with a rocking chair, the backs of some tenement houses, rubbish
bins in rows, a great plane tree dripping water, and a black cat circling round and round
the van; Harold was kneeling on its roof, the sky turning dark blue behind his head.
There was a smell about the bed, a staleness. The sheets were clean
but there was an odour of long ago dampness. She knew that smell. Years ago, suffering from
toothache, she had got into Fatherâs bed for warmth. Normally she slept with Mother in the
room with the statue of Adam and Eve on the windowsill, only the pain had made her whinge a
lot and Mother had banished her onto the landing. She remembered the occasion, not on
account of the toothache but because Father had been wearing nothing but a string vest, and
when he turned in his sleep his thingie lolled against her leg. It stung, like a bee.
She fell asleep with her hand cupped over her nose and woke with
Harold lying alongside. âYou,â she exclaimed, as though it ought to be someone else.
âIâve fixed the luggage rack,â he said, as if that explained the
proximity.
She sat upright and asked what time it was. He said, âThree
oâclock, Rose.â
âNight or day?â she enquired, which made him laugh.
He pulled her down, telling her she must have a good rest for the
journey ahead. He didnât attempt to put an arm round her, nor did he lie too close. She
heard him scratching his beard as she sank again into sleep.
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TWO
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H arold woke to pale skies and nicked his forefinger when slicing bread for toast. Dwelling on the day before, he congratulated himself on the way things had gone. Rose had obviously enjoyed the visit to Sears Roebuck and been impressed by his apartment, unremarkable though it was. When he recalled the squalor of her Victorian bedsitter in London, this was hardly surprising. True, she hadnât been of much help when it came to packing, but then she probably felt shy of handling his personal belongings, boxer shorts and such like.
Remembering she hadnât washed before going to bedâheâd been obliged to sleep with his head well above the coversâhe ran a bath and attempted to rouse her. Her response was unexpected; she punched out at him and snuggled deeper under the covers. Reminded of Dollie, he left the room. Toast eaten and too agitated to fry his usual breakfast eggs, he busied himself stacking suitcases into the camper: the extra blankets, tinned foods and cans of gasoline he stored on the luggage rack, along with a leather case full of documents. Throughout his comings and goings Rose remained dead to the world, save for an audible wheeze to her breathing. He was on hands and knees inside the camper when his neighbour, Artie Brune, poked his head through the doors.
âI guess she come,â Artie said, eyes spiteful.
Harold nodded.
âShe up for it?â
âYou bet,â he enthused, and would have turned his back if he hadnât thought Brune might later have reason to remember his attitude.
Artie complained that his Ma wasnât feeling too good. âShe been taken to the hospital,â he said.
âThatâs too bad,â Harold murmured.
Artie wasnât sure how sick she was. Sheâd been a bad mother but if she was dying he should stick around, shouldnât he?
Harold said he should.
âWhen she humping men, she tell me sleep out on fire steps. Once in snow. That ainât good, is it?â
âNo, it isnât,â Harold said. In his head he was going over what he would do when they got to Washington. Rose would have to go into the Stanfordsâ apartment on her own. By way of excuse heâd tell her it wasnât safe to leave the camper unattended, not with the disturbances still going on; after all, it was no more than the truth.
An hour later, when he returned indoors, he caught Rose about to open a cardboard box