THE next day, Rae invited Rosie over to spend the night. She was in the middle of a large weaving, and the smells of the fibers were very strong. Rae was weaving sorrow into a landscape of bottle greens and taupe. The sorrow was a curvy band of muddy purple blue, and the secret she was weaving into it was a ginger-red rayon ribbon. You couldn’t see it, though, at first, through all those dull colors.
“You know about Simone,” said Rosie. “Right?”
Rae nodded. “I do know,” she said.
“What would you have felt like if your best friend had gotten pregnant when you were thirteen?”
“Oh, Rosie. You know, it was so different then. My best friend would have been whisked away and made to have an abortion. Which would have been illegal and maybe dangerous. She simply wouldn’t have had the choice of keeping the baby.”
Rosie leaned against the loom. The wool in the weaving smelled like animals, earthy, damp, sweaty, more like boys, like men. Silk smelled more like girls, like sweet dreams, but she couldn’t smell any now.
“Tell me how you feel.” Rae’s voice was quiet and kind. Rosie, eyes closed, was mute. Rae made it look so easy to make something beautiful out of her life with little acts of goodness and attention. All Rosie had these days were ugly pieces of yarn—all fear and secrets and hating everyone.
She took a long deep breath and started to tell Rae that Simone had had a little bleeding in her underpants but that the doctor said she was fine, everything was fine, the doctor said. Only maybe she was a little afraid, and Rae said, “Uh-huh,” so quietly, and Rosie said it was all so strange because she was afraid that Simone would lose the baby, and she was afraid Simone would actually have the baby; she was afraid she would lose Simone, because she lost everyone—her daddy, and Sharon, and Charles—and she was afraid that their life, her life and Simone’s life as best friends, was now ripped to shreds, because how would they be able to be friends when Simone had a crying baby around? She said she felt like she was underneath a sort of heavy blanket, and she felt sorry for Simone and also jealous that Simone got to get unstuck from being a teenager. And she felt afraid, just afraid, afraid in every way, and everyone would say her best friend was a slut, and she was afraid because she was so so so glad it wasn’t her, and she was afraid because abortion was so horrible and Simone was too far along and she felt afraid because she hoped the baby would die so they wouldn’t have to deal with all this. Rae made a whistle with no sound in it, like a little wind. Rosie fiddled with her fingernails, clicking them against each other. She was also afraid of things she couldn’t tell Rae, like that every day she expected a letter from the regional sportsmanship committee, summoning her before them about the cheating; she was also afraid she would never get caught; she was afraid because she dreamed about kissing James, and Lank, and Luther—she didn’t mean to have those dreams but she woke up with that buzz, that tightening down in her vagina.
Rae stretched out on the floor, and Rosie lay down beside her. “I’m afraid of a thousand things,” she said in a very small voice that sounded even to herself like Betty Boop’s. Her heart was brimming over with misery, and tears rolled down the sides of her face, falling on the carpet.
“Rae, are you not ever afraid because you believe in God?”
“I am afraid sometimes. But I have company.”
“You mean, because you feel like God is with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I’m a Christian,” said Rosie. “Except for the Jesus part.” She heard Rae give a quiet laugh through her nose. At first Rosie felt worried that Rae thought she was stupid, but then she could tell that Rae was just making that little laugh because she loved her.
THE next night, at the Fergusons, over the sound of James’s pencil on paper and the turning of magazine pages came the nebulous hum of Lank and Rae in the kitchen. They were washing dishes. Elizabeth had decreed that tonight would be a reading night. Lank, lonely and bored, needed company, and Rae needed to get away from the phone, and they had both called Elizabeth to invite themselves to dinner. But Elizabeth had said they were welcome to come over only if they felt like sitting around after dinner and reading. They had both agreed. But when James and the Fergusons had taken up their stations, Rae and Lank had stood around trying to figure out where to sit. They had a brief shoving match over the rocking chair. Then Rae stormed over to the love seat and plopped down.
“What are you going to read, Rae?” Rosie asked, as if Rae were a kindergartner.
“I’m going to read your mother’s mind,” she said. Elizabeth shook her head and refused to look up.
Lank approached the love seat and tilted his head to peer at the empty space beside Rae.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“I’m looking to see if his royal Lordhood is sitting there beside you.” Rae blushed a dark crimson.
“You shouldn’t tease her about Jesus,” said Rosie. “This country was founded on the principle of religious freedom, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“That’s right, honey,” said her mother.
“And it’s sexist of men to mock a woman’s deepest feelings—”
“Uh—that’s enough, sweetheart.”
“God.”
Lank sighed. “Rosie, you know me better than that, right?” Rosie simmered. “You know I’m not Jesse Helms, right? You can see the difference? I just want to make sure I don’t sit on him, honey, on Jesus. That’s all.” And so saying, he continued to scout the empty seat on the couch.
Rae patted the space next to her, giving Lank the clearest, kindest look. “He’s in my heart, Lank.”
Rosie rolled her eyes a bit, but then as Lank sat down next to Rae, returned to her magazine, picking at an eyebrow.
“You don’t have anything to read,” Elizabeth implored, addressing Lank and Rae. “I just want to have a quiet night here, reading with my family. I was very clear on that.” Rosie stared at her magazine, smiling now on the inside. It was so great when other people were getting in trouble besides her.
“You don’t want to watch TV with your family?” Rae asked hopefully.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a reading night. See how nicely Rosie is reading?” Rosie looked up from her magazine and waved. “See how nicely James is working?” said Elizabeth. James looked up and waved his pencil in greeting, scribbling words on the air in front of his face.
“Is there anything we can do to get out of reading?” Rae asked. Elizabeth shook her head. “Could we do the dinner dishes?” After a moment Elizabeth nodded.
And so Lank and Rae had disappeared into the kitchen.
“She’s our sun,” Elizabeth heard Lank pronounce. “And we her unworthy planets.” James smiled at Elizabeth, who did not notice. She was listening to the sound of water running in the background, the sound of friendly sparring. Memories of Andrew drifted into her head like leaves, Andrew at the sink doing dishes after dinner. She always washed and he always dried, and in her mind she heard, either from the past or from the kitchen, the clink of clean dishes being set down against one another.