“Hello, Bert,” she said.
“Hello, Rosie,” I said, surprised. “What’re you doing out here in the rain?”
“Nancy asked me to stop by, but she doesn’t seem to be home.”
“Well, come on up,” I said. “No sense getting wet.”
“I would welcome a hot cup of tea,” Rosie said.
“Sure, come on up.”
We climbed the steps to the second floor in silence. There was the aroma of mustiness in the hallway, the steady sound of rain drumming on the roof, the angrier splash of the waterspout in the areaway. From the flat downstairs, I could hear the eldest of the Grzymek children practicing scales on the parlor piano, a dreary accompaniment to the rain. There was no light on our landing, save for the natural illumination from the airshaft window at the top of the stairs. I moved closer to the window, searching through my keys for the one to the front door, and then turned and felt for the keyhole. Rosie stood silently beside me. When I opened the door, she went into the kitchen and walked directly to the stove.
“Damn rain,” she said.
“I’ll bank the fire and put up a kettle.”
“I’d prefer a drink if you’ve got anything.”
“I think so.”
She did not take off her cape. She stood huddled near the stove while I shoveled coal into it, and then she reached into her bag for a package of Sweet Caps, shook one loose, lighted it, and blew out a long stream of smoke, almost as if it were a visible sigh.
“You should get a telephone,” she said. “For situations like this.”
“Can’t afford one. Especially now.”
“How’s it going, Bert?”
“Nothing so far.”
“You’ll find something.”
“Unless everybody already knows I’m a Communist.”
“You shouldn’t say that. Not even in jest.”
“Who’s jesting?” I said.
“Bert,” Rosie said, and then stopped. I turned from the cabinet near the stove, where I was rummaging through the bottles, but she only shook her head and puffed again on the cigarette.
“Looks like all I’ve got is some Rock and Rye a fellow at the mill made.”
“Fine,” she said.
“It’s sort of sweet.”
“I only need it to take off the chill.”
“Wait, here’s some scotch.”
The bottle was almost empty, the last of the wedding reception whiskey Nancy and I had brought from Eau Fraiche. I poured a little into the glasses and carried them to where Rosie was standing near the stove.
“To your finding work soon,” she said, raising her glass.
“Amen,” I said, and drank with her.
“Bert,” she said, and again shook her head, and puffed on her cigarette, and then lifted the stove lid and dropped the butt onto the coals. She walked to the table, put her glass down, turned to me, folded her arms across the cape, and said, “Bert, Nancy won’t be back until two o’clock.”
“What do you mean?”
“We arranged this between us.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to talk to you.”
“Is this going to be about Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t Allen come himself?”
“Because he doesn’t know anything about your fancied grievance.”
“Oh, is it fancied?”
“Yes.”
“Rosie,” I said, “I’ve been out of work for close to three weeks. I’ve got thirty-two dollars in the bank, and the rent’s about due, and that isn’t fancied.”
“Your grievance is.”
“I lost my job.”
“Allen had nothing to do with that.”
“Didn’t he? Then why hasn’t he come around?”
“Because he’s... no, I won’t tell you. It’ll only convince you you’re right.”
“What is it?”
Rosie shook her head.
“Well,” I said, “my feet are wet, so if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to change my socks and put on some slippers.”
“No!” she said sharply. “I told Nancy we’d have this settled by two, and damn it, we will!” She reached into her bag for another cigarette, struck two matches before she managed to get it going, and then glared at me angrily, as if I’d been responsible for her inability to light it.
“As for Nancy,” I said, “I never thought she’d be a party...”
“That’s right, start imagining things against your own wife, too.”
“No one asked her to start meddling in...”
“I did. Allen had nothing to do with your getting fired.”
“Then why hasn’t he been around to inquire about the state of my health? You still haven’t answered that one, Rosie.”
“He’s been busy.”
“Ahhhh. Poor fellow. I’ve been busy, too.”
“He got a promotion. He’s been trying to learn...”
“Marvelous!” I said. “What was it? A reward for turning in the anarchist?”
“That isn’t fair, Bert!”
“No? What’s fair? I’ll be begging in the streets if I don’t find a job soon. What’s fair, Rosie, you tell me!”
“Oh, give me another drink,” she said.
“The scotch’s gone.”
“Then give me some of that crappy Rock and Rye. You really get my goat, Bert, I’ve got to tell you.”
I walked back to the cabinet, found the bottle of homemade stuff, and carried it to the table. Rosie handed me her glass. I rinsed it out at the sink and then went back to where I’d left the bottle. The only sound in the kitchen was the ticking of the big clock on the shelf over the drainboard. The rock crystals banged against the side of the bottle as I poured.
“Thank you,” Rosie said. She raised her glass. “When shall I bring Allen?”
“Never,” I said.
“Bert...”
“Your husband is a liar and a rat. I don’t care if I never see him again as long as I live.”
“You stink,” she said, and drank. “Flffff,” she said, pulling a face. “This stinks, too.”
“Rosie,” I said, “why don’t you just go home?”
“I think I will,” she answered. She carried the glass to the sink and poured the Rock and Rye down the drain. Then she rinsed out the glass again, and put it on the drainboard. She checked her rouge in the mirror over the sink, touching one corner of her mouth with an extended forefinger, then turned and walked swiftly to the door. At the door, she said, “This isn’t the end, Bert,” and walked out.
Since I was not starring in a motion picture about virtue or courage rewarded, and since the age of miracles was otherwise dead, I did not hear from Mr. McInerny by the end of the week, nor did I get the job at Dill-Holderness. Instead, I drew twenty-six dollars from the bank to pay the landlord when he came around for the rent, and then I wired my brother-in-law Oscar in Arizona, asking him for a loan of a hundred dollars to tide me over until I could find a job. He sent the money by return wire. The telegraph operator asked me, “Are you Bertram A. Tyler?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Sender requires that you answer a question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wants you to answer this question before I turn the money over to you.”
“Oh. Sure. What’s the question?”
“Name his tribe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Name the sender’s tribe.”
“Oh... uh... Apache. No, wait, it’s... that’s right, Apache.”
“That’s right, Apache,” the operator said.
June
Darling Wat,