The thing about Rose is what her mother would say. “The thing about Rose is she’s not real smart, you know? Not smart smart. She’s smart, but not too smart. That’s why she is over at the junior college.” That’s what Mrs. Kormos told me about her daughter the first time I met her. Roseanne was out collecting her mother’s breakfast dishes off the patio table.
I just looked at Mrs. Kormos. “Smart, though, she’s a smart girl.” Roseanne slid the patio door open and as she came in, her mother beamed at me. “There’s my smart girl!” Roseanne narrowed her eyes as she passed me and went to the kitchen.
“Mom, your income taxes are done and in my bag.”
“See.” Mrs. Kormos reached down and took the brown envelope out of the red bag. “Such a fancy bag!” She looked at me again. “Smart, smart, smart.”
My kid sister introduced me to Roseanne at a faculty Christmas party. Theresa teaches math at the junior college and Roseanne is in the business department, teaching accounting and a logistics certificate class. One semester Roseanne decided to pick up a Tuesday/Thursday evening section of college algebra because she wanted to have extra money for her trip to Hong Kong. The two taught next to each other and got to know one another during coffee breaks.
My kid sister. She’s thirty-six, two years younger than Roseanne.
What I like about Roseanne is—well, two things really. First, she listens. She is a really good listener. And she remembers. Two, she tells me what she thinks, she doesn’t tell me what to think. She reads a lot of stuff, books and magazines. She reads Forbes and The Atlantic and the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald. She reads Coastal Living. She admits she mostly likes the pictures. And she reads Cosmo because it makes her laugh and she has been a subscriber since 1998. Sometimes we read it to each other and laugh until we start choking.
My sister dragged me along with her and Tony because she wanted me to meet the department secretary. Her name was Tabitha and my sister warned me not to call her Tabby. I wouldn’t have anyway, but my sister made it out to be a big deal. Tabby turned out to be a no-show.
The second time over at Mrs. Kormos’s was when I was delivering a simple five-shelf bookcase that I built for her. I took it in on a two-wheeler and set it down in the breakfast nook.
“That green looks so good,” she said. “Beautiful!” I thanked her. “You and Rose are still going out?” Of course, she knew that we were. “You know the thing about Rose is that she is kind of quiet. She’s hard to get to know sometimes.” I wanted to say to her that that is why I love Roseanne. I didn’t answer. Guess I am hard to get to know.
“How much again?” I told her eighty and she handed me four twenties, one at a time.
That first time I met Roseanne she was leaning against a table, her head tilted a bit to the side, one hand holding on to a glass of wine that was on the table and her other hand on her hip. I wanted to tell the guy she was talking to that she thought he was so full of it it would take a dump truck to unload him.
Theresa grabbed my arm and steered me over to her, so I got a good look at her before I heard her voice. She had on a red dress, but it was not Christmassy red, but darker than that. It fit her really well. Later, I told her the dress was the prettiest one in the room. She laughed and said something like “Pretty, yes that is what I am going for.” As soon as we walked up, the other guy just sort of drifted off.
When Theresa told Roseanne my name, I said “Good evening” trying to sound like, I don’t know, something and the first thing she did was look down and then right back up to look me in eyes. “Hi” is what she said and her voice was soft and sweet and even no matter how crazy it sounds, that was it for me. And the dark red fingernail polish. I know, crazy.
In February I delivered a new headboard to Mrs. Kormos, and I have to say it was really beautiful. She was excited and kept apologizing for having to write a check for $180 and after I folded the check and put it in my wallet, she asked if I really liked Roseanne or we were more like friends. I said yes, yes I did really like her—a lot. “The thing about Rose,” she said as she reached out and put a hand on my arm, “Rose is kind of plain. Pretty. But plain.”
Roseanne has this long beige sweater, maybe 6 buttons, hangs down to just above her knees. She loves that old sweater. On Sunday mornings when it is cooler, she will pull that sweater around her when she steps out on the porch and just let the belt hang down. I can see her pajama bottoms and her little white socks, and she will lean over the railing while looking at the pond and then slowly turn back around. And when the sun is over her shoulder and she is all cuddled up in her sweater, she is so beautiful looking to me that I actually gasp a little.
I told Roseanne once when she was wearing that sweater what her mother said about being plain, pretty but plain. She narrowed her eyes and just walked past me and went into the bedroom. I was sitting at the dining room table sketching out a wall of bookshelves for a friend, and when Roseanne walked back in, she wasn’t wearing a single stitch of anything under that sweater.
See, that’s the thing about Roseanne, there’s a lot there that you don’t see. A lot you see, too. When we go out and she is dressed up, I can’t stop staring at her. She’s beautiful, and when you get to know her, she’s funny and smart and sweet—not fake sweet, but sweet like when someone has a really good heart. She has a good heart. Yes, the thing about Roseanne is she has a great heart.
I think one of the best moments I can remember is when I came back late from a job up in Daytona. When I came into the bedroom, Roseanne was on her right side, facing the door, reading The Hunger Games. She closed her book and put her glasses on top of her head. “Hi” she said. And in the glow of the lamp, in her pajamas with the strawberries on them, her hair tucked back behind her ears—well, that’s the thing about Roseanne. She’s a beauty. Ladson 2013
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