Rosalind (7 page)

"How did I get here, Stella?"

The sun peaked through the white clouds and illuminated the countryside and the few shiny stones that stood on this side of the cemetery. He accidentally looked into the sun and then back at the stone, trying to blink away the bright spots. "Your daughter has discovered boys. She said you'd understand. I'm not stupid, though. I get it. She misses you, but she is so strong. She's really tough. Maybe too tough. I'm not sure she's mourned yet. She's a lot like you. You'd be proud of her."

He got to his feet and walked to his cruiser. He started the engine, turned
the cruiser around, and drove to the station.

***

"Morning sheriff," Susan Byrd said when he walked into the office. "Can I get you a coffee?"

He nodded and went into his office that sat off the right of the entrance. It was a modest office, walled off half by wood on the lower part and glass on the top. He insisted on this design to ensure that everyone
(which consisted of Susan Byrd and only Susan Byrd) in his office could see him at all times and that he could see them. He hated the title of sheriff and never much played into the politics of it, but he wanted to maintain a casual atmosphere. A transparent atmosphere. He settled into his chair and called Susan into his office. She arrived a few seconds later with a notepad and a pen, and sat in the chair across from his desk.

"I need you to pull some records from the hospital in Hampton. Last name Stump, fi
r—"

"The family that was killed in the fire?" she asked.

"The same. I need to know how many children they had."

"I thought there was only the one. The baby that
you found in the crate."

He nodded his head
. "A young girl showed up in town that same morning. I went to see her last night. She's been staying at Mary Peterson's Boarding House. I think she let it slip out. But it appears her last name is Stump."

"Oh my," she said. "The woodsies do keep to themselves. Wouldn't she have school records too? How old is she?"

"About sixteen or so, but she's looks young for her age. I need you to keep this quiet. If it turns out to be nothing, I don't want the poor thing to get spooked and run. You know how it gets around here. People talk."

"I hate to ask, but do you think, you know, she had something to do with the fire?"

"I wouldn't be a cop if I didn't at least ask the question, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and she doesn't strike me as a criminal. Definitely not a killer type." He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. "I'm hoping it's something as simple as she just saw something and ran. And if she did, it would sure help me close this case. That sounds awful doesn't it? I wouldn't wish seeing that kind of destruction on anyone."

"You know, I do remember something about that day. Was she the one that got robbed? The girl at the diner?"

"See what I mean? This is entre nous. That means just between me and you in German," he said.

"French," she replied
with a smile. "I've always wanted to go there. Got me a book at home on popular phrases just in case I do."

"Is that right? Make
the calls. If you can’t find anything, I guess we'll figure something else out."

"Yes, sheriff."

Susan went back to her desk and started making calls. The sheriff sat at his desk for a moment and looked at the photos from the fire. Some were too graphic for a second glance, but he forced himself to do so. It was hard enough looking at the remains of a charred adult, but when he came around to the burned and blistered baby in the crate, it made his stomach turn. He shot up and ran to shut his door, then knelt over the waste basket close by and threw up.

Rosalind folded the clothes neatly, just the way Mrs. Peterson had taught her. She had never seen a real washer and dryer before, and it took her some time to learn the controls, but Mrs. Peterson had been thoroughly impressed at how quickly she picked up the trade. It was only one of her duties, but Rosalind decided that it was her favorite. There was a tranquility to it. Her home was always filled with some kind of noise, and it was mostly the static from the old television in the living room that no one ever turned off. But here, there was only Rosalind and the gentle tumbling of shirts, pants, and underwear.

Her creases had become something of a legend in the house, and the comments and praise from the rest of the tenants continued to come her way. She
had learned a few more recipes (with the help of Mrs. Peterson) and she was now able to cook an entire week's schedule, never once duplicating even a side-dish. While her chicken and French fries were still a favorite, her meatloaf was slowly gaining house-wide notoriety.

Rosalind
was about put the last of the sheets from the dryer in the basket at her feet when a sharp pain shot through her stomach. She doubled over and her knees slammed into the floor. She gasped for air, but couldn't yell out for help. She was barely able to breathe. The pain grew more intense until finally a squeak escaped her mouth. If the dryer had been on, Mrs. Peterson might never had heard the unusual sound, but it wasn't and Mrs. Peterson came racing down the stairs.

"Momma," Rosalind said, her eyes wet and red with fright. "Oh, momma."

Mrs. Peterson rolled her over on her back and put a few of the freshly folded sheets under her head. "Where does it hurt?" she asked.

"My tummy," said Rosalind through tears. Mrs. Peterson hadn't looked down at that part of her body until that moment, but when she did, she saw that Rosalind's red skirt was darker than usual. She reached down to touch it and pulled the finger back to her sight. Blood.
She knew what this was, and she jumped up and ran to the phone.

The pain subsided, but Rosalind continued to
breathe heavily as tears streaked down the sides of her face. She lifted her skirt and felt between her legs. She pulled her fingers out and looked at them. She was dying. She knew it. She'd cut herself from time to time and the amount of blood never bothered her, but this was different. There were no cuts. When she first saw the blood, she thought it was her monthly, but she never had so much pain whenever her that came around, and they never came at exactly the same time. The cramps were always nice enough to announce the inevitable, bloody mess that she had come to expect.

She rolled over and tried to crawl up to her bedroom, but only made it to the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Peterson hung up the phon
e and ran back to the hallway. She almost fainted when she saw the long trail of blood that led to the stairway, but took a deep breath and walked quickly over to Rosalind, doing her best to avoid the crimson trail on her tiled floor.

"The ambulance is on its way. Just hold tight,
honey," she said, running her hands through Rosalind's red, sweaty hair.

"My baby," Rosalind
said and then passed out.

She woke up at Lincoln County hospital in Hampton. The white room, littered only with a few medical instruments and a chair in the corner, was the cleanest room she had ever seen in her life. Sure, Mrs. Peterson kept a tidy house (even more so with Rosalind around) but this was something else. It made her nervous. She'd never seen a doctor before, let alone a hospital, but when Mrs. Nancy walked through the door, she put all of that out of her mind.

In the month that she'd spent at boarding house, Nancy had only come around once.
This upset Rosalind a little, but Mrs. Peterson had always said that she was busy with work and her home life. She knew what a busy home life could be like—taking care of babies, cooking for her father, making sure her mother didn't burn the house down when she fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand—but she missed her, and right now all of that was gone. Rosalind smiled from ear to ear and Nancy ran over and hugged her.

"
It's like someone's out to get you," Nancy said. Rosalind didn't understand what she meant, but she didn't care what she said. Nancy had come to see her.

"
Is my baby okay?" Rosalind said. Nancy's smile disappeared. She grabbed Rosalind's hand, squeezed it tight, and pushed the hair of her face.

"Honey, don't talk. You need to rest and get better, okay?" Rosalind nodded and started to cry. Nancy leaned in and hugged her again. "Some things are just wrong in this world, honey. They ain't meant for it. Do you understand?"

She nodded with tears streaming down her face. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Oh, God no, Rosalind. Your body was…you was
just too young for this honey. I don't know what dumb boy would go and do this to you, but they deserve to be castrated." Rosalind didn't know what boy she was referring to and what castrated even meant, but if she was talking about the man who impregnated her, she knew by now that it was her father, and she was so happy right now that Nancy was here, she told her.

"
Daddy," she said.

"What? Your
Daddy? Are you finally gonna tell us where your parents are? I'm sure they're worried sick—"

"No. My
daddy done this to me," she said. Nancy backed away from the bed, her face twisted.

"Jesus Christ."

She wanted to run away. Nancy wasn't blind to what kinds of things happened in the world—what Hitler had done to the Jews a few years back—but none of that seemed real because she was removed from it; far away from the smoldering bodies dumped in mass graves after being taken out of the ovens . But now she was here, standing in a room with a girl she knew was younger than sixteen. She felt responsible. Not directly, but there was an adult part of her that felt remorse for not being able to protect a child. And she felt guilty for not coming to see her as much as she could. Rosalind bowed her head and said, "I'm sorry."

"Rosalind
, you don't ever say that word again. You don't ever say you're sorry to anyone ever again. What's been done to you…it's awful," she said. She realized that
awful
might have been understating the situation, but she was in shock. She sat down on the bed and pulled Rosalind into her arms. She expected Rosalind to cry, but she didn't. Instead, Rosalind hugged her back and, although she didn't see it, she felt her smile.

"Morning, sheriff," Susan said. Sheriff Hanes hung his coat on the rack like he always did and placed his hat over the same hook, just like he always did.

"Anything back on the Stump girl?"

"Well, I called them like you asked but they had no records on a Rosalind Stump or a Paul Stump. They did have one on a Henrietta Stump, but it was for an appendectomy."

"Thanks, Susan. I—"

"I wasn't finished. I asked them to let me know in case they turned up anything else, and this morning they called and let me know that a Rosalind Stump was admitted last night for…excessive bleeding," she said, putting down the notes she took.

"Excessive bleeding? What the hell is that?"

"I'm not a doctor," she replied.

"I'd better go talk to Mary. If anyone calls, let them know where I am," he said, putting his coat and hat back on.

The sheriff drove to the boarding house and was greeted at the door by Mrs. Peterson.

She invited him in and seated him in the same winged chair he
had sat in a couple nights before. She brought them some tea and she sat down in the chair by the fireplace.

"It was awful. Whenever I look at the hallway, all I see
is that trail of blood."

"Is she alright? Where is she now? And why wasn't I notified?"

"Well, I don't know. I guess it all happened so fast. I called the ambulance just like you told us to at the last town meeting, but after that I was…it was awful," she said, sipping her tea and staring at the carpet.

"
It's fine, Mrs. Peterson. You did the right thing. I'm just wondering why the hospital didn't notify me."

"I wouldn't know any of that," she replied. "Nancy
Fletcher is there with her now. She won't leave her side."

"Thanks for the tea. I think I need to take a trip to Hampton."

The sheriff excused himself and thanked her again for the tea. He got in his car and drove to Hampton.

***

When the sheriff arrived at the Lincoln County Hospital, he was surprised to see that Nancy was still in the room with Rosalind. He walked in and took off his hat and placed it under his arm.

"How's our girl?" he said.

"Hey
, Joe. She's doing better." Nancy was sitting on the bed, running her hands through Rosalind's silky red hair. She was sleeping, so Nancy motioned for the sheriff to follow her out of the room. She closed the door.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"If she's okay, then I guess it is," he replied.

"It's…a woman thing," she said.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Nancy paused and looked down the hall. They were alone.
"She was pregnant. She had a miscarriage."