The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold (13 page)

Blanche threw up her hands. “Okay, it’s your money.” She started to unzip the black jumper.

“Are you going to get that?”

“No.” Blanche wiggled out of it, and strung it back on the hanger.

Rose was trying on the paisley maternity jumper, which was like a tent on her. “I could live with someone in this dress and no one would know,” she remarked.

“Well, that was a good day’s shop,” Rose said gleefully as they left the store. She hugged her two bags to her chest, dreamily imagining herself in a long, rainbow colored dress combining the best characteristics of both gowns she had bought. The city streets, bright with the color and noise of hundreds of various shoppers and sellers, complemented her mood. She felt like singing.

Blanche walked quietly beside her. She had bought the white blouse and (at Rose’s urging) a pink and blue kerchief on display at the counter for fifty cents. Rose wondered if her sister was still feeling jealous, and decided to exercise her energies in cheering her up.

“Why don’t we go to that flea market we saw on the last block?” she asked.

“Okay,” Blanche said, a bit interested. When the girls had lived in the country, some of their favorite places to shop were flea markets.

They soon found the market on a blocked-off street and immersed themselves in the crowds going back and forth in packed masses among rows of wooden tables where antiques, jewelry, old books and records, and paintings were being examined, haggled over, and sold.

“Hold onto your purse,” Blanche murmured in Rose’s ear, and Rose slid hers beneath her sweater to keep it safe from pickpockets. She held onto her sister’s hand, and they wove among the dealers and buyers with eager excitement.

They spent a good deal of time admiring glass-topped boxes full of silver rings and necklaces, and then Rose saw a table full of old books. “Let’s go over there,” she suggested. So they shouldered and excused their way through the crowd until they were able to squeeze into the bookseller’s stall.

The owner, a longhaired blond lady in dark glasses and an Indian sari, sat on a campstool reading Nietzsche. She mumbled something about negotiable prices at them when they started to look, but otherwise paid no attention to them. “I wonder if she has any Chesterton?” Rose mused to Blanche.

“These look like Hindu books,” Blanche said. “I doubt there’s anything we’d like.”

Just then, Rose recognized the other person in the book stall with them, a short thin figure in a hat and raincoat, several packages and an open book in his hands. “Mr. Freet!”

The figure started, dropped several packages, swore, and stooped to the ground.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Rose gasped as she and Blanche rushed to help him pick them up.

“Damnation!” Mr. Freet swore again, looking down at the street where there was a drain covering, “I’ve lost my keys down this grate!”

“Oh, and it’s all my fault!” Rose cried penitently.

“Don’t just stand there—you’ve got small hands—use them to get my keys instead of using your tongue!” Mr. Freet snapped.

Rose got on all fours and tried to fish for the keys, which were lying about six inches below the grate. She tried, to no avail.

“Blanche, see if you can get it. Your hands are thinner than mine,” Rose suggested after a minute.

So Blanche tried, with no luck. But before Mr. Freet could spout out more expletives, she took out a crochet hook from her purse. “This might work,” she said.

She managed to snag the keys with the very tip of it. Carefully she eased them through the bars of the grating, and handed them to Mr. Freet. “We’re awfully sorry we startled you,” she said.

He didn’t thank her for the keys. “Older people startle easily. You should know that,” he grumbled, looking about for the book he had dropped.

“What were you reading?” Rose asked, inquisitive as always.

“Some piece of Eastern mumbo-jumbo,” Mr. Freet said, picking it up. “It’s everywhere these days. New Age gibberish.” He sniffed disparagingly. “About the only thing I find remotely intriguing are the pre-Christian Gnostics. But you can’t find them in a place like this.”

“I like G. K. Chesterton,” Rose volunteered, thinking that the air was ripe for a good conversation.

“Chesterton? Highly overrated,” Mr. Freet snorted. “A good stylist, but too air-headed. Spouting simplistic platitudes. Read Shaw. At least he had his head on straight.” He made as if to leave, but suddenly stopped, as though something had caught his eye on the other side of the street. He leaned forward, a look of avid interest on his face.

Rose looked around, trying to figure out what he was looking at. But she saw something that made her forget about Mr. Freet. She clutched her sister’s arm. “Look! Isn’t that Bear?”

On the other side of the street, facing them and talking to an antique dealer, was a tall, burly figure in a black trench coat whose dark dreadlocks were covered by a leather motorcycle hat. He wore shades and had a tough-guy expression on his face, but Rose recognized him at once.

Mr. Freet pushed out of the booth past them and disappeared into the crowd.

“What is Bear doing?” Blanche exclaimed in a low voice.

Bear, talking to the antique dealer, had taken out something he had hidden in his trench coat. Gold glimmered in the early spring air, glancing out at them from across the crowd. Rose recognized the shape. It was a chalice, the kind priests used during the Mass.

Apparently, Bear was trying to sell the chalice, because when the dealer said something and shook his head, a grimace flashed over Bear’s face and he thrust the chalice back under his coat and turned away.

“Let’s go talk to him!” Rose said eagerly.

But then she noticed that Blanche’s face was frozen. “Rose, suppose he stole that?”

“Where in the world would he steal a chalice from?”

“Uh—Maybe from that old church he took us to?”

“Well—we can ask him!  Come on!” Rose pulled her sister into the crowd and started making for the booth.

She caught a glimpse of Bear striding away, fast. He hadn’t seen them. She tried to run, but the people in the market pushed around her and blocked her way. After a few minutes, she realized that it was probably impossible, but she kept going doggedly in the same direction.

Blanche, holding all three shopping bags, panted to her sister, “Rose! Stop!”

“I’m just trying to get to that open place ahead. Maybe we can see him!” Rose called back.

Blanche said something Rose couldn’t hear. But in a moment, they had arrived at the open spot, a corner of the block at one end of the market. Rose looked around and saw what she had hoped not to see—Bear disappearing down a side street the next block over.

“Hurry up!” she shouted, plunging back into the crowd.

“Rose! You’re going to get us killed!” Blanche cried to no avail.

The crowds were thinning out, and Rose was able to run, still hanging on to Blanche and dragging her along. In a moment, they had reached the side street and Rose dived down it. It was mostly deserted, but none of the few people visible were Bear.

In the middle of the block, Blanche said, “It’s no use. We’ve lost him.” She sounded relieved.

Rose begged, “Let’s just try a few more streets.”

There was no sign of Bear anywhere amid the rows of crumbling tenement buildings.

“Let’s get out of here,” Blanche finally mumbled, looking around.

“Okay,” Rose agreed reluctantly, and they tried to trace their way back to the market street. But they seemed to have lost it.

“Where are we?” Blanche asked.

Rose studied the two street signs on the corners closest to them. “Uh, actually, I have no idea.”

“Great, just great,” Blanche heaved a sigh. “Let’s ask for directions to the nearest subway.”

“Okay,” and Rose crossed the street with Blanche in tow. She approached a cigarette-smoking woman in a tight skirt who was standing there.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the subway?” she asked politely as the woman looked at them curiously. Rose had never seen someone wearing so much makeup.

“Sure honey. Just go around that corner and take a right. You’ll see it up on the left.” The woman motioned with her cigarette and turned to smile at the man walking past them.

“Thank you!” Rose called as she and Blanche walked away quickly. They found the subway and got onto the train that would take them home.

“Rose, do you know what that woman was?” Blanche asked in a low voice as the train began to rumble beneath them.

“No—should I?”

“She was a streetwalker!”

“Oh,” said Rose in surprise.

“Didn’t you see the way she was looking at all the men?” asked Blanche incredulously.

“No, I guess I didn’t pick that up,” she admitted, and pondered.  “I wonder if she saw Bear. She might have been able to tell us which direction he went in…” 

Blanche looked at her sister and just shook her head.

“He just seemed to disappear,” Rose mused out loud.

“He probably wanted to disappear,” said Blanche. “Rose, has it ever occurred to you that Bear keeps parts of his life secret from us for a reason?”

“Like what?” Rose asked. “What, do you really think he’s a thief?”

Blanche sat silent and staring out the window as the subway train roared on towards their neighborhood stop. “I don’t know what to think,” she said at last, letting out a long breath. “He’s a mystery to me.”

Chapter 9

ROSE STARED at herself in the mirror in fascination.  Perhaps she had turned into a fairy. She certainly didn’t look like the redheaded girl who usually stared out of that shining surface. Now, the reflection gazing back at her was a sprite with hair piled atop her head—thanks to her mother’s artifices—her enigmatic eyes darker and more mysterious, highlighted with a dash of shadow and tasteful mascara, and her slim form encased in red satin and purple sequins. Whenever she moved, something glistened. A splendid and many-colored creature. No, she did not look at all like ordinary Rose Mary Brier.

“How do I look?” she asked Blanche, when she dared to speak at all—lest the vision vanish.

Blanche stood beside her, frowning. “I wish you’d worn the other dress. The skirt on this one is too short.”

“I sort of like it that way,” Rose murmured. “It’s daring, isn’t it?”

Blanche didn’t answer.

“I can’t believe that it’s really prom night—at last,” Rose said. She felt that she was making Blanche feel bad, but she simply had to say something.

“I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” Blanche said, toying with the jewelry box on the bureau.

Their mother came over. “Let me spray your hair one more time, Rose.”

Rose shut her eyes gently, because of the mascara, and basked in the pungent rain of scented alcohol. The smell was invigorating. It meant she was going out.

“Did you use to do your hair like this when you were a teenager?” she asked her mother after she had opened her eyes and examined her gleaming hairstyle one last time.

Mom laughed. “Yes, something like it. But my older sisters and aunts were a little wilder in their hairstyles—teased and fretted beehives! I’d watch them do up their hair that way, and they taught me. This hairstyle is pretty conservative by comparison.”

“I like it,” Rose breathed a deep sigh. She liked to think of her mother as a teenager, laughing and stylish and giddy. These days, their mother tended to be pretty sober most of the time—she had been that way ever since Dad died. Rose smoothed back the tiniest hair that had escaped the twist and sprayed it. For some reason, wearing her hair like her mother gave her a sense of continuity with the past. She liked that.

Once again she ran a light finger over the twisted knots and loops of hair pinned firmly on her head, just to luxuriate. She hoped it would stay up during the dancing. “Thanks, Mom.” She caught her mother’s eyes in the mirror and smiled.

“You look lovely, Rose.” Mother bent down and kissed her. “I wish they wouldn’t have called me into work tonight. It makes me nervous not being here when you’re out. I almost think I should have volunteered to chaperone.”

“But Mom, I’m only going to a banquet hall, and then back to school for the after-prom. There’s nothing really to worry about,” Rose protested.