Enchanted Islands Read Online Free PDF Page A

read alongside her.
    *
    Sometimes, on Sundays, a storm gathered around Rosalie. She would wake up with her usual good humor, but directly after breakfast, often with crumbs still hovering around her mouth, she would begin to slink away emotionally, until noon brought with it a blank stare. On these days, her parents and I left at lunchtime, Rosalie’s melancholy unspoken of. Rosalie’s only chore in her house, apparently, was to deliver the rent to the landlord every week. I never saw her do a dish, or sweep, or hang laundry. When her parents left, she’d tell me I had to go, shooing me out the door. Occasionally they took me with them for tea or a walk. More frequently, I went home to help my mother.
    One Sunday morning, Rosalie shook me awake and asked me to pretend to go home when her parents left. “But come back right away, all right?”
    “All right,” I said, too drowsy to question her.
    We ate breakfast as usual. Rosalie picked at her toast and barely sipped her tea, fidgeting around in her seat like she had to use the toilet. Her parents took no notice, reading the Sunday paper, wordlessly exchanging sections. Her little brother scanned the funny pages, laughing at the stupid jokes.
    “Well,” her father said finally. “It’s a nice day. Let’s go look at the ships. Fanny? You up for it? Rosalie, you’ll wait for the landlord.”
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s a busy week and my mother could use some help with the ironing.” It occurred to me how odd their family was, the parents and brother going out, never asking Rosalie if she wanted to come, almost like Rosalie had to stay home as punishment for some transgression. I tried to meet her father’s eyes, but he turned back to the paper.
    “Everybody up and ready,” her mother said brightly. Had I never noticed the false levity in her voice, a stage actress playing the role of mother? “Getting late.”
    Rosalie closed the door behind us and I accompanied her family to the end of Lake Street. I said goodbye and turned my customary right up the hill. But once they were out of sight, I doubled back, running to Rosalie’s house.
    She was pacing the first floor, wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth. She was so agitated that I didn’t want to upset her by asking what was wrong. When there was a knock on the door, she jumped.
    “Here,” she handed me an envelope, whispering. “Open the door just wide enough to give it to him. Pretend you don’t speak English.”
    Even back then I was motivated by the excitement of espionage, and I should have learned that it is inevitably disappointing. I opened the door a bit. Their landlord was an Irishman with thick hands. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Had he ever washed his hair? At his side rested a large well-worn leather case.
    “Where is she, then?” he asked.
    I answered in my best thick Polish accent. “Out,” I said. “Family is out. Rent here. Here, rent.”
    He looked disappointed, took the envelope, and went on his way. “Stupid Polack,” I heard him say. “Dumb Mick,” I thought back.
    I closed the door and watched as Rosalie’s face transformed into a smile. “Thanks, Fan. You’re a real pal.”
    “Always,” I said, not sure what I’d done.
    I find it hard to believe now that I didn’t understand what was happening. But I was so sheltered and so young. Most of my waking thoughts were about myself. Would I grow curvy? Would I have the courage to quit my job and run away from home? What should I do with my limp, drab hair?
    When I thought about Rosalie—which I did, in my defense, often—I decided she was simply irrational and showed signs of nervous behavior that she would most likely outgrow.
    *
    Though we all anxiously awaited signs of maturity, Rosalie had a desire to start menstruation that bordered on the obsessive. I was scared as well as excited—from what I’d heard at school, the monthly was unpleasant at best, messy and uncomfortable. I