“The tree,” Rosie murmured. “Remember the tree, yes, got that, but what tree? And what should I do? What in God’s name should I do?”
I don’t know, Practical-Sensible answered, but whatever you do, you better do it fast. Bill could come back any minute. Any second.
She flushed the john, watching as the reddish-purple liquid was replaced by clear water. Then she went back to the bed, sat on it, and stared at the last seed lying on the stained cotton cloth. From the seed she looked to Norman’s ring. Then she looked back at the seed.
Why can’t I throw this damned thing away? she asked herself. Never mind the goddamn tree, just tell me why in God’s name I can’t throw this last seed from it away, and be done with it.
No answer came. What did was the excited pop and burble of an approaching motorcycle, drifting in through the open window. She already recognized the sound of Bill’s Harley. Quickly, asking no more questions of herself, Rosie put the ring in the soft blue swatch of cloth along with the seed. Then she refolded it, hurried across to the bureau, and took her purse off the top. It was scuffed and dowdy, this purse, but it meant a lot to her—it was the one she had brought out of Egypt with her that spring. She opened it and put the little blue packet inside, stuffing it all the way to the bottom, where it would lie even more securely hidden than the ceramic bottle in the medicine cabinet. With that done, she went over to the open window and began breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air.
When Bill came in with a fat Sunday paper and an outrageous number of bagels stuffed into a paper bag, Rosie turned to him with a brilliant smile. “What kept you?” she asked, and thought to herself: What a fox you are, little Rosie. What a f—
The smile on his face, the answer to hers, suddenly faltered. “Rosie? Are you all right?”
Her smile brightened again. “Fine. I guess a goose just walked over my grave.”
Except it hadn’t been a goose.
9
May I give you one piece of advice before I send you back? Rose Madder had asked, and late that afternoon, after Lieutenant Hale had brought them the shocking news about Anna Stevenson (who hadn’t been discovered until that morning, due to her oft-expressed dislike of unauthorized visitors in her office) and then departed, Rosie took that advice. It was Sunday, but Hair 2000 at the Skyview Mall was open. The hairdresser to whom she was assigned understood what Rosie wanted, but protested briefly.
“It looks so pretty this way!” she said.
“Yes, I guess it does,” Rosie replied, “but I hate it anyway.”
So the beautician did her thing, and the surprised protests she expected from Bill when she saw him that evening did not come.
“Your hair’s shorter, but otherwise you look the way you did when you first came into the shop,” he said. “I think I like that.”
She hugged him. “Good.”
“Want Chinese for supper?”
“Only if you promise to stay over again.”
“All promises should be so easy to keep,” he said, smiling.
10
Monday’s headline: ROGUE COP SPOTTED IN WISCONSIN Tuesday’s headline: POLICE MUM ON KILLER COP DANIELS Wednesday’s headline: ANNA STEVENSON CREMATED; 2,000 IN SILENT MEMORIAL MARCH
Thursday’s headline: DANIELS MAY BE DEAD BY OWN HAND, INSIDERS SPECULATE
On Friday, Norman moved to page two.
By the following Friday, he was gone.
11
Shortly after July 4th, Robbie Lefferts put Rosie to work reading a novel about as far from the works of “Richard Racine” as it was possible to get: A Thousand Acres, by Jane Smiley. It was the story of an Iowa farm family, except that wasn’t what it really was; Rosie had been costume designer in the high-school drama society for three years, and although she had never trod a single step in front of the foot-lights, she still recognized Shakespeare’s mad king when she encountered him. Smiley had put Lear in biballs, but crazy is still crazy.
She had also turned him into a creature that reminded Rosie fearfully of Norman. On the day she finished the book (“Your best job so far,” Rhoda told her, “and one of the best readings I’ve ever heard”), Rosie went back to her room and took the old frameless oil painting out of the closet where it had been ever since the night of Norman’s ... well, disappearance. It was the first time she had looked at it since that night.