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The Invisible Cage

by Roger Kerrigan 


It was as if she were an abused dog, her hair matted down, her eyes unable to make eye contact. She sat there, behind her office desk, the paper clips in a paper clip holder, the post-its in a post-it holder, the pens in a pen holder, everything arranged neatly on her desk.
 
She dressed the same way, too. A plaid maroon dress, the thick fabric blunting any indecent hints of what her slender body looked like beneath it. She wore a black shirt underneath that matched her stockings, all of it covering her skin in a way that made it seem inaccessible. Everything so prim, so modest, that it made me think of her as a throwback to The Wonder Years. And it made me wonder: is this what women really looked like back then?
 
 She—Rosemarie was her name—was awfully kind though. I learned that on my first day in the communications department when she checked to make sure I had everything. She offered to order anything I needed and to make sure it got to me by next-day delivery. And I couldn’t help but think—what the hell would I need so urgently on my first day that it needed to be here by my second day? But I didn’t tell her that. I just thanked her and said that if I really needed something, I could order it myself.
 
As the weeks and months passed, I got to know Rosemarie little by little. She started making eye contact, and once she even touched me, then drew her hand back as if my arm sat on a stove.
 

  
“Mom, I know about my appointment,” she said sharply into the phone. “Mom, why are you calling me on my work number.”
 
I peeked around the corner, and the moment she saw me she swiveled her chair so her back was to me. She hunched over and started whispering.
 
Later that day, when I saw her in the office kitchen, I asked her if she was alright.
 
“It was just Mom making sure I remembered my appointment,” she said.
 
It struck me as odd, her referring to her mother as “Mom.” Not “my mom” but “Mom.” There was an odd formality to it.
 
“If my mom did that I’d probably laugh and hang up,” I said back. And it was true, I would. I was in my thirties for Christ’s sake.
 
“If I did that, Mom would make it holy hell for me when I got home,” she said.
 
“What about your dad?”
 
“Dad lets Mom handle the house.”
 
Which I took as ‘Mom manhandles Dad.’
 
“Then maybe you’ll have to start wearing a necklace of St. Michael just in case.”
 
She smiled, and in a sense, I think she was a little surprised I knew anything about religion.
 
From that point on, I got to know Rosemarie’s childhood. She grew up in a house that sounded like some sort of invisible cage; her mother hadn’t allowed her beyond their yard until she was fifteen years old. At first I had trouble understanding. I mean, I’d grown up with the Bingham brothers and BMX bikes and firecrackers, hockey sticks, air rifles, and cartons of eggs--cartons upon cartons of eggs. While our neighbors probably wanted us to go home, her neighbors probably didn’t know who she even was.
 
She still stayed in that same house. So, in a way, it made sense to me how she reacted to a comment I made on a particularly stressful day. She came into my office as I was trying to rework a memo for a director who didn’t know how to communicate but had a lot of opinions about how to do so.
 
“God I could use a drink,” I said to Rosemarie. “Angela’s making my day hell.” I looked up and smiled. “A holy hell.”
 
“Do you want company?” Rosemarie asked.
 
I paused. “Company for what?”
 
“You said you could use a drink.”
 
“Oh I didn’t mean …”  
 
“It’s okay,” she said. “I misunderstood.”
 
“Actually, I could use a couple beers. I’m not doing anything after work anyway.”
 

 
So we went to a German beer garden with a nice outdoor patio a few blocks from our office. We each ordered a stein—mine a whole liter, hers just a half—and started chatting about work before moving on to our personal lives. After a couple hours, she looked down at her phone. “It’s Mom,” she said. “She’s already pestering me about when I’ll be home.”
 
“Why don’t you just tell her to back off?” I said.
 
“If I do that, she’ll get cross with me.”
 
Cross? I thought. Who uses that word anymore? “Maybe she should give you some space.” Only I didn’t say space. I said leash. Maybe she should give you some leash.
 
But Rosemarie didn’t snap back. Not like she should have. Her eyes lowered, falling into her lap.
 
“Where else would I go,” she said.
 
We left the bar and walked a few blocks until we were at the intersection where one way led back to my place and the other led to the train that would take her back to Mom.
 
She stood there with a sort of awkward posture, and I couldn’t tell if she was waiting for me to kiss her or hug her or simply say goodbye. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I invited her back to my place. Would that be the somewhere else she could go? But she’d still have to return home the next day. And then what would Mom say?
 
I said goodbye, and we exchanged an awkward hug, one where we patted each other’s backs without the rest of us really touching. As I walked down the street toward my apartment, I glanced back just to make sure she wasn’t following me.
 
But I knew she wouldn’t do that. She had a home. With a yard she couldn’t stray from. 
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Roger Kerrigan is from Sioux Falls, South Dakota.Roger Kerrigan is from Sioux Falls, South Dakota.