A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty
December, 1917
Meg and Gabriel's blessed event wasn't due until
March, but when the couple brought home a crib built by one of Gabriel's
brothers, and began to speak of painting the spare bedroom blue, Rose stopped
procrastinating and began a long-delayed search for new lodgings. Meg
discovered what she was up to and protested, but not too vigorously.
In the beginning, Rose viewed the apartment
hunt as an adventure, squeezing it in during the mornings before rehearsal. The
director of Henri's play, Hugh Pollard, was a tyrant, an insufferable bear of a
man--literally towering over the actors at six foot four and weighing well on
the far side of two hundred pounds--and frowned on the slightest infraction by
his talent. Few things brought on his fits of rage more than tardiness. With
that in mind Rose at first confined her search to an area within an easy walk
of the theater district, but found the choices available to a young single
woman less than desirable. Many rooming house owners saw acting as a step up
from prostitution and bid Rose a frosty adieu. She didn't fare any better by
inventing a career as a secretary or housekeeper. Landlords had too many
questions of such a beautiful woman with no husband or family to take her in.
All that remained were those places that catered to a rough clientele.
Rose widened her search, only to find the
same results everywhere she looked. Meg offered her assistance, making a few
inquiries in the old neighborhood, but even she had to agree that a squalid
Lower East Side tenement was probably not the best option for Rose.
She was positively floored when Vera offered
a simple solution. "One of my roommates is graduating this semester and
she's moving back home to Connecticut. The rooms are fairly large...well,
you've seen them."
Rose had seen them, but large was not the
description that came to mind. Maybe dark or drafty. She really couldn't say
what distressed her more, the mousetraps in the corners or the views of the
alley behind the building. "You live on the Upper West Side," she
said. "It's quite a distance from 42nd Street."
"Are you concerned about the
neighborhood? I can assure you, it's safe."
Where have I heard that before? Rose thought. Swallowing her trepidation, she said,
"I'm not worried about that. Let's go have a look."
Columbia University was situated in
Morningside Heights, a section of Harlem. Once home to the early Dutch settlers
and other immigrants, Harlem was now primarily populated by Negroes, most
recently an influx of migrants fleeing the brutal racism of the deep South.
Some whites warned one another not to venture north of 96th St.
after dark; others still did business, attended school and lived there.
Vera's railroad apartment was on Amsterdam
Avenue about nine blocks south and east of the university. Rose was appalled at
the mess that greeted her. Apparently these women's schedules were too full to
pick up a broom or a dust cloth every now and then.
"Really, Vera," she remarked,
stepping over a pair of shoes that had been left in the sitting room, "I
know you believe housework shouldn't just be the woman's responsibility, but do
you have to live in a pigsty?"
"It's not me, it's her,"
Vera protested irritably. "Diana never has to lift a finger at home; I
doubt she even knows how to boil water."
The object of her derision was lounging on
her unmade bed, reading a pulp novel and popping chocolates into her mouth.
Rose and Vera had to pass through her room to get to the one Vera wanted to
show Rose. The other woman was so engrossed in her book she didn't notice them
until Vera cleared her throat.
"Diana, this is Rose Dawson, a friend of
mine from Vassar. I'm showing her the room."
"Nice to meet you," Diana spoke
without lifting her eyes from the page.
Vera rolled her eyes. "Likewise,"
Rose said, and they proceeded through cramped bathroom facilities to the room
that would be hers. It was adequately furnished but a far cry from what Rose
had become accustomed to in the boarding house.
"It's...lovely," she said.
"It's hideous and you know it,"
Vera responded dryly. "But it's very inexpensive, as long as the landlord
believes you're a student, and affordable housing is at a premium in this
city."
Rose could only nod in reply.
Within days she'd signed her name to a
hastily drawn-up lease and moved in her belongings. She was dismayed to find
there was not nearly enough room for everything she'd accumulated in the past
year and a half: artwork and photographs, books, phonograph records, theater
playbills, restaurant menus, and more clothing than she could possibly squeeze
into her pitiful excuse for a closet, but she refused to let go of a single
item. She'd finally grown comfortable with her new identity and now that she'd
stopped looking over her shoulder, it was time to revel in it.
Naturally, Diana didn't lift a finger to help
Rose get settled in, but on her first night in her new home, Rose looked up
from unpacking to find her roommate lurking in the doorway, watching her with
catlike green eyes.
"My, where are you going to put all this
luggage?" she observed. "You really shouldn't leave it on the floor
there. I won't be able to get past."
"Why would you need to?" Rose
asked, studying Diana carefully. "The back room is Vera's."
Diana backpedaled quickly. "That's what
I meant. Vera won't be able to get through." She changed the subject,
wandering over to examine a gown Rose had worn to the opening of a show.
"What's it like, being on stage?"
Rose didn't care for the way this woman
handled the delicate embroidery on the sleeve, but bit her tongue in the
interest of maintaining peace. "It's exhilarating, pretending to be someone
else night after night--"
"Oh, I'm certain. Having to be yourself
every day can be so tedious. Especially when life is as dull and dreary as
this." Diana indicated the apartment with a sweep of an arm.
"Have you ever considered a profession
in the theater?" Rose suggested. "You're studying literature; that's
how some of the playwrights I've met got their start."
Diana gaped at her as if she'd gone daft.
"You're comparing English literature to silly plays? Broderick says so much
of what's on Broadway is derivative and meaningless." Broderick being her
professor and occasional lover, whose opinions were law as far as Diana was
concerned. She'd brought him up once before, in the only other conversation
they'd had, when Rose came to sign the lease. She'd never met the man, and
already she didn't like him.
Luckily she wasn't to be drawn into an
argument today; Diana, bored, excused herself to go back to one of her romance
novels.
Living with her college chum wasn't what Rose
had expected at all. She and Vera were rarely at home at the same times, and
when they saw each other in passing, Vera was usually ensconced at the kitchen
table or at the writing desk in her bedroom, studying like mad for an
examination. As she explained to Rose, she was the only woman in the physics
program at Columbia, and the only way she was to be taken seriously was if she
worked twice as hard as the rest.
She did have a gentleman caller, however, a
quiet, solemn sort who seemed the perfect counterpart to Vera's outgoing,
strident persona. Rose knew little about him, other than the fact that he was
in Columbia Medical School. They behaved oddly at times, whispering, heads
together, in the front room, and stopping when they sensed someone else's
presence. When after one of his visits he left a briefcase behind, Rose could
no longer stifle her curiosity. Once Vera had retired for the evening, Rose
crept into the sitting room to review its contents.
The briefcase contained stacks of pamphlets
detailing diseases of the genitalia in shockingly graphic detail. And in one
zippered compartment were several condoms. Rose slammed the lid of the
briefcase shut, her face reddening. What on earth had Vera gotten herself into?
She didn't have to wait long to find out.
The telephone call came one Saturday at the
theater less than an hour before the matinee performance. Giles, the frazzled
stage manager, summoned Rose from the dressing room in a huff, gesturing at his
watch. "Make it quick, girlie, makeup's looking for you."
"Rose? Oh, I'm so relieved it's
you." Vera, breathless. "You must come get me at once."
"Vera, it's forty-five minutes to
curtain--"
"I know, I know, but I'm in a terrible
mess and I have no one else to call."
"What is it? . . . Bail????"
Everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped
what they were doing and stared.
Rose rushed back to the dressing room, nearly
toppling one of the other actresses, and was dressed in her street clothes by
the time Giles stormed in behind her. "Where in God's name do you think you're
going?"
"To help a friend," Rose replied
curtly. She finished lacing one boot and started in on the other. "Please
explain to Hugh that I have an emergency and can't perform today."
"Can't perform? You are one nervy woman,
you know that?"
In keeping with his role as lackey to their
dictatorial boss, Giles threw a minimum of two tantrums a day. No one took him
seriously. Rose picked up her reticule and brushed past him. "I may be
back for this evening's show," she tossed over her shoulder. "If not,
I'll see you tomorrow."
She left Giles sputtering and running out of
steam. But she wouldn't escape that easily. No sooner had the stage door swung
shut behind her than Hugh Pollard himself came barging outside at her heels.
"Where in the hell do you think you're going?"
Rose didn't turn around. "My roommate is
in jail and she sent for me to bail her out."
"Oh, that explains it," Hugh cried,
throwing his hands in the air for dramatic effect. "Of course you can run
to the rescue of your friend the criminal. But don't come back, you hear?"
"Loud and clear," Rose snapped, but
she didn't; all she could think about was poor Vera, locked in a tiny cell with
whores and thieves and murderers...
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND???" Hugh
bellowed. They had crossed the alleyway that connected the theater to the one
next door and were now on the sidewalk in full view of patrons arriving at the
box office. Many recognized the famous director, a few knew who Rose was, and
they watched the exchange in fascination. "I just said--"
"I heard you. All these fine people can
hear you, too."
Hugh recoiled, flustered, then snarled under
his breath, "You're not the only starlet in New York, missy." Rose
continued on her way, opting not to acknowledge this comment.
The bank was closed, but Rose always kept an
emergency fund wrapped in a handkerchief beneath her mattress. She made a
beeline for her room, absent-mindedly opening the door between the kitchen and
Diana's room, and was greeted by gasps, sheets rustling, and the glimpse of a
bare male bottom vanishing into the bathroom.
"What are you doing here?" Diana
cried, peering at her from underneath the coverlet.
"I live here," Rose said, more
amused than angry. "On the other side of that washroom. May I get through,
please?"
She kept her eyes averted while Diana fetched
her lover from the bathroom, then continued on her mission. Her first hint that
something was amiss was the slip hanging out of a dresser drawer. She glanced
at it, frowned, decided she must have been in a mighty rush that morning, and
slid her hand under the mattress.
The handkerchief had been moved.
She felt a moment of sheer panic before her
fingers finally made purchase. She paused to count the bills, and discovered
twenty dollars was missing.
Rose wasn't prone to wild accusations, but
this was ridiculous. She returned to Diana's bedroom, found her roommate had
resumed her afternoon tryst as if there'd been no interruption, and without
ceremony yanked the covers off the bed.
"Don't get up, this won't take
long," she informed Diana's humiliated guest, who, up close, appeared a
bit young for a college professor. "You can't be Broderick. Judging from
what Diana's told me, you're a bit on the small side."
He looked at Diana, whose normally attractive
face was contorting into a mask of rage. "How dare you come barging in
here like this! Can't you see I'm--"
"Cheating on your lover? That much is
clear. What is not clear is why you're too busy sucking on the silver spoon in
your mouth to clean your own room but you still managed to find the money I hid
in mine."
Diana shrank back from her. The look in her
eyes was as good as a confession, but she shook her head in denial. "What
money? I don't need your money."
"You needed twenty dollars and instead
of asking to borrow it like any decent person you chose to steal it. I suppose
you thought I wouldn't notice the slip hanging from my dresser. Did I ever tell
you I worked as a maid?"
"So what? That doesn't prove I took
anything. Vera goes through your room every day to get to hers."
"So do you. To get to her room, not
yours. You admitted as much the day I moved in. Tell me, what have you taken
from her?"
"I didn't take your money!" Diana
yelled.
"Oh, you stole it all right, you little
witch. But I'll make a deal with you. I just got a telephone call from Vera.
She's been arrested and needs me to bail her out of jail. But it seems I'm
short twenty dollars. So here's what we'll do. You will go downtown with me and
contribute twenty dollars toward Vera's bond, and I won't tell Broderick about
your...little indiscretion."
Diana was more perturbed about this last than
about the news that Vera was in jail. "You don't even know who he
is."
"Oh, I can find out easily enough. I'm
sure Vera will be willing to help once she finds out how you were going to let
her rot in jail."
"Why is she in jail?" asked the
young man, who thus far had been trying to make himself invisible.
"Why don't you come with us and find
out?" Rose volleyed back.
"I think I'd better go," he said,
and began retrieving his clothing from the floor. Diana didn't try to stop him.
"Be ready in five minutes," Rose
told her. She went back to her room, where she removed some of the money from
the handkerchief--she didn't need it all--and added it to her second secret
stash in the toe of a boot.
Rose Dawson always had a backup plan.