Rosa Mae McCleoud - Vengance is a Woman

I orginally wrote this thinking I was going to title it Rosa Mae McCleoud and it just be about her but if you end up reading it all you find it is about much more than her extrordinary life but that of two other women whose lives collide with hers...also

CHAPTER 1

 

It had been a bad day that day. That day, when I sat out in the cold on an old wrought iron park bench and tried to make sense of my messed up life. It had snowed the night before, but the glaring sun and its silent accusations blazed away much of the fluff off the sidewalks and roads. All that was left were small, sodden clumps dotted here and there revealing young, green, hopeful life aching to be seen.

 

That’s the way I felt; young and hopeful and waiting to be seen. Seen by anyone or anything and I didn’t care how they perceived me just as long as they noticed. I wanted to make my mark and I wanted it to be a positive one, but opposition kept me from making a stain. I just kept drifting by listlessly, and ceaselessly never ending the vicious cycle. That was the thing, no matter how much I wanted to give up a drive unknown to me kept me going forward. I dug my heels in to stop so many times, but it won out every time.

 

I wanted to cry about it. What was the point? No one cared but me. I did sigh a lot though. That seemed to help some. How long could one sigh before even that isn’t enough? I didn’t know either.

 

I eventually gave in and sobbed uncontrollably into my slim leather covered hands. I admit it felt good. I didn’t hear her sit down beside me. I felt her presence first.

 

“Hello,” she said to me in a cheery, yet gravely voice.

 

She was elderly and stooped. Her hair was covered with a bright silk scarf that was tied tightly beneath her floppy chin. Her black twill coat was tightly embracing her round body, and her legs were sheathed in support hosiery. Her defining feature was her aquamarine eyes. They were timeless and clear. None of the rheumy cataracts that plagued her age group marred her vision. She blinked at me vapidly as if she was deliberately ignoring my heightened state of emotion.

 

“I’m Myrna Daughtry,” she said extending her own gloved hand. Hers were the cheap, wool type and blue with small fuzzy tufts attaching to the outsides of the fingers.

 

“Hello,” I finally replied huskily retrieving a tissue from my bag.

 

“Beautiful day isn’t it,” she sniffed adjusting her plastic shopping bag in front of her. “Had to sit and drink it in, I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“No,” I said shaking my head, “Not at all. Park’s free right?”

 

“True, true,” she replied woefully. “Seems more should be free in life; there is always that cost though. Never ends that cost.”

 

I didn’t say anything for a while. I wanted to get up and to be honest I needed to get up. I had sat out there in the frigid air so long I no longer could feel my legs. I didn’t though. I think I was afraid of hurting this woman’s feelings if I got up abruptly. Why her feelings mattered to me I couldn’t say. One would have thought I was too enraptured with my own dismal thoughts to even consider another’s constitution. Then she said something I never expected.

 

“Do you believe in Jesus honey?”

 

She said it so nonchalantly like this was a perfectly legitimate question to go up and ask a stranger. For the more devout it seems almost to be an opening line, an identifier signaling them to one of their own. I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t want to be one of them, and I didn’t want to become one of them. I was just fine upon my perch on the fence of indecision. I believed in God, but I didn’t feel confident about the son and the Holy Ghost.

 

Organized religion always puzzled me. It was more of a social standing than anything else. If you were in, you were okay no matter what you did, if you weren’t then you better hope they bury you in flame retardant materials.

 

“No,” I unhesitatingly replied.

 

“Sometimes that is best too,” she said shaking her head knowingly. “I admit it took me a while to get there. None the less I knew He loved me no matter what they said. Even though I had been told all my life people like me weren’t meant to feel the love of Christ I still persisted in my belief in His love for me.”

 

I was still cold albeit now curious about this strange woman beside me. They always say never judge a book by its cover and in life I had found myself being very judgmental. Not in a way that I looked down on others, more coming to conclusions about their personality, their financial status, or even their marital status by glancing at them or speaking to them a few times. I often found myself surprised that the statuesque woman who lived down the hall considered herself freakish and unable to sustain long term relationships. Or in the instance of my piggish boss who had once again forced me to this bench. After that day I learned he was suffering from cancer and only had a year left to live. In his own way he was grooming me to take his place. I didn’t know that though. All I knew was I had taken his s**t for the last time and I was sick of being insignificant. 

 

“How did you know,” I asked quietly.

 

“That’s a good question,” she said adjusting her bag again. Her round belly protruded into her lap leaving her little room. “It was just something I felt. Something I knew deep down. It’s not easy going against the grain but sometimes it’s a necessary to wade through s**t to get to clean water.”

 

I stared out her openly, my breath coming out in hurried puffs. Who was this woman? Where did she come from? Everything she was saying, it was like she was me. I had waded through so much s**t I didn’t think I would ever rid myself of the smell. My whole life had been spent going against the grain.

 

“I’m sorry,” she chuckled. “I didn’t mean to offend you with my rough talk. I have that way sometimes. No matter how refined we try to be the lower instincts kick in, you know?”

 

“I haven’t found clean water,” I blurted.

 

“You will dear, you will,” she said patting my hand.

 

“When did you?”

 

“Oh,” she said rearing back on the bench. “It wasn’t so much a when but more of a who. She was stunning in her own right. Completely misunderstood, and completely hopelessly in love with the wrong man. I in turn was completely and hopelessly in love with her. Not in the way that we think of these days. I loved her for her. Her audaciousness, her adversity, and her tenacity for life, and I wanted to be just like her. It was the most exciting time in my life when I met her, and I haven’t regretted it for a minute.”

 

“Who was she,” I asked breathlessly no longer feeling the chill.

 

“Who wasn’t she,” replied Myrna her voice catching. “Everything, she was everything and anything she wanted to be. Set back child and let me tell you the story of Rosa Mae McCleoud.”

 

*

 

I had just moved to the city and needed a job. The papers had all kinds of cleaning positions and I had finally landed an interview with a Broadway producer’s wife. I didn’t know a thing about him or what he had done, all I knew is it was $20 a week and room and board. Anything these snobby socialite types had to give out couldn’t have been any worse than putting up with my drunken, boorish father and the farm back in  Kentucky.

 

The house was one of those big town houses down in Manhattan. It was gray brick with an electronic entry system. As I as making my way up the stairs a young girl came flying out the glass double doors. I paused as she went running down the sidewalk. Hoping she wasn’t my predecessor.

 

I went up the to the doors now knowing how much I would come to hate wiping the finger prints from the leaded glass spring, summer, and winter. A small sign stated “Press button for entry.” I pressed and waited. Then a deep, yet feminine voice emitted.

 

“Yes, what do you want?”

 

I said my name and waited.

 

“Hold the button down again you twit. I can’t hear you from in here.”

 

“Myrna, ma’am, I have an appointment.”

 

Before the door opened the voice barked again “Wipe your feet!”

 

The entry way was wide and spacious, and the floor was tiled in black and white. The furniture and décor was Deco I was told, but I never could get my eyes off of her. Lithe and taut she glided down the stairs. Her hair was a deep red and her lips were painted the same shade. She drew long tokes from the long black pencil like cigarette holder. She smoked unfiltered Apple Browns. The brown paper was made from Red Delicious trees after they quit producing fruit, and were very expensive. You always knew when Rosa was about by the smell of her smokes. It was a mixture of acrid tar, and apple blossoms. Normally not the most pleasant smell, but when around Rosa, well everything was better.

 

“Follow me,” she snapped as her heels clacked against the tiles.

 

She led me into a large room with a curved ceiling. The depicted upon the curve of the ceiling was a duplicate of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. I took her word for it. I didn’t even know he was much less what he had painted. She knew I was simple, and she forgave me for it anyway. The antique furniture was lush and hard to polish, but I learned to love it as much as she did.

 

She directed me to sit across from her as she settled her skirts in a fan pattern on the settee. She flicked her ashes into a crystal dish on the table between us and stared at me. Looking me over to see if I measured up to her standards. I sat there quietly my hands clasped in my lap. My simple skirt and flats felt incredibly shabby now even though I had prided myself on my simple yet stated taste while shopping for the first time at Bloomingdales.

 

Not being able to return her stare I began to glance around the room. There were other pieces as well. A large ceramic vase big enough to hold a hundred long stem roses were in the corner next to the fire place. It was from the orient I was told. The fire place was Italian marble and above it was an oil likeness of Rosa and her important husband. His stern features and piercing eyes had been exquisitely copied. The only time I ever saw him soften was after he had beaten her.

 

“What kind of experience do you have?” she asked shaking me from my perusal.

 

“Nothing professional, although I kept the house pretty clean back home. I also kept the church pretty clean while I was there.”

 

“Oh yes,” she said lighting another cigarette, “the ejected nun.”

 

I hadn’t really been ejected. We parted ways amicably. After my father had died, and the bank took the farm there wasn’t anywhere else for me to go. Old Mr. Landford, the once town minister, said maybe the best thing for me was to serve God since I was too old to get married now. I had passed my prime at 25. It wasn’t like there had been a lot of choices. Daddy had needed me and we had been so isolated out in the hills no one even knew I was there much less in need of a suitable man to marry. Old Landford gave me bus money and told me he was notifying Sister Mary Ballard of the Holy Trinity Sisters of Faith in upstate New York. I wasn’t Catholic, but he said it didn’t matter; I would be when I got there.

 

Sister Mary Ballard was a stooped, brittle woman with bad teeth and would spit when she talked. She let me know quickly I was to repent for my sins and nothing was better than old fashioned hard work. I scrubbed the floors, rubbed bees wax into the pews, dusted shelves and prayer books, cooked and served the meals. I even was put in charge of attending to the frailest of our Sisterhood. Bedpans had to be scrubbed, sponge baths given, and beds needed changing.

 

Finally after a year I was given the Sacrament and allowed to attend formal mass. Back in Kentucky we didn’t have too much to do with the Church and I now realized it wasn’t for me. I missed the farm believe it or not, and I actually missed my dear departed ogre of a father. I began to question the validity of the faith and whether God even existed.

 

When I told Sister Mary of my thoughts she made me scrub the toilets. After six months of toilets, bed pans, and scrubbing the floors with nothing more than a toothbrush, I still doubted and Sister Mary said it was best I was on my way. She wasn’t going to have me disrupting the convent with my delusional nonsense.

 

They gave me $200 and a train to the city. They told me I could stay for a while with a denounced sister like myself named Elizabeth Anders. That evening I stepped off the train and took my first cab ride to Elizabeth’s apartment.

 

Elizabeth had been denounced for a very good reason. She was wild. She loved to sing, have sex, and smoke. None of which she could do at the convent. At the time she was working as a waitress in a local jazz club. She was working on the owner to let her sing if I knew what she meant. I don’t know if she ever made it. I only stayed with her for a few days.

 

After I explained to Rosa Mae about the convent she nodded and pursed her lips thoughtfully. She flicked the ash from her fifth cigarette since sitting down and said, “I don’t blame you for questioning the propaganda they tried to force down your throat. Its lies all of it. Just rubbish they try to force down your gullet so they can control you.”

 

I had no response for this profound epitaph. Nodding my head slowly I said, “Yes, well that’s why I’m here. I need a job. I’m a hard worker and I think I could do a good job for you and your family.”

 

Her eyes clouded slightly. “There is no family. Just my husband and I. No one else lives here.” She shifted uncomfortably on her perch. “I don’t like the idea of strange people living in my house to be quite frank. My husband is enforcing the live in part. I don’t know if this is so he can have another woman to dilly around with, or if he is sincere in his feelings of my being overwhelmed. Only time will tell I suppose. You seem genuine to me Ms. Myrna Daughtry. I also do not feel threatened by you. I have never had good relationships with other women. They have always been so jealous of me. I in turn have also shared in that feeling. My husband has a wandering eye you might say, and not to be hurtful - but rather truthful, he will wander past you. This makes me feel good. I need to feel good these days. So all in all I think you will do.”

 

With this said she stood up very formally, and offered me her delicate soft hand. I shook it with my coarse and callused one and she said to me. “You may call me Rosa Mae. I would prefer you call me Rosa Mae. My married name is McCleoud and the only time you will be required to use it is when addressing my husband and myself while he is here. Thankfully that is oftentimes not, and therefore you shouldn’t have to use it often. Are we clear?” I shook my head in confirmation. I was so jubilant to be given my first full time job it never occurred to me to question the request. I was working, finally working, and I wasn’t living in the hills of Kentucky anymore.

 

Author's Note

Suggestions welcome. I belive this may be one of my best to date.

Reviews

[jrhilarious]

My main purpose when I joined WC is to learn from others, to read their work and the commentaries by authors in the know. What's been happening is, I'm spending more time writing reviews for works by other authors whenever inspiration kicks in. I have yet to see constructive criticism and to learn from it. I guess it's ok because I can get some practice writing.

I will review this piece as if it is my own. I'm learning as I go, apply what I know and hopefully help others in the process. But the last thing I need is to come across as an arrogant know-it-all b*****d. Going back to my previous reviews of other authors, I did. I was arrogant. I was a know-it-all. And I was a b*****d. It wasn't my intent and totally out of character for me. My apology to all.

Now for the review. Let me begin first by echoing what everyone else stated here, the descriptive quality of your prose is excellent. (It's something I can only hope to achieve myself.) There is a natural flow from sentence to sentence, linking the story-line cohesively from paragraph to paragraph. But this is a draft so I see more polishing work to do. Don't stop. Keep writing and do the clean-up later after the whole story is finished.

My opinion whether to develop what you already started into a novella or a short, judging from this 1st chapter alone, it's looking more like a novella. The structure is set-up like a novella so let me explore that posibility first. I see a mix of "SHOW" and "TELL" style which I like personally. Caution, it can be a messy read if you can't control the transition. Try using "SHOW" mainly when dealing with your major characters. This gives the reader a hint that the character is important. Showing the action instead of telling also helps you to be more descriptive, dealing with the character's thoughts, feelings and other sensory matters. Now "TELL" only when you're introducing a minor character. I personally will not care what the doorman is thinking or feeling, unless there is relevance to your story.

If this is a short story, I'll stick with just "TELL" throughout. Why? Telling is shorter and to the point. The main focus is the story-line or your message.

Now let's deal with what you have so far. The first opening paragraph is great. If I just say great and left it at that, others like me who wants to learn "what makes it great" is left scratching their head. So let me "try" to analyze what's so great about it. The beggining two sentences set up the mood and gave me the hook to keep me reading. Why is the 1st person character (

[Chillbear Latrigue]

Let's start with the accolades. I think the writing itself is just excellent. You have a very good sense of how long you should stay on a particular point before moving on. I liked how this shifted into a period piece. However, the old strange woman coming up and telling her story on a park bench is a little reminiscent of Forrest Gump and maybe Titanic. I was very interested in Myrna's and Rosa Mae's story, but a little less taken by the woman on the park bench. I know it's a device to get to the meat of the story, but the lead in didn't work as well as the rest of the story. Maybe if you could move the chance meeting between the two women to a less conventional meeting place. In any case, I look forward to reading the other chapters.

[Polly Lewis]

Nicely done Jennifer. Good, strong characters, excellent description and an intriguing story line. I think you should let this one lead you forward hun.
Good job.
Polly.

[TL Boehm]

lovely writing here. I found your descriptions wonderfully vibrant. I could see the small dollops of snow against the green grass ( that paragraph was especially brilliant BTW)
Love the premise of the old woman sitting down and telling her story. If you decide to continue this - I would be happy to read it...send me a read request if you'd like.

[Scot Savage]

A nice start and a great use of descriptive writing that subtle but not contrived or over-the-top.

[.]

This was pretty cool- Very well written. But i think that u have enough information here to make two chapters. Dialog was top notch, as well as the image you painted. It was nice to see she got the job lol- Looks like she really did work her behind off in the beginning lol- Seemed like a prison she was workin in before hehe. At the end where she says she 'shook' her head, i'd put "She 'nodded' her head," as a compliance. And sometimes a little faith in life always helps too, but it's not good to force it down one's throat in making someone like it lol :) Good job!

Mikey

[Amor-de-angel]

I liked it. Your descriptons were good. Try doing more to it and see if your happy with it. If not you have a good piece here on its own.

[Marie]

Great job.

[Celtic Cat]

I've no suggestions as I was captivated by each character in this story. It's a wonderful piece and yes, expansion would not hurt in the least. Excellent write.

[Sean Allen]

As everyone said, the description is perfect already, to the point of seeming perfectly real. Keep going with this story and we'll see where it goes.