A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty-Six
Rated NC-17 for Content
No Sebastian. No job. No self-respect.
Her life was spiraling out of control, and it
was more than Rose could absorb. So for the time being, she chose to ignore it.
Her very first act after Marie's departure
the day she came to was to take a long hot soak in the claw-footed tub in her
bathroom. She poured a generous quantity of Epsom salts in the water for her
sore feet, and oils for her skin, and scrubbed herself raw until the water was
decidedly frigid. Then she changed the linens on her mattress, bundling the
dirty sheets and pillowcases into the laundry chute that led to the basement,
where she'd wash them later.
She found a stack of mail that Miss Yvette
had left for her on the roll top desk in the spare bedroom. There was a few
weeks' worth, all unopened. Angelica had written with her condolences about
Sebastian—he’s not dead, Rose thought angrily—and with news of her
upcoming nuptials in June. She and Max were finally tying the knot, and she
wondered if Rose would like to come to Los Angeles to stay with her family for
a while? Rose tossed the letter in the trash.
Meg had written as well, wondering why she
hadn't heard from Rose; there was a similar note from Vera. Daphne Marceau sent
her sympathy and wrote that Rose must phone as soon as she was feeling better
so that she and Henri could help her find employment. To Rose's great surprise
Hugh Pollard had also written to explain his decision to let her go...and to
offer his assistance in the future. She was a delight to watch on stage, he said.
Rose decided to hold on to that one.
She saved a letter from Aunt Annabelle for
last; it took all of her inner strength to read it. A relative of hers, a
second cousin or some such, was interested in buying the Long Island cottage.
"Vultures," Rose derided them.
She had also received a letter from the
county government via registered mail, notifying her that the property taxes
were late. She supposed she'd have to take care of that. Sebastian had to have
a home to come back to. It was the only piece of mail that received a response.
If any of Rose's neighbors were surprised to
see her make an appearance at the dinner table that evening, they had the good
graces not to say anything about it. Nor did she say anything to them, save a
polite greeting. The conversation drifted over her head without a single phrase
registering.
*****
The hottest nightspot on 145th St,
Smokey's was currently dark and deserted, save the small office on the second
floor, where Samuel ‘Smokey’ Mays and his nephew tallied the previous night's
take. Smokey was tall, bald and handsome, a charming and gregarious host and a
sharp, calculating businessman. Just like Smokey, the juke joint struck a
balance between urban sophistication and down-home country: hidden behind the
dance hall with its velvet-curtained stage and a bar that stretched the length
of one wall was a lounge that hosted illicit card and dice games nightly. There
was no prime rib and caviar on the menu; here the kitchen served chitlins and
black-eyed peas.
Rose had never set foot in the place before,
despite the possibility of catching Bill at the piano. But out of loyalty to
Miss Yvette and Marie, who shunned such places, she stayed away, too. Until
this morning.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice
echoing in the cavernous ballroom. "Is anyone here?"
A young man appeared at the top of the
staircase. He leaned over the banister and squinted at her to get a better look
in the dim light. "May I help you?"
"Yes," Rose replied. "I hear
you need a waitress."
He blinked.
"I'm sorry. You've come to the wrong place."
"Well, then, you'd better take the sign
out of the window. I was told to ask for Smokey. Is he available?"
"I'll go check," he said
reluctantly, and disappeared from view. A minute later he was back. "Come
on up."
Smokey, of course, had no intention of
interviewing this bold white woman for a waitressing position. He had plenty of
them as customers—the type of entertainment his place boasted drew folks from
all over—but it seemed white people were uncomfortable with the idea of taking
orders from a black man. He'd hired a handful in the four years since Smokey's
opened, and without fail every one of them quit inside of a week. So when the
redhead showed up in his office, he was prepared to inform her of that fact and
hastily send her on her way.
Only she wouldn't leave.
"I only live three blocks from
here," she persisted, "so you'll never have to worry about me being
late."
His eyebrows went up at that. "You live
around here?"
"In Miss Yvette's boarding house on 142nd.
One of the tenants sent me here, in fact—Winston Lafayette. His band
plays here sometimes."
Smokey exchanged glances with his nephew, and
both laughed. "So that's where ol' Winston's been hiding himself these
days. Right around the corner. Maybe we better send somebody over there to
collect the money that joker owes me."
"Whoops," Rose said to herself. So
that's why Winston had cautioned her not to use his name.
"You know, I think I changed my
mind," Smokey said, still chuckling. "You might be useful. Okay, Rose
Dawson, you're hired. Can you come back around five o'clock?"
When she'd gone he turned to his nephew and
said, "I give her three days."
Smokey did send an associate around to the
boarding house to collect the gambling debt from Winston that same day,
catching him at home asleep. In lieu of payment, he offered to have his band
play at the club for free over a period of several weeks. Smokey accepted.
"Are you angry with me?" Rose asked
Winston after confessing.
"Angry at you?" he repeated, and
smiled. He was a good-looking man, only a year or two older than she, with a
honey-laced Southern drawl that had ladies melting everywhere he sang.
"Rosie, I could never be mad at you. Besides, we're gonna be working
together, looks like."
She flushed, not quite understanding why, and
quickly changed the subject. "I don't much look forward to telling Miss
Yvette. You know she'll disapprove."
"Who cares? Hey, it ain't the club she
don't like. It's Smokey himself. They had a falling out over her daughter
Martine a long time ago. Seems Smokey wasn't enough of a gentleman to be
courting a child of hers, never mind that Martine was spreading her legs for
everybody else. All of a sudden, he didn't come around no more." He leaned
in close, allowing Rose to get a whiff of powerful cologne, and whispered,
"I think she put a little gris gris on him, myself."
Rose frowned.
"A spell," he explained. "Our
landlady is a hoodoo woman, just like all her people." Rose was still
confused. "That's all right, I forgot you ain't never been to New
Orleans." He pronounced it Nawlins. "Well you're in for a treat when
we play Friday night."
Winston's band, the Creole Quartet, performed
Friday and Saturday nights, always as an opening act for a bigger name. But
they could hardly complain; they were playing to packed houses, and
enthusiastic crowds at that, what with all the women swooning over Winston.
Sometimes on his breaks he would playfully
ask Rose to dance, knowing she had her hands full. Standing on her feet all
night, carrying trays laden with food and booze, was not as easy as she'd
thought. Sometimes the customers and the other waitresses were eager to give
such a genteel white girl a hard time, but Rose soon had enough of that and
started sassing them right back, which worked without fail.
Six nights a week Rose worked at Smokey's,
and the juke joint gradually became the center of her narrowing universe. Miss
Yvette tsk-tsked every time Rose went out the door on her way there, and Marie
wondered, frequently, when she'd be returning to the theater, but she paid them
no attention. Angelica's wedding day came and went; Rose sent a gift and an
excuse. More letters came from Meg, Vera, and now Charlotte and Victoria Scott;
Rose finally sent them each a brief note stating that Sebastian was still
missing but not dead, and yes, she was quite well. Aunt Annabelle called again,
this time to inform Rose that Sebastian's relatives were planning a small
memorial service and asking if she would like to contribute in any way; later
Rose would regret the curt response she gave, but she wanted no parts of it.
The service was to be held on a Saturday in
late June, just weeks before Rose's twenty-fourth birthday. She had no
intention of going, but she couldn't stop thinking about it, either. Miserable,
she toyed with the idea of taking the night off, but decided it was either work
or go crazy.
After her umpteenth dispute with a customer,
Rose's shift mercifully ended. She changed out of uniform and headed straight
for the bar, where Winston found her, on her third drink—or was it her
fourth—and staring dejectedly at her reflection in the mirror.
"Don't tell me you're taking a
break."
"I came in early today. It's time to go
home, thank God. Care to escort me?"
"Home? The party's just starting."
Before she could utter a word in protest, he'd spun the barstool around and
pulled her to her feet, just as the band started playing W.C. Handy's Memphis
Blues. "Do you know the foxtrot?"
Oh, dear, this felt familiar. "Winston,
my feet are killing m—" Her voice was drowned out by the music as he
dragged her onto the dance floor.
Shocking herself, along with the rest of the
staff and some of the patrons, Rose fell right into the steps. Sebastian hadn't
been much of a dancer, so she never got to practice as long as she was with
him, but she'd been observant enough. She couldn't count the number of times
she'd wanted to join in since working here. Though when the music abruptly
switched and some of the women started prancing back and forth and kicking in
unison, she faltered.
"What are they doing?"
"Some new dance, I think it's called the
Charleston."
Somehow Rose got it in her head that she was
going to do the Charleston, too, and she thought she was handling it pretty
well until Winston pulled her aside. "Careful, baby, you're fixing to fall
on your ass."
Rose giggled. "Then you'll have to hold
me up." She swayed suddenly and he grabbed her about the waist. People
were staring at them, the men amused, the women appalled. Winston steered her
towards the door.
One of her co-workers blocked their
path—Lucretia, who'd hated Rose on sight. "Drinking on duty, Rose? I could
get you canned for this."
"Shut up and mind your business,"
Winston snapped at her. Lucretia cursed at him and threatened to tell his
woman, but Rose could barely hear her as they stepped outside into the cool
night air, a refreshing change from the cloying, sweaty atmosphere of the club.
They began to walk home at a brisk pace. Had Rose been sober she would have
felt eyes on her back, hard and judgmental, and overheard a few snide remarks
here and there, but all she was aware of was the music in her head.
She did the Charleston all the way up their
block, and at the iron gate threw her arms around Winston's neck. "Dance
with me, Winston."
"Here?" He laughed nervously.
"You need to sleep this off, sweetie-pie."
"I don't wanna sleep," she murmured
into his ear. Slowly, her ruby lips eased their way down his neck, planting
themselves right above his pulse. "At least, not alone." She lifted
her eyes to his in an unspoken challenge.
He hesitated, but only for a second.
Once inside, he swept Rose from the floor and
took the stairs to the top two at a time. She snickered and kicked off her
shoes; the first clattered to the third landing with a telltale thunk.
He hushed her. Even though Robert was out of town and he guessed everyone else
was asleep, he didn't want to risk discovery.
In bed she was a wildcat: teasing, begging,
then demanding. She tore at his clothes, pulling him atop her on the bed so
urgently he narrowly missed slamming face-first into the headboard. They were
still half-dressed when he entered her. She wrapped her legs, in stockings and
garter, tightly around him and gouged his back with her nails; in a voice gone
hoarse she spurred him on, faster, faster, dammit!
He withdrew before climaxing, and came on the
bedspread. Rose's eyes had closed and a smile played about the corners of her
mouth.
"Baby?" He nudged her gently.
"You going to sleep already?"
Slowly the eyes opened, the grin widened.
"Just resting up for the next round."