After the Fog by Kathleen Shoop Read Free Book Online

existence for anyone, man or insect.”
    “Easy nurse, Pavlesic,” Buzzy said, “I think the guy’s had enough injury without your insult lumped on top.”
    “Stuff it, Buzzy.”
    She patted Henry’s shoulder. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer.
    “We have to talk, okay?”
    Henry tried to interpret Rose’s body language, determine whether her stiff posture was due to Buzzy being there or if she knew something was going on with him.
    Buzzy slid the Donora Herald American from the table and snapped it open again in front of his face. “Oh looky here, Truman’s about to lose the election to Dewey. Nice. Another jackass running the world. Just what we need.”
    “We’ll talk all right,” Rose said, “but I’m busy this morning. Doc Bonaroti set me on that Sebastian woman thinking I can get her to pop open her Chanel handbag for the sad sacks of Donora. He’s convinced I can persuade her to fund the clinic.”
    “He’s right,” Henry said.
    Buzzy dropped his paper and put his hand to his ear. “I think I hear Magdalena calling.”
    “Ass,” Rose said and ambled toward the hallway. Henry watched her disappear from sight, and from figuring out she was right to suspect Buzzy was in trouble again, and Henry was privy to it.
    Henry hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until Rose left the room and he was assured Buzzy couldn’t reveal anything. Henry took the moment of peace and turned back to his poetry. He slipped into Auden’s world of poetic, human interaction, thankful Rose was too distracted by her lack of clinic funding to push either of the two men on any matter at all. They’d been given a reprieve. For how long, Henry didn’t know.
    * * *
    The looks that passed between Henry and Buzzy troubled Rose, but not nearly as much as the recurrent images of Isabella and what it would mean for the Greshecky family. She covered her mouth, feeling like she needed to shield herself from an unseen, malignant force. The sound of furniture being pushed across the floor above her called to mind Sara Clara—the obvious, futile presence in the house.
    Perhaps the noise above was evidence that Sara Clara was finally going to contribute to the household without any more fuss. But, even thoughts of Sara Clara laying around in bed all day instead of contributing to the family, would have to wait.
    Rose rapped on Magdalena’s door. No reply. Must be in the bathroom. Rose crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting. Magdalena’s door opened and she slunk into the hallway using the wall for support.
    “You sick?” Rose said, remembering Johnny reporting that Magdalena wasn’t going skating this afternoon, the norm for months.
    Magdalena shook her head. She wrapped herself in her arms and sat on the stairs. Her bony knees peeked up from under her skirt. She tossed her head and her silky locks swung and draped her back, ready for Rose to go to work.
    She settled on the crooked step behind her daughter, the fresh odor of Camay and Breck shampoo wafting up as Rose lifted Magdalena’s chestnut hair.
    Magdalena sighed and scowled over her shoulder, silently warning Rose to speed it up. But, Rose loved these moments, the opportunities she had to touch her daughter—do her hair, help her dress, button a blouse. Once Magdalena barreled into her teens, she had careened right past Rose, with barely a look back.
    Rose had tried to forge a close relationship, create that happy friendship she saw some mothers and daughters share. Rose had to settle for the reassurance she was raising her daughter right and giving her opportunities to have a life, a career without money-worries. Rose had nothing in the way of a stable beginning to life. Luckily she’d had nursing to fill the gap left by her childhood, the craggy hole that remained after Rose trusted people she shouldn’t have.
    Rose shuddered. Growing up in an orphanage left her with painful memories so deep they’d shock her, and surface with a sight or smell