Rose of China (Chapter ONE)

                                       Rose of China

Chapter 1. 

Kathy stood in the kitchen like a dead tree stump, waiting on the microwave to ding; the passing seconds unbearable. Each moment offered the prospect of her roommate walking into the common area.

Roommate—like she had a vote. No. She rented a room from the man who still called her ‘baby’ when he wanted something and ‘bitch’ when he didn’t. The rent was non-negotiable. The rules weren’t. She floated in the house like a wounded ghost. 

Her eyes burned. 

Ding. 

In her cramped room, she ate the mashed potatoes and meatloaf T.V dinner. The center was still a little cold but she heard him stirring in the living room now, the T.V blasting. The sound of gun fire exploding. 

She tied her shoes and slipped out the front door for a walk. Her loyal dog, Possum, trailed behind her, cold meatloaf on his lips. She put her headphones in; Bruce Springsteen. 

Dancing in the Dark.

 It gave her a cautious bounce in her step. Made her think of Highschool. Her best friend’s Chrysler with the top down, their hair blowing in the wind. 

She could still see her best friend's curvy mouth, pink chapstick over crooked teeth. One hand on the steering wheel, the other hand turning up the song, their voices trailing off into early night air, mingling with clouds turning purple as the moon premeditated entrance. That was thirty years ago.

She hung her head, watching the music video of the song on her phone. The whole of Bruce Springsteen reduced to a small screen where he bounced on a stage in an open white shirt showing a lean chest, his dancing seductive. It was a hot summer day. June, so the days were long. Her dog’s tail was up. A trailer park was across the way. A decade in the neighborhood and she had only been to the park once. She had surveyed the lots for sale a few years back. They had all been out of the price range of a janitor at an elementary school. 

Maybe it was the energy of the song, or boredom or both; she didn't know. She only knew her feet moved, and she felt like checking the area again–and the prices. She had recently gotten a small raise. Cents added up and briefly, so did hope.

It looked a little more run-down than before. Or maybe it was because last time she drove through, and now she was on foot. Her car had broken down nine months ago; needed a new transmission.

 A few cracks zigzagged in the pavement. Still hummingbird feeders hung with birds buzzing about, and sunflowers blasted as close as they could get to the sun, hypervigilant for sunshine. 

An old woman sat in a pretty wrought iron chair, a matching table in front of her. Planted tomatoes adorned her landscape. She waved and Kathy waved back. 

“Well, hello there!” the woman said enthusiastically. 

“Hello,” Kathy barely spoke. 

Kathy made her way to the park’s office where properties were announced. She moved her finger down the list, dreaming a little. But they were all out of range. 

An empty trailer sat next to the office. Sure, it needed some work but her mind began to weave a fantasy. She could see her own small patio, flowers, something fantastic in pots, like bright hibiscus blooms. 

She looked inside the trailer from the outside windows. It was a hot mess inside. A baby doll’s head laid on the living room floor. The body was across the other side of the room. She wondered who the baby doll belonged to. If their body was whole, or pulled apart. She felt pulled apart. She sat on the steps, took out a vape and sucked cotton candy into her lungs. She scrolled her phone. Her dog yawned and sat beside her. 

“You a new renter here?”

Kathy heard someone talk, they were muffled. She pulled out her ear piece. Birds popped in her ears. The wind hummed. “I’m sorry?”

A woman, about her same age, spoke again. “You rentin’ this place?”

Kathy stood up, suddenly aware of her own attire. Baggy pajama shorts, inside out, and a loose tee. Socks and sandals. She wanted to slap herself. At least her vape was good quality. She took a hit. Candied dopamine. “Oh no…I was just sitting a second with my dog. He got tired.”

“You from around here?”

Kathy pointed to the subdivision across the way. “I live over there–in the cove.”

“Oh,” said the woman, bending down to greet Kathy’s dog who now approached with a tail wag and sniff. “Oh my god, a rat terrier. I love terriers…little terrorists they call them.”

Kathy laughed at this. Genuinely. Her dog had been pure hell for many years. Now older and declining health had made the dog more manageable. “Never heard that before, but that’s really true.”

“I’m dropping off the landlord’s money,” the woman said, emphasizing the word, ‘lord,’ intentionally. She dropped a yellow envelope in the office mailbox. 

Kathy picked up her dog. “Lord?”

“Yeah you know the bastard who runs this place is almost a hundred. A lot of times he doesn’t even remember whether you paid or not. His grandson is supposed to keep the books but well…he’s a kid and too busy smelling his own nuts to care.”

Kathy patted her dog’s head. “Oh really.” 

The woman rubbed the dog's snout. “Well, good luck!” 

“Yeah.”

Kathy stood there like a mule in mud, watching the woman walk off. She wanted to follow her, but had no idea what to say. The woman must have sensed something because she turned back, “hey, you okay?”

“Yeah…just kind of…bored.”

“I’ll be frying up some cat fish for brunch later… You wanna go in on some sides and maybe a few cans of beer?” She had said the word brunch as if they were two socialites chatting outside a country club. 

Kathy didn’t drink. It aggravated her IBS. She didn’t even particularly like catfish. “Yeah. I can walk home and get my wallet and come back.”

“Lot number 56, sweetheart!”

Kathy smiled. She began to jog, her heart catching real speed. Her cheeks reddened. Something big and bright had turned its face toward her. She found someone to go to Goodwill with, Sonic-hop, a wing-man. Been a long time since she had a wing-man–no, a wing-woman. 

It never occurred to her that the woman at lot 56 would alter the course of her life in ways akin to the weight of the hibiscus bloom, nothing that could be articulated in paint or truly contained.