Discovering Life's Surprises:
Philip F. Deaver's “Rosie," from Silent Retreats
First written in 2006
Upon encountering the half-drunken philosophical ramblings of Martin—the narrator of Philip F. Deaver’s short story “Rosie”—the reader might have to stifle a yawn. Martin is an anti-war “liberal,” as his co-workers label him, in his early middle age who is carrying on—partially due to the ever-diminishing Johnny Walker in his flask, but not entirely—about the absurdity of believing in God and the illogic of other religious tenets. Those of us who are of an age with Deaver, who celebrated his sixtieth birthday last month, have heard these arguments before, especially if we have impatiently borne the contradictions intrinsic to a Catholic background, as has his narrator. It seems that Rosie T. is bored with Martin’s rant, too. She doesn’t say a word as he pontificates for two-and-a-half pages. Then she surprises him, and the reader, with a cheeky retort. This is just the first in a series of surprises in this remarkable and touching story.
Relieved to hear Rosie reply, Martin considers that he might be making progress. He’s a man on a mission, after all, hoping his scintillating monologue might entice this beautiful woman whom he’s recently met into his bed. But there is another long period before Rosie responds again, and she’s “looking down, as always. . .” as she does (177). It seems obvious that this is a reticent woman, clever but shy, who doesn’t have much to say to Martin and isn’t impressed with his loquaciousness or wit. She stings him further when she says she doesn’t know what he’s been talking about. At this point Martin becomes quieter, ruminating that “in the hotels thousands of faces passed by me . . . motivated at cross-purposes, full of plans and secrets and wondering. [They were thinking of] home, where the reality was, where the real, not plastic, loves were. . . ” (177-78). What a surprise. It seems possible that Martin may have a sensitive side. Yes, he has been clever—the main thing that keeps the reader engaged up to this point—but suddenly we see a man who is thoughtful, introspective, something the reader is not expecting.
Rosie, of course, cannot be impressed by Martin’s silent musings and is untouched by his ramblings. Or is she? After questioning him about his issues with anger—his answer is whimsical, not angry—she suddenly throws the door of her heart wide open when she says, “My mother died three months ago” (178). Here is a quiet woman having a beer with a half-tipsy man she barely knows at two o’clock in the morning, and she tells him the intimate details of her mother’s last few days on this earth. It’s a heartbreaking story, for Rosie’s mother never experienced love in her life: “If only he cared, if only he cared,” she says as she’s dying, the “he” referring to her husband (180). A shocker, most would agree. The reader has had only a few subtle clues that Rosie doesn’t loathe this man she is sitting with. Martin himself is confused—and surprised as well—as they walk back to the hotel: “She was taking my arm, whether out of affection or weariness I couldn’t tell . . .” (181).
Once in the hotel, the sexual tension between the two escalates. In the back of Martin’s mind, all along, has been the idea of an illicit interlude with this beautiful woman whom he will probably never see again. So when the two are accosted in the hallway by a mutual acquaintance, and Rosie gets off the elevator on the friend’s floor instead of Martin’s, or her own, we are again surprised and maybe even gratified that Martin, back in his room alone, thinks, “In a way, I was glad she was gone. The good-bye in the elevator had been all wrong, yes, but I was going to make it to morning without the waftings of guilt” (184-85). We know that Martin has a wife and kids at home, after all, and most of us, having had a spouse out of town at one time or another, are probably rooting for fidelity at this point.
But as Martin, alone in his bed, is ready to drift off, Rosie calls and explains her unexpected exit from the elevator. His libido at rest, he listens to Rosie chat, on and on, until she says, “Do you have pure blue ice in your veins, or what?” (186). The pursued has become the pursuer, it seems.
Some brief minutes later, Rosie is in Martin’s room and they are holding one another. Martin’s interest and his libido are again aroused, but it is a gentle, touching arousal: “There was that feeling again that I always forget. The feeling that you’ve been out there alone all your life until now, and you want to explain to this woman how you’ve been feeling, go over. . . the torment of work, the stress and the isolation” (186-87). So it is a gentle play that Martin makes, and he receives a gentle refusal from Rosie. She is there to hold, and be held. Only that. She sleeps in the other bed, alone.
And so we leave this wise and haunting story with a sad smile but not a heavy heart, for we’ve been uplifted by the enchanting surprises life holds for all of us. This journey, Deaver seems to be suggesting, is as unpredictable as the weather, and Rosie, and just as breathtaking at times.
Works Cited
Deaver, Philip F. Silent Retreats. Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia, 1988.