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  ROSE’S LAST SUMMER

  To the Memory of

  M. M. Musselman

  Rose’s Last Summer © 1976 The Margaret Millar Charitable Unitrust

  This volume published in 2017 by Syndicate Books

  www.syndicatebooks.com

  Distributed by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

  Rose’s Last Summer eISBN: 9781681990101

  Cover and interior design by Jeff Wong

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  1

  Rose was on the skids again. Everyone in the boarding house knew it. This was no great tribute to their powers of perception since Rose went on the skids as she did everything else, with noise, abandon and a fine sense of timing and style. Saturday night at supper she told several humorous stories, and when nobody laughed as hard as she expected, she insulted everyone and went upstairs to her room.

  In the middle of the night she decided to sing some old folk songs, and when Miss Henderson, who occupied the adjoining room, objected by pounding on the wall, Rose pounded back so vigorously that she knocked a hole in the plaster. Rose was furious at Miss Henderson for causing the hole in the plaster, and reported the incident imme­diately to Mrs. Cushman, the landlady.

  Mrs. Cushman woke up and looked sadly at the clock and then at Rose. “Rose, for Pete’s sake, it’s too early to get up. It’s only three o’clock.”

  “I haven’t been to bed.”

  “Then you better—”

  “I can’t sleep. Who could sleep with a crackpot like that pounding on the wall all night? Knocked a hole in it as big as your head. I’ve got a good notion to move out.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “By God, I will.”

  She spent the next few hours packing her belongings and sipping a little wine now and then to give her energy. By breakfast time she was in an excellent mood. She un­packed all her clothes and replaced them in the closet, she hung a calendar over the hole in the wall, and publicly forgave Miss Henderson for her lousy manners, rotten disposition, and lack of musical appreciation. For some reason Miss Henderson did not respond to this act of charity, and by noon she had left, bag and baggage, leaving the room next to Rose vacant again for the third time in as many months.

  Rose couldn’t understand anyone being so petty and she said as much to Mrs. Cushman.

  “You’re better off without her. We’re all better off.”

  “She paid her rent.”

  “Money. What’s money?”

  Mrs. Cushman’s plump face took on an angular severity. “Money happens to be what I live on.”

  “I used to throw the stuff away. God, did I!”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t throw a little my way. In fact, it’s too bad you—”

  But Rose was beyond the sordid present. She lay back on the bed, careful not to bump her head on the wine bot­tle under her pillow, and gazed dreamily up at the ceiling and the past. “Did I ever tell you about the party I gave once, just after Anguish was released? There must have been four hundred people, and—you know what?—I didn’t know a bloody one of them.”

  “Last time it was three hundred.”

  “I’m no good at figures.”

  “Rose.”

  “If I’d been any good at figures, I’d be a millionaire right now.” She spoke with pride and only a trace of re­gret. “God, how I threw the stuff away. It was sheer gen­ius.”

  “Rose,” Mrs. Cushman said, “you’re hitting the bottle again.”

  Rose stood up, looking very dignified and awesome, in spite of her shortness. “What a perfectly vile and offensive remark.”

  “I don’t care. It’s the truth.”

  “I swear, I swear by—”

  “I don’t care if you was buried in Bibles right up to your neck, I wouldn’t believe you. You’re hitting the bot­tle again and I’m going to phone Frank.”

  Rose was shaken, though she tried not to show it. “Call him. Who cares?”

  “Maybe he can straighten you out like last time.”

  “Straighten me out.” Rose snorted. “You talk as if I’m an old wrinkled pair of trousers and this crude and callow youth can—”

  “Come off your high horse, you’re not going anywhere.”

  Rose looked around the walls for reassurance. They were covered, from floor to ceiling, with photographs of herself, smiling, sultry, coy, gay; in period costumes and bathing suits; stills and action shots; Rose being kissed, strangled, rescued, fed to the lions, lighting a cigarette, toasting a lover, dancing a polka. All Rose’s, all magnifi­cent, not in the least like an old wrinkled pair of trousers.

  “You can’t phone Frank,” she said finally. “It’s Sunday, it’s his day off.”

  “I can get him at home.”

  “It’s debasing, degrading. I won’t talk to him. I’ll lock my door. I’ll throw things at him!”

  “You do and he’ll send for the butterfly net.”

  Rose was terrified by this expression. It made her feel like a butterfly, imprisoned, beating its fragile wings in futile struggle.

  “He wouldn’t dare,” she said coldly.

  “He would so, if he had to. You talk to him nice, now, won’t you?”

  “I think this whole business is completely revolting.”

  “You like Frank, you know you do.”

  “He stinks,” Rose said. “Leave me alone.”

  When she was left alone, she locked her door, and, re­moving the wine bottle from under her pillow, she poured some into a glass and savored its bouquet. It smelled a lit­tle like ketchup, but Rose didn’t know the difference, and when the wine was gone she felt better. She changed into her best silk print, combed her short hair carefully, and put on some makeup. Surveying the results of this effort in the mirror, she decided that she looked pretty good considering that she had fifty-two years of assorted living behind her. Her features were quite plain, a fact that Rose herself was willing to admit had contributed to her past success; it had been easy for women to identify themselves with her and for men to consider her within their reach.

  She had always got along better with men than with women, and her vanity was still powerful enough to make her want to look her best for any man. Before Frank ar­rived she sprayed a little cologne around the room, hid the empty wine bottle inside her bureau, and, with the image of the butterfly net in the back of her mind, made a solemn resolution to behave with extreme grace and charm.

  “You dear boy,” Rose said throatily. “You dear sweet boy to come calling on an old woman on your day off.”

  Frank was quite unsurprised by this cordiality. He had known Rose for over a year, ever since the day that Mrs. Cushman had brought Rose, slightly drunk and very bel­ligerent, to the mental hygiene clinic where Frank was one of the psychiatric social workers. Since then he had had many talks with Rose, and after each one he was left with the disturbing impression that Rose was not mal­adjusted to the world, but that the world was maladjusted to Rose.

  Frank was twenty-seven. He had a wife, two sons, a mother-in-law, a cocker spaniel, an orange-colored cat and very little money. He was absorbed in his job, and so was Miriam, his wife. His main difficulty, aside from money, was getting to bed in time at night, since he and Miriam liked to discuss his cases and it was usually one o’clock when they retired. As a result, Frank always looked a lit­tle sleepy. This, too, served its purpose: most
people felt relaxed with him and told him more than they intended because he seemed so inattentive that it was impossible to believe he was prying into their secrets. Rose was an ex­ception. She wasn’t easily fooled, and Frank had discov­ered, by trial and error, that the best way to deal with Rose was to be as candid as possible. He had a great deal of respect for her and believed firmly that she was neither a mental case nor a true alcoholic, but an ageing woman who needed a job and some new interests.

  “You are a sweet boy,” Rose repeated, “to think of me like this, on your day off.”

  “Mrs. Cushman called me.”

  “That old bat, if you’ll pardon the expression. What did she say about me?”

  “Just that you were kicking up a little.” Frank sat down in the upholstered rocking chair beside the window. “Are you?”

  Rose laughed heartily at this preposterous question. “My dear child, I never felt better in my life. The thing is that the old bat can’t stand to see anyone else having a good time. That’s the thing.”

  There was such a strong element of truth in this, as there was in so many of Rose’s remarks, that Frank was tempted to agree with her out loud.

  “She told me you disturbed the household,” Frank said. “Is that true?”

  “I didn’t disturb anyone. I merely sang. Can’t a person even sing? My God, you’d think this was Russia instead of California.” For the past six months Rose had divided all blame for everything equally among the Russians, Mrs. Cushman and the mental hygiene clinic. “Are you going to write down what I say today?”

  “No.”

  “Not even afterwards when you go home?”

  “No. This is just a friendly chat. Tell me, when did you start this bout?”

  Rose was silent a moment. “It isn’t a bout. It isn’t a bout yet, anyway.”

  “Think it’s going to be?”

  “Maybe not. I don’t know.”

  “Let’s try to stop it, the way we did last time.”

  “We?” Rose elevated her eyebrows. “I’ve never had to depend on anybody. I’m completely independent. I’ve supported three husbands in my lifetime, never took a cent from any of them. I’m a giver, that’s what I am. I’m a giver, not a taker.”

  “What’s on your chest, Rose?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What happened? What started you off this time?”

  “It’s none of your business. Just remember, I’m inde­pendent. I don’t need any help or charity from anyone. I’m expecting a long distance call from central casting any day now.”

  “Are you going to sit around drinking until it comes?”

  “That’s my affair.”

  “You’re stubborn today, Rose.”

  “I intended to be charming,” Rose said, “but you put my back up. Would you really send for the butterfly net?”

  Frank smiled, he couldn’t help it. “You don’t need one.”

  “That old bat said you’d send for the butterfly net if I weren’t charming. I could be charming as hell if I wanted to.”

  “I’m sure you could.”

  “The thing is, why bother? You know too much about me.”

  “I wish I did,” Frank said. His report on Rose covered more than a hundred pages, but it was impossible to sep­arate fact and fiction. About some things, like her three husbands,

  she was devastatingly candid; other things, like her family, she refused to discuss—seemed, in fact, to have forgotten.

  “You know, Rose, I used to go to all your pictures. I thought you were a great actress.”

  “Who are you kidding, I was a ham.”

  “You were great.”

  “Don’t use any of your lousy therapy on me. Trying to make me feel good, baloney.”

  It was partly true and partly baloney, and sometimes she ate it up and sometimes she spat it out like a moody child.

  “Have you anything hidden around the room?” Frank said.

  “Not anymore. I drank it.”

  “Got any money?”

  “Some. I could go on a good bun if I want to, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”

  “I hope you don’t.”

  Rose laughed. “I hope I don’t, too.”

  “Hold on for a while, will you? I’m still trying to get you a job. I have a couple of new leads.”

  “In a small city like this I don’t stand a chance. Every­body knows me. If I could just get south again and start going the rounds.”

  “South” to Rose meant only one place, Hollywood. It was only a hundred miles away but to Rose it often seemed a million. When, oh Saturday nights, she walked down the quiet main street of La Mesa, she became vio­lently homesick for the lights on the strip and the big stores on Wilshire and the confusion of people at Holly­wood and Vine. Wherever she went in La Mesa she could see the sea. Rose had no use for the sea; it was cold, dan­gerous, and smelled of fish.

  “How’s your canasta game coming along?” Frank said.

  “Don’t try to change the subject. So you think I wouldn’t make good if I went south, that’s what you think.”

  “You’re probably better off here.”

  “Bull. Bull.”

  “Quit trying to play the bad girl, Rose. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Bull.” She flounced over to the window and looked out through the pink net drapes. There was the lousy sea again, leering at her. “Why’d you come here anyway?”

  “To cheer you up.”

  “Well, you don’t cheer me up,” Rose said coldly. “You depress me utterly. Utterly.”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  “Go ahead, leave.”

  “Why not leave with me? Come out to the house and have dinner with Miriam and me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try.”

  “I can’t. I’m expecting a call.”

  He took her at her word.

  When he went downstairs, he found Mrs. Cushman posted at the front door. Mrs. Cushman had a great capac­ity for enjoying remote catastrophes like hurricanes in Florida or train wrecks on the New York Central, but petty annoyances at home sent her blood pressure up.

  “Is Rose going to be all right?”

  “Hope so,” Frank said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, my goodness; you should be.”

  Mrs. Cushman, who was never sure of anything herself, couldn’t tolerate this weakness in others, especially some­one from the clinic. The clinic had had considerable pub­licity in the local newspaper during the past year, and Mrs. Cushman had somehow received the impression that it was omniscient and infallible. Frank was sorry to disap­point her.

  “I think Rose will be all right,” he said. “Don’t exaggerate her condition. Compared to most of the people I deal with, Rose stands out as a shining light.”

  “Well, she don’t stand out no shining light with me. Many’s the hour I’ve spent regretting the day I opened this very door and there she stood and I recognized her right off. Rose French—I said it right out loud like that— Rose French. Little did I dream at the time—”

  “I’m trying to get her a job.”

  “Huh. The day you get her a job and the day she keeps a job, that’ll be the day.”

  It seemed like a good exit line, and Frank used it.

  Before he got into his old Chevrolet, he looked up at Rose’s window. Behind the pink net curtains he could see her small, still shadow. He lifted his arm and waved but the shadow didn’t move.

  By the time he arrived home he’d almost forgotten about Rose. Miriam had planned a beach picnic and the two boys were waiting with the cocker on the porch steps, loaded with equipment for the day like a couple of ma­rines. The orange-colored cat was sitting on her haunches on the railing, withdrawn, despising the excitement. The cat’s independence reminded
him of Rose.

  That night he and Miriam spent an hour discussing Rose, but the only conclusion they reached was that Rose had too large a personality to be squeezed into a small world.

  He didn’t expect to hear from Rose for a while. If she got drunk she wouldn’t ask for his help, and if she stayed sober she wouldn’t need it. But at three the following afternoon she phoned him at his office. She was in a cheer­ful mood.

  “Frankie? It’s me. Rose.”

  “Hello, Rose. How are you feeling?”

  “Couldn’t be better. I’m leaving town.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t oh me like that. What a sourpuss. All you can say is oh when I’ve got good news.”

  “What’s the news?”

  “I have a job. I told you I didn’t need any help, didn’t I?”

  “You told me. What’s the job?”

  “Nothing much really, but it should be fun. And I get paid with money. God, was the old bat surprised when I handed her the back rent. She damn near cried.”

  “You were paid in advance?”

  “Some. I’m going to be a sort of housekeeper.”

  Frank laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Rose said suspiciously. “I suppose you think I can’t keep house. I’ve kept a dozen houses. All you’ve got to do is order the servants around.”

  “Are there servants?”

  “Of course there are servants,” Rose said, as if she would never have demeaned herself by accepting a job in a house without them. “Well, anyway, I just thought I’d phone you and say goodbye and thank you. I guess I owe you something. The old bat says I owe you something, damned if I know what.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing,” Frank said. “Just let us hear from you once in a while.”

  There was a minute’s silence before Rose spoke again. “Well, I’m not much for writing letters and stuff like that.”

  “Just write your name on a postcard so we’ll know you’re all right.”

  “Sure. Sure, I guess I can do that.”

  “Goodbye, Rose, and good luck.”