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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Mystery
- Published: 03/24/2015
ROSE'S SECRET
Born 1945, M, from Rego Parkk, NY, United StatesROSE'S SECRET
Rose was the mysterious maid at my grandmother's house in the country, where I would visit every summer during my childhood. A woman of uncertain years, but appearing rather old, she went about the large rambling house dressed always in antiseptic white. No one knew where she had come from. Her tired face, defined by harsh lines, had an ashen gray hue, except for a gaudy patch of rouge on each cheek. The striking contrast between her wild red hair and her complexion made her look very strange indeed.
To watch her, one would have thought that Rose had no interests outside of the dull drudgery of her work. She performed her household chores with no apparent joy, following a regimented schedule: washing on Monday, cleaning on Tuesday, baking on Wednesday, and so on through the week. She seldom spoke to anyone, and when she did, it was in reference to the housework or the daily menu. She would poke her head in at the parlor door and inquire in her nasal voice: what time did the family want dinner served?--or mention that the vacuum cleaner needed a new bag. At each meal Rose would serve silently and with great formality at the large mahogany table with the lace tablecloth, offering food to each in turn, always from the left side. During the meal she responded promptly to the summons of the shiny silver bell hanging on a cord from the chandelier.
When her work was done, she would enter her private domain, a sitting room off the kitchen. There she would just sit for hours, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. Sometimes, she would drink a can of beer, but nothing stronger. She always refused offers of books, magazines, radio or T.V.; and even showed annoyance when my grandmother poked her head through the door and said, "Rose, wouldn't you like to see today's paper?" As my grandmother came away, she would exclaim, "I don't know what's wrong with her! She's not stupid." Somehow it didn't seem natural for Rose to sit and do nothing at all. Although her grammar was far from perfect, she could understand complex directions and once when my grandmother was ill, read the paper well enough to her.
As she kept the door of her smokey den open, anyone passing through the kitchen could see her feet stretched out on the floor, bright red toe-nails sticking out of her open-toed shoes; and wreathes of blue smoke curling toward the ceiling. It became a matter of great importance to us children (myself, my sister, and our cousins) to catch Rose engaged in some activity in the sitting room. Sometimes when we went through the kitchen, we would pass as close as possible to the door of the sitting room and take a quick peek inside. There would be Rose, just sitting. Her glaring eyes would meet ours and send us hurrying about our business. We never once caught her doing anything except smoking and drinking beer.
But Rose did have a secret. Once a month there would be a phone call for her. When summoned to the phone, she would appear highly excited and speak in a hushed voice, glancing furtively around to make sure no one was close enough to hear what she was saying. That night, she would ring the dinner bell a few minutes early and during dinner, stand watchfully at the dining room table, ready to snatch plates from under noses, often before people were quite finished. Leaving half-soapy dishes in the drainer, she would rush upstairs to her bedroom. At eight o'clock sharp, a taxi would pull up in front of the house and honk. Down the stairs would come Rose. Out the back door and into the driveway she would hurry. But it would not be the Rose we were used to seeing. She would be dressed in a long evening dress, wearing a veil and long white gloves; with jewelry hanging from her neck and wrists. The driver would come around and open the door for her, and off they would speed.
Long after midnight I would be awakened by a noise--the creaking of the back door. As I listened carefully from my bed, I would hear Rose shuffling along the passageway, groping in the dark, stumbling against table, chairs and wall; then her heavy steps on the stairs, her labored breathing (now and then a hiccup), as she falteringly made her way to the bedroom off the back hall.
At seven the next morning, there would be Rose in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She never showed signs of fatigue. To look at her, nobody would guess that she had strayed in any way from her usual routine the night before. Though we always looked at her with curiosity, she never seemed to notice, but just went about her work as usual. No one ever dared to ask her where she'd been or what her secret was. Rose was not one to welcome questions about herself and she never offered any explanation or referred in any way to her adventures of the previous evening. We took turns among ourselves guessing what her secret was. Was there a secret prince who had found her glass slipper? Did she turn into a raving beauty, only to be changed back into a cinder maid at night? Sometimes, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I would see in fantasy Rose jumping out of a pumpkin into the arms of a handsome prince.
One evening when Rose was out, I happened to be walking through the back hall. I came to the dark doorway of Rose's bedroom. The room was dark and silent. I paused. I had never been in Rose's bedroom. Did it contain a clue to her secret? A tremendous curiosity came over me. I was overwhelmed with a desire to enter the room and find out more about Rose's secret. I looked up and down the hall. No one was around and no one was likely to come to that part of the house until Rose returned some time after midnight. Cautiously I crept into the room and groped around. I could see by the light from the hall that a lamp hung on the wall. I found the switch and turned it on.
Nervously I glanced about the room. It was small and had a musty smell. There were a bed, a dresser and a chair. A long mirror with a carved wooden frame hung on the faded papered wall above the dresser. Very carefully I pulled open the top drawer, breathlessly listening all the while for any sound in the hall outside. The drawer gave a creak. I stopped. Silently, I waited, my heart pounding. But I heard no further sound, except the slight hissing of the radiator in the hall. So I resumed my operations. There, on the right side of the drawer, was a small golden box with a rubber band around it. It gleamed in the light of the lamp.
Dare I open it? This very box might contain Rose's secret--but then again it might contain some dangerous magic potion. My curiosity got the better of me and my eager fingers closed around the bright little square and pulled off the rubber band. I opened the box. Nothing jumped out at me. Inside it were a small photograph and a sheet of paper, yellowed and flaking at the edges. I picked up the photograph and found, to my surprise, that it was of a fairly young woman, scantily dressed, standing on a table top with a strange smile on her face. I could hardly believe my eyes. Even though the woman in the picture was much younger, she had an unmistakable resemblance to the gaunt pasty-faced maid who I saw every day. It was Rose! I stared unbelievingly at the small photograph. Yes, it surely was she. I could never have imagined Rose being young and certainly not seeing her attired in such fashion. I picked up the faded paper very carefully, so it wouldn't crumble. It looked like a telegram to me. The date was obliterated and it contained just this short message:
A R is m.
Augustus Rathbone
At that moment I thought I heard a noise in the hall. Quickly I put the paper and photo in the gold box and slipped it in the drawer, forgetting the rubber band. I shut the drawer and snapped off the light; then stood quietly, listening. There was no sound. I tiptoed to the door, trying not to make any noise. But the floor creaked slightly. Reaching the doorway, I peeked out. No one seemed to be around. I rushed out of the room and down the hall to the front of the house, then congratulated myself on my discovery and safe retreat. Was Augustus Rathbone the one who called each month and did Rose still go to see him after all these years? And did she still stand on table tops?
That night as I lay in bed and heard Rose's step on the stairs, I remembered the rubber band. I had not replaced it around the gold box. Now she would see it and know that someone had opened the box and seen the photograph and the paper with its mysterious message from Augustus Rathbone. I shivered in my sheets. Would she guess that it had been I? I felt sure that she would.
The next morning at breakfast I felt very nervous. What would Rose do now that I knew her secret? I didn't want to face her alone, so waited till everyone else was at the table before I entered the dining room. But Rose didn't act any differently from usual. She carried in the tray of eggs and bacon and silently served each person. Could I be wrong? Could she possibly not have noticed the box? As she came 'round to me with the platter, our eyes met for a moment. I lowered mine, sure that I saw an accusing look in hers. She knew. Yes, she knew that I knew her secret. She was just waiting for me to give myself away--watching my every move.
I never told anyone about my adventure, and for the rest of my stay that summer I tried to avoid Rose. When I had to go through the kitchen, I hurried along, passing at as far a distance as possible from her smokey den. Whenever I was forced to come in contact with her and her solemn eyes met mine, I would try to act nonchalant. She never gave any outward sign that she knew her secret was now our secret, but I always felt she was watching me--just watching and waiting for me to give myself away. The end of the summer came and we left to go back home. And I left, carrying Rose's secret with me.
*****
When I visited my grandmother's house the next summer, Rose was no longer there. No one knew what had happened to her. One day the spring before, she had told my grandmother that she had to leave--and within a week she was gone.
The first chance I got, I made it my business to visit Rose's bedroom. It looked the same to me as it had the summer before, but when I breathlessly opened the top drawer, I found it empty. Excitedly, I opened each drawer. All were empty. Next I looked in the closet. It was also empty. Now I would never know who Augustus Rathbone was and what his mysterious message meant. Rose had left just as quietly and mysteriously as she had arrived, several years before.
The End
ROSE'S SECRET(Godfrey Green)
ROSE'S SECRET
Rose was the mysterious maid at my grandmother's house in the country, where I would visit every summer during my childhood. A woman of uncertain years, but appearing rather old, she went about the large rambling house dressed always in antiseptic white. No one knew where she had come from. Her tired face, defined by harsh lines, had an ashen gray hue, except for a gaudy patch of rouge on each cheek. The striking contrast between her wild red hair and her complexion made her look very strange indeed.
To watch her, one would have thought that Rose had no interests outside of the dull drudgery of her work. She performed her household chores with no apparent joy, following a regimented schedule: washing on Monday, cleaning on Tuesday, baking on Wednesday, and so on through the week. She seldom spoke to anyone, and when she did, it was in reference to the housework or the daily menu. She would poke her head in at the parlor door and inquire in her nasal voice: what time did the family want dinner served?--or mention that the vacuum cleaner needed a new bag. At each meal Rose would serve silently and with great formality at the large mahogany table with the lace tablecloth, offering food to each in turn, always from the left side. During the meal she responded promptly to the summons of the shiny silver bell hanging on a cord from the chandelier.
When her work was done, she would enter her private domain, a sitting room off the kitchen. There she would just sit for hours, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. Sometimes, she would drink a can of beer, but nothing stronger. She always refused offers of books, magazines, radio or T.V.; and even showed annoyance when my grandmother poked her head through the door and said, "Rose, wouldn't you like to see today's paper?" As my grandmother came away, she would exclaim, "I don't know what's wrong with her! She's not stupid." Somehow it didn't seem natural for Rose to sit and do nothing at all. Although her grammar was far from perfect, she could understand complex directions and once when my grandmother was ill, read the paper well enough to her.
As she kept the door of her smokey den open, anyone passing through the kitchen could see her feet stretched out on the floor, bright red toe-nails sticking out of her open-toed shoes; and wreathes of blue smoke curling toward the ceiling. It became a matter of great importance to us children (myself, my sister, and our cousins) to catch Rose engaged in some activity in the sitting room. Sometimes when we went through the kitchen, we would pass as close as possible to the door of the sitting room and take a quick peek inside. There would be Rose, just sitting. Her glaring eyes would meet ours and send us hurrying about our business. We never once caught her doing anything except smoking and drinking beer.
But Rose did have a secret. Once a month there would be a phone call for her. When summoned to the phone, she would appear highly excited and speak in a hushed voice, glancing furtively around to make sure no one was close enough to hear what she was saying. That night, she would ring the dinner bell a few minutes early and during dinner, stand watchfully at the dining room table, ready to snatch plates from under noses, often before people were quite finished. Leaving half-soapy dishes in the drainer, she would rush upstairs to her bedroom. At eight o'clock sharp, a taxi would pull up in front of the house and honk. Down the stairs would come Rose. Out the back door and into the driveway she would hurry. But it would not be the Rose we were used to seeing. She would be dressed in a long evening dress, wearing a veil and long white gloves; with jewelry hanging from her neck and wrists. The driver would come around and open the door for her, and off they would speed.
Long after midnight I would be awakened by a noise--the creaking of the back door. As I listened carefully from my bed, I would hear Rose shuffling along the passageway, groping in the dark, stumbling against table, chairs and wall; then her heavy steps on the stairs, her labored breathing (now and then a hiccup), as she falteringly made her way to the bedroom off the back hall.
At seven the next morning, there would be Rose in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She never showed signs of fatigue. To look at her, nobody would guess that she had strayed in any way from her usual routine the night before. Though we always looked at her with curiosity, she never seemed to notice, but just went about her work as usual. No one ever dared to ask her where she'd been or what her secret was. Rose was not one to welcome questions about herself and she never offered any explanation or referred in any way to her adventures of the previous evening. We took turns among ourselves guessing what her secret was. Was there a secret prince who had found her glass slipper? Did she turn into a raving beauty, only to be changed back into a cinder maid at night? Sometimes, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I would see in fantasy Rose jumping out of a pumpkin into the arms of a handsome prince.
One evening when Rose was out, I happened to be walking through the back hall. I came to the dark doorway of Rose's bedroom. The room was dark and silent. I paused. I had never been in Rose's bedroom. Did it contain a clue to her secret? A tremendous curiosity came over me. I was overwhelmed with a desire to enter the room and find out more about Rose's secret. I looked up and down the hall. No one was around and no one was likely to come to that part of the house until Rose returned some time after midnight. Cautiously I crept into the room and groped around. I could see by the light from the hall that a lamp hung on the wall. I found the switch and turned it on.
Nervously I glanced about the room. It was small and had a musty smell. There were a bed, a dresser and a chair. A long mirror with a carved wooden frame hung on the faded papered wall above the dresser. Very carefully I pulled open the top drawer, breathlessly listening all the while for any sound in the hall outside. The drawer gave a creak. I stopped. Silently, I waited, my heart pounding. But I heard no further sound, except the slight hissing of the radiator in the hall. So I resumed my operations. There, on the right side of the drawer, was a small golden box with a rubber band around it. It gleamed in the light of the lamp.
Dare I open it? This very box might contain Rose's secret--but then again it might contain some dangerous magic potion. My curiosity got the better of me and my eager fingers closed around the bright little square and pulled off the rubber band. I opened the box. Nothing jumped out at me. Inside it were a small photograph and a sheet of paper, yellowed and flaking at the edges. I picked up the photograph and found, to my surprise, that it was of a fairly young woman, scantily dressed, standing on a table top with a strange smile on her face. I could hardly believe my eyes. Even though the woman in the picture was much younger, she had an unmistakable resemblance to the gaunt pasty-faced maid who I saw every day. It was Rose! I stared unbelievingly at the small photograph. Yes, it surely was she. I could never have imagined Rose being young and certainly not seeing her attired in such fashion. I picked up the faded paper very carefully, so it wouldn't crumble. It looked like a telegram to me. The date was obliterated and it contained just this short message:
A R is m.
Augustus Rathbone
At that moment I thought I heard a noise in the hall. Quickly I put the paper and photo in the gold box and slipped it in the drawer, forgetting the rubber band. I shut the drawer and snapped off the light; then stood quietly, listening. There was no sound. I tiptoed to the door, trying not to make any noise. But the floor creaked slightly. Reaching the doorway, I peeked out. No one seemed to be around. I rushed out of the room and down the hall to the front of the house, then congratulated myself on my discovery and safe retreat. Was Augustus Rathbone the one who called each month and did Rose still go to see him after all these years? And did she still stand on table tops?
That night as I lay in bed and heard Rose's step on the stairs, I remembered the rubber band. I had not replaced it around the gold box. Now she would see it and know that someone had opened the box and seen the photograph and the paper with its mysterious message from Augustus Rathbone. I shivered in my sheets. Would she guess that it had been I? I felt sure that she would.
The next morning at breakfast I felt very nervous. What would Rose do now that I knew her secret? I didn't want to face her alone, so waited till everyone else was at the table before I entered the dining room. But Rose didn't act any differently from usual. She carried in the tray of eggs and bacon and silently served each person. Could I be wrong? Could she possibly not have noticed the box? As she came 'round to me with the platter, our eyes met for a moment. I lowered mine, sure that I saw an accusing look in hers. She knew. Yes, she knew that I knew her secret. She was just waiting for me to give myself away--watching my every move.
I never told anyone about my adventure, and for the rest of my stay that summer I tried to avoid Rose. When I had to go through the kitchen, I hurried along, passing at as far a distance as possible from her smokey den. Whenever I was forced to come in contact with her and her solemn eyes met mine, I would try to act nonchalant. She never gave any outward sign that she knew her secret was now our secret, but I always felt she was watching me--just watching and waiting for me to give myself away. The end of the summer came and we left to go back home. And I left, carrying Rose's secret with me.
*****
When I visited my grandmother's house the next summer, Rose was no longer there. No one knew what had happened to her. One day the spring before, she had told my grandmother that she had to leave--and within a week she was gone.
The first chance I got, I made it my business to visit Rose's bedroom. It looked the same to me as it had the summer before, but when I breathlessly opened the top drawer, I found it empty. Excitedly, I opened each drawer. All were empty. Next I looked in the closet. It was also empty. Now I would never know who Augustus Rathbone was and what his mysterious message meant. Rose had left just as quietly and mysteriously as she had arrived, several years before.
The End
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