Jen stirs her hot chai tea, marveling that they let Rosemary keep a drip coffee and tea maker in her room at all. She must be charming them, Jen thinks. The sickly fluorescent lights are abuzz in a syncopated rhythm with the sound of slippers shuffling down the hall.
“Would you like some honey?” Jen asks, pouring a second cup for Rosemary. She is sitting up in the bed, wearing her quilt like a cocoon. Her dark eyes sparkle and her lips are painted red again. Though Jen once mocked a doctor for such an observation, she takes the makeup as a sign Rosemary is feeling more herself, doing well. It’s been two weeks.
“Mmmm. Please,” she says.
Jen brings Rosemary’s cup to her and settles into the lounge chair beside her bed.
“So, m’am, how are we doing today,” Jen asks.
“We are pretty fine,” she says, “Sybil and I. We’ve decided to be well. We intend to take turns. One of us will wallow in guilt a spell and wail, while the other drinks tea and gossips with friends. This way, we’re each making an appropriate contribution,” she grins.
“Well, I sure am glad the good doctors have you all sorted out,” Jen teases.
“Yes, they have learned not to taunt happy fun ball,” Rosemary smirks.
“Oooh, not happy fun ball. I’m afraid of happy fun ball…”
“Yes, we all are, it seems. So tell me, what’s been happening out there while I impress the good docs with my Virginia Wolf impersonation? Have you forgiven Jace?” she stares hard at me.
“Forgiven him? For what?” Jen asks.
“Well, I thought the shit had hit the fan. His not coming home, your fight, his role in all the stories…You just, you haven’t mentioned him, that’s all. And I guess, buried in woe, I never asked…”
“Well, he didn’t do the stories. Rob did, for starters,” Jen says, feeling a little confused.
“With a little help from his friend, I’m sure. Not that I mind. While the world may be wondering what’s up with the naughty teacher, in all, the coverage has been fair. As fair as I can expect,” Rosemary says, seeming truly complacent about it all. Water under the bridge. Perhaps she’s taking the meds.
Despite the media frenzy, the school board had ruled the day before that they could find no criminal wrong-doing on her part, and as a result, would not terminate Rosemary. The journal, it turned out, plotted the story of a mostly unrequited teen-to-teacher love, and despite early appearances, it seemed that Rosemary did nothing more serious than aborting kisses he initiated, and pulling away from ill-conceived embraces. In fact, toward the end of the journal, much of her conversation with him about her lack of availability and gentle handling was repeated in heartbreaking detail. These details, cited in the transcript, were alluded to in today’s article, deflating the theory that this was the kind of bizarre student-teacher love triangle popular with mass imaginations.
Nonetheless, she was disciplined and suspended for her “inappropriate” conduct outside of class. There was no logical explanation, to the board’s mind, for their movie-going, cooking sessions, or other instances of extra-curricular conduct that could be misconstrued by a smitten teen. And there were some texts that bordered on flirtatious, though not obscene. Rosemary agreed to counseling in a deal brokered by the union.
“I guess things have been fine,” Jen says slowly. “I mean, it’s like, the whole time you’ve been in here I’ve been in some dream. The night we brought you here brought up a lot of memories I wasn’t even exactly conscious that I had. And then the journal just opened all this other stuff. I’m a little lost in it.”
“What journal. You never said anything about a journal,” Rosemary says.
“Sure I did. It’s what’s had me talking about old times so much every time I see you. The journal that was left in the mailbox.”
“Whose journal? I swear you never mentioned a journal.”
“Saint’s journal,” Jen says, now feeling really confused. She’d thought she’d told her, but she must have glossed over it. That was the first day after Rosemary was admitted.
“Holy shit, Saint’s journal ended up in your mailbox?” Rosemary is looking concerned, alarmed even, and it’s alarming to Jen. “Why the hell would she do that? Throw it out! Don’t read it!”
“Oh, for heaven sake, Rosemary, it’s not contagious. Actually, it’s interesting, to see what was going on in her head during that time. It covers the Gary infidelity through my suicide attempt and the following year when my art started getting noticed. It feels good, putting it all together, like now I can put it away,” Jen says, not entirely sure she sounds convincing.
“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” Rosemary declares. “Just be careful. I don’t trust her motives.”
“Well, neither do I. I’m not even sure who put it in my mailbox, whether it was Gary on his way out east, or Saint herself. I keep going over the passages, wondering what the hell might have prompted her to lay herself bare that way, now, after all these years. If it even was her who left it there, I’m torn between viewing it as a peace offering and a punishment. But if punishment is her goal, it isn’t working. I’m actually grateful to see things clearly,” Jen says.
“Clearly? Through her eyes? Jen, she’s nuts. And I hate to say it because I know you never believe me, but I think deep down she’s gay or something and frankly, obsessed with you. I just don’t get a good vibe off the whole deal,” she says.
Jen peers into her tea, flushing a little. It’s not the first time Rosemary has presented her Saint-is-gay-and-doesn’t-know-it theory. Maybe somewhere back there Jen was so hungry for an audience, a foil, that she never looked past the surface to examine what would inspire Saint to play the role she did in her life.
Jen remembers that autumn day in 2007 when she came back off the road, a week after her ill-fated Sunday trip to Toronto to make a last effort with Marty. She hadn’t seen Saint since the jail cell episode. But in that week, her whole world shifted. Jen’s depressive spiral was well underway. Saint had all the storm windows lined up against the garage and was power-washing them within an inch of their lives. Jen wasn’t sure how to greet her, she’d seemed to have a mad on.
“Well look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Saint spat as Jen gathered her luggage out of the car. She set her bags down in the foyer.
“Hi,” Jen said. “Did everything work out okay last week?” she ventured.
“What do you care,” Saint said, pulling the trigger on the power washer and spraying a forceful stream across the windows.
Jen didn’t feel like getting into it. She’d had a terrible week. She’d shattered the lives of five single mothers, one of whom balled like a baby and wouldn’t leave her office when she fired her. Jen had told her she was doing her a favor. That if she couldn’t close enough sales to bonus, she’d never make enough money to survive. That she was freeing her to find something she was truly good at. That when one door closed another opened, and all that Zig Ziggler bullshit that does nothing but obscure the rampant exploitation of low earners who can’t turn a high-enough volume for a fat margin.
“I’m sorry. I tried to take you home. I waited around for a while and didn’t sleep all night. But I had stuff to deal with in Toronto, not that you give a shit about any of that,” Jen said, standing akimbo in the laneway.
“Frankly, I don’t,” Saint said, now scrubbing the row of glass with a soft, sudsy brush. “What I do give a shit about is that you do fuck all around here. Winter’s coming and things have to be cleaned and sealed and you’re off fucking strangers in hotel rooms and pouting about Marty. Meanwhile, I’m back here at this house, OUR house, that we leased together, working 40-plus hours and any overtime I can get on the line, looking after everything, doing all the work, only to get a call from my bank telling me your fucking rent check bounced. I am really sick of this,” she spat.
Jen flushed. She’d been certain she’d left enough in the account, but her company was always late with her expense reimbursements and she had six nights of hotel rooms and meals to pay for. Sometimes she barely had enough for gas to get home.
“I’ll get you the cash today,” Jen said. “I’m sorry, I wish they would have called me if there was a problem.”
“As if they could find you. It’s not even the cash, Jones. It’s the fucking sense that you’re just not really here.”
“Anne, I’m just not really here, for chrissakes. I work six days a week, split shifts, in other cities. I live in hotel rooms all week. I spend one night a week here at home and without fail I walk into a love nest in which I don’t belong. Gary spends 6 nights or more a week here and doesn’t pay one fucking cent. I doubt he does anything either. Are you sure it’s me you’re really pissed at?” she said, crossing her arms, ready for Saint’s rage. Their voices were rising to that pitch the neighbors could hear and Jen began feeling that there was nowhere safe in her life to retreat. Gary was probably in the house right now, sprawled on the couch, watching sports and into his third beer. It was 2 p.m., after all.
“Leave Gary out of this. Gary wasn’t the one who agreed to share this house. You were,” she said.
“I have an idea,” Jen seethed. “How be instead of playing the heavy you just fucking ask me to do whatever it is you want done on the 24 fucking hours I have to spend with you, and I’ll do it. It’d be a little cleaner that way,” Jen said.
“I shouldn’t fucking have to ask and you know it. Forget I said anything. Just go sulk in your room,” she said.
Jen opened the door to the house and kicked her luggage from the foyer into the hall closet lest Saint bitch about that too. She walked back out to the car and drove off. She didn’t know where she was going to go, but it was a beautiful day, her only day, and it was being poisoned. Jen thought about going to see Janet, but she was in new-mommy land and it was a terrain foreign to Jen. Instead, she drove the sweeping curves out to her favorite beach, and walked the paths through the dappled scrub along the sand dunes. The light was that kind of warm, buttery sun that is like the last hurrah of autumn before grey drains the warmth, the life, from everything. The wind coming off the lake had a hint of chill to it. Jen wrapped her shawl tighter and nestled into the side of a sand dune, scanning the frothy wave caps as if some kind of salvation were hiding in the foam peaks.
That was when the surprising thought bubbled up. To end it.
There was nothing to look forward to. She’d never in her entire life thought of suicide. Probably because she’d been the golden girl, smart, going somewhere. She’d had her share of trials, her shards of trust, but she’d just never felt so black, or blank. Sitting there looking out across the vast blue, Jen felt no bigger than a grain of sand. She felt the meaninglessness collect around her and press on her chest so hard she could barely breathe. She felt her heart skip, patter, flutter. She felt the panic ooze like ripe infection, traveling throughout her cells. She tried to breathe deeply, to catch her breath. So-doing caused a bloody throbbing at the back of her head, the sides of her neck.
She took inventory. Life: she hated her job. Check. She hated her virtually nonexistent or occasionally debauched and vacuous social life. Check. Her best friend hated her and suddenly looked like a complete asshole. Check. The one man she loved stood resolutely before her the week prior, surprised at her arrival, arm protectively draped around his still-pajama-clad girlfriend, and told her it was a bad time for a visit. Neverfuckingmind his call the week before. So love? Love sucked. Check. Her financial prospects, while promising on paper, were in actual fact in complete disarray. People assumed because she was a manager running a district that covered three states and a province that she made a lot of money on residuals. But Jen never fired enough of the dead wood in the call centers. At heart she was a sucker who gave too many second chances. And being on the road, the many bedtime drinks, the fancy meals designed to cheer her desolation, cost far more than the per diems her company allowed. She was clear she was being used. The higher they promoted her, the more money the lifestyle cost her and the less she actually had when all the dust cleared. So, young and debt-trodden. Check.
In fact, she’d thought with sudden alarm, had she paid her cell bill? That one critical connection to the rest of the world? She realized that she was nearing cutoff mode on several bills, bills that were easy enough to forget when you were on the road and just trying to get the rooms to bonus. So that she could bonus.
She saw no way out. She thought about walking out into the water, the cold, churning water, breathing deeply as her lungs filled with foamy death. The idea was lurid but freeing. Also, terrifying.
Instead, she stood up, dusted the sand off her jeans, walked slowly back to the car. Maybe Robert could save her today. Once her high school teacher, now part friend, occasional almost-lover, Robert could be counted on for good wine, good conversation, and heavily loaded innuendo. Jen didn’t care if he got off on it. She got off on it too. Robert might be the thread that could somehow mend her back to wholeness when life was draining away faster than the color from the leaves.
Jen marveled as she pulled into his wide driveway. Robert also had the power washer bug today. Only in his case, he was lovingly cutting wide swaths of sudsy foam off his beloved BMW with high-pressure pinging of relentless rain. ADAPT, his license plate read. He looked up, happy, she thought, to see her.
“Hey,” he shouted over the vacuum sound of the power washer motor. He leaned over to switch it off. “I was just thinking about you. I was going to call you and invite you for dinner when I finished washing the car,” he said, wiping his wet hands on his jeans and striding over to Jen.
“Ooooh, dinner. Whatcha cookin’,” Jen asks, deciding that if she acted cheery, maybe she’d actually feel cheery.
“My famous pepper steak.” He reached forward and gave Jen a hug. “Let me get you a drink, then I’ve gotta finish the car. It’ll only take me a few more minutes.”
“Go ahead – I’ll go get my own drink, if you like.”
“Okay. The house is open,” he said. The power washer hummed back to life.
Inside, Jen saw he’d been cleaning. All the glass tables shone. His self-sufficiency always amazed her. If she didn’t already know what a hetero pervert he was, she’d suspect him of being gay. She poured herself a chardonnay – Wolf Blass, Robert’s favorite – and ran her hand along the shiny marble counters. She noticed a new painting on the living room wall, beautifully framed. It was gorgeous, air brushed, more real than real. The subject is a woman, naked in thigh-height black boots, her upper body is arched back and her legs are spread. She is clearly pleasuring herself. Sarayama, it read. A 1/150 limited edition print. Only Robert would put this kind of high-end erotica in his living room. Jen wondered what it set him back. She stood there, musing on the interesting life that could be had here, with him. But they’re too much alike. They talk and eat and dance; he checks on her when he’s sick. But somehow there’s just no chemistry between them. Not to mention the 20-year gulf. She marveled, though, that no one else has nabbed him.
She was starting to feel better. She did have friends. She was just never here to enjoy them. She walked back out to the driveway, feeling oddly relieved, and sat on the Adirondack he’d placed in the driveway for her. She was enjoying the wine while she watched him dry the car with loving strokes, blending away the beads of water glistening on the candy apple red finish. Watching him, she realized that he and Saint had something in common. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The love of the power-washer. The insular self-sufficiency. The clear space they create around them, and the sense of infinite solitude. Then she began to wonder. What on earth was it they wanted from the likes of her, a ketchup stain on the gleaming glass?