The Bubble Reputation (9 page)

“It's all in how you perceive the birds,” said Rosemary. “Mrs. Abernathy tends to be a little too anthropomorphic.”

“I don't
rant
,” Uncle Bishop said again.

“You rant,” said Rosemary. “How's the dollhouse coming?” She shooed away a large bumblebee that came suddenly out of the zinnias. “Did you get any further along?” Uncle Bishop was gazing at a chickadee as he sipped his wine.

“I've wired the dining room and now there are lights in there, thank God,” he said.

The dollhouse pattern had come from one of his magazines on the subject, but he had thrown the blueprint away and designed his own house. He had even built all the midget furniture. This was the second house he was on now. The other one was sitting silently in his basement workshop, black-windowed, covered with a plastic sheet, waiting for some imaginary family to take up residence. “I wouldn't want a family with children to move in,” Uncle Bishop had said, thoughtfully, as he proudly displayed the first dollhouse to Rosemary and William the day he finished it. “Kids would just ruin that white rug in the master bedroom.” Rosemary had been astounded at the minute workmanship that Uncle Bishop's sausagelike fingers were capable of. They hardly seemed adept at opening beer cans, yet here was consummate work in the tiny brick fireplace, the brassy doorknobs, the cushiony divan. Work small enough to be done by spiders, yet Uncle Bishop's large, mannish hands had accomplished it, there in his basement beneath the earth, cavelike perhaps, like the early artists. Miriam had seen it all differently. “A fat homosexual hanging little drapes in tiny windows,” Miriam had
ranted
. “He's even got itty-bitty towels in the bathroom and toothbrushes a fingernail long. And he says he's only going to let an imaginary
gay
couple move in. Is that or is that not reason to move from Maine?”

It was true that Uncle Bishop had all those things in the dollhouse. He even had a tiny plastic cat—one that looked uncannily like Ralph—curled on a braided rug in front of the hearth. And there was a cat's bowl by the kitchen door, small clothes on little hangers in the closets, pictures on the walls, dishes in the cupboard, a china cabinet full of wonderful treasures. “I wish I lived in this house,” Rosemary had said, that night with William, in the basement workshop, as Uncle Bishop straightened a wishlike afghan on a Louis XV chair in the parlor. “I'd let
you
move in, Rosie,” he'd said. And then he had closed the door to the dollhouse, straightened the plastic plants on the steps outside, and turned off the mini
ature porch light.

“I need to lay the linoleum in the kitchen,” Uncle Bishop said now. He was thinking of the work that needed doing in the new dollhouse. “What you must realize about the people who build dollhouses,” William had told Rosemary, that same night as they lay in bed talking about Uncle Bishop's wonderful hobby, “is that, after a while, they live in them.”

“I hung a beautiful little Renoir print on the wall going upstairs,” Uncle Bishop said. “But I've just been sitting here thinking about it. Even if I let someone move in who has no kids, they might still have a party. People going up and down the stairs to the bathroom might knock it down.”

As they swung quietly, Rosemary imagined a boisterous crowd, perhaps at Christmastime, partying it up in the dollhouse, which would be sheathed in spruce boughs and pine cones and spicy red candles. And the little kitchen would be bulging with plates of hors d'oeuvres, canapés and caviars, shrimp cocktails, pâtés, plum puddings. And the guests, elegant and mysterious beneath the mistletoe, would, sometime after midnight, become loud and happy, clinking their fluted glasses of champagne, their martini glasses ringing out like brief songs from the baby grand in the parlor. And the blazing Christmas tree, with its thimble-sized packages, would cast blue, red, and green reflections out across the feathery drive, where the potted plants sat dreaming beneath the artificial snow. Would it be just past the stroke of midnight, on this synthetic Christmas Eve, that a man, resplendent in a black tuxedo with satin lapels, dark trousers, and bow tie, a martini glistening in his hand beneath the chandelier, would corner a young woman on the stairs? And would this young woman, demure in floor-length red satin, regal in white pearls about the neck and wrist, who had caught his eye among the festive crowd all evening, would she gush girlishly, leaning back against the wall to steady her heart, to steady her champagne notions? Would it be then that her pearl-white shoulder would wrench the painting from its hook to send it crashing down the stairs, the frame twisting, then breaking, causing all the partygoers to gather at the foot around the broken Renoir? And there above the guests would be the lovers, blushing and embarrassed, a married man and his ripe little berry of a mistress, caught in the act, a Christmas party ruined.

“Flagrante delicto,” Rosemary said. “Caught red-handed.” And the red would be a
satin
red. “Caught with his hands full of red satin.”

“What?” asked Uncle Bishop. His wineglass was empty and he twirled it idly about his plump fingers as though it were a baton. “You sit here and talk about doilies and satin for no apparent reason and yet you say that
I
rant.”

“Which Renoir is it that you have hanging on the stairway wall?” Rosemary asked, not wanting him to know she had peopled his dollhouse with revelers, had thrown a party the minute his back was turned. What must the house look like now? Were the rugs spotted with alcohol? All the little dishes sticky with food? Were the ashtrays bulging with imported cigarette stubs? Were all the presents opened and the tree lightless? Was the cat confused and hungry by the empty bowl near the kitchen door? “People who build dollhouses eventually live in them,” William had said. And for nights after he died, nights when Rosemary could not find sleep, she had imagined herself sitting up in one of Uncle Bishop's dainty Louis XV beds, beneath the Barbie-doll spread he had so lovingly crocheted for that purpose.

“Girl with a Watering Can,”
said Uncle Bishop. “I think I'm going to move it upstairs where it'll be safe. The Japanese pay top dollar for that stuff these days, you know.”

“Do you want another glass of wine?” Rosemary asked him, and took the big hands so capable of tiny work up into her own. They were cold, clammy. He shook his head. No more wine. “Do you want to talk about Jason?” Again he shook his head.

“I'd better be going,” he said. “It makes me nervous to think about that Renoir hanging there on the stairway. That was really stupid of me. Do you think my homeowner's insurance will cover it?” He lifted himself from the swing. Rosemary knew that if he didn't want to talk, there was no use to pry. Uncle Bishop was like Mrs. Abernathy's telepathic morning glories. He would unfold when the time was right.

She walked with him over to the Datsun. She was about to mention that perhaps he should give the poor truck a bath when she heard the unmistakable whine, as if a motor scooter were coming up Old Airport Road. Nearly tripping over a startled Mugs, she raced around the Datsun and out into the front yard just in time to see, disappearing, the red-and-yellow flash of the ultralight man, with his insect motor and goggle-eye glasses, soft as a dream over the treetops, and then gone. He'd been blazing all kinds of trails in the sky over Bixley. Had he been going back to BJ's? Should she go back and look for him? Now the sky was empty. There was nothing left to prove he had even been there. There were no pinkish puffs of clouds left, like bread crumbs, to mark his trail.

“So that's the ultralight man Miriam says you're obsessed with?” Uncle Bishop asked. “I'd be suspicious of anyone who can't do a snap roll.”

“I'm not obsessed,” said Rosemary. “I just told her that if she's ever at BJ's, and sees a man in a red-and-yellow suit, to call me.” She was now embarrassed to think about this. She had asked
Miriam
.

“Miriam's into real estate, Rosie,” Uncle Bishop said. “I wouldn't be surprised but what all her male friends wear red-and-yellow suits.”

Rosemary hugged him good-bye. In her arms he felt soft and movable as jelly. She watched him drive off down the dusty road until he was out of sight.

***

At ten thirty she was already asleep. The dreams were back again and vivid in color: Renoir's little girl, with her blue, satiny dress and shiny watering can, watering all the plastic flowers in Uncle Bishop's dollhouse until, the can empty, she pressed her face with its tiny eyes against the churchlike windows of the house, ignored the cries of the starving cat, ignored the guests who came and went, waited, the blond in her hair turning to brown, then gray. Like an old plant in the window, orphaned, dead at the roots, she was trapped in the house, forever.

Philip Sheppard was quiet, as houseguests go. The few times that he and Lizzie crossed paths with Rosemary, he was always polite, well mannered. And Rosemary had yet to see him in jeans and a casual shirt. Instead, he wore Versace jackets, slacks, and a colored array of Italian shoes. This was in complete opposition to Lizzie's disarray. She usually had her long blackish hair pinned up in a scarf that matched a pink or blue sweatshirt, and Levi Strauss or Wrangler jeans. Seeing Lizzie and Philip together was a statement of their situation: they looked like they belonged with other people, Lizzie with Charles, Philip with someone else.

“Will Philip be here this weekend when Mother arrives?” Rosemary asked Lizzie, when Philip went out to his car for a parcel he had forgotten to bring in.

“I think so. That's if you don't mind.” Lizzie was looking tired. She'd been in Bixley for two weeks and instead of being rested and peaceful without Charles, the children, or the untrained dog, she appeared haggard. Rosemary was making tomato, cucumber, and lettuce sandwiches for the three of them. Lizzie took potato salad out of the refrigerator and sniffed it.

“Sniffing is not really a scientific test for salmonella,” said Rosemary. She and Lizzie had had this argument many times before, in college. Lizzie put the salad on the table. It had obviously passed.

“It's test enough for me,” she said.

“How will Philip react to Mother?” Rosemary asked. Mugs rubbed against her leg, then reached up a paw to touch her. “You don't like cucumber, Mugs.”

“Philip's a lawyer, remember,” Lizzie said. “He's seen much worse than your mother. Did I ever tell you about the man from Portland who fell in love with a Shetland pony and sued Portland Riding Stables for visitation rights?”

“Don't,” said Rosemary.

“Besides,” Lizzie continued. “It's not your mother's fault she fell off that ladder and hit her head.”

“I think the whole family agrees on one thing,” said Rosemary. “That Mother's problem was only enhanced by the fall.” It had always bothered her, this visual image of Mother tumbling from the ladder and onto her head. It was the comic notion of insanity.
Did
someone
give
you
a
whack
on
the
head? You must have been dropped on your head as a child.
When Rosemary received the phone call from Aunt Rachel that Mother had taken a wicked fall, and that it was most serious, maybe even fatal, she had thought of the Great Wallenda, falling from his tightrope. Aunt Rachel was giving her details, and instead of listening, all Rosemary could see was Carl Wallenda falling down, down, with plenty of time to think. The Great Wallenda, watching the film of his life being rerun beneath his lids, while on the street below, the pulsing crowd pushed forward like a giant mouth, waiting to swallow him up. What was it William had said of a mountain climber, that rainy night in front of the fire? “No one forces him to climb. He goes of his own free will.”

Philip came into the kitchen and scooped Mugs up in an armful of black-and-white fur and round, yellow eyes.

“If Philip is no problem for
you
,” Lizzie whispered in Rosemary's ear, “Mother is no problem for
us
.”

“Secrets?” Philip asked. His clothes, Rosemary noticed, never seemed to wrinkle, even after sitting about all day.

“We were just talking girl talk,” said Lizzie. “That's all.”

“I see.” Philip nodded. “You told her about the pony fucker.”

***

It was early in the evening, on Friday, when Aunt Rachel drove up Rosemary's drive with Mother bouncing in the front seat. The air was warm and thick, like the air after a house fire, an ashy, cinder-filled air. Lightning bugs came and went among the fields of hay across the road, and crickets rubbed their tireless legs. Mother brought with her a little suitcase that looked more like a picnic basket. Rosemary imagined good things to
eat
inside, rather than to wear.

“I'm visiting friends in Old Orchard Beach,” Aunt Rachel said, when Rosemary inquired about the vacation week. “A few walks on the beach, a few seashells, a few good chats, that sort of thing.” Her face was a grayish pale, her cheekbones more prominent than ever. The family had learned, just weeks before, that Aunt Rachel was battling cancer. Rosemary and Uncle Bishop had insisted again on taking turns housing and caring for Mother, but Aunt Rachel would hear nothing of it. “It takes a professional,” was all she'd say. “And what would I do alone in that big old house? Your mother is good company. We have an order to our lives.” So Uncle Bishop and Rosemary continued to handle the financial burden, Uncle Bishop with the lion's share. Even Robbie, who was now out of college and working in construction until he decided his future, pitched in. Only Miriam never contributed. Instead, she wanted to know how Uncle Bishop was able to do so, and so generously. Two hundred dollars a week. “Where does he get his money?” Miriam ranted. “He's got to be involved in some homo-porno ring.”

Mother didn't want to stay. She clung to Aunt Rachel's arm, crying and mumbling. But Aunt Rachel talked to her gently, soothed her flouncing blond curls, and assured her there were worse things on the planet than spending a week with this
stranger
. Uncle Bishop had brought Mother's rocker over earlier in the day, so Rosemary took her by the hand and led her into the den. When Mother saw the rocker, she quickly grabbed at it.

“My chair!” she cried. “Mr. Talbot fixed it!” Robbie, Miriam, Uncle Bishop, Rosemary, all strangers to her. Yet Mr. Talbot—who was formerly of Talbot Hardware in Bixley and had moved away when Rosemary was in her early teens—still surfaced now and then in the theater of Mother's mind. And she never forgot her rocking chair. Aunt Rachel was the one person Mother never failed to recognize. There was a most unusual umbilical cord stretching between the two sisters that Rosemary had never understood. They didn't seem to have a lot in common. Aunt Rachel enjoyed classical music, sitting sometimes in the dark and listening to the melancholy notes of Mozart. Mother was all lights and the popular, raucous tunes of her girlhood. A little something by Sinatra or the Harry James Orchestra, yes, but never
The
Magic
Flute
. Aunt Rachel was a good bottle of wine. Mother had been gin and tonic in her day. Aunt Rachel was always dressed primly in button-down blouses and sensible skirts. A serious dress. Rosemary had seen the old pictures of Mother in elegant Hollywood hairdos copied from magazines, and sweeping patterns she'd made by hand. She remembered Mother in velvet dresses, and silk skirts that moved about her hips like water. Even on wash days Mother wore makeup, a bluish tint to the upper lids, a trace of pinkish red to the lips, combs in her hair, a perfumy, musky smell about her bosom and neck. Aunt Rachel would never dance around the kitchen singing about daring young men who swing from woman to woman as though they were trapezes. Yet, even suffering from recurring cancer, Aunt Rachel refused to let anyone take Mother away.

Rosemary brought Mother a cup of tea and a slice of banana bread. She ate in little bites, breaking the pieces away with her fingers. Rosemary found the crocheted slippers that Aunt Rachel had said were in the suitcase, and she put them on Mother's feet.

“Thank you, dearie,” said Mother, and she sipped her tea. Rosemary turned the television set on, but Mother paid no attention to the screen. Entertaining her was akin to babysitting. She couldn't be left alone for very long. And she was a tiny stranger in Rosemary's huge house.

Rosemary unpacked a few of the things Aunt Rachel had sent: a magic slate, a toy xylophone, and a Cabbage Patch doll. The doll had annoyed Miriam. “Aunt Rachel spoils her,” Miriam had said. “Our mother owns a Cabbage Patch Kid called Betsy Kathleen. Is that or is that not reason to move to Siberia?” Seeing her unpacked, Mother reached for Betsy Kathleen. Except for the braids, the doll looked startlingly like Andy Rooney. As Rosemary watched, Mother undressed it and then changed its diaper. It unnerved Rosemary to see this. How many times had Mother performed this self-same task on her? On Miriam and Robbie? Somewhere in her mind, was Mother raising her family all over again? Rosemary stared at the doll as it was dressed again in its denim jumpsuit. Its hair was the brownish wheat color of her own. Its eyes were as blue. Mother patted Betsy Kathleen's bottom to say
good
girl
, and then wrapped her in a baby blanket. Rosemary felt short of breath, too warm, as if a blanket were smothering her, as if Mother were clutching her too tightly. Perspiration formed on her forehead.

Rosemary left Mother alone with her new baby, her fourth child if anyone was counting, and went outside where the swing hung empty. She could see Mother through the glass door, could keep an eye on her antics. Mother with her doll. Uncle Bishop with his dollhouse. Rosemary thought of her father, dead for twenty-two years, a ghost to her, almost. His memory was kept alive and tied to her by the sense of smell: his Old Spice aftershave and his white cotton T-shirt that had been all day on the clothesline, in the river breeze. Before falling asleep, Rosemary would go into his room and crawl into bed beside him. He would be half asleep, half awake enough to unfold one of his massive arms and take her in close. And there, next to the heat of his body, with the Old Spice lingering amidst the cool river breeze of the T-shirt, she could almost see the blue Yankee clipper ship on the bottle bob gently up and down on the white T-shirt, then sail away, taking her with it.

Mother was putting her sleeping baby to bed on the couch. She covered it with the same pastel blanket and then, as mysteriously as it had appeared, this mother concern was gone. Off Mother went, into some other room of the house, where Rosemary would need to check up on her in ten minutes. “She's forgotten us the way little girls grow up and forget the dolls of their childhood,” Rosemary told Robbie one night. “The way animals forget their litters.” And it occurred to her that she was feeling
jealousy
. It was almost laughably unimaginable, but it was true.
Jealous
of
a
Cabbage
Patch
Kid!
What would Miriam say of this? But Rosemary knew that she had been cheated out of a ritual. She would never partake in the mother-daughter ceremony, in that little dance between two women on a stage that is bare but charged with emotion. An electric stage, as daughters become their mothers.

There was a tickling breeze about, a cat's-paw breeze. The fuzzy lights from the little airport created a Milky Way sky overhead. But after ten o'clock, even these lights would go out, leaving the sky over Old Airport Road dark as pitch. Leaving Rosemary alone below the constellations where she silently named each of them, remembered the mythologies behind them: the Big Dipper. Cassiopeia. Little Dipper. Cepheus. Draco. The circumpolar constellations. She would check again to see if the six-inch reflecting telescope she had finally broken down and ordered from the camera shop in Bixley had arrived. It would be an expensive hobby, crippling her nest egg but, quite frankly, she was tiring of life on earth, of finding no answers there. Maybe it was time to look into the sky, as the early ancestors themselves had done. Out there would be even earlier connections for man had been born of the stars. His flesh and bone had risen out of cosmic explosions, and now the planet was loaded with billions of people,
twinkling
with them. Stellar sparks. Before she went in search of Mother, Rosemary sat on the swing, her eyes closed, and thought of all the people on earth who threw on their porch lights for the astronauts, who blinked in starlike unison, lighting up the United States of America as though it were a huge pinball machine.

***

Mother was huddled on one side of the bed in Rosemary's bedroom, looking perplexed and holding something in her hand as though it were gold. And that's because it was. Rosemary unfurled the hand to see that it was her own wedding band that Mother held. Had she, for some reason, taken it off and now it confused her? It had no beginning and no end, a little infinity, unlike most weddings. It was more like the measureless universe. Mother played with the ring frantically until Rosemary took it from her and slipped it back onto the bony finger. Mother's hands had always been slender, with long, piano-playing fingers. Back in place, the wedding band caught the light and Mother smiled at this. Had the doll baby downstairs reminded her that, once upon a time, there had been real babies, with a man who had given her that ring? Twenty-two years had come and gone since the man who put it on her finger went back into the earth, or went out to dance among the life-giving stars, wherever the listless, uninterested dead go. Rosemary sat on the bed and put an arm around Mother's thin shoulders. A screen was beneath the window and the curtains lifted in the breeze, reached out to touch the women.

“Someone who loved you very much gave you that ring,” Rosemary said, and pushed a yellow ringlet from Mother's forehead.
When
she
was
good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was
crazy
.
She remembered the wedding picture. She had stared as a child at the porcelain beauty with the honey blond waves of hair, the snowy dress, the baby's breath and wild violets looking fresh enough in the bouquet to last forever. Mother half shook her head as memories and impulses bumped into each other like bumper cars.

“Jonathan,” Mother said quickly, more to him than to his daughter, her voice raspy as a whisper. Rosemary smiled. She hugged Mother's little ship of bones, that malfunctioning universe.

“Yes,” said Rosemary. “His name was Jonathan O'Neal, and we both loved him very much.”