A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Sixty-Five
The journey from New York to
Wisconsin had been arduous, but exciting and even fun at times, and Rose mostly
owed that to Randolph, who'd turned out to be a better traveling companion than
she'd expected. His witty reminiscences about his youth and his years with the
Scotts kept her in stitches—and more importantly—awake; he also took on more
than his share of turns behind the wheel. She was sad to see him board the
train to Denver. A part of her had wanted to go with him.
On the first leg of the trip to
California, she was stuck with Helene.
There had been a huge to-do about
that. Anderson wouldn't allow Rose to drive alone, but neither his mother nor
his sister would take the wheel of the Ford. Lizzy couldn't drive and Helene
complained that she'd only recently begun taking driving lessons, and what was
the use of that, really, she didn't need to drive back home; she had her
husband and her chauffeur to carry her everywhere she wanted to go.
Then neither of them wanted to
ride with Rose. Lizzy's excuse was that she didn't trust woman drivers,
whatever that meant. Rose was willing to bet that Anderson took far more risks
on the road than she did, but she let it go. Unfortunately, that left Helene,
and she had no excuse at all, other than the fact that she barely knew Rose.
Being stuck with her, Helene would prove to be the most surly and
uncommunicative passenger Rose would ever have. Fortunately, once they left
Chippewa Falls her head dropped to her chest and the only sound she made for
the next three hours was an occasional moan in her sleep.
Following a midmorning stop for
petrol in a nondescript farming community, they ate an early lunch at a
roadside cafe. They were nearly done with their meal when Lizzy announced they
would spend their first night with her sister and brother in Cedar Rapids,
Iowa.
"You have a sister and
brother?" Rose regretted opening her mouth as soon as the question popped
out; she caught Lizzy's puzzled glance and realized that this was something she
should have known.
Helene, every bit the petulant
child, came to her rescue. "Those religious fanatics! Mother, you promised
we wouldn't have to go there!"
"I did no such thing."
"Ahem." Anderson gave
their mother a pointed look. "I didn't," she insisted. "What I
said was that we wouldn't have time to stop on the way to Chicago. I said
nothing about the trip back."
In a huff, Helene rose from the wobbly
table, almost spilling four cups of coffee, and pranced off to the bathroom,
purse in hand. The eyes of every male patron trailed her until the door slammed
hard enough to rattle its hinges. The two waitresses, in the middle of a gossip
session at the counter, shook their heads and glared at the door.
"And we were having such
fun," Anderson remarked.
"They're your sole remaining
relatives on this earth, besides me," Lizzy said. "I don't understand
you two." She turned to Rose. "And I can't believe your father never
mentioned my brother Luther. They very nearly came to blows at Ellie's
wedding."
"Oh, my." Laura Cabot
never mentioned that little tidbit in any of her ramblings. "What
brought that about?"
Lizzy suddenly took on the
appearance of one who's revealed too much; she shifted uneasily and changed the
subject. "I think we'd best get back on the road. I'd like to be there
before nightfall."
They had to wait another ten
minutes for Helene to emerge from the ladies'. Meanwhile, Rose stared out of
the grimy window at the endless cornfields and, not for the first time,
silently questioned her own sanity. Lizzy and Helene clearly didn't trust her,
and she didn't trust herself with Anderson. She had no job offer or even the
promise of a place to live in Los Angeles, but she couldn't expect to take up
residence with this family.
"Well, are we ready?"
Helene had materialized at last. She didn't even wait for her brother to settle
the check before she was yanking her arms into her sable coat and heading for the
door. Rose caught a glance between Anderson and his mother; the weariness in
that look spoke volumes.
Rose prayed to the gods of travel
that there would be peace in her automobile, but Helene was wide awake and
would remain so for quite some time. Her feet tapped a nervous rhythm on the
floorboard as they pulled onto the county route. "You're really in for it
now," she said, nodding as if Rose would understand.
Rose decided to play along.
"In for what?"
Helene chuckled. "You'll
see. God, I need another cigarette. Got any smokes? I'm out."
Reluctantly, Rose indicated her
handbag, which she'd placed on the floor between them. Helene grabbed at it all
too quickly, releasing the clasp and the contents within, mumbled what sounded
like an apology and restored everything but the gold cigarette case. She
continued to fumble around for a bit, finally locating her own holder, then
deciding not to bother with it.
"I hope you don't mind if I
lower the window," she said, after she'd already done so, letting in an
unwelcome blast of frigid air. "You should have one, too, Rose. You'll
need it to get through a night with Uncle Preacher and Aunt Twit."
"I take it you don't care
for them."
Helene laughed loudly, a noise
something akin to the bray of a donkey. "I like you, Rose. You have such a
polite way of phrasing things." She took a long drag, savoring the taste
before blowing the smoke out the window. "Have you ever seen so much corn
in your life?"
It seemed as though Helene hated
everyone and everything, but Rose couldn't help herself; she had to know what
was wrong with Jack's aunt and uncle. "Why do you call him Uncle Preacher?
Is he some sort of Bible thumper?"
"You got it, Sister Rose.
They're filled with the Holy Ghost, both of 'em. I hope you know your
scriptures."
It was all Helene would say on
the subject, and for the remainder of the ride to Cedar Rapids she slipped back
into sullen mode, speaking only when spoken to and then only in short, clipped
sentences. Rose decided that in the morning she'd convince Anderson that she
was perfectly capable of driving alone.
*****
Cedar Rapids wasn't a booming
metropolis, but it was substantially larger than Chippewa Falls, and there was
no snow on the ground. Pedestrians were out in force. The two cars wound their way
along a pleasant thoroughfare with a view of the Cedar River to the west,
passing through a market district with a greengrocer, pharmacy, butcher shop
and not one, but two, bakeries. All of the businesses were shutting down for
the evening, but the sweet smell of fresh bread still drifted after them.
Rose's stomach growled and she wished she could pull over and dig out her
picnic basket, where she'd tucked away fruit and candy to snack on during the
trip.
"Did your mother phone your
aunt and uncle to let them know to expect us?" she asked Helene. They were
in a more genteel section of town now. Two young women locked the door of a
boutique showcasing women's coats in its window. A florist and antique store
were already dark, but an art gallery—gasp—was still open.
"They don't have a
telephone," Helene said. "Uncle Luther thinks we live in the Dark
Ages. He's in for a shock...there's the house, up there."
It loomed ominously ahead, at the
crest of a hill. They were still more than a mile away, following a twisting
road through a quiet neighborhood of modest residences. The mansion they
approached was far too elegant in comparison and stood out as Rose had among
the third class passengers on board the Titanic.
Jack Dawson had relatives who
lived like that?
They passed a bucolic park where
men in topcoats walked their dogs and a playground stood waiting but deserted
for now; it was suppertime. Up ahead the Ford turned into a cobblestone drive
and Rose followed.
The property had to be at least
thirty acres. The land was well-tended, but most of it had been cleared to make
way for vegetable and flower gardens. Along the driveway, a number of evenly
spaced sticks and poles marked the spots where seeds had been planted, and a
greenhouse stood a short distance away. Come spring, the lawn would sprout a
multitude of colors and scents, an artist's dream. And Jack had never mentioned
it.
Anderson eased to a stop in front
of a small carriage house, and Rose parked beside him. While he aided his
mother in unloading her luggage, Rose gazed up at the mansion. It was three
stories, with brick on the lower levels and slate shingles on the third. The
steep gabled roof had two chimneys and turrets at each corner. A terrace with
ornate iron grillwork faced the front lawn in the center of each of the upper
floors.
A short walkway led to a
wraparound porch. Its entrance was framed by an ivy-covered trellis bearing a
sign reading The Hutchinsons.
Out of the corner of an eye, Rose
detected movement overhead. She thought she glimpsed a figure on the second
floor terrace, but decided that it was just the curtains billowing in the
breeze from the open door.
"This is where I grew up.
It's like something out of a fairy tale, isn't it?" Lizzy was at her
shoulder, admiring her childhood home like a little girl with a dollhouse.
"Wait ‘til you meet my brother and sister. They're like Jack Sprat and his
wife."
Before Rose could form a fitting
response to that odd comment, the front door swung open and a plump teenager
came flying out at them.
"Sissy!" she squealed,
and Rose realized that this was no child, it was an adult in a child's
polka-dot dress and patent leather shoes, complete with silver-blonde hair tied
back with a big red bow. She squeezed the air out of Lizzy, who, to Rose's surprise,
happily returned the gesture.
"I can't believe you finally
came," the child woman babbled. "Luther said you'd never come back
here, that you'd plum forgot your family, but here you are, and oh, my
goodness, is this Helene?"
She was advancing on Rose, arms
outstretched. Rose instinctively backed up.
"No, no, Kitty, this is Rose
Dawson. She's traveling to California with us. Rose, this is my sister
Katherine." At her sister's confused frown, Lizzy quickly added,
"Rose is Joe Dawson's daughter."
"Joe has a daughter?"
Lizzy had only succeeded in further confounding her. As comprehension dawned,
Katherine drew Rose into a suffocating embrace. "You poor dear. Your
father's not a very nice man."
"Kit," Lizzy
interjected, "Helene and Anderson are over there by the cars."
Katherine let out another
delighted cry and pounced on them, while Lizzy took Rose by the arm and led her
up a short staircase and through the porch into the house. "I'll explain
later," was all she said.
They entered a vast rotunda with
a marvelous alabaster marble staircase in its center. There were no decorations
save a few Christian-themed paintings; no furnishings other than a coat rack in
one corner and a grandfather clock against a far wall. It was all very austere
and intimidating. An oversized ball of silky hair wandered out of the sitting
room on their right and came over to investigate them. At Rose's guess it was a
Persian cat. Her grandmother had had one, ages ago.
Bending down to stroke it, she
came face to face with a pair of men's shoes in the doorway. She jumped.
A slight, frail man in his
sixties studied her as he addressed Lizzy. "So nice of you to drop in on
us, Elizabeth, and with no warning, of course. Just in time for supper, too,
but I doubt if Sally prepared enough food for a caravan."
Ignoring his tone, Lizzy threw
her arms around her brother and pecked him on the cheek. "I'm happy to see
you, too. Rose, this is my brother, Luther Hutchinson."
"Pleased to meet you,"
Rose offered, but he'd already dismissed her. "You couldn't spare your
family the courtesy of a letter or telegram!" he snapped at Lizzy.
"Just drop in like this is one of those fancy hotels you stay at."
Lizzy had finally tired of his
inhospitable behavior. "I wrote when Andrew passed on and told you we'd be
stopping here." She sighed. "I suppose you never received that
letter. If you'd just get a telephone—"
"I'm sorry," came a
squeak from the front entryway. Katherine was standing there, joined by
Anderson and Helene. "I forgot to show you the letter."
"Of course." Luther
threw up his hands. "Well, even if she did write, she probably didn't
mention she was bringing a guest."
"She's not just any
guest," Katherine countered. "She's Joe Dawson's daughter."
Lizzy winced. For an instant
there was dead silence. Luther spun from one sister to the other, to Rose, then
back to Lizzy, his face reddening. When he finally spoke, the words were soft
and measured, but there was no mistaking his fury.
"I'll have no child of that
heathen in my house. Take her and get out."