Rosie O'Dell by Bill Rowe Read Free Book Online Page B

she’s letting him hog
     her like that and cause that big lineup.”
    After what did seem like an unusual length of time talking to the widow, the
     man turned and surprised us by coming straight over to Rosie as if he knew
     exactly where she was without even looking. He bowed slightly and held out his
     hand. “How do you do, Miss O’Dell,” he said in an English accent. “My name is
     Dr. Heathcliff Rothesay. You don’t know me—in fact, none of your family does—but
     I have been a great admirer of your father and his magnificent work ever since I
     arrived in Newfoundland and I’ve come to offer you and your mother and your
     sister my deepest sympathy in your time of grief.”
    “Thank you very much, Dr. Rothesay. This is my friend, Tom.”
    “How do you do, Tom.” He shook my hand firmly with a smooth palm and strong
     fingers, looking me directly in the eye. “Friends are an exceedingly important
     comfort in times of bereavement.” I was very impressed bythe
     man, having no inkling then of his nature. “Miss O’Dell, I had the honour of
     meeting your great father—Rosie—May I presume so far on your kindness as to call
     you Rosie?”
    “Please do,” said Rosie with a smile, bending a little at the knees.
    “Thank you, Rosie, and my enormous regret is that I did not have the
     opportunity to become good friends with him. I had hoped to, but I had not been
     here long enough before… alas.”
    “Are you originally from England, Dr. Rothesay?”
    “You identified my accent.” His face took on a look of frank astonishment. “How
     extraordinarily observant and knowledgeable of you, Rosie.”
    I looked at Rosie sidelong for her reaction. I half-expected her to turn to me
     and say, “How stupid does this guy think we are over here! What does he figure,
     we’ve never seen a J. Arthur Rank movie or something?”
    But Rosie didn’t glance my way. “Thank you, Dr. Rothesay,” she was saying.
     “How long have you been here in Newfoundland?”
    “Oh, please call me Heathcliff, if you would be so generous, Rosie. Just over
     two years. And I have been preoccupied during most of that time establishing my
     medical practice here in St. John’s. Fortunately, soon after I arrived someone
     brought me to the poetry reading at the university commemorating your father’s
     winning of the Governor General’s award for poetry. That’s where I met him and
     where I had the pleasure of seeing you and your mother and sister all together
     having your picture taken with him. I remember thinking at the time, ‘What an
     intellectually stimulating, aesthetically pleasing family!’ I am most honoured
     that we have finally had occasion to meet, Rosie, albeit under circumstances I
     should have wished less tragic. I trust I shall have the opportunity to meet you
     and your family again.”
    Rosie’s eyes were glistening. “Thank you, Heathcliff. I hope so too.”
    “Now I must tear myself away and offer your sister my condolences and leave
     without intruding on your grieving any further. It was a pleasure to have met
     you, Tom. Goodbye for now, Rosie. I do hope I shall have occasion to become
     better acquainted with Joyce O’Dell’s wonderful family.”
    I was wrong. Rosie’s eyes were not glistening. They were sparkling. “Yes,
     goodbye for now, Heathcliff,” she said. “I hope so too.”
    We watched him walk directly to where Pagan was standing next to my mother,
     speak to them both for a few minutes and go right out the door. For someone who
     held the dead poet in such high esteem, he didn’t spend much time contemplating
     over his mortal remains. I hadn’t seen him gonear the coffin
     once. I felt undefined dislike, which I quickly pushed out of my mind as
     unfitting.
    The only other exception to the weep-and-laugh sequence of emotions I observed
     among the grievers was my own father. Dad had come in solemn-faced, remained so
     as he observed the corpse and extended his hand to