The Bubble Reputation (3 page)

“She's brilliant all right,” said Miriam. Robbie poured the wine.

“Here's to the family,” he said, and raised his glass for a toast. The others did the same, all except for Mother. Robbie put the wineglass in her hand and closed her fingers around the stem.

“Here's to the family,” said Rosemary.

“The family,” said Uncle Bishop. Miriam drank along with the toasts, but did not propose one herself. The family was a society she rejoiced in only if she needed it. In the candlelight, her hair gleamed as red as Mother's did yellow.

“They look like pansies, don't they?” Uncle Bishop leaned over and whispered to Rosemary.

“I just don't like hard chocolates,” Mother said. She had already finished her glass of wine. She smiled at Rosemary, a stranger sitting next to her at the table.

Rosemary felt the panic rising up again, that urge to wish Mother normal. She stared instead at
The Chinese Horse
, fought the panic off. If she didn't, when the panic went away, it would leave remorse behind. Rosemary had lived through it all many times before.

The problem with Mother began long ago. Nine years. Ten years. She'd been cleaning the outside kitchen window and had fallen from the stepladder. What was lost when she came to, days later, was her ability to retain new memory. And she remembered only hit-and-miss sketches of the past. All life became new to her, over and over again. New happiness. New loss. Perpetually. To tell her that Father, her husband, had died twenty-some years earlier was to no advantage. She merely resuffered the pain and then, a short time later, could no longer remember he was dead. Miriam had much less patience with her than Rosemary, who tried to sidetrack her with candy, a television program, a magazine, until Mother at last forgot that she had even asked the question about Father.

This memory loss happened to many people, Rosemary was surprised to learn, and they had managed to go about life effectively, to hold jobs, raise a family, have hobbies. It was hard work for them, but it
could
be done. Yet Mother's problem was more than just the terrible brain malfunction. Her emotional instabilities had cropped up years earlier, before the fall. Rosemary remembered days of coming home from school to find Mother wrapped in a blanket, in the heat of June, sobbing. “We're all going to die someday,” was the only excuse she could offer. When Father did die, the year Rosemary turned ten, Mother experienced her first real wash of craziness. “His heart,” she said of the organ that had killed her husband, “must have known what was best.” But she never really pulled out of the low dive his death had thrust her into. She cried often and was forgetful. Scatterbrained at best.

The family had learned to deal with it simply as Mother's ups and downs. But the woman who emerged from the hospital two years after Father's death, after the fall, could hardly be called
forgetful
. She had gone from scatterbrained to Mad Hatter. Robbie barely remembered her as anything but crazy. Miriam remembered nothing more than embarrassment in front of her teenaged friends. “Personally, I think she jumped,” Miriam said often of the stepladder incident. Rosemary had been so caught up in losing Father that when she finally came around to ask questions, Mother was gone, too. In her place was a woman who wanted nothing more from her children than the courtesy one receives from strangers when meeting them on the street, when dining with them in the same restaurant, and plenty of soft chocolates.

In Rosemary's lovely dining room, upon the old oak table, the family ate dinner and mentioned everyone and everything but William. She was thankful. The suicide was not a subject she wanted brought up, something to be discussed as minutes of the meeting. She saw a great irony in the fact that William was the only person with whom she could discuss such a delicate issue.

“I'm a homicide away from doing something to Mrs. Abernathy,” Uncle Bishop said, and passed the garlic bread to Rosemary, who took a buttered piece and passed it on to Robbie. “She's threatening to have Ralph shot if he comes near her bird feeder again.”

“Can't you just keep him away?” asked Rosemary.

“But Ralphie's a tomcat,” Uncle Bishop explained. “He's already sprayed the daylights out of that tray feeder, and now he thinks it's his.”

“I've never heard of anything so ridiculous,” said Miriam.

“Miriam knows what spraying is, don't you, Miriam?” Uncle Bishop asked. “I've seen your husbands dripping at the altar.” He forked a large spool of spaghetti into his mouth. Miriam snatched her garlic bread away from Mother, who had reached a hand out to steal it. “Personally, I think Ralphie is getting the raw end of this deal,” Uncle Bishop continued. “He's even blamed for the dead birds Mrs. Abernathy sees along the road, miles from the house.”

“Did I get a letter from Aunt Sophie?” Mother asked suddenly. There was a short silence. Robbie was the one to finally ask.

“Who the hell is Aunt Sophie?”

***

“You always do the dishes when we're at your house,” Rosemary said to Uncle Bishop. “Just take Mother in by the fire and I'll cram everything into the dishwasher.”

Miriam offered to help and followed Rosemary to the kitchen with water glasses and a handful of forks. Rosemary suspected something else. It had been three months since Miriam had complained to her about the family and about her own personal problems.

“I seriously think Bishop is trying to turn Robbie toward gaiety,” said Miriam, rinsing the glasses.

“Gaiety?” asked Rosemary.

“You know,” said Miriam. “Gayhood. Gaydom. Gayness. Whatever noun they use for that kind of lifestyle.”

“Don't be silly. Uncle Bishop is a good influence on Robbie.”

“Rosemary, he's in love with a man who
wears
dresses
. You didn't know that, did you? Well, there's a lot that's happened during your little vacation.” Rosemary looked at her sister.
Little
vacation.
In Miriam's mind, getting over William's death was as easy as sunning in the Bahamas. “He has to go out of state to find them,” Miriam continued. “There aren't a lot of that kind in Maine, you know. At least not north of Bangor.”

“Robbie's an intelligent adult,” Rosemary said. She turned on the garbage disposal. “He knows what's best for himself.”

“That's where you're wrong,” said Miriam. Rosemary handed her a crystal water glass and Miriam feigned searching for a dish towel in one of the kitchen drawers. Miriam never
found
a dish towel because Miriam didn't
want
to find a dish towel. “I worry that those are the only role models Robbie has.”

“Robbie is twenty-six years old,” said Rosemary. “Not four. And try to remember that Mother has been one of his role models.”

Rosemary finished loading her wear-and-tear dishes into the washer, and then pushed the Start button. Inside, the dishes clinked happily. The dishwasher had been a contribution to the household from William, evidence of a lucrative summer along the coast, near Mount Desert Island, selling quick sketches of Maine's ocean, lobster traps, and gnarled fishermen to tourists. Those lucrative summers, however, had been sparse. Rosemary had taken her summer salary in a lump sum that year and bought the clothes washer and dryer. But the noisy dishwasher had been William's gift to the house, and even the watery sound of it at work saddened her.

“Where does Bishop get his money, anyway?” Miriam asked now. “That's what I'd like to know. He hasn't worked in years. In fact, I can't remember him ever working. Yet he has plenty of money. Where does he get it, Rosemary? Do you think he's involved in some sort of porno racket with homosexuals?”

“I
heard
that, Miriam,” Uncle Bishop yelled from the den.

***

In the living room Mother beckoned to Robbie for more wine. Then she held the glass tightly in her hands and rocked back and forth in her chair. Miriam sat in the recliner, her legs crossed.

“Where's Raymond?” asked Robbie.

“Looking at some land along the coast,” Miriam answered. She and Raymond met at a “Get Rich Through Real Estate” seminar and had fallen head over heels into buying land at dirt-cheap prices, dividing it into plots, and then selling it to anyone who would give them money for it. “We're going to erect some condos,” she added.

“Condoms?”
Uncle Bishop asked. “You should be good at erecting condoms, Miriam.”

“Raymond thinks it'll develop nicely,” Miriam said.

“Miriam and Raymond are selling the state of Maine to New York City,” Uncle Bishop warned the others. “Mark my words. We'll get up one morning and see a big arm sticking up in the air, holding a torch.”

“‘'Tis the last rose of summer,'” Mother sang loudly, “‘left blooming alone.'” She curled one foot to still the rocker. “Where's Aunt Sophie's piano?” she asked.

Rain hit against the churchlike windows of the house. Rosemary heard Mugs the cat scratching on the back door and went to let him in.

“It's really coming down out there,” she told them, hoping to speed up the good-byes. She needed to take this reacquaintance idea slowly.

“I'd better drive her home,” said Robbie. “Aunt Rachel will be waiting up.” He touched Mother's arm.

“Hey, mister,” Mother said, her eyes locked on her son. “You got any money?”

“I'll catch a ride home with you, Robbie,” said Miriam, who had refused to drive again after an accident she'd had ten years earlier. “The year I hit the ice-cream truck was the year I turned thirty,” she liked to mention, as though that chronological fact were connected in some cosmic way to her bad driving.

“Miriam's mad because I won't let her smoke in my Datsun,” said Uncle Bishop. “I don't know why she just doesn't quit. A cigarette is the dirtiest thing you can put in your mouth.”

“And this from a
homosexual
,” said Miriam. “Go figure.” She found her plastic rain hat in her purse and unfolded it. Mother was already at the door, peering out at the rainy night.

“That damn bus,” Mother said, when she felt Rosemary put a hand on her tiny shoulder. “That damn bus is always late.”

***

When the others had left, Rosemary poured herself another glass of wine and Uncle Bishop another scotch. They sat before the last of the fire in the Schrader fireplace.

“What's this Miriam tells me about a new boyfriend?” she asked.

“Just what did Tokyo Rose say?” Uncle Bishop's eyes narrowed at the mention of Miriam's name.

“Nothing, really. So you tell me.”

“He has such a keen sense of fashion,” Uncle Bishop said then. He twirled the scotch in his glass. “He was waiting tables when I met him. The man should have his name on asses all over the world, like Calvin Klein does, and instead he's shoveling cheese sticks to college students.” Mugs had come to Rosemary's side and was rubbing back and forth against her arm, marking her well with his scents.

“Where are your shoes?” Rosemary asked cautiously. Uncle Bishop looked at her, studied her face.

“Miriam's mouth isn't shaped like a megaphone for nothing,” he said.

“Well?”

“Some people throw knives,” Uncle Bishop said. “And a shoe is really a very friendly missile.”

“Unless it has a heel.”

“Heels
do
sting.” He looked at Rosemary. “So he has a thing for shoes. Some people collect dead insects. Miriam collects husbands. Come over some night and have dinner. Meet Jason for yourself.”

“Jason?” asked Rosemary. “You know, I
can
see that on the asses of the world.”

Uncle Bishop beamed at her.

Rosemary walked him to the door and then opened it. They stood in the casement and listened to the rain beat upon the roof, then drip down from the eaves.

“Pants by Jason,” Rosemary added, and Uncle Bishop smiled again. He squeezed her tightly. “Oh, Uncle Bishop,” said Rosemary, and all the words she wanted to say caught up in her throat. He patted her hand.

“It's okay, baby doll,” he said softly. “It's gonna be okay.” He put an arm around her, hugging her up to his chest. Rosemary saw spaghetti sauce spots on the gray sweatshirt.

“I miss William so much,” she whispered.

“You always will,” said Uncle Bishop. He held her to him, and she sank into the fleshiness of his body, a huge, soft mattress. She let him cradle her. Uncle Bishop had, after all, been father and mother to her, and to Robbie. So what if he loved a man with a passion for shoes, and who occasionally threw them at him?

Rosemary watched Uncle Bishop drive off into the wet night in his baby-blue truck, with the plastic Paul Bunyan dangling from the rearview mirror. Then she went back to check on the fireplace, Mugs trailing behind. With a strip of shimmering rain still running down his back, Mugs looked like a fluorescent skunk. Rosemary gave him a quick pat before she took the screen off the fireplace and closed the heavy doors.

***

As Rosemary was fixing a late snack the phone rang, startling her. She looked at the clock. It was almost one. She was now more suspicious than ever of phones ringing late at night.

“Oh no,” she said, remembering who it would be. “‘The Children's Hour.'” She picked up the receiver and heard that booming, familiar voice.

“It's the worst thing you can imagine,” Uncle Bishop said. He never waited for her to say hello. Even when William was there, he knew
she'd
pick up the phone for his late-night panic calls. “It's to the point where I may never sleep again.”

“Tell me about it,” Rosemary said.

“The accumulation of ice at the North Pole?” he asked. He seemed to be gone for a couple of seconds, and then was back, full voice in her ear. Rosemary knew he'd taken the time to pour another scotch. “The Children's Hour” was not, contrary to what Longfellow thought, between the dark and the daylight, but between midnight and a bottle of scotch.