The Rose Thieves by Heidi Jon Schmidt Page A

the door. “The vulgar Lila Corrigan, not worthy of the likes of you, you self-righteous-petit-bourgeois-son-of-a-bitch, with your ancestors and your—”
    â€œShut up,” Pop said, as if desperate to stop a leak. “Just shut up,” he said again, although she was silent. “It’s a wonder I come here at all.” The same rage that freed Ma’s tongue bound his; he stood still for a moment in confusion and went back down the stairs.
    â€œâ€”and your pearls,” she yelled after him. The diva had reached her great moment, her audience rapt, in pajamas. With one wrenching twist the pearls were everywhere, skittering along the floor, hopping in the rug.
    â€œThey’re secretions, vulgar secretions, you know,” she called down the stairs, and sank sobbing on the bed.
    â€œDo you think I’m vulgar?” she asked Audie, who was hugging her, rocking her by the shoulders back and forth.
    â€œNo, Ma, I think you’re beautiful” (and I think she’s bananas, she’d tell Kate tomorrow).
    â€œMe too,” Chucky said, and she drew him in.
    Kate rolled a pearl between her fingers. “He only said it,” she said, “because you made that … crack … about Grandma.” Dear God, she hadn’t meant to, but she was speaking with cold rage. Ma looked up incredulous from Audie’s shoulder.
    â€œWho do you think you are?” she said. “Get out of here. You’re just like the rest of them.”
    Kate stood, dumb, defiant.
    â€œGet out!” Ma said. Kate went.
    The keys to the VW were on a hook by the front door. On the porch swing, in the dark, Pop sat with bent head. He didn’t look up when she passed.
    *   *   *
    Other times she had gone to Bobby’s, to tremble in his kitchen while his hearty mother fried a steak for her cats. But seeing the lamp in his window, lit against thieves, while the family was away, she felt lonely only for a minute. Then it seemed just another slash against whatever ropes held her down on the earth, as an angry new confidence tugged her away. When you had expression, you were safe at any speed, anywhere; you could turn pain to understanding like straw into gold.
    Knowing this, and Elayne’s schedule at the hospital, she went to see Amir. He was standing in the lighted doorway when she drove up. Listening to the katydids, she supposed. He had an eager, child’s heart, she could see.
    â€œHi,” she said. “My parents had a fight.”
    â€œA fi-ight?” Amir found the English language infinitely amusing. He made a boxing feint and planted his hand on the door frame over her shoulder, smiling.
    â€œI think they’re crazy,” she said, looking down.
    He lifted her chin with a finger. “Cray-zee,” he said, rolling his eyes. She didn’t like his closeness so much now, but went in with him anyway, not wanting to be timid. The house was all pink and ruffles, and she had to push some pillows off the couch just to sit down. Amir set his beer on the television, where Joan Crawford, without volume, was adjusting her hat.
    â€œIt’s so sad,” Kate said. “They do love each other, you know, but they…”
    He kissed her, interrupting. He would be hurt if she went on talking about herself and didn’t respond. And his country was nearly at war. She put her arms around his neck. He turned the light off with one hand and reached under her sweatshirt with the other.
    â€œPillows,” he said, “too much pillows.”
    She twisted to pull the heart-shaped one out from underneath. Amir’s face in the TV light had lost all its warm color, but she tried to smile.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” she asked.
    â€œThinking?” He was struggling with her belt buckle, and she reached to help. She believed in passion.
    â€œZipper?”
    Kate unzipped. In Turkey they wouldn’t violate the sanctity of