“That’s their job. They examine every feather in the pillows, every book, magazine, picture, mattress, letter—”
“I get it. You wouldn’t have any objection if I went and took a look around myself, though?”
“None at all. Just square yourself with Mrs. Cushman. It’s her house, and if she doesn’t want to let you in, no one can force her to.”
Force was not necessary. Mrs. Cushman was flabber-gasted by the appearance, in the flesh, of one of Rose’s husbands. Until the moment when Dalloway introduced himself at the front door, Mrs. Cushman had viewed Rose’s husbands as legendary creatures who might or might not have really existed.
“My land, I’ve heard Rose mention the name Haley Dalloway a hundred times.” Mrs. Cushman’s tone implied that each of the hundred mentions had been flattering; nothing could have been further from the truth.
“It’s nice to know that Rose didn’t forget me,” Dalloway said dryly.
“Oh dear, no, she didn’t forget you, I should say not. She often said—” Mrs. Cushman paused, trying desperately to invent something pleasant that Rose might have said, but the task was beyond her. “She spoke of you frequently. She was a great talker, Rose was. But look who’s telling who. I bet she talked your arm off.”
It was at this point that she noticed that Dalloway’s arm was indeed talked off, or at any rate missing.
Dalloway touched his artificial arm, casually. “Rose didn’t talk it off, she merely tried.”
“I didn’t mean... I—”
“Please don’t be embarrassed. I’m not.”
“It was real tactless of me. That’s what my late husband used to say, that every time I opened my mouth I put my foot in it.”
To avoid further marital reminiscences, Dalloway told her why he had come, and Mrs. Cushman led him upstairs explaining, as she paused on the landing, that she hadn’t had the spirit to clean Rose’s room and it was very likely a mess.
It was. The bed, the bureau, the chairs were strewn with old magazines, dresses, stockings, underwear, letters, sachets, empty containers of makeup, a discarded light bulb, an apple, and a flattened and distorted red rose that looked as though it had been recently pressed between the pages of a book.
Dalloway glanced around the room, frowning. It was a crude ending for a sentimental journey.
“A real mess,” Mrs. Cushman said with considerable satisfaction. Cleaning up a real mess was more enjoyable than cleaning up a half mess, since the results were more startling.
“I thought Rose had given up this room,” Dalloway said.
“She did.”
“It seems odd that she’d leave so much stuff behind, especially clothing. I understood she was broke.”
“Couldn’t be broker. She was always behind in her rent. Impractical, Rose was — not wishing to speak ill of the dead, but that’s the honest truth.”
“When did she decide to leave? Did she give you any notice?”
“Not a minute’s notice. Monday at lunchtime she comes in, hands me the money she owed me, and says she’s leaving to take a job out of town. Inside of twenty minutes she was gone, taking just that one suitcase with her best clothes in it. Gone like that.” Mrs. Cushman snapped her fingers. “Of course I knew she was up to something because of the maps.”
“What maps? I don’t see any.”
“She must of took them with her. She had a lot of maps that she’d marked things on with a pencil.”
“Things such as?”
“I didn’t pay too close attention, but I remember one where she’d written some people’s names on the top and some dates beside the names.”
“Can you recall any of them?”
“Phil was one. And Baker, I remember that because it was my maiden name. Now let me think a minute, don’t rush me.”
Dalloway went over to the bureau and picked up the pressed rose while Mrs. Cushman thought a minute.
“Paul. That’s another,” she said finally. “And Byron. Or Bernard, was it? Yes, it was Bernard.”
“Any women’s names?”
“I can’t recall any, but I think there was. Yes, I’m sure there was. Millie or Minnie, something like that.”
“And a date beside each name?”
“Yes.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I just figured she was making up a birthday list and didn’t have anything else to write on. Isn’t that reasonable?”
“It might be, if Rose had developed into the type of person who remembered anyone else’s birthday.”
“Rose could be very thoughtful at times,” Mrs. Cushman said cautiously. “She gave me a nice Christmas present last year, five pounds of caramels. I thought that was real nice of her, considering she couldn’t chew caramels herself on account of her dentures. For instance she could have given me peppermint patties and eaten half of them herself. Or maraschino cherries.”
Dalloway began to circle the room, looking at everything but not touching anything except the pressed flower he had taken off the bureau. His feelings about Rose were stronger here in this room than they had been at the funeral. He was depressed by the sordid litter of stuff she had left behind her, and impatient at Rose herself. How like her to make a birthday list on a map (and that’s all it was, probably) and then go off and die in somebody’s garden. She had no sense of propriety, never had had any.
“Maybe you’d like to be alone with her memory for a while?” Mrs. Cushman suggested.
“No,” Dalloway said. “No, thanks. I came here actually with the idea of finding something worthwhile to give my daughter, Lora, as a keepsake of her mother.”
“Her mother?”
“That’s right.”
“Why, Rose never breathed a word—”
“She had a very faulty memory about some things.”
“Well, my land, I just can’t feature Rose as a mother.”
“Neither could she.” Dalloway smiled, trying to conceal his hot rush of anger. It was as powerful now as it had been thirty-two years ago, the day Rose had left him.
“Fancy Rose having a daughter and never breathing a word about it, not even when she was hitting the bottle. It’s just a miracle, Rose being the blabber she was — not wishing to speak ill of the dead.” Mrs. Cushman put her head to one side and glanced around the room like a plump, inquisitive robin. “There must be something here you could take home to the little one.”
“Lora is over thirty.”
“She is? Why, yes, I guess she must be. It’s too bad Rose took all her pictures with her.”
“Pictures of what?”
“Herself. She had the walls covered with them. I’m not so sure it was plain vanity either. She used to be very critical of them. Look at that silly pan, she’d say, or, look at that stupid expression.” Mrs. Cushman wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “We had many a good laugh together over those pictures, I can tell you. Nobody could be funnier than Rose when she was in a good mood. But I guess you know that.”
“Yes.” Nobody could be funnier, and nobody could be sadder.
“Which most of the time she was — in a good mood, I mean. Not lately, though. Lately she’s been real touchy, fly off the handle at anything. I often heard her talking to herself, too, talk, talk, talk, like she was ordering people around. Except there weren’t any people around. I asked her about it one day and she said she was just rehearsing because she expected a big part in a movie any day. Same old story, I heard it a million times. She couldn’t get it through her head that she was finished.”
“What finished her?”
“She finished herself. Too many good times and parties, they ruined her looks and her health. Rose dearly loved a party.”
“I know.”
“My, she must have been a lively one when she was young. I bet she led you a merry chase.”