she’d drawn. Then she handed the sheet to Rosie. It was an address she’d jotted down: 897 Trenton Street.
“That’s where you live,” Anna said.
“It’s most of the way across the city from here, but you can use the buses now, can’t you?” Smiling-and still crying a little-Rosie nodded.
“You may give that address to some of the friends you’ve made here, and eventually to friends you make beyond here, but right now nobody knows but the two of us.” What she was saying felt like a set-piece to Rosie-a goodbye speech.
“People who show up at your place will not have found out how to get there at this place. It’s just how we do things at D and S. After twenty years of working with abused women, I’m convinced it’s the only way to do things.” Pam had explained all this to Rosie; so had Consuelo Delgado and Robin St James. These explanations had taken place during Big Fun Hour, which was what the residents called evening chores at D amp; S, but Rosie hadn’t really needed them; it only took three or four therapy sessions in the front room for a person of reasonable intelligence to learn most cf what she needed to know about the protocols of the house. There was Anna’s List, and there were also Anna’s Rules.
“How worried are you about him?” Anna asked. Rosie’s attention had wandered a little; now it snapped back in a hurry. At first she wasn’t even sure who Anna was talking about.
“Your husband-how worried are you? I know that in your first two or three weeks here, you expressed fears that he would come after you… that he’d “track you down,” in your words. How do you feel about that now?” Rosie considered the question carefully. First of all, fear was an inadequate word to express her feelings about Norman during her first week or two at D amp; S; even terror didn’t completely serve, because the core of her feelings concerning him were lapped about-and to some degree altered-by other emotions: shame at having failed in her marriage, homesickness for a few possessions she had cared deeply about (Pooh’s Chair, for instance), a sensation of euphoric freedom which seemed to renew itself at some point each day, and a relief so cold it was somehow horrible; the sort of relief a wire-walker might feel after tottering at the furthest edge of balance while crossing a deep canyon… and then recovering. Fear had been the keychord, though; there was no doubt about that. During those first two weeks at D amp; S she’d had the same dream over and over: she was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the porch when a brand-new red Sentra pulled up to the curb in front. The driver’s door opened and Norman got out. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with a map of South Vietnam on it. Sometimes the words beneath the map said HOME IS WHERE THE HEART is; sometimes they said HOMELESS amp; HAVE AIDS. His pants were splattered with blood. Tiny bones-finger-bones, they looked like-dangled from his earlobes. In one hand he held some sort of mask which was splattered with blood and dark clots of meat. She tried to get up from the chair she was in and couldn’t; it was as if she were paralyzed. She could only sit and watch him come slowly up the walk toward her with his bone earrings bobbing. Could only sit there as he told her he wanted to talk to her up close. He smiled and she saw his teeth were also covered with blood.