A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty-Five

A fine mist enveloped Rose as she strolled the docks along the Hudson, rubbing her arms to protect against the chill. The streets were deserted at this early hour; not even the likes of a stray cat prowled the alleys.

Rose came to a halt at Pier 54. There were no boats docked here this morning, but she could hear ghost voices carrying on the wind: crewmen giving orders, reporters shouting questions, women weeping quietly over lost loved ones.

Her walk to the edge took a lifetime. The pier lengthened and widened with every stride; the Statue of Liberty appeared to shrink in the distance. And then the fog cleared, and Rose was no longer in New York. An ocean stretched to a cloudless horizon, its waters calm and clearer than any Rose had ever seen. She heard calliope music—faint at first, then growing in volume until it was nearly enough to burst her eardrums. She blinked—

--and found herself in the midst of a carnival. The music was from a carousel mere feet from where she stood. Squealing youngsters boarded the painted horses, while a few couples snuggled on wooden benches. A chubby carnie in a top hat and a polka-dot bow tie gave Rose a once-over. "Wanna ride, Miss? Just one ticket."

Rose backed away, shaking her head. Where in God's name was she?

A raucous scream sounded from above her head; Rose squinted into the sun in time to see a car topping the tallest peak of a winding roller coaster. She turned away before it could make its descent.

Her stomach growled, a jarring intrusion into her fantasy, and a very real one, at that. Deciding it was high time she fed herself, she started toward a hot dog vendor's cart...and stopped. In the distance, near the waterfront, a young man with tousled blond hair sat with his back turned to her, scribbling on a notepad.

Empty stomach forgotten, Rose began to walk in his direction. She was nearly upon him when she collided with a toddler flying a kite. The boy fell to the hard-packed dirt; Rose offered her hand, thinking he was hurt, but the child only laughed and took off running, still clutching the kite.

When Rose looked for the artist, all she saw was a seagull perched on the bench.

She paced the boardwalk, frantic. "Jack?" she called, softly and timidly at first, then louder when no one appeared to notice. "Jack?" She pushed her way through thickening crowds, calling his name over and over...

And just like that, the carnival was gone and Rose was alone. The skies darkened and the fog rolled back in. She shuddered at the chill.

Sensing movement out of the corner of an eye, she spun around, and came face-to-face with Jack.

"Did I scare you?" he inquired mischievously.

"Jack—" She moved towards him, but before she could get close he moved away, palms upturned. "We can't. I'm sorry."

"Where am I?"

"You're at home, in bed."

"No," she protested, "this is no dream. There was a merry-go-round, and—and a roller coaster." Suddenly it dawned on her. "We're in Santa Monica!"

"Is that where we are?" Jack's turquoise eyes twinkled, teasing her, and Rose's jubilation turned to heartache. She looked down, eyes welling, and for the first time noticed that her only garment was a thin nightgown, and her feet were bare.

Jack watched her silently.

"I've lost him, Jack. Sebastian's gone, just like— "

"I'm not gone," he said. "I'm right here."

"What good does that do me, if I can't touch you?" she screamed. "The only contact I have with you is through a child." She turned her back on him and slammed her fists into the railing repeatedly, sobbing in frustration, until, spent, she collapsed.

"I should have ended it a long time ago." The words tasted bitter in her mouth. "Whatever made me think I could survive on my own?"

He was at her side in an instant. "Don't even think that, Rose. You're not alone. Even as we speak you're surrounded by people who care about you." Pause. "Do you realize what day it is?"

Surprising herself, she answered, "April fourteenth."

"That's right. Which means you've been wasting away in bed for a month. You really want to die, is that it? 'Cause you're as close to joining me as you've ever been." Rose said nothing. "It's not your time yet, Rose," he persisted. "That pier in Santa Monica, that's where you're headed."

She imagined she could hear voices again, only these were hushed. The scent of cayenne pepper drifted past her nostrils. Her stomach growled again, and suddenly the absurdity of this dreamscape forced her to laugh.

Jack grinned. " 'Atta girl. Now, go eat."

The first sensation Rose felt upon awakening was soreness in her balled-up fists and in her feet, which she would later find encrusted with sawdust. There was also an angry gnawing in the pit of her belly. The peppery smell hung heavily in the air; she gagged and began to cough.

"Give her some water," came a familiar voice to her left. Rose couldn't see as of yet; a thin layer of film caked her eyelashes. A rough hand caressed her forehead, a glass touched her lips and cool water spilled into her throat. She choked again at the shock of it. Spittle ran down the side of her face.

"Easy now, girl." Miss Yvette. "Don't drink it all at once."

Rose forced her eyelids open, blinking a few times at the glare. Why did someone have to open the curtains? She could hardly focus with the drumbeat going on in her head.

"Look who come to see you, Rose," Miss Yvette said cheerily.

Rose pushed herself into an awkward seating position. Marie, who'd been keeping vigil from a rocking chair in a far corner, came swiftly to her aid, propping her up with pillows against the headboard. "Take it easy, now," she ordered. "Don't want you getting lightheaded."

"I brung you some soup," a tiny voice piped up from the doorway. Rose was startled to see Cecilia struggling into the room bearing a platter containing a bowl and a saucer of thin wafers. The bowl was the source of the smell; Rose recognized it as Miss Yvette's beef bouillon. Knowing her landlady, a pot of it was probably simmering in the upstairs kitchen since the crack of dawn. Her stomach sang a hallelujah.

And then...

"Give me that, you'll drop it!" Josephine came out of nowhere, and attempted to yank the tray from her sister's hands. Cecilia resisted with all her might, and in the process the bowl overturned, its contents spilling all over the recently polished floor. Rose stared at the mess with longing.

"Sorry," the girls chorused.

"Now look what you done," Marie scolded. "Don't just stand there, get this cleaned up." Josie and Cecilia stared at her blankly. "All right, all right, let me show you where the mop and broom are. I'll get you some more soup, Rose." The girls were still snapping at each other as the nurse led them out.

Miss Yvette shook her head. "Spoiled rotten, them kids. Their mother made her bring them here. And Sir wanted to come, too—he’s around here somewheres. My daughter got her hands full, yes, indeed."

Rose attempted to speak and found she'd lost her voice. She cleared her throat; it stung as if she'd lit it on fire. "Is today Sunday, the fourteenth?" she squeaked.

Miss Yvette clapped her hands and proclaimed, "Praise God, she knows what day it be. You vexed us something terrible, Rose, being so ill. You made my hair turn white."

"Your hair was always white," Rose mumbled. Funny, she couldn't recall being ill. But here was her landlady, rambling on about a fever and healing herbs that finally took hold, despite Marie's admonitions to her mother not to use them. There were so many questions she had—a whole month was missing from her memory—but before she could ask them Marie was back with the soup and biscuits. It wasn't until Miss Yvette offered to take Sir and the girls out for ice cream that Rose had a chance to get the answers she desired.

"Has there been any word from the warfront?" she inquired hopefully.

One pained look from Marie and Rose's spirits dropped. She'd hoped the telegram had been a nightmare, or even a horrible joke, but she knew from experience life never worked out that way.

"Do you remember anything?" Marie asked her, point-blank.

She did, though only bits and pieces. For example, she recalled that Miss Yvette had taken it upon herself to respond to the telegram personally when Rose wouldn't, or couldn't; and then there was a telephone call from Sebastian's distraught Aunt Annabelle, during which Rose reassured her that it was much too soon to plan any sort of memorial service, that Sebastian was still alive and would come home. She then retreated to her bed, refusing to see or speak to anyone else.

"Your mother said I took ill with some sort of fever," she said now.

Marie's face was unreadable. "That's what she believes, and I ain't telling her otherwise. I'd like to show you something." She got up and retrieved a wastebasket from behind the door.

Something in Rose cried out for her to object, that she didn't want to see what was in the trash, but she willed herself not to look away as Marie lifted out an empty bottle of rum. Rose gasped and cried out, indignant, "You don't think I—"

"How else did it get up here?" Marie accused in a maddeningly quiet voice. "None of the other tenants would dare disturb your rooms, Mama sees to that."

Rose's lower lip began to tremble. Marie sighed and pulled up a chair. "It's all right. Mama's old-fashioned, I really don't think she suspects it's you that's stealing her good liquor. You did an excellent job of hiding the bottles."

"There were more?" Rose moaned, burying her face in her grimy hands. "But I don't drink like that, I'm no lush like—"

"Mrs. Scott," Marie finished for her. "Now there's a pitiful one. But grief is what ails you. It'll pass in time."

"It will never pass."

"Then you'll learn to control it." Marie hesitated. "When I was nine years old, my daddy was lynched. He had a lot of ideas about making life better for colored folk, and he wasn't afraid to speak them. Well, someone didn't appreciate that. Now, Mama, she'd moved far away from her family in Haiti when she was sixteen to be with this preacher from New York, and it took all her strength opening up this rooming house and taking care of us three by herself, so I guess she didn't have time to see how we was healing. John's the oldest and he handled it the best. He gave his life to the Lord and to following in Daddy's footsteps. Martine, though, had a much harder time. She was two years older than me but I was always the one looking out for her, helping her get out of some mess. And now she done moved all the damn way to California and left me to raise her kids."

"And you?" Rose asked. "How did your father's murder affect you?"

Marie frowned. "I don't rightly know. Maybe that's why I never got married. My man Phillip's been pestering me to be his wife for going on three years now, but I got the kids and that wouldn't be fair to him, and I like my work—"

"Work!" Rose shot up in bed so quickly Marie had to grab the bowl to keep the soup from spilling a second time. "What am I doing? I have to be at the theater." She threw off the covers and stood on wobbly legs. "What time is it?"

"Lay down, lay down, you ain't going nowhere like that." Marie forced her back into bed; in Rose's weakened state she was in no condition to fight her. "There's no need to rush off, you got time to look for another job."

"Another job?"

"Yes. Oh, don't tell me, you don't remember that either?"

"Remember what?"

"That writer came by with the news a couple of weeks ago, but you was...indisposed, so Mama had to tell you. They fired you, honey. You ain't been to that theater since you heard about Sebastian."

Chapter Fifty-Six
Stories