Rosie by Anne Lamott Page B

shrugged, embarrassed and defiant. Elizabeth did not understand.
    Outside in the fresh air, they heaved a collective sigh of relief. Stockton Street was crawling with tourists and natives. Rae had told them to meet her in forty-five minutes in Union Square.
    â€œYou guys want an ice-cream cone?”
    â€œYeah!”
    â€œYeah.” So they headed down Stockton toward Market Street; all was right with the world again. The girls held hands, walked ahead of Elizabeth, whispering, and Elizabeth took in the busy sights and sounds and smells. Head held high, she observed the human traffic with some disdain; many people looked half destroyed by one thing or another. When elegant couples passed, arm in arm, pangs of isolation went through her stomach. As she and the girls stood waiting for the light to change at O’Farrell, behind a cowboy of perhaps thirty, crouched in the gutter waiting to push his Tonka fire truck across the street, pangs of identification went through her—the malignant prophecy. Matrons,businessmen, businesswomen, punks, tourists, hippies, bums, teenagers, blacks, whites, orientals, children, babies, hookers, gathered together at this intersection.... How was everyone hanging on so well?
    Elizabeth took one of Rosie’s hands, one of Sharon’s hands, and they walked to an ice-cream shop. Carrying cones on their way back to Macy’s, they stopped at a flower stand and Elizabeth bought win-or-lose tea roses for Rae.
    â€œMama, I have a good idea,” Rosie whispered as they approached the pencil man. “Let’s take the pencil man home and let him live in Daddy’s old study! We could take care of him.”
    â€œDon’t be silly.”
    â€œPleeeze, Mama,” she wheedled. “We could push him on his cart to Rae’s car....”
    â€œShhhhh!”
    â€œPlease, can we take him home?”
    â€œShhhhh. You make another scene and there’s going to be trouble.”
    Rosie stopped and handed her cone to Sharon as if she were removing her gloves for a duel.
    â€œRosie?”
    Rosie ignored the edge in her mother’s voice, strode purposefully to the old brown man with the mashed-in eye who sat on the dolly. Oh, good Christ, thought Elizabeth, don’t let her...
    â€œHello,” said Rosie.
    â€œHello,” said the pencil man.
    â€œI just wanted to tell you how well I think your jacket fits.”
    He smiled, she smiled. That was all.
    Rae was sniffling and teary when they met her. The gallery had taken her weavings.

CHAPTER 6
    The early June sun shone on Elizabeth’s red toenails as she sat on the porch swing reading My Antonia for the second time, a cup of tea beside her. She had cleaned the house, worked in the garden for an hour, washed some sweaters, paid some bills. It had been a dreamy day, a day when she felt glad to be alone, glad to be the elegant, easygoing lady of leisure. She put her book down and went inside to call Rae, but no one answered and Elizabeth went back out to the porch, where she found Rae standing desolately on the doormat, staring into her chubby cupped hands as if they held something precious, and dying.
    They looked at each other for a moment. Elizabeth craned her long neck forward and peeked into Rae’s hands, which held nothing, and then straightened up to look at her.
    â€œHi,” said Elizabeth. “I was just trying to reach you.”
    â€œHi,” said Rae, and jammed her hands into the front pockets of her faded Levi’s. “I’m bummed.”
    â€œI gather.”
    â€œI’m not having a day of power.”
    â€œYou gotta stop reading Castaneda.”
    â€œIt’s my only amusement.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œOhhhhh.”
    â€œIs it late enough for a drink?”
    Rae shrugged.
    â€œWell, let’s. We’re the adults here. And Gordon brought some brandy over last night.”
    â€œI just want to be with you.”
    â€œWell.