After the Fog

  Henry sauntered across the floor and extended his hand to the elder of the two as though they were meeting at a charity ball instead of in his kitchen, with him barefooted and barely awake.

  “Mrs. Sebastian.”

  Her handshake felt like a dead fish. Henry pulled away noting his black nails, wishing he was cleaner.

  “We were just leaving.”

  “I know Rose would want you to have some tea. Rose…was she expecting you?” Henry looked around the kitchen and scratched the back of his neck.

  “Why, no.”

  Henry suddenly saw the kitchen through the eyes of a stranger, the mayonnaise on the countertop, chicken scraps littered on the stovetop. Mrs. Sebastian lifted and replaced her blue-shoed foot on and off the floor like a ticking clock, seemingly mesmerized by the sticking sound that emanated each time she did.

  Henry bit the inside of his cheek when he realized the smartest thing was to let the woman leave before she looked any closer at the mess. “I’ll let Rose know you came by.”

  Mrs. Sebastian nodded and surveyed every inch of the kitchen as she headed toward the doorway. The younger girl had wandered into the hall and when Henry got there she was moving down the hall, one step at a time, smiling at all the pictures on the wall. She stopped at one of Rose, Henry, Magdalena, and Johnny. With a spindly forefinger she touched Rose’s image, tracing her hair as though she could feel the real thing, as though she were being absorbed into the photo.

  Henry opened the door and Mrs. Sebastian ushered her daughter away from the pictures. Theresa shuffled along, looking over her shoulder. Henry caught a final condescending scowl from Mrs. Sebastian and couldn’t stop himself from tapping her on the shoulder. She turned to face him.

  “My wife,” Henry stuttered. “Nurse Pavlesic. She’s the best at what she does. There’s not another nurse like her in the world. I promise you that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s my question.” Mrs. Sebastian disappeared out the door.

  Henry realized how bad all of this was for Rose. For the clinic.

  Back in the kitchen, he tried to help clean up the mess. Sara Clara was not an apt homemaker. Henry felt the frustration that Rose must have experienced nearly every day. His sister-in-law came from a long, privileged line of southern belles and if it weren’t for getting pregnant by Buzzy and disowned by her family, Sara Clara never would have set foot past the North Carolina border let alone set up house in a steel town like Donora.

  Henry realized for the first time something that Rose had known all her life. It didn’t matter whether a woman’s home was constructed with thick burgundy bricks, grey-blue cement, pitted, wood planking or corrugated metal sheets. What mattered was that she damn sure treated it as though it rose up from fields of gold and had been carefully shingled in spare diamond brooches. If there was a surface in a home—it ought to sparkle.

  Dirt and disorganization was the bane of every woman’s life and the presence of it distorted truth and reality and well, there was simply no place for it, Henry saw right then.

  He knew Mrs. Sebastian would not hold the mess she witnessed against Henry or Sara Clara. It would be pinned on Rose like a badge of shame, marring the chance Mrs. Sebastian would support the clinic.

  Henry scrubbed at burnt chicken grease on the stove with his nail, rubbing so hard he thought his finger might bleed. He could not imagine life without Rose being a nurse. He’d had a glimpse into that world seventeen years before and it wasn’t a scene of grace. It was the worst few months of both their lives. It was then that Henry did what he did. And though he couldn’t take it back, he had done his best to never repeat it. He hoped that counted for something when the whole thing crumbled. He hoped it counted for something.

  * * *

  Rose saw ten more families that Tuesday. After she checked, taught, treated her patients, and delivered acts of kindness and compassion, she arrived back at 2 Murray Avenue with a pinching dread in her chest. What if she could not secure the funding? What would her patients do?

  Inside the house, sweltering dry heat blew past her as she went through the kitchen to the utility room. Rose assumed Sara Clara would be washing the clothes that she’d seen in her room that morning. Rose would clean her instruments upstairs instead. No point in fighting over the tubs after such an exhausting two days.

  She glanced back at the kitchen. The tower of dishes that had been in the sink early that morning was gone. The countertops were cluttered with rags and a row of coffee mugs. Still, at least something had been done while she was out working.

  She shed her coat, dropped it over a hook, sniffed under her arms and grimaced. A shower would come the minute she finished with her implements.

  Rose scrubbed her bottles and brushes with green soap until her forearms cramped. She replaced the depleted supplies she had on hand, wrote order slips for needed provisions and penned the narratives that depicted every aspect of her visits and the plans for future ones.

  These responsibilities were satisfying to Rose—a beginning and an end to them with a simple yes or no to whether she’d been successful at that part of her job. Though a niggling worry poked at Rose, she felt it would be impossible for Mrs. Sebastian to ignore the value of her work. She closed her notes and smoothed her hand over the leather cover. She needed to sleep and pray and get to confession. With those things in place she would be able to do her work to the standard she expected.

  She went back through the kitchen even more confident she had made Mrs. Sebastian’s purse rain like April. Henry and Buzzy sat drinking coffee. She poured herself a cup.

  “Say, boys. How about I make you a sandwich with your coffee and then you head over to the Lipinski’s.” She arranged thick ham and cheese onto white bread.

  “Fix the broken chair, get rid of the wine barrels, and make sure the McClatchy’s, down two houses from the Lipinski’s, have coal for their stove.”

  Henry scratched his stubbly chin and agreed to the work while Buzzy slurped on scorching hot coffee, scowling between sips.

  Rose snapped her fingers in front of his face. “If I’m going to watch your son all damn day, you’re gonna give me something in return, Buzzy Pavlesic.”

  Buzzy snapped back. “Leo’s here. Kid woke me two hours ago.”

  “He was with me most of the day. Just about ruined my quest for money from the superintendent’s wife. Not to mention your wife has yet to do her chores on time.” Rose hated to be critical of little Leo, but the words flowed. She rubbed her tired eyes and yawned.

  “You can bully your patients, Rosie,” Buzzy said, “but you’re not my boss. You’re not my nurse. Jesus Christ almighty, stop nagging. And, just so you know, I’m not the only one sick of your neb-nosing like you’re boss of everyone. Superintendent of Health, or some shit.”

  Rose ripped Buzzy’s coffee cup from his grip, swishing hot coffee onto her hands. “Dammit! Why don’t you just skidoo, Buzzy. And shut your trap while you’re at it.”

  Buzzy shrugged and slapped his palms onto the table. He pushed to standing. “Fine. This house is a shithole anyhow. No sense in hanging around when my family’s privacy is violated every minute of the day.”

  “Ummhmm.” Rose wiped her wet hands on her uniform.

  Henry stepped in front of Rose, blocking her view of Buzzy as he faded out of the room. Henry kissed Rose’s forehead. She pulled back, glaring.

  “Ignore the bastard. I do.”

  Rose nodded.

  He gripped Rose’s arms and squeezed. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What now?”

  “Mrs. Sebastian.” Henry drew and released a deep breath. “She stopped by earlier.”

  Rose wiggled out of Henry’s grip. Her heart contracted in fear. “She. Did. What?” The house was not ready for company when Sara Clara had the only hand in housekeeping.

  Rose covered her mouth. “Without calling first? This house? She was in this house?” Rose’s gaze shot around the kitchen, taking note of everything
that was out of its place.

  Henry took Rose’s hand from her mouth and held it against his chest. “She was here to make sure you weren’t leaving young children at home to take care of other people’s problems, not to inspect the state of our housekeeping.”

  Rose took her hand from Henry’s and balled her fists at her sides. That was exactly what the woman was doing there.

  “It’s all right, Kiddo,” Henry said. “She told Sara Clara she grew up in similar circumstances. Sara Clara explained the mess.” Henry dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

  Rose stepped back, looking around. “This isn’t pristine, what I’m looking at here, but it’s not a mess. Not like when I left this morning. Exactly when did Mrs. Sebastian show up here?”

  “Well, Sara Clara had prepared lunch for a lady friend she’d met shopping as well as Johnny’s gang, and well, you can picture…”

  Rose closed her eyes and dropped her head back, surrendering to the images that shot though her mind.

  “I’ll kill her. My God, I’m gonna kill her. It’ll be quick and clinical, minimal blood, but if I have to set eyes on her again, if she causes me to lose this money I don’t know what I’ll do. How many things will your brother and his wife ruin?”

  Rose looked at her shaking hands. She felt disconnected from what was normally her strength—managing the way the world saw her and her family. What was happening? She realized she’d skipped confession, and her rosary, even her prayers had been lackluster.

  Henry’s voice was washing over her, but she couldn’t hear the individual words. She needed to get a hold on her life again. And, that always started with her rosary. Her kitchen rosary. She needed to feel the weight of the wooden beads between her fingers. She ripped through a drawer in the hutch.

  “Rose. It’s fine. I think she understood.”

  Rose shook her head as she laced the beads over her wrist so she could finger the crucifix. It was the only thing that could help her now. She’d been told once that her lazy attention to Catholicism was the root of her deep pain and stupid decisions. She believed Sister John Ann when she had said it.

  Her fingers slipped over the beads, but her thoughts didn’t go to her prayers. She knew what Mrs. Sebastian would be thinking. That Rose belonged in her home, cleaning, keeping it the way she was telling all the women around town to keep their homes.

  Henry guided Rose to the table, put her in a chair and sat across from her.

  Rose ran her fingers over the beads. “Did you explain that Sara Clara couldn’t keep a house if God himself swept up the shit ahead of time? That household debris literally falls from Sara Clara’s body? Did you tell her your brother and his wife are like human colons, expelling shit at regular intervals throughout the day?”

  Henry leaned toward Rose, his forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m sure Mrs. Sebastian understood.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t.”

  Henry sat back in his chair. “People understand these things. Family.”

  “Not everyone.”

  Henry shrugged. “Give her a chance. She seemed nice enough. Her daughter was here, too. She said you were heading there tomorrow. To check out the daughter’s lungs or something.”

  If Mrs. Sebastian didn’t cancel Rose’s appointment with her daughter the next day, that was a good sign. Rose told herself everything would be okay. “She said that? At what point in the visit did she say I had a call at her home?”

  “When she was leaving.”

  “Leaving. Yes. All right.” Rose nodded. She put her hand to her chest and felt her heartbeat slow.

  “Listen Rose, tonight or tomorrow, we need to talk.”

  Rose forced a laugh. What else could there be? “Why not now? Might as well drop all the bombs the same day, right?”

  “Yeah, might as well.”

  Buzzy popped back into the kitchen. “Let’s beat it, brother Hen. We’ve got extra money to make.” Buzzy rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Rose, Mr. Masucci was looking for a couple fellas to take his painting overflow—houses on the north end of town are peeling like bananas in a monkey cage. Said he’d make it worth our while.” Buzzy rubbed his thumb over his fingers to show he was expecting money.

  Rose lifted her chin to Henry signaling that he might as well head out. The sooner Buzzy could repay them the better.

  “But, don’t forget the Lipinski family,” Rose said. Henry kissed both cheeks then her lips before leaving. She touched her lips where his had just been. She couldn’t stand Buzzy always whiny and worrisome. If not for Leo, she might cut her losses and tell Buzzy and Sara Clara to hightail it the hell out of town.

  As the two men left the house Rose could still hear Buzzy’s voice cut through her. Saying he was too exhausted, he didn’t have the time to help others, on and on. Buzzy never failed to make her wish he could feel how lucky he was, to just once really lose something that couldn’t be replaced, just one thing, just once.

  * * *

  No point in waiting around wishing. Rose kissed her rosary and put it back in her drawer. She cleansed her hands and arms and began to prepare roast beef, green beans and mashed potatoes for dinner. Once the roast was bedded down in the oven, she baked a chocolate cake, put on another pot of coffee, and did two shots of vodka.

  Rose then gathered the laundry that Sara Clara hadn’t done and traipsed down into the cellar. Where was Sara Clara? Rose fumed at the sight of wet clothing, hanging over the washtubs, dripping as though recently abandoned.

  Rose’s stomach clutched when she saw a scribbled note, in Sara Clara’s handwriting clipped to the clothesline that draped from one rotting beam to the other. Rose snatched the paper and slogged to the far corner of the cellar, yanked the string where a second bare bulb lit up.

  Dear Rosie,

  I started a load of laundry during my lunch break. (I fed John and the fellas from the school and they were shootin’ mad you weren’t there to prepare their meal) and as you can see, something was in the load that turned everything in it grey. I decided rather than ruin it more, to leave it for you, so you could cool down before I get home for dinner and you string me up by my toes. I am sorry, Rosie. You may take the funds to cover the towels from my strike-can. I’ve hidden it under the sink, behind the rat poison as all the women in Donora do. I have become one of you.”

  Truthfully frightened at the thought of your pending response to this news,

  Sara Clara

  I’ll show her shootin’ mad, Rose thought.

  “Sara Clara!” Rose bellowed.

  No answer. Rose knew her voice would carry through the heat registers, that Sara Clara could hear her. Rose waited for the sound of Sara Clara’s feet rushing down the steps, to really apologize for this. She’d had enough.

  Rose tried to remind herself that she was lucky to have a family. Not this family kept flashing through her mind. Henry, yes. The kids, yes. The rest of them? They were quickly ushering her to a shallow grave.

  She screamed for Sara Clara again. No response.

  Rose’s shoulders slumped. Frustration exploded inside her. She gritted her teeth, crumpled the note, threw it so hard her shoulder felt as though it separated, and she stomped back to the washtub.

  She lifted items from the water—Buzzy’s blackened work-shirt, Rose’s embroidered wedding hand-towel which now boasted blotchy Rorschach-like shadows over the delicate flower garden Auntie Anna had handmade eighteen years before.

  Rose stared at it, pulled it taut then chucked the towel back into the rancid water. She couldn’t fix that mess. Not right then. Rose hadn’t felt lethargy, the kind of fatigue that swelled her bones, in decades. Rose suddenly couldn’t stop the helplessness from washing over her, making her want to hide.

  Rose trudged up the creaky stairs made of mismatched wood planks and told herself to forget the laundry, and just do her reports and go to sleep. If no one else in the house was going to do their share, why should Rose do more?

  * * *

&
nbsp; Rose gathered her papers, notebook and pencils then closed the bedroom door. She had dinner warming in the oven, the cake in the icebox, and coffee ready to go for the family’s supper. She was too tired to be hungry herself. She’d just do her work then have a quiet meal alone, sneak a peek at Texaco Star Theatre at 8:00 pm and nod off for the night. In bed, writing her plans for the next day, she was too tired to stay awake and her mind was too fuzzy. Finally she simply fell asleep.

  Rose felt a hand on her shoulder then Henry’s whiskers against her cheek.

  She rolled onto her back, pencils and papers falling off her body. “What time is it?”

  “Ten.” Henry showed Rose her clock and replaced it on the bedside table. “I’m leaving for my shift. I didn’t mean to waken you.”

  She shifted again and the papers and pencils fluttered to the floor. Henry bent to pick them up. He piled them neatly at the foot of her bed. Her sleepy vision blurred and she wondered if she would remember this in the morning. He looked as beaten as Rose felt. Finally more awake than asleep, Rose felt a jolt of fear that something was happening with Henry. Something she should know about. “Hen. What’s wrong?”

  “Something at work that’s been bothering me. And I just want to let you know that I love you, no matter what.”

  Rose sat up on her elbows. She squinted. He was probably feeling all the guilt he should have for keeping Magdalena’s secret from her.

  “I said I forgave you for the Magdalena thing. You said you’d fix it, I said don’t let it happen again. You’re covered, Hen.”

  “No. It’s not that. This morning when we were talking and I said sometimes there’s a right and a wrong thing. I’ve been thinking all day, I’m making too big a deal out of it, I just need to—”

  “You’re rambling.”

  Henry leaned into Rose and kissed her hard on the lips. She gave into the kiss feeling familiar affection at being the object of Henry’s attention.