Read Online The Truth about Mary Rose by Marilyn Sachs - Free Book Online

and close the door, and come back in to see what it looked like when you came in from outside.”
    “Go on, Mom, what did it look like?”
    “It looked terrible!” said my mother, “worse than before. The furniture was so old and scratched, and the spread and the curtains were so new and brilliant ... So then she convinced Grandma to let her paint the furniture a baby-blue color ...” My mother began laughing. “What a mess!”
    “But, Mom, what did it look like?”
    “It must have been the wrong kind of paint. It chipped, and after a while, the spread got creased, and Stanley spilled a cup of Ovaltine on it.”
    “You never told me that story before, Mom. How come?”
    “I must have forgotten. But coming back to New York, and having you dig around for that box brings it all back, just like it was yesterday.”
    “What was in her other boxes?”
    “I can’t remember all of them. There was the one on interior decorating ... one on fashion ... one on make-up ... one on etiquette. Let me think ... there was one on hotels, you know, with bridal suites and beautiful rooms where rich and famous people stayed. I think she had one on countries she wanted to visit. Was there one on perfumes? I think ... yes ... there was one on hair styles ... poor, little thing.”
    That seemed to be the way my mother thought of Mary Rose, as a poor, little thing. Back in Lincoln, when she used to say “poor, little thing,” I thought she meant because Mary Rose died the way she did. But now she meant it in a different way.
    I didn’t like that story about the bedspread. I didn’t like it either when my mother referred to Mary Rose as “poor, little thing.”
    I guess Mary Rose was the only one in the family who really had taste and loved beautiful things, and maybe there were some people in that family who just couldn’t understand. I mean, I love my mother very much, and I think she’s great and all that, but I was pretty sure that Mary Rose must have had plenty to put up with from her and Stanley too. Spilling his Ovaltine over her beautiful, new spread!
    My room is not beautiful. I mean, back in Lincoln it wasn’t beautiful. And my bedspread is washable because, I admit, I can get it pretty messy. But then I know I’m not as wonderful as Mary Rose. But I keep on trying.
    She would have made that room beautiful, I know, even though my mother shakes her head, and says, “poor, little thing.” If she had lived, she would have turned that dirty, dark, old room into something shining and beautiful—like herself. I know!
    Wednesday morning, I was down in the basement sweeping up a pile of those little colored pebbles you put on the bottom of fish tanks. I accidentally dropped the bag they were in as I was moving three tennis rackets to get to a box covered with a plastic tablecloth. I heard my mother beep the car horn three times, which meant she needed help.
    The car was filled with bags from the supermarket.
    “Give me a hand, Mary Rose,” she said. “Where’s Manny and Ray?”
    “Gone. Ray’s off playing ball, and Manny is riding the Staten Island Ferry with guess who?”
    “She’s a nice girl,” my mother said.
    I picked up a package and headed for the kitchen.
    “What a day!” my mother complained, after we brought all the groceries upstairs. “It’s just too hot. Why don’t we all go to the beach?”
    There were drops of sweat on her upper lip, and her hair looked damp and droopy.
    “Do we have to go?”
    “No,” said my mother. “You don’t have to go unless you want to. But I think I’ll take Grandma. It’s just too hot to hang around here.”
    “Do you need my help? I mean, if you take Grandma, you’ll have the wheel chair, and I guess I ought to help.”
    “No,” my mother said. “This time I think we’ll try leaving the wheel chair home. Grandma can manage with a cane, and she can always lean on my shoulder if she has to. I’ll park up close to where the benches are. It will be good for