A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Rose sailed into work on Monday—on a natural
high this evening—and very nearly walked right past Bill, tuning the grand piano.
He looked so out of place here that when he called her name she did a double
take and didn't immediately respond.
"What are you doing here?" he
greeted her, coming from behind the piano to embrace her. Rose glimpsed
Lucretia and another waitress in a huddle near the kitchen; Lucretia met her
gaze and glowered at her.
"Marie didn't
tell you? I work here now," Rose said.
"You work here? Doing what?"
"Waiting tables. What do you think I'm
doing, singing?" She laughed at her own joke, but Bill didn't see the
humor in it.
"You're a waitress? What happened to
your acting?"
Rose saw his disappointment and the smile
disappeared from her face. "I have to go put on my uniform," she
said, and headed for the stairs. Bill caught up to her.
"I heard about Sebastian. I'm so
sorry."
For a moment, Rose looked as if she would
cry. She nodded quickly and ran upstairs.
The lock on the changing room door was
broken, so there was nothing Rose could do to prevent Lucretia from barging in
behind her. "You sure do get around," she simpered. "But just so
you know, you're wasting your time with Bill. He likes dark meat."
Rose was fumbling with the strings on her
apron and didn't even bother to look up as she replied, "Bill and I are
old friends. Though I don't suppose you'd understand that, seeing that you
don't have any."
"You won't, neither, not the way you
been carrying on with Winston," Lucretia fired back, her light brown eyes
gleaming with malice. "You white girls make me sick. You get tired of your
men and come cattin' around ours."
Rose sighed. Lucretia's taunts and threats
were getting too hard to ignore. "Winston wasn't your man. He wouldn't
have you if you were the last unmarried woman in New York." She removed
her time card from a slot in the wall and attempted to punch the clock hanging
by the door; before she could, Lucretia snatched it from her hand.
"You won't be needing this," she
crowed. "Soon's I tell Mrs. Douglas what you did Saturday— "
"What about Saturday?"
Neither Rose nor Lucretia had realized they had
an audience. Their supervisor, Mabel Douglas, had sneaked up on them, as was
her custom, and behind her were the other two waitresses on the shift, trying
to fade into the shadows. No one wanted to get on Mrs. Douglas' bad side. Which
was difficult, considering she didn't have a good side.
Lucretia was suddenly the picture of
innocence. "Mrs. Douglas, I thought I should tell you that Rose was
drinking and dancing on Saturday. I don't like to report on people—"
"Then save yourself the trouble,"
Mrs. Douglas cut her off. "Eula Mae's already told me about the extra
breaks you've been taking." Lucretia's mouth fell agape and her accusing
eyes fell on one of the other waitresses, who avoided her gaze. "Rose has
been an exemplary employee since she started here," their boss continued.
"And you done nothing but mess with her. Give her back her time
card."
Lucretia relinquished the card. Rose punched
in with seconds to spare before her shift officially started.
"This is the second time I'm writing you
up," Mrs. Douglas chastised Lucretia before reporting to the kitchen.
"I don't want there to be a third time."
"Yes, ma'am," Lucretia muttered,
but her eyes sidled to Eula Mae, and in them was a warning.
Downstairs the music was just getting
started, and only a few seats at the bar were occupied. Rose approached Eula
Mae, who was spreading a tablecloth, and thanked her. Eula Mae waved her off.
"Go on, girl, you know she had it coming. Got a bee in her bonnet 'cause
her mama named her something she can't even spell, then wants to take it out on
everybody."
A sweet, ebony-skinned girl of eighteen, Eula
Mae had been kind to Rose from the start, partly because she and India were
friends since infancy, she belonged to Rev. Griffiths' church, and Rose had
seen her at the boarding house a few times—most recently when Miss Yvette threw
a party to celebrate India's graduation from high school. The proud grandmother
announced that India would join two of her cousins at Hampton Institute in
Virginia in August. India wore a false smile all evening. She had to work at
the Scotts' until her departure, but since Bill spent his summers in New
York—working for his father by day and playing at Smokey's by night—she
wouldn't see much of him before she left.
Rose wondered if Bill's parents or Marie had
discovered the relationship and had somehow arranged to separate them. It would
probably be unwise to mention it to Bill, not that she much desired to talk to
him at all now. Since he'd outwardly expressed his dismay at seeing her there,
Rose had become uncomfortable with his presence at the club and made certain
that they did not take their breaks at the same time. For his part, Bill was
inundated all night with requests from patrons who knew him and were happy to
see him back.
Even so, he was at Rose's side when her shift
ended, offering to walk her home. "Smokey wants me to stay till closing,
but I've gotta eat. Think Miss Yvette saved me some dinner?" He winked at
her.
Lucretia, overhearing, couldn't resist a
parting shot at Rose on her way out the door. "You mean Winston ain't
coming to pick you up? He probably got other plans."
"Winston?" Bill asked Rose.
"Is she talking about Winston Lafayette?"
"How many other Winstons you know?"
Lucretia answered for Rose. She'd seen the flicker of hurt in Bill's expression
and enjoyed the twist of the knife. "You shoulda seen him and Rose cutting
a rug on Saturday." She smiled spitefully at Rose. "See you
tomorrow."
Rose started out after her; Bill stood in her
way. "Please tell me that was just Lucretia being herself."
"It's true, Bill," Rose said
coolly. "Not that it's any of her concern, or yours."
"Well, does he know about your
fiancé?" Bill regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth;
judging from the way Rose's face reddened, he could expect a slap any second,
and he'd deserve it.
But she didn't slap him. "What
fiancé?" she said angrily. "According to everyone but me, Sebastian
is dead. And what do you care? You couldn't stand him anyway."
"Rose--"
"Everyone thinks I should just forget about
him and get on with living. So that's what I'm doing."
"But with Winston? Rose, he's no good.
Every time I see him, he's got a different woman on his arm." Rose put her
hands to her ears to block out his voice; Bill grasped her wrists and pulled
them down so she'd be forced to hear him out. "I'm sorry for what happened
to Sebastian, and in spite of what you think, I liked him. But if you think
Winston's going to fill that void, you're in for a mighty disappointment."
"It's because he's black, isn't it!"
Rose hissed, after making sure no one could hear. "Well, you know what
they say, Bill. What's good for the goose is good for the gander."
"What the hell is that supposed to
mean?"
"I know about India," she said.
Bill took a step backward and gaped at her.
His mouth opened and shut. He ran a hand through his thick curls, muttering a
curse.
"What was that, Bill? I didn't quite
hear you."
"Did you tell my parents?" he
demanded. "No, of course you didn't. They would've come down on me so
fast..."
"I didn't tell anyone. Your secret's
safe with me. Unless—and you'd better listen to me carefully—this is just a
fling for you. A chance for you to get a taste of dark meat, perhaps?"
His eyes blazed. "If you were a man and
said that to me, Rose, God help me, I'd deck you. I love India. We're getting
married after I finish school."
"I'm glad to hear that, Bill," Rose
said softly, "because India's my friend and God help you if you
hurt her the way you've hurt me tonight."
With that, she left. He didn't attempt to stop
her this time.
Rose was hardly in the mood for an encounter
with Winston when she arrived home, but the pungent odor of incense greeted her
on the stairs and he awaited her in his doorway on the third floor. He drew her
in without a word, closing the door softly behind her, and she allowed him to
remove her outer garments one by one. Only then did she try to speak, but he
pressed a finger to her mouth, hushing her.
With a moan Rose pressed herself into him.
Winston lifted her effortlessly from the floor and she wrapped her legs around
his waist. They made love standing up, her back against the wall, and then
again on his king-sized bed with its luxurious satin sheets. She wondered
fleetingly how he could afford them.
They awoke to knocking at the door. Rose,
disoriented, yawned and stretched like a cat. Winston yelled, "Who is
it?"
"Man, it's after nine o'clock. You
coming or what?" Robert. He'd come home while they were sleeping.
"Aw, shit," Winston groaned.
"We were supposed to have breakfast and go down to the railroad office.
He's trying to get me a job."
"You'd better go, then," Rose said,
and lay back down.
"Rose, you got to hide. He can't see you
in here."
"Why not?" Rose challenged him.
"You afraid he's gonna tell your other women?"
There was fire in those green eyes, and for a
moment Winston hesitated, but Robert knocked again, and Winston finally opened
the door. Robert walked on in without invitation. "You ain't even dressed?
We're supposed to be there at—oh." He was staring openly at Rose, who'd
slid beneath the sheet to cover her nakedness. She stared back.
"I—I’ll wait downstairs," Robert
stuttered. He backed out of the room and closed the door so fast it rattled in
its frame.
*****
Rose didn't think she could count on Robert
to be discreet, and so wasn't particularly surprised when Hosiah, who'd been
merely civil in the past, stopped speaking to her altogether. Winston claimed
that Hosiah had fled Mississippi after a white man falsely accused him of
raping his wife—though Rose believed him she never verified if this was true or
not.
Neither Robert nor Hosiah, however, would
dare tell tales to Miss Yvette, who looked upon Rose as a daughter and was
still encouraging her to find another line of work. Mr. Latham, as well, seemed
oblivious, though Rose didn't know whether he really was unaware of the affair
or considered it none of his business. She suspected the latter; Mr. Latham was
old and sickly, but he wasn't senile.
And so the liaisons continued, though both
were more circumspect. Rose submitted to her desires willingly, though now
armed with the knowledge that she was not and never would be the only one, and
feeling the brunt of scorn whenever they dared venture out together, which
wasn't often. Fortunately, Bill took weekends off and he never played the same
nights as Winston's band, but still there was a rift between he and Rose
that—she thought now—would never heal.
She finally ended the relationship one night
in August after a drunken man stormed into Smokey's and threatened to cut
Winston's throat with a broken bottle for sleeping with his girlfriend.
"She ain't one of your whores!" he shouted, struggling against the
three men holding him back.
Rose wasn't in love with Winston, but she
wasn't a whore, either. Winston understood, and they agreed to remain friends.
He eventually got a job as a Pullman porter, and she saw much less of him.
In later years that summer would be a blur in
her memory, and with the exception of the sweetness of Winston's voice and the
heat of his touch, Rose would not look back upon it with any fondness. She'd
needed Winston, and they'd used each other, but when the romance was over the
weight of her loneliness and sorrow came crashing down on her. She probably
would have wallowed in it for years to come had it not been for the series of
catastrophic and life-altering events that would occur in the next few
months...starting with the day she came home from running errands and found her
landlady entertaining none other than the great Broadway director Hugh Pollard
in the parlor.