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Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
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Rose…”
“I get it. I’ll say you still live upstairs. It’s only the downstairs management that’s changed.”
“Gracias.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You must never tell Goldie.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It was a secret, Señora and me.”
“What if he’d found out?”
“Señora Cabrera, she would take care of him. You don’t have curses, no?”
“I’m not into that yet,” Julie said.
9
J ULIE WANTED TO LAUGH at the Rodriguez situation—a Rose by any other name—and hell, as the woman said, what harm? If Westchester housewives turned belles du jour, why not Rose Rodriguez of Forty-fourth Street, Manhattan? Julie hated her wildly and she liked the feeling, never mind what about it, Doctor. She hated her more than she did Goldie. And she hated the child with her mutilated dolls. And there it was: the child that was being mutilated, used, the silent, obedient victim.
Goddamn.
She took a long letter from Jeff into the bath with her and read it just above water level. He was going to Cyprus for a couple of weeks. After which he would be in Paris. “If you feel you can take the time away from Dr. Callahan, how would you like to join me for the month of June in Paris? It’s time we had another honeymoon. I find myself missing my little girl very much tonight…”
“Me too,” Julie said aloud. A reflex. Her me-toos were a cop-out. She could hardly remember the first honeymoon. What she did remember was the fight with her mother in the bedroom while she changed into traveling clothes. She’d rather have changed into blue jeans and sneakers and she wound up screaming at Mother, You go, why don’t you go instead of me? You’re more married to him than I am… something like that, and she was. She’d courted Jeff from the moment she laid eyes on him. On the platform at Julie’s graduation from college. He’d got an honorary degree. Cum Julie.
Come Julie.
She tried a half-hour of Yoga.
When the phone rang it startled her. It hadn’t been ringing much lately.
“Pete! What a nice surprise.”
“I just met Mrs. Ryan and her goddamn dog. If he had more teeth he’d ’ve chewed off my ankle.”
“I don’t think he likes men. How are you, Pete?’ She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
“How should I be? I’m working with a bunch of stupid micks at the New Irish Theatre. They don’t know a ceiling spot from the star of Bethlehem. How’s the wheel of fortune?”
“Going round and round. Something new every day.”
He waited. Then: “I’m listening.”
“Today there was Mrs. Rodriguez upstairs. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got a pocketful of dimes.”
She was tempted to ask him if he would like to come down to Seventeenth Street But if he said no? “It turns out my predecessor had a deal with Goldie. Do you know who he is?”
“I know him.”
“Friend Julie’s Place used to be a way station, a sort of connection between trick and… treat. Hey!”
“I got it. Are you surprised?”
“I guess not really. But the lady upstairs—that’s something else.” She told him about Mrs. Rodriguez’s expectations.
“Street games,” Pete said.
“It’s the child that bugs me, those great big empty eyes.”
“Little Orphan Annie.”
“Warbucks,” Julie said. “Money is rotten, Pete.”
“That’s where we left off. What isn’t rotten?”
“You, me, spring, poetry, hope… There’s a girl that’s been in to see me twice now, a sixteen-year-old whore who wants to go home.”
“Sixteen,” Pete said.
“Going on seventeen, she says. I’d have said younger.”
“Did she tell you where home was?”
“No.”
“So you couldn’t give her the exact fare.”
“Don’t be cynical, Pete. It’s not like you.”
“Honey, what’s like me? Do you know?”
“No.”
“Then don’t romanticize me. I’m not a romantic figure. I’m not even nice most of the time. Would you like to see the plays? Yeats—what else would the New Irish Theatre
“I get it. I’ll say you still live upstairs. It’s only the downstairs management that’s changed.”
“Gracias.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You must never tell Goldie.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It was a secret, Señora and me.”
“What if he’d found out?”
“Señora Cabrera, she would take care of him. You don’t have curses, no?”
“I’m not into that yet,” Julie said.
9
J ULIE WANTED TO LAUGH at the Rodriguez situation—a Rose by any other name—and hell, as the woman said, what harm? If Westchester housewives turned belles du jour, why not Rose Rodriguez of Forty-fourth Street, Manhattan? Julie hated her wildly and she liked the feeling, never mind what about it, Doctor. She hated her more than she did Goldie. And she hated the child with her mutilated dolls. And there it was: the child that was being mutilated, used, the silent, obedient victim.
Goddamn.
She took a long letter from Jeff into the bath with her and read it just above water level. He was going to Cyprus for a couple of weeks. After which he would be in Paris. “If you feel you can take the time away from Dr. Callahan, how would you like to join me for the month of June in Paris? It’s time we had another honeymoon. I find myself missing my little girl very much tonight…”
“Me too,” Julie said aloud. A reflex. Her me-toos were a cop-out. She could hardly remember the first honeymoon. What she did remember was the fight with her mother in the bedroom while she changed into traveling clothes. She’d rather have changed into blue jeans and sneakers and she wound up screaming at Mother, You go, why don’t you go instead of me? You’re more married to him than I am… something like that, and she was. She’d courted Jeff from the moment she laid eyes on him. On the platform at Julie’s graduation from college. He’d got an honorary degree. Cum Julie.
Come Julie.
She tried a half-hour of Yoga.
When the phone rang it startled her. It hadn’t been ringing much lately.
“Pete! What a nice surprise.”
“I just met Mrs. Ryan and her goddamn dog. If he had more teeth he’d ’ve chewed off my ankle.”
“I don’t think he likes men. How are you, Pete?’ She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.
“How should I be? I’m working with a bunch of stupid micks at the New Irish Theatre. They don’t know a ceiling spot from the star of Bethlehem. How’s the wheel of fortune?”
“Going round and round. Something new every day.”
He waited. Then: “I’m listening.”
“Today there was Mrs. Rodriguez upstairs. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got a pocketful of dimes.”
She was tempted to ask him if he would like to come down to Seventeenth Street But if he said no? “It turns out my predecessor had a deal with Goldie. Do you know who he is?”
“I know him.”
“Friend Julie’s Place used to be a way station, a sort of connection between trick and… treat. Hey!”
“I got it. Are you surprised?”
“I guess not really. But the lady upstairs—that’s something else.” She told him about Mrs. Rodriguez’s expectations.
“Street games,” Pete said.
“It’s the child that bugs me, those great big empty eyes.”
“Little Orphan Annie.”
“Warbucks,” Julie said. “Money is rotten, Pete.”
“That’s where we left off. What isn’t rotten?”
“You, me, spring, poetry, hope… There’s a girl that’s been in to see me twice now, a sixteen-year-old whore who wants to go home.”
“Sixteen,” Pete said.
“Going on seventeen, she says. I’d have said younger.”
“Did she tell you where home was?”
“No.”
“So you couldn’t give her the exact fare.”
“Don’t be cynical, Pete. It’s not like you.”
“Honey, what’s like me? Do you know?”
“No.”
“Then don’t romanticize me. I’m not a romantic figure. I’m not even nice most of the time. Would you like to see the plays? Yeats—what else would the New Irish Theatre
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