I can get cleaned off in the garden hose, Rosa suggested.
Good idea. I hope you didnt do in any of the koi.
The what?
The fish.
I didnt mean to.
Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. Lets go.
As she followed Mrs. Carmichael across the lawn, Rosa glanced at the house and saw a ghost in the window. A small, pale person with a round Charlie Brown head stood staring out at her, veiled by lace curtains. She looked again and saw that the ghost was gone, shy as a hummingbird zipping out of sight.
Holy moly, she muttered.
Whats that? Mrs. Carmichael cranked opened the spigot.
Oh, nothing. It was kind of interesting, seeing a ghost. Sometimes she saw Mamma, but she didnt tell anyone. People would think she was lying, but she wasnt.
Stand right there. Mrs. Carmichael indicated a sunny spot. The grass was as soft as brand-new shag carpet. Hold out your arms.
Rosas shadow fell over the grass, a skinny cruciform with stringy hair. An arc of fresh water from the hose drenched her. Yikes, thats cold, she said.
Hold still and Ill be quick.
She couldnt hold still. The water was too cold, which felt good on the beestings but chilled the rest of her. She jumped up and down as though stomping grapes, like Pop said they used to do in the Old Country.
The ghost came to the window again.
Who is that? Rosa asked through chattering teeth.
Hes Mrs. Montgomerys boy.
Is he all alone in there?
He is. Put your head back, Mrs. Carmichael instructed. His sister went away to summer camp.
I bet hes lonely. Maybe I could play with him.
Mrs. Carmichael gave a dry laugh. I dont think so, dear.
Is he shy? Rosa persisted.
No. Hes a Montgomery. Now, turn around and Ill finish up.
Rosa squirmed under the impact of the cold stream of water. When the torture stopped, Mrs. Carmichael told her to wait on the back porch. She disappeared into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She returned with a stack of towels and a white terry-cloth bathrobe. Put this on, and Ill throw your clothes in the dryer.
As Rosa peeled off her wet clothes, Mrs. Carmichael stared at her legs. Mother of God, what happened to you?
Rosa surveyed the welts on her feet and legs. Bee-stings, she said. I kicked a hive. It was an accident, I swear
Why didnt you tell me?
Rosa thought it would be rude to point out that she had already tried to explain.
Heavenly days, said Mrs. Carmichael, wrapping a towel around her. You must be made of steel, child. Doesnt it hurt like hellfire?
Yes, maam.
Its all right to cry, you know.
Yes, maam, but it wont make me feel any better. The mud helped, though. And the cold water.
Let me find the tweezers and get those stingers out. We might need to call a doctor.
No. I mean, no, thank you. Rosa hoped she sounded firm, not impolite. While Mamma was sick, the whole family had had their fill of doctors. I dont need a doctor.
You sit tight, then. Ill get the tweezers.
A few minutes later, she returned with a blue-and-white first-aid kit and used the tweezers to pluck out at least seven stingers. Hmm, Mrs. Carmichael mused, maybe it wasnt such a bad idea, jumping in the pond. I think itll keep the swelling down. She gently pressed the palm of her hand to Rosas forehead, and then to her cheek.
Rosa closed her eyes. She had forgotten how good it felt when someone checked you for fever. It had to be done by a woman. A mother had a way of touching you just so. It was one of the zillion things she missed about Mamma.
No fever, Mrs. Carmichael declared. Youre lucky. Youre not allergic to beestings.
Im not allergic to anything.
Mrs. Carmichael treated the stings with baking soda and gave Rosa a grape Popsicle. Youre very brave, she said.
Thank you. Rosa didnt feel brave. The beestings hurt plenty, like little licks of fire all over, but after what happened with Mamma, Rosa had a different idea about what was worth crying about.
Mrs. Carmichael got a comb and tugged it through Rosas long, thick, curly hair. Rosa endured it in silence, biting her lip to keep from crying out. This is a mass of tangles, Mrs. Carmichael said. Honestly, doesnt your father
I do it myself, Rosa said, forcing bright pride into her tone. Pop doesnt know how to do hair.
I see.
Rosa pressed her lips together hard and stared at the painted planks on the porch floor. Mamma taught me how to make a braid. When she was sick, she used to let me get in bed with her, and shed do my hair. Rosa didnt tell Mrs. Carmichael that by the end, Mamma was too weak to do anything; she couldnt even hold a brush. She didnt tell her that the sickness that had taken Mamma took some of Rosa, too, the part that was easy laughter and feeling safe in the dark at night, the security of living in a house that smelled of baking bread and simmering sauce.
Dear? Are you all right?
Rosa tucked the memories away. Mamma said every girl should know how to make a braid. But its hard to do on your own head.
Mrs. Carmichael surprised her by holding her close, stroking her damp head. I guess it is hard, kiddo.
Ill keep practicing.
You do that. Like all grown-up women, Mrs. Carmichael was a champ at braiding hair. She made a fat, perfect braid down Rosas back. Ill put these things in the dryer. Wait here, and try to stay out of mischief.
Six
The housekeeper disappeared again and Rosa tried to be patient. Waiting was the pits. It was totally boring, and you never knew when it would end. She fiddled with the long tie that cinched in the waist of the thick terry robe. It was way too big for her, the sleeves and hem practically dragging.
Somewhere far away, the phone rang three times. Mrs. Carmichaels voice drifted through the house. Rosa couldnt hear the conversation, but Mrs. Carmichael laughed and talked on and on. She probably forgot all about Rosa.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Rosa pushed it with her foot and, almost all by itself, it swung open. She gasped softly at what she saw. Everything was white and steel, polished until it shone. There were miles of countertops, and Rosa figured the Montgomerys owned every tool and utensil that had ever been inventedstrainers and oddly shaped spoons, gleaming pots hanging from a rack, a huge collection of knives, baking pans in several shapes, timers and stacks of snow-white tea towels.
Boy, thought Rosa, Mamma would love this. She was the worlds best cook. Every night, she used to sing Funiculi while she fixed supperputtanesca sauce, homemade bread, pasta she made every Wednesday. Rosa had loved nothing better than working side by side with her in the bright scrubbed kitchen in the house on Prospect Street, turning out fresh pasta, baking a calzone on a winter afternoon, adding a pinch of basil or fennel to the sauce. Most of all, Rosa could picture, like an indelible snapshot in her mind, Mamma standing at the sink and looking out the window, a soft, slightly mysterious smile on her face. Her Mona Lisa smile, Pop used to call it. Rosa didnt know about that. She had seen a postcard of the Mona Lisa and thought Mamma was way prettier.
Rosa walked through the strange high-ceilinged kitchen, running her finger along the edge of the counter. She stood on tiptoe to peer out the window over the sink. It framed a view of the sea. Her mother wouldve gone nuts for this kitchen.
But it didnt smell like anything, just faintly of cleanser. Mammas kitchen always smelled like roasting chicken or baking pizza or freshly squeezed lemons.
Rosa finished her Popsicle and put the stick in a shiny, bullet-shaped trash can. She tried to keep still, she really did, but curiosity poked at her. She knew it was wrong, but she was going to snoop. She had always wondered about these great big houses. Shed seen them from the outside, painted giants with white scrollwork trim, shiny cars in the circular drives and yards where people in summer hats and starched white shirts held garden parties.
She walked down a hallway, her bare feet soundless on the polished wood floor, the hem of the robe dragging. Her hand stole inside the bathrobe to clutch at the shiny new key Pop had given her. She was old enough to have a house key now, and he told her never to lose it.
She could hear snatches of Mrs. Carmichaels phone conversation, and when she realized it was about her, she froze right under a big painting of a sailboat in a rustic frame.
know what to do with that poor little girl all summer. Pete wasnt gone five minutes and she got in trouble.
Pete was Pop. It seemed like every woman who knew him was waiting for him to mess up now that he didnt have a wife anymore.
Ohno idea, Mrs. Carmichael was saying. The kindest thing he can do for that child is remarry. She needs a mother.
No, thank you. Rosa buried her face in the overly long sleeves of the bathrobe to stifle a snort. She absolutely did not need a mother. She had the best mother in the world, and just because she wasnt around anymore didnt mean she was gone. She belonged to Rosa in a special way. Thats what Father Dominic said, and everyone knew priests didnt lie.
I still talk to you, dont I, Mamma? She thought the words as hard as she could.
At least Petes got his work, Mrs. Carmichael went on. Hes happy when he works. Hes like a different person. She gave a gentle laugh. Hmm. I know. And with those looks of his
Rosa got bored with eavesdropping. Everyone was always saying how Pop was still young and good-looking, and that he ought to find another wife. Why did people think you could replace someone, like she was a lost schoolbook and all you had to do was bring a check to the office and theyd give you another?
She continued her silent exploration of the house, feeling as though she had stepped into an enchanted castle. The front room was all white and lemony-yellow, with white furniture and a seashell collection in a jar. Photographs in silver frames pictured people in white clothes without wrinkles, just like in a magazine ad. There was a huge bouquet of cut flowers, probably from the garden Pop took care of. The glass-topped coffee table displayed an important-looking scrimshaw collection. The mantel had a crystal candelabrum with long white tapers that had never been lit.
This wasnt like going over to Lindas house to play. Everything was so big and so incredibly quiet. The flowers made it smell like the funeral home where they took Rosas mother.
She backed out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. Tall double doors with glass panes framed a room that had more books than the Redwood Library in Newport.
Rosa loved books. When Mamma got too sick to do anything else, and couldnt even braid hair anymore, Rosa used to get in bed with her and read and read and readThe Indian in the Cupboard, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Charlottes Web and poems from A Light in the Attic. And of course, Goodnight Moon, which Mamma used to read to Rosa every night when she was tiny.
She stepped into the room and inhaled the musty sunshine smell of books. She walked over to the lace-paneled windows and discovered a view of the garden and pond. Rosa caught her breath. The ghostly boy had stood right there, at the window, watching her run from attacking bees.
She wanted to browse through the books on the shelves, but she became aware of a hissing-gurgling-sucking sound. A creepy chill slipped over her skin. This was a haunted library.
She spun away from the window and saw the ghost on the couch.
Rosa had to push both fists against her mouth to keep from screaming. He was doing a terrible thing, sucking steam from a snaky plastic tube into his mouth. The tube was attached to a box, which emitted the hissing sounds.
Finally she found her voice. What are you doing?
He pulled the tube away from his mouth. This helps me breathe, he said. Its a portable bronchodilator.
She edged a little closer, but still felt wary. He was very skinny, lying on a leather sofa with a sailboat quilt covering him up. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a nice face, nicer than youd expect for a ghost boy. Pale yellow hair, pale blue eyes, pale white skin.
You need help breathing? she asked.
Sometimes. He set aside the tube, hooking it into a holder on the side of the machine. A wisp of steam coughed from the mouthpiece. I have asthma.
Can you get rid of it? Rosa tensed up, wishing she hadnt asked. Sometimes a person got sick and there was no way to get better.
No one can tell, he said. It can be controlled, and maybe itll improve when I get bigger and my lungs grow. Whats your name?
Rosina Angelica Capoletti, and everyone calls me Rosa. Whats yours?
Alexander Montgomery.
Does everyone call you Alex?
He offered a mild, sweet smile. No one calls me that.
Then I think I will.
They verified that they were just a year apart in age, but in the same grade. Alex had started kindergarten a year late on account of having trouble with his asthma. He admitted that he disliked school, and she got the impression that he got bullied a lot. She declared that she, too, despised school.
I know I have to go, she lamented. Its the only way to get ahead.
Ahead of what? he asked.
She laughed. I dont know. My brothers were in ROTC and joined the U.S. Navy for their education.
You go to college to get an education, he said with a frown.
If you go in the navy first, then the navy pays for it, she explained patiently. I thought everybody knew that. She indicated the book that lay open across his lap. What are you reading?
He picked it up and showed her the spine. Bulfinchs Mythology. Its a collection of Greek myths. This one is about Icarus. Theres a picture.
Rosa sat beside him on the sofa and scooted over to see. Alex thoughtfully put half the book on her lap. Hes flying, she said.
Yes.
He doesnt look like hes having much fun.
Well, hes in pain.
Why would he fly if it hurts him?
Because hes flying, Alex said as if that explained everything.
Rosa stuck out her bare foot. The beestings formed red dots on her ankle and shin. I tried flying, and trust me, its not worth the pain.
I saw you, he said. I was watching from the window.
I know. I saw you watching me.
I was going to come and help, but I didnt know what to do.
Thats all right. Mrs. Carmichael came straightaway when she heard me yelling.