Rich, Red

A lady had been dropped off today. Despite the reddish hair, blackness was evident in tight coils and a rounded nose. Her dark eyes surveyed the dim household, stepping in gingerly. She marveled at the deep blue walls, lacquered floors, and the faint smell of dried flowers. The absence of a looming presence allowed her to take everything in.

Rosa let out a quiet sigh so subtle it sounded like any other breath. This was a girl allowed to be one, a fact emphasized by her travel wear. The polished red shoes especially caught Rosa’s attention. They were new, matched in color by a cloche hat and lipstick. Glancing around, Lady Girl leaned in, a hand on Rosa’s arm.

“Is this a whorehouse?” The question was low, fitting of the subject, but it was still one that shook to the core.

Rosa’s mouth twitched, a laugh dying before it could leave her throat. “No.”

She raised a brow at her.

“If it were, I wouldn’t be the only one greeting you.” Her gaze fled elsewhere, crossing her arms over her chest. “Especially on Sundays.”

Nevertheless, she remained visibly suspicious. “Should I be relieved?”

“Do what you want in there, Missy, I’m not the one bossing you around.”

Lady-girl smirked.

Rosa felt her cheeks burn. Moments like these made her grateful how brown she was. She breathed in deep, getting a noseful of subdued perfume. Patchouli. It was the last note that didn’t fade over hours of travel. How appropriate.

Rosa tore from her thoughts— arrangements were to be made, things to be done! As Lady Girl bathed, she fluffed the fresh pillows on a dressed bed. The linens had been replaced, still neat as she sat mournfully over it, clutching the pillow. Then, Lady Girl walked in. Her wet hair was held down by bobby pins, a strip of satin in her hand.

Rosa was still unsure what to make of her, if the fiery curls were evidence of some crime or a sudden twist of fate. Even without the pumps, she was statuesque, a grace granted to every curve of her body. Her expression softened with a weary compassion.

Rosa stood straight, squeezing the air from that pillow. “A…hello.”

“Quit or fired?”

She lowered her gaze, mouth pressed into a grieving wince. What could she say?

“Consumption,” was the excuse that came and faded just as fast. “That’s why the bed is new.”

Lady Girl was beside herself. Gingerly, she walked up to her and sat in the nearby space, guiding her back down. Compassion weighed down those eyes. Rosa felt a pit in her stomach large enough to sink the town. The moment Lady-girl swept her into a hug, she went rigid, relaxing as her warmth seeped in. Rosa pressed her face against her shoulder. The thrum of her pulse played just under her skin. Rosa wanted to cry, her eyes stinging. She rested her cheek against her neck. A teardrop seeped between them. God, she smelled good. Rosa could feel an icy glare bore into her. She drew back. What was her name again? Vivienne?

“Vivienne,”

“Yeah?”

She glanced between the woman beside her and her pillow. “I-I’m Rosa. Rosa Dupree.”

“Pretty.”

Rosa stared at her. Pretty was a word with an odd sting, held just out of reach until now. Coming from this woman, with an almost wistful smile? She felt faint.

Once again, Vivienne leaned in close. “Now, you’re sure this isn’t a whorehouse?”

She snickered, hiding her surprise behind a hand. “Yes,” Rosa gave her arm a swat. “We just take care of it.” She glanced away. “And her.”

Vivienne noted that falter. “Is she a LaLaurie in disguise?”

“Then I’d be underground.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Does it matter?”

“Guess not.”

Rosa kept her gaze down.

“I’m not that ugly, am I?”

Her head snapped up, bewildered at the notion. Shock turned to a bashful scowl when she found her smirking again.

“It’s a bit soon to tease me so.”

“Are you the forgiving sort?”

“I have to be.”

The way she said that struck her. It was tinged with the deep flavor of sorrow. Vivienne knew that taste, but not this inset, at least not with those her age. Rosa wasn’t only that but small, shrinking into herself. If she tried, she’d probably vanish under that cotton shift. Vivienne clasped their hands together.

“Don’t forgive me, then, I forbid it.”

Rosa scoffed.

“I’ll figure something out for penance.”

“Foolish...”

“This fool has a flask and a death wish.”

“Did the first lead to the second?”

Vivienne chuckled. “Attagirl.”

Rosa outright giggled. “Hush.”

The days passed with early mornings. Both started at opposite sides of the house-- Rosa, the attic; Vivienne, the basement. Floors were scrubbed and mopped, silver polished, soiled clothing collected. The articles were tossed into a canvas bag, burgundy despite its textile. Rosa paused to wave at her new coworker, a sliver of daylight painting against her eye. With a smile, she waved back.

Bashful as ever, Rosa brought that bag down to the windowless laundromat. She dumped the clothes into a tub of cold water, dumping in salt and swirling the clothes to soak. This was usually the time when she waited, sitting in the dark as she counted the distant ticking of a grandfather clock. Today, however, she felt a girlish stirring in her stomach, one that made it impossible to sit still. She bounced her leg, crumpled the hem of her skirt in her hands, until she got up. There were other chores to do in the meantime, she rationed. Her search led her to the kitchen, its occupant one redheaded lady, peeling potatoes.

Soup was bubbling in a hardy tin pot, red with paprika and sinfully fragrant. Nothing fancy, not even gumbo, just a seafood stew with onions and garlic softening under the broth. Vivienne cut halfway through the potatoes, breaking each piece apart. Rosa swallowed. She could already hear a scornful chuckle. Even the memory made her steam.

After a stir, Vivienne tapped her ladle against the pot’s rim.

Rosa gasped, snatching her hands from the doorway. She was really out here peeking.

“It’ll be ready in ten,” Vivienne said, glancing at her. “Wanna try?”

Rosa had no idea why she nodded. Perhaps it was a death wish. Perhaps that scoff has pissed her off enough that whatever Miss Jackson said about garlic was snuffed out. Vivienne held a spoonful above her hand, the vermilion contraband warming Rosa’s cheeks. This rebellion had a light sweetness, rounded with its savory heart. Crawfish.

“How is it?”

“I miss my mama alla sudden,” she chuckled.

“You just filled my ego tenfold.” Vivienne pulled her into a sideways hug.

Even if they held each other all day, Rosa would’ve wanted to stay there a little longer.

“I-I’ve got clothes to wash.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bowl.”

She’ll save her a bowl. Rosa knew it was normal to do so, it simply felt as if she forgot. She did forget. Usually her mouth had a metallic flavor that filled her belly but didn’t pass easy. The lingering taste of home on her tongue made her transgression all the more real. She walked down into the basement and scrubbed those clothes.

Damp laundry hung out in the lit room, Rosa paying close attention to the brighter colors. The worst was a faint outline of brown against a yellow dress, one invisible unless looked upon with her eye. It’d fade further as it dried. A pretty thing. Rosa grinned. Suddenly, she was struck by the prior sin, held just above her. It felt like a pendulum, lowering with each groan of the upstairs floorboards. Her stomach churned.

Rosa turned in early, nausea claiming her. In the middle of the night, she stirred, still paralyzed. In the corner of her eye, a figure hunched over Vivienne, whose gasps made her wake up in the first place. She was still asleep, though frantically breathing as if she were baptized in ice water. Everything was framed by moonlight, in all its visceral glory. Miss Jackson sighed, standing straight as she strode to the hall, her face flush as she licked the blood from her lips. Rosa stared back at the ceiling, the shadows of branches scraping across its white plane. A tear rolled into her hair.

Vivienne scratched her neck. Two itchy bumps sat on her neck, a pallor to her face as she polished silver. The scabs were gone, but her pink flush had yet to return and those eyes had shadows carved deeper under kitchen lights. Rosa hesitated but rushed to her side once that steel-colored hate drifted away from her. She felt her forehead.

“Are you feverish?”

“Fine, fine.” Vivienne brought down her hand. “Nightmare had me drained last night.”

Rosa’s stomach lurched at the mention of that night. Usually, it gave way to numbness, but it’d been weeks since the first one. That soup had passed through, but the sight of dandelion leaves swirling in the rolling boil never left her mind. The smell. The taste.

“Don’t gimme them big ole eyes,” Vivienne teased, cupping her face. Doe eyes, they were; big and wounded. Lingering. She felt her forehead.

“Meanwhile, you’ve got a chill.”

“I run cold.”

“You need iron, then. I’ll get some collard greens when we’re done, alright?”

It was almost tempting to feel foolish, being doted on like this. Vivienne’s gradual wilting made this far more absurd.

“I’ve got iron plenty,” Rosa said. “You should rest.”

Vivienne rested her elbow on her chair arm, perching her chin on a hand.

Even before she could answer, it was barely a breath. A phantom hand had wrapped around her throat, threatening to crush her confession into a whimper. Where would she begin?

Vivienne gave her a peck on the forehead. “Okay.” She stood, walking up to the stove.

Words garbled in Rosa’s mouth as she was met with a spoonful of rice.

“Try this.”

Silently, she heeded, letting out a long exhale as she chewed. Vivienne and her damned spoon had dragged her in by the tongue, yet it tasted of catharsis. Confession. Despite this, the one delivering this communion was no out of reach priest, but a lay woman just like her. When she looked up at her, she felt that solemn care seep in like her weeping transgression the first day they met.

“You a witch?”

Vivienne paused. After a moment, she cackled; heartily, fully. “What?”

“Charms?”

“I don’t think garlic’s used in spells, sweetie.”

Yet each bite felt as if her soul returned. Has it? Or was her smile a hint of hellfire? Rosa swallowed. Even calling it ‘just food’ was…wrong. In any other situation, it would be just food. Rosaline Dupree had fed and helped feed from pulsing veins, the blood being her milk, her water, her broth. Miss Jackson herself had mixed her fill with bread, apples being her favorite.

“You’re not pedigreed,” she’d remind her, biting into a crisp red fruit. “Anything this rich would kill you dead.”

Perhaps the thrill was knowing she was-- or that Miss Jackson had been wrong. A slap would be inevitable had she said something, but it felt like it wouldn’t hurt as much. Marguerite Jackson was incorrect.

She turned from her thoughts to an open window, sunlight filtering through branches and leaves. Rosa flinched. Eyes squeezed shut, the sunlight cutting through her lids like a dagger. The light had hit her. Carefully, opened them, eyes wide like a stunned deer. A hot rage filled her whole body. It threatened to spill down her face, that red rage. Vivienne turned to her and her face dropped.

“Are you alright?” Once again, the question was low, though nothing raised its tone, she was serious. She was worried.

She couldn’t muster a word, what could she say? She should’ve been dust. Her skin should have crisped with a sickening hiss, but not so much as a tingle hit her. No burn. No smoke. Not even the following bliss of emptiness or hellfire. She lived. She breathed. She screamed.

 “Rosa,”

Sobs buckled her knees as Vivienne caught her, holding her tight. She guided her downstairs, stroking her hair once they were at a safe distance. She didn’t turn on the lights, keeping Rosa close as her breathing shortened. She whimpered as lips pressed against her temple.

“She lied to me…” she squeaked. The one thing holding her inside that house never existed. How long would this have gone on? It was one thing to be wrong, it’s another to outright lie, to keep her in for this long! And her tears would have to go unexplained. Evil.

Vivienne had finished the ground floor before stepping down. She knew a deep upset when she saw it. Gingerly, stopping to listen before she opened the door, she stepped into the basement, flicking on the lights. Rosa was slumped at the bottom of the stairs, her gaze empty. Vivienne sat beside her. She didn’t move.

   “I’m sorry,” she droned. “I don’t know why that happened.”

   “You’re bad at lying.”

   She usually was. This, however, was different. The house had a stink of deception that, once known, was overpowering. How else was she lied to? Rosa held her hand over her mouth, sick again. Vivienne touched her face. She flinched. Once she felt the thumb wipe away her tears, they came flowing again.

   “What’s wrong?”

   A bitter laugh escaped her. “Where to begin?”

   Vivienne shared in her cynical smile. She drew her close.

   “You like hugging me,” Rosa noted, resting against that turn from shoulder to neck. The sad humor faded as she felt her heartbeat throb throughout her body. She gulped, her mouth dry.

   “I just…” her words returned just as weak. “Learned something big and it…upended me.”

   Vivienne let out a knowing laugh. “I’ll share mine if you share yours.”

   “I doubt you’d believe it.”

“Try me.”

Rosa looked at her. It wasn’t as simple as one encounter or circumstances of birth, she has the date and year of when it all began.

“I…answered an ad, too.”

"When?"

She took a deep breath. "April 5th, 1892."

Vivienne took that in, unsure if hers is more or less absurd to this woman. "Because of my parts, I had to go about as a man. I never got to be a little girl, but I became a woman real fast."

Rosa paused. Her assessment was wrong. At least it was her own mistake, one she could relate to with open arms, though not to the extent of boyhood. She took Vivienne's face in her hands and kissed her. It was meant to be a simple bit of tenderness, but Viv's hands rested on her waist and invited her to linger. They'd kiss again and again, Rosa practically seeing the earth under her feet, smelling the fire as this house turned to kindling.

"Will you come with me?" Her question was quiet, a whisper against her lips.

"Yes."

Rosa grinned, biting her lip.