May 15, 1912
Rose awoke suddenly, her body drenched with sweat. It had been a month since the Titanic had sunk, and the nightmares still plagued her. Visions of people falling into the deep, endless sea, the ship sinking down and pulling her with it, cutting off her breath and her life, and most of all, visions of Jack sinking into the water, disappearing from sight.
Sometimes she would imagine that he was there with her, that she had been mistaken and he hadn’t been dead after all, but she would always awaken and find herself alone.
Rose climbed out of bed, going to the window and looking out. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, heralding the start of another day. She sighed and stepped back, letting the curtain fall back into place.
She had managed to find a small, one-room apartment to rent. Many places refused to rent to a single woman, but the landlord here had been more interested in her money than her morals, and she had managed to secure a place to live after three weeks of living in cheap hotels, trying to stretch the money she had found in Cal’s coat pockets to make it last until she was established in a good job.
Looking around the room, Rose walked over to the hook on the wall and took down her robe, wrapping it tightly around herself. The room had no carpet and only the bare minimum of furniture, but it was a place to live. A single bed sat in the corner farthest from the window, covered with the cheap sheets and quilt she had purchased, and a battered chest of drawers sat near the window, holding her few clothes. In another corner was a cast iron stove, and near that, a stained sink. The bathroom, which she shared with all the other tenants on the floor, was down the hall.
It wasn’t much, but it was home—for now, at least. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst, either. She always kept her door locked, but she hadn’t seen much in the way of crime—occasionally something would be stolen from someone, a window broken, or an uninvited visitor found in an unlocked room, but for the most part it was safe enough. A few blocks away, the crime rate was much higher, but here she felt relatively safe.
Her chief complaint so far—aside from the frequent lack of hot water and power outages—had been the amount of noise caused by so many people living so close together, particularly children, who seemed to run and shout from sunrise until late at night. It was calmer on days when they were in school, but many left school after only a few years, and unemployed teenagers were responsible for most of the trouble that occurred in the building.
Still, Rose was beginning to grow inured to the amount of noise—she had often wished to able to run and shout as these children did while she was growing up—and even the teenagers, for the most part, simply loitered, looking for whatever entertainment might come their way.
Many of the young people were close in age to her, and Rose often longed to be a part of their groups, to be able to simply sit and let life happen, rather than struggling to get somewhere. But it wasn’t to be. She talked to some of them sometimes, and occasionally shared laughter and jokes, but her life was different from theirs. She didn’t have parents to watch out for her, nor did she have younger siblings to care for. She wasn’t married like some of the older ones, and whether she wanted to or not, she had to search for a job. She had found a thousand dollars stuffed into the pockets of Cal’s coat, but it wouldn’t last forever, especially not when she was just starting out and had so many needs.
Food, clothing, shelter—she had had to start from scratch for all three, and she was only beginning to learn such necessary skills as cooking and housekeeping. She had had to buy the bare necessities, and that had already taken sixty dollars of her money—and she still had to pay the seven dollars a month rent on her apartment and buy food—more food than an experienced cook would have to buy for a single person, since she ruined so much of it.
Rose unlocked the door of her apartment and looked out. No one was around at the moment, so she slipped out and locked the door behind her, walking barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. She jumped, startled, as a rat scurried out of the shadows and away from her, then put her hand over her heart, shaking her head. She still had a lot to get used to.
Someone else was in the bathroom when she got there, so she leaned against the wall, waiting her turn. Drumming her fingers on the dingy wall, she thought about where she might go to look for a job today.
Her original intent had been to get a job as an actress when she reached New York, but she had soon learned that it wasn’t that easy. One couldn’t simply ask for an acting job and be given it—auditions were necessary, and there was a lot of competition. Rose was confident that she would become an actress in time, but her initial efforts had been disappointing. No one had wanted to hire a young girl with no acting experience and no idea as to how much work it took to put on a play. Several directors had shown her the door immediately, without offering her an audition, and others had rejected her after hearing her read and finding that she had no idea what she was doing.
Rose had finally realized, after a week, that she would have to find some other way to support herself until she found the acting job she sought, and had begun asking at other establishments for work. Still, her lack of experience at any kind of work had stymied her. She had asked for work as a department store clerk, a waitress, and even a secretary at dozens of different businesses—all without success. She had no sales experience, no experience waiting tables, and even her high marks as a high school student were of little use in her job search. She didn’t know how to do so many things, and she had never paid much attention to the people who did do the jobs she now sought—it had never occurred to her that it might be important.
Some employers wanted references, which she didn’t have, or wanted to contact the high school she had graduated from, which would have pointed out her whereabouts to her mother and Cal. If they found out where she was, they would drag her back to Philadelphia, and she had no intention of giving up her newfound freedom. Even after all the weeks of searching for a job without results, she still had no intention of going back to her old life.
The bathroom door opened and the former occupant stepped out, rubbing his eyes and still looking half-asleep. He ignored Rose as he headed back down the hall to his apartment, and she paid him little heed as she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.
There had to be something she could do, she thought as she went through her morning routine. After all, even some small children, who couldn’t know much or have much experience, had jobs, illegal though it now was, and immigrants who couldn’t speak English were able to find jobs, so surely she would be able to find one if she looked hard enough. Perhaps she had been looking in the wrong places. Maybe she should look for a job in a factory or some such, doing something that didn’t require a lot of skill. She didn’t have many skills, but she did know how to sew, embroider, crochet, and arrange flowers. There had to be some sort of job she could do.
Leaving the bathroom, Rose headed back down the hall, determination in her step. She would find a job, and maybe she would even find it today.
*****
Rose sat on a bench outside yet another factory, feeling discouraged. She had never realized how much competition there was for jobs, or how exacting employers could be. She had asked for work in five different factories today, many employing immigrants and children, but the answer had been the same—no. Two bosses had told her that she didn’t look strong enough for the work, two had told her that she didn’t have the skills they needed at the moment, and one had asked why she wasn’t letting her husband take care of her, since she certainly wasn’t one of the poor women who had to work to make ends meet. Rose wondered why he had thought that, but he had escorted her out before she could ask.
It was late afternoon now, and she had resolved to try one more factory before quitting for the day. She knew that she could do the work, if only someone would give her the chance, and she was a fast learner—whatever skills she didn’t have she could soon learn.
It was hard to get the courage to go into another factory, though, after being rejected so many times. This would be more of the same, she was sure—but she had to try. She would never know for sure whether they would reject her unless she tried, and maybe this time she would be lucky.
Gathering her courage, Rose walked in the front door of the factory, looking around to see who to ask. Seeing a young woman working a small switchboard, she approached her, waiting until she looked up.
"Excuse me." Rose tried to smile, but after the long day of rejection, it was hard. "I’m looking for work. Would you happen to know if there are any jobs available here?"
"Let me check, miss," the woman answered, rising quickly and heading for the door behind her.
Two minutes later, she returned, a rotund, well-to-do looking man following her. He ignored the secretary as she sat back down, turning his attention to Rose.
"You’re looking for a job?" he asked her abruptly.
"Uh…yes. Yes, sir, I am."
"Can you sew?"
Rose nodded. That was something she could do. "Ah…yes, sir."
"With a sewing machine?"
"Yes."
"We’re down three seamstresses right now and we’re getting backed up." He gestured to her. "Come with me. Let’s see what you can do."
"Th-thank you, sir," Rose stammered, surprised.
"Don’t thank me yet. You don’t have the job until I’ve seen what you can do."
Rose followed him quickly, her heart pounding with hope. Maybe this time she would get the job. She tried not to hope too much, for fear of being disappointed again, but this was the farthest she’d gotten, and she couldn’t help but hope for the best.
The man led her to a windowless room on the fifth floor. Sewing machines lined the floor in four long rows, most occupied by women hunched over their work. A few glanced up as he came in, but most ignored him, working to get as much work as possible done before they were forced to work late yet again.
He gestured to another man who was walking slowly around the room, sometimes stopping to fix a problem with a machine, other times stopping to speak to a woman, who would invariably hunch forward, working faster until he moved away.
"Mr. Byrd, this is…" He turned to Rose. "What is your name?"
"Rose. Rose Dawson."
"Miss Dawson. She’s applying for one of the seamstress jobs. Show her to a machine, and let’s see what she can do."
Rose walked with them to the machine, looking at it critically and hoping that it worked the same way as the sewing machine she had had back in Philadelphia. Sewing had been a hobby of hers, one that Ruth had given her marginal approval to, and she had become quite good at it. She just hoped that she was good enough.
After the foreman had set up the machine for her—a huge industrial beast—he directed her to sit down and handed her a stack of skirts to sew. Rose quickly looked them over, seeing what needed to be done, and got to work. The machine jammed once, but after Byrd had fixed it, she finished the pile of skirts quickly.
When the skirts had been sewn, she looked up, hoping that her work was good enough. Byrd looked at her work critically, testing the seams and checking to be sure that they were straight. Finally, he nodded.
"I think she’ll do." He looked at his employer. "Mr. Wiseman, what do you think?"
"She’ll do. She’s fast enough and the quality of her work is good."
"Thank you!" Rose exclaimed, getting to her feet. "Thank you so much!"
"Miss Dawson, this is Mr. Byrd, the foreman. He’ll be supervising you."
"All right." She offered her hand to Byrd, but he didn’t take it. His eyes barely flickered over her face, coming to rest instead on her bosom. She dropped her hand, feeling a sudden urge to cover herself, though she was fully clothed.
"If you’ll come with me, Miss Dawson, we’ll complete the paperwork. You’ll be paid $7.00 a week to start with, $7.50 a week after six months. Your hours are 6:00 AM to 6:30 PM, Monday through Saturday, unless the work quota is not met, at which time you and everyone else will work until it is done."
"For extra pay?"
"No. You get seven dollars a week regardless of how much work there is." He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "Do you find this unacceptable for some reason, Miss Dawson?"
"No…no, sir. It’s fine." Seven dollars a week wasn’t much, and Rose knew it, but it was better than nothing, which was what she was getting before. And if she could stick with it, there would be a little more money after six months. Besides, she would get off work early enough to go to some auditions, and if she could get a job as an actress, she wouldn’t have to work here anymore. But twelve and a half hours a day seemed like a lot, even if she did a get a break during that time, and if there was extra work, she would have to put in more time, without getting any more money.
"What about Sundays?" she asked, hoping that the hours would be easier then.
"The factory is closed on Sundays," Mr. Wiseman replied, not looking at her as he strode towards his office. "Also, I don’t allow any unionizing here, Miss Dawson. It disrupts the communication between the management and the workers."
Rose had never thought much about unions, though she had occasionally read about them in the paper and had overheard Cal cursing them. They mostly seemed to be associated with violence and lawlessness, or so it seemed from the newspaper reports she had read, and Cal had called people who tried to form unions ungrateful for what their employers did for them.
"I’ve never even thought of trying to form a union," Rose told him.
"Good, because if you do, you’re fired, and I’ll make sure that no one else will hire you. Is that clear, Miss Dawson?"
"Y-yes, sir. Perfectly clear."
"Good. Now, let’s see about your paperwork."