Rosie O'Dell (46 page)

All told, my love for Rosie would have served me better if, under the strains
of this past hideous year, it had just died. But it didn’t die. Worse, it merely
went unconscious for a time. When I woke up the morning after I had tried to
sever a man’s jugular with jagged glass, my mother’s plan had jelled into the
one and only option in my life. I knew I had to abandon this place. At least for
the summer, and I’d wait and see about the fall. I longed to leave right now,
this very morning. The idea that I had to visit my lawyer again first, and
probably stay here for a while yet to await the final outcome of the two police
investigations, caused me intense anxiety. I vaulted out of bed. I couldn’t wait
to crawl out from under the pile of crap I was up to my eyebrows in. Oh Jesus,
oh Christ, I couldn’t wait to board a plane and head across the Atlantic out of
here.

Mid-morning, after I had seen lawyer Barry, Rosie and I met for a coffee. I
spared her no detail. She stared at me without a word. When I finished, she put
her hand on my arm and said, “You’re saying you might have killed Moose Mercer
if Brent…?”

“No
might
about it. I would have. I intended to kill him. I had it in my
head to kill him. I was trying with everything I had in me to kill him. I lost
it completely.”

“What does Mr. Barry think the police are going to do?”

“He talked to them last night to let them know right off the bat I still have
high-powered legal help. They told him it’s pretty hard for the police to ignore
a broken nose from a head-butt, an ear yanked nearly off, two
teeth knocked out from a kick in the mouth, and cheek laid open like a piece
of raw meat by some sharp lethal weapon. We’re hoping Brent sticks to his story
that Cory started it and I defended him, although that might be hard for anyone
to find credible. The cops think my reaction was overkill even if they believe
Brent’s story. But they don’t have my weapon, thanks to Brent. So we’ll see
where it goes. By the way, nobody but you and Brent knows about the broken glass
I used, and no one but you knows for sure that I had every intention of killing
the bastard.”

“We’ll have to get married immediately so that I can’t be forced to testify
against you.” Rosie laughed and leaned closer to me. “Tom, I love you so much.
Ever since we were eleven years old you’ve been there for me. You were there for
me at the trial and… afterwards. And last night you nearly killed another man,
defending me. Jesus. That is really something. I wish none of it had happened.
Don’t get me wrong. But it is all very gratifying to me.”

She was
gratified
, when what she should have been saying was that she
was sorry she’d turned me into Frankenstein’s Monster. “But I could have
defended you just as well by walking out of the bar, Rosie. You weren’t even
there to need defending. My violent reaction was only an attempt to avenge the
slight to my own dignity. And I can tell you,
I’m
not gratified, I’m
disgusted at myself.”

“Don’t be, my love. We’ll get through this too. Everything will soon be over.
Then it’ll just be you and me. I was thinking last night in bed what we should
do. I’ve decided I’m going to move out of Suzy’s into a little basement
apartment of my own, right away. I can manage it with my scholarship and working
this summer and with what Mom is getting from his estate and the sale of the big
house. Then you and I can be together by ourselves whenever we want, with time
and privacy in our lives for each other at last.”

She was planning our year ahead. I couldn’t hold off any longer on my other bit
of news. I told her of my parents’ offer of the summer of European travel and
maybe an academic year in London. Rosie studied my face as if she were trying to
discern something crucial to her very life in a blurred photograph. After I
finished, she nodded slowly for ten seconds and said, “All because of your fight
with Moose?”

“No. Dad offered it before because he thought I needed to spend a little time
away from here. I turned it all down flat then without a thought. But last night
was the last straw for both of them, and it really shook me, too.”

Rosie swallowed. “You’ve decided to take them up on it.” Her
voice was dry and barely audible. “You could be away for nearly a year.”

“I was thinking what I might do is go to Europe this summer, if I’m not in
jail, that is, and then come back here for a couple of weeks before perhaps
starting a year over there. Meanwhile, we could plan on how the two of us might
go over in the fall or next year.”

Rosie brightened. “We could plan something together. You know, looking beyond
my selfish desire to have you here, your trip this summer is a good idea. We’ve
been cooped up together with this thing for too long. And I really wouldn’t be
able to leave poor Mother at this stage anyway, even if I could afford it. She
needs help too badly. When would you be back?”

“Oh, August, I would say.” I wasn’t lying, but I could feel as I said it a
sense of relief over the mere prospect of perhaps spending the next academic
year on a campus in a city where no one knew me.

“August is not long,” said Rosie. “Meanwhile, we would phone each other every
week or so and write each other every day or two, and the time would fly by for
us, knowing that we love each other and are committed to each other, and then,
if you decide to study in London, you’d be back again at Christmas or I could
fly over then for your break.”

“Right. That sounds like a plan.”

“It’s a deal, then,” she said. “Back together in August and Christmas, and
then when I have everything figured out here, we can arrange to get together
forever.”

I leaned towards her and kissed her lips. “It’s a deal,” I said.

I PHONED HOME TO
tell my parents about the new
university digs I’d moved into off the Kingsway in London, and told them of my
two new friends, Sian and Morton, who lived in the same building, and how Morton
and I had gone to a jazz club the other night in Soho, and how Sian had managed
to get cheap tickets to the Kirov Ballet on its visit to London and had asked me
to go.

Dad interjected: “Uh, this Shawn who likes ballet so much, how, exactly, has he
begun to uh… fit into your life?”

“Dad, it’s spelled S-i-a-n. It’s Welsh for Jane.”

“Jane. Oh, he’s a she. Oh, all right then. Okay. Good. Good.”

That evening, when I recounted the conversation to Morton and Sian over a
plastic magnum of something labelled Albanian Burgundy, Morton said, “You must
send your Da a snap of Sian as proof. Mere words can’t describe how the function
of that sweater and denims so superbly follows form.” I agreed, while Sian
displayed two superb rows of teeth in unladylike belly laughs and protested our
foolishness.

Near the bottom of the bottle, though, her big brown eyes displayed tears.
Morton had just told her that those eyes and matching hair framing her fair oval
face projected a Pre-Raphaelite’s very idea of a lovely Celtic princess. This
led half-drunk me to outline the story of another girl who had also looked like
a lovely Celtic princess, and who had died so tragically at thirteen from a
heart broken by abusive love.

“The poor little thing,” said Sian. “How was it that you were so close to her
story?”

“She was the baby sister of my girlfriend back in
Canada.”

“Is her sister still your girlfriend? I mean now that you’re so far
away?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said Sian and dried her eyes.

The previous spring, Rosie and my parents had seen me off from St. John’s
airport. Before boarding the plane for Heathrow, I’d drawn Rosie aside and said,
“Now that I’m leaving, I don’t want to go.”

“I’ll really miss you too, but three months won’t be long going by.”

I hugged her. “Stay safe and sound while I’m gone.”

“I will. And you come back safe and sound, and we’ll begin again, everything
better than ever.”

“I’ll write you from everywhere I go. I’d better say goodbye to Mom and Dad and
get through security. See you in a few months, my love.”

Rosie had raised a clenched fist and whispered fervently as we’d come together
for a kiss, “August in St. John’s!”

But now it was October in London, and if Sian got her way, I wouldn’t be
spending Christmas in St. John’s, either. She was so persistently trying to sign
me up for the Oxford, Cambridge, and London University student cruise up the
Nile over the Christmas vacation, I wondered aloud to Morton if she was
competing for a prize for highest ticket sales.

“She has not been killing herself trying to sell me a ticket, old boy.”

But I had made a fresh commitment to Rosie that I was returning home in
December, and my intention of doing so was absolutely firm. Apart from all else,
I needed to find out in her presence how I truly felt about her. During my
summer of travel I’d discovered I was not the least bit lonely or at all
homesick. I did miss Rosie, but it seemed to consist simply of regret that she
wasn’t with me to see this or that sight. I wondered sincerely more than once if
I could not go on indefinitely without ever seeing her again. Moreover,
temptations arose to be untrue to her.

One morning in Florence, at a student hostel not far from Il Duomo, I’d fallen
in with two girls from Norway travelling Europe together. Sigrid and Ingrid.
That night, having toured the usual museums all day and dined together in the
piazza, Sigrid—Siggy by now—knocked on my bedroom door to say she had to settle
an argument with Ingrid. I let her in and she told me that both girls regarded
the body on Michelangelo’s
David
as super, but Ingrid thought Tom’s body
would turn out on close examination to be just as nice as the statue’s, not to
mention warmer. Siggy was less sure, she said, and had undertaken to check
Ingrid’s hypothesis out for her. She
pulled the long dress off
over her head, her single garment, and to show I bore her no resentment over her
doubts, I compared her body favourably to that of Botticelli’s
Venus
on
the clamshell, feeling a joyful surge of virility and lust far removed from the
numbness I had felt during the last year at home. Siggy straddled me, undid my
jeans, and tried to pull down my underwear. Reluctantly, I resisted, explaining
I had a loved one back home I was determined to remain faithful to. Siggy
laughed, “Silly Tom, we all have a loved one back home we’re determined to
remain faithful to,” and tried again. But I twisted away, and Sigrid rose with
a playful slap at the distended front of my underwear, saying with a rueful
shake of her head, “Such a waste,” and pulled on her dress, kissed me, and
left. I passed the time before sleep writing Rosie a long letter, describing the
sights since I’d written her from Monaco and finishing it off with my love. In
the morning there was no regret in me. I knew how lousy I’d be feeling now if
I’d given in to lust with Siggy.

At the poste restante in Rome, a letter was waiting from Rosie. Amidst the
details of her daily life and her mother’s condition and the invaluable
friendship and help of my own mother, was a reference to Moose, the object of my
attempted murder. Rosie thought the development promising, but I considered it
alarming. She had met Brent by chance at the supermarket, she wrote, and he had
mentioned that he and Cory Mercer were good friends again, so much so that Brent
had taken Cory into a spare room in his house to help him get back on his feet.
Brent hadn’t said a word to her about the incident in the bar, and she hadn’t
pursued it then, but she’d try to find out more about his renewed relationship
with Cory.

That paragraph of the letter, read on the Spanish steps surrounded by
chattering, laughing students, had brought back the words of Mr. Barry, my
lawyer: “Europe? Splendid idea. The farther you are away from this sword of
Damocles hanging over your head, the better. But don’t spread it around. Just
go. If the police find out beforehand, it may galvanize them into some untoward
action like obtaining a court order to confiscate your passport to keep you in
the jurisdiction as a person of interest. Remain in constant contact with home
so that you can return forthwith if proceedings are commenced against you.
Meanwhile, I’ll endeavour to wiggle and squirm you out of this mess, like the
other, by the skin of your teeth.”

After weeks of hearing nothing about it as I travelled, I had conclud
ed that it, as well as the Rothesay matter, was a dead issue.
Now this: my alibi, Brent, and my accuser (and likely assassin), Moose, great
buddies again. Nothing was going to drag me back to St. John’s. I stood up from
the steps and went to the public telephones. I spent half the afternoon getting
through to Dad to tell him I’d decided definitively to start a year of study at
LSE this fall. “Your mother will be delighted,” said my ebullient father. When
I asked him if there was anything on the police thing, he went sombre: “Still in
limbo on that.” Right after the call home, I wrote Rosie with my decision.

In another letter that had crossed mine and was already waiting when I reached
Naples, she wrote that the Brent and Cory matter had turned out, not only good,
but funny. She’d received a phone call from Brent, and he asked her to meet him
and Cory for a coffee. Curious, she went. After about two minutes at the table,
during which Cory looked everywhere but at her, Brent said, “Don’t you have
something important to say to this lady?” Whereupon Cory apologized profusely
for anything inappropriate he might ever have said anywhere at any time about
Rosie O’Dell. He begged her forgiveness. And he asked her to convey his sincere
regrets for any inconvenience he might have caused to her good friend Tom as
well. He had told the police he was proceeding no further with his complaint.
The Naples sunshine in my face, I laughed out loud. It certainly was good and
funny. But not good and funny enough to revoke my decision to study in
London.

In Athens I got Rosie’s response to my letter from Rome about my study plans
for the fall. She was not really surprised, she wrote, but come hell or high
water we would be getting together for Christmas, supposing one of us had to
swim the Atlantic. I’d be home for Christmas, I assured her in each of the five
more letters I wrote her. I’d definitely be home in December to see her.

During the rest of my travels, I was in the company of a lot of jolly girls and
had many opportunities to be disloyal to Rosie, but after the close call with
Siggy I kept myself out of tempting situations. Then I arrived back in London,
moved into my new digs, and got to know Sian.

From my first week, my lodging there became sweet because of her and Morton. Of
all the students living in the building, three women and four men, I was
attracted strongly only to these two. Morton lived upstairs and Sian just down
the hall, and the three of us became such soulmates that I found myself in a
dilemma. Dad called to say the London office of his firm
was
sending me two excellent tickets to
Jesus Christ Superstar,
then playing
in the West End. “Perhaps you will want to ask your friend Sian to accompany
you,” he said, reading my mind.

When the tickets arrived in the mail, however, I began to feel uneasy about
inviting Sian. I forgot about reciprocating for the ballet ticket and reflected
instead that the closeness of our living quarters, our easy access to one
another, Sian not bothering in the least to disguise her interest, and the
powerful urges towards her that woke me up in bed could easily convert into the
beast with two backs.

But I honestly did not want that. I wanted to remain true to Rosie till I had
confirmed my feelings for her one way or the other at Christmas. I already knew
what those feelings were, at least based on my memories. It was possible they
might change when I spent time with her again, but I strongly doubted it. I
loved her now and I would love her then. I jumped out of my chair, ran up the
stairs with my tickets, and invited Morton to the musical next week. Morton
nearly kissed me in delight.

That evening I heard Morton’s and Sian’s voices in the hall, louder than
normal. A knock sounded on my door and Sian’s face appeared around it. “Pardon
me for intruding,” she said, smiling, “but I am exceedingly curious why you are
so cruel to me. I’ve been dying to see that musical, but couldn’t afford the arm
and leg the tickets cost, and I’m wondering why you bypassed my door and went
all the way upstairs to invite this Morton bloke instead of me.”

Her bluntness made me blurt, “You can have mine.”

“I don’t want yours.” She pulled Morton into the room. “I want his.”

“It’s not my fault,” said Morton, “if Tom was balmy enough to choose me over
you because of a woman an ocean away. Moreover, there is a remedy. Let’s buy a
third ticket and all chip in on its cost.”

“Why should Tom, or I, for that matter, be saddled with one-third of another
ticket?”

“We all have to pay a penalty for his being so daft as to choose me over you in
the first place,” said Morton. Both Sian and I conceded there was no rational
rebuttal to his argument.

The night we went to the theatre, Morton ended up with the third ticket, seated
on the other side of the theatre, while I sat next to Sian. Morton wouldn’t
elaborate to me on how the seating arrangement had changed beyond insinuating
that it had involved a death threat. Afterwards we went to a little Italian
restaurant where Sian insisted on treating us boys to pasta
and
Chianti for being so nice to her and turned the conversation to the love, or
lack thereof, in our lives. Morton and I having girlfriends back home, and Sian
having parted from her long-time boyfriend last spring, she said, “I so envy you
both.”

“There’s a thousand chaps at LSE who would do murder for your love,” said
Morton. “Last Friday at that social was the closest thing to a white-shark
feeding frenzy I ever want to see.” He was recalling the male students who’d
flocked around Sian.

“Mort, I don’t want a thousand chaps. I want only one.”

Morton turned to me. “The ties of distant love should be inversely proportional
to the opportunity for present lust.”

“You know you don’t believe that,” I said. “You’re as faithful as an old dog
to your Angela in Manchester.”

“I am. But by default. Sian here has not been seeking to circumnavigate my
person with those elegant limbs.”

“Morton, what lies!” said Sian. “I’m not interested in lust. I only want love.”
She wrote hopeless pathos across her face and lamented, “Oh, everyone has
someone, except me.”

We chimed, “Poor Sian,” and kissed her on opposite cheeks and ordered her the
chocolate cheesecake.

Back at our place, Sian invited us in for coffee. She asked me if I would mind
grinding the coffee beans while she went into the bathroom. Morton threw himself
onto the sofa, grinned like a jackanapes at me, and made obscene symbols with
his fingers involving a digit and a hole.

“Jesus, you are mad,” I said.

“I’m only prophesying your immediate future.”

“Yeah, well give it up,” I growled, grinding furiously.