A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Seventy
New Year's Eve dawned warm and a
bright desert sun greeted the lone automobile on the dirt road leading into Box
Canyon. The mild weather had held throughout the entire month; at first Rose
appreciated it after enduring two of the harshest winters of her life, but now
she wished that the climate more appropriately matched her mood.
The canyon was located on the
western edge of the San Fernando Valley, an area covered by rocky slopes,
yucca, and prickly pear cactus. Three months earlier, brush fires had scorched
the earth in a wide circle, but the ash acted as a fertilizer and with the
light drizzle that came in the weeks that followed, fresh grass quickly
sprouted. Rose had stumbled upon her new secret hideaway a few weeks after
giving up the pier. She missed the solitude she'd enjoyed in Chippewa Falls and
craved a place to clear her head. Her wanderings took her farther and farther
from the city proper and finally to this hillside overlooking the valley, where
she perched on a boulder and surveyed the lay of the land.
A sudden, furtive motion off to
her left. A coyote scrounging for rabbits underneath the rocks sensed the human
presence, stopped, and met her gaze for an instant, floppy ears at attention.
Rose wasn't frightened; it was smaller than Skipper, Richard Scott's collie.
After a second or two, it nonchalantly turned tail and disappeared.
Rose focused on her sketchbook,
but found she couldn't continue. Every time she tried to visualize the old
man's kindly face, she pictured it as she'd seen it last—frozen in a grimace of
pain. For the time being, this sheet of paper would remain blank.
*****
"I want to go back to New
York, Max."
Angelica's husband went on
chewing his roast beef as if he hadn't heard. The others at the table, Rose
included, braced themselves but feigned deafness as well.
"I'm going to New York, and
I'm taking the baby, whether you care to join me or not," Angelica
declared. "You hear me, Max? I said–"
"I heard you. I heard
you." He finally raised angry eyes from his plate and leveled them on her.
"Everyone at this table heard you. Your mouth is a foghorn." He
sliced into the meat, adding quietly, "Li'l Max stays with me."
"Rosie, darling, can you
please pass the gravy?" Catherine virtually shouted across the table. Rose
reached for the tureen; Angelica, seated beside her, grabbed it first and
handed it down the line without even glancing at Catherine.
"Like hell he will!"
"Angel, please," her
mother pleaded. Her eyes were hazy from crying and lack of sleep; she was
trying to avoid looking at the empty chair opposite her at the head of the
table. "You'll have plenty of time to quarrel later."
"I'm sorry, Mama. But my
lazy, useless horse's ass of a husband insists on being stubborn and staying in
California where no one would hire him but Papa. Do you know how many auditions
he goes on, day after day, wasting time when our son needs new clothes?"
"You mean when you need new
clothes," Max spat. "Why don't you just say it, you money-grubbing
leech?"
Angelica blanched. Catherine
pushed her bulk away from the table, muttering, "Happy New Year,
folks," and departed.
Hans jumped to his feet.
"Don't you talk about my sister like that in this house! Can't you see
she's grieving?"
As if to demonstrate that she
was, in fact, grieving, Angelica burst into a torrent of sobs. Rose was saved
from the obligation of providing comfort by the door chimes. "I'll get
that," she offered to the empty air around her, as no one was paying her
any mind. The guest was hers, anyway; Anderson had mentioned he'd be stopping
by early to pay his respects to the family. He hadn't been able to make it to
the mortician, where Fritz lay in repose. A superstitious Anna refused to have
the viewing in their home. Secretly, Rose believed that it was too soon after
his own father's passing.
Anderson looked quite dignified
in black tie and tails, and Rose felt a twinge of nostalgia that she couldn't
suppress.
Jack was unrecognizable in
formalwear, but he played the part well. He kissed my hand and he said...
"You're not dressed?"
"I—ah—"
Raised voices, followed by an
ear-splitting crash, emerged from the dining room. Anderson cringed. "I'll
wait for you out here."
"Good idea," Rose said.
"I wouldn't want you to get hit with a plate."
Upstairs, she removed the gown
from her wardrobe and felt a fresh flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach.
Before dinner, she'd soaked in the bath for an hour, agonizing over just how
much rouge she should apply, and pinned up her hair in an unruly mop. Now she
removed the pins, allowing the curls to fall freely about her bare shoulders,
and gazed at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She looked pale. Perhaps she was
coming down with something. She could still back out. She had a perfect excuse,
after all, with Fritz's memorial service in two days...
A flutter of feet rushed past her
room. A door to one of the guest rooms slammed down the hall. Rose could hear
Anna knocking, calling her daughter's name. There was too much drama here. She
picked up a brush from the vanity and went to work on her mane.
The house had grown quiet by the
time Rose returned to the parlor. Max had stormed out, leaving Angelica to lick
her wounds. Their son, thankfully, had slept through the entire brouhaha in the
master bedroom. An embarrassed Anna had served Anderson tea and then excused
herself, leaving him alone with Hans. The latter was in the middle of his
fourth cigarette of the evening and a colorful tale about his father. He
watched Anderson and Rose leave from the porch, disappointed that he couldn't
go with them.
"What will they do
now?" Anderson wondered when they were in the car.
"They're closing the theater
and going back to New York," Rose replied, "but Max doesn't want to
follow. His parents are staying here and he thinks he can make a go of a career
in pictures. That's what the argument—eh, discussion—was about."
Without looking at her, Anderson
asked, "Will you go with them?"
"I don't know." With a
start, Rose realized that she was probably going to be separated from the
Geisels again. It was painfully clear to her, even now, that she couldn't go
back to New York just yet.
They fell silent as they ascended
Laurel Canyon Drive, a treacherous stretch of road that wound and twisted up
into the hills and over a precipice so steep it appeared bottomless,
particularly in the dark. Rose held her breath for every second until Anderson
turned onto a paved drive marked only by a mailbox with a red balloon tied to
it. Rose started to ask how anyone was to find the turnoff when the balloon
wasn't there, then decided that no one was really supposed to.
About half a mile further in
pitch black, and then suddenly their eyes were assaulted by light. A wrought
iron gate stood open before them, revealing a majestic marble fountain. A pair
of pink flamingoes balanced at its center, sprouting waterfalls from their
beaks. The drive, which branched and curved around this work of art, was lined
with Roman torches that illuminated the entire estate, including the vast
Spanish villa at its center.
Anderson circled the fountain and
came to a stop underneath the porte cochere. A valet arrived out of nowhere and
whisked the car away; Rose didn't take notice of where it went, as she was too
busy studying the mansion. From its red tile roof—imported from Europe, she'd
later find out—to the fancy gallery that stretched across the entire anterior
of the house, it all seemed so gauche and yet so authentic at the same time.
She didn't know how to react.
She felt the music before she
heard it, a live band amid a chorus of festive voices.
Anderson took Rose's hand and
felt the trembling she tried so unsuccessfully to conceal.
"Remember," he whispered, "no goblins." She giggled.
"By the way, did I mention how lovely you look tonight?" he added.
A tuxedoed butler opened the door
before she could thank him. "Invitation, please?" He examined their
invitations carefully, gave the couple a once-over and directed them to the
ballroom, where Helene was greeting guests. "Mr. Masterson is outside on
the patio. It is rather warm this evening, but you may want to keep your cloak
with you," he advised Rose.
When the man was out of earshot,
Anderson muttered, "Pretentious idiot. I've known him ever since they
hired him two years ago, and he still acts as if he doesn't recognize me."
The ballroom was ablaze with
light from three crystal chandeliers. At one end, a sultry blonde backed by a
jazz quartet serenaded the crowd. Her fringed cocktail dress left little to the
imagination. At the other end was a buffet table loaded with heated trays and a
full-service bar. A well-stocked bar with two bartenders at the ready. Clearly
no one had informed these people that they were violating the law.
Dazzled by the lights, Rose
swayed on her feet. Anderson locked arms with her, breathed, "Steady,
sweetheart," into her ear, and guided her down the small staircase. Her
entrance was met with barely concealed stares—admiring ones from the men,
appraising, critical ones from the women, all of them probably wondering who
the intruder was.
A waiter offered champagne.
Another glided past bearing a platter of hors d'oeuvres--oysters, fried clam
strips, and crab cakes. "All seafood tonight," Anderson commented,
helping himself. "They spared no expense."
"Rose?"
She glanced around, startled to
hear a man calling her name. Surely no one in this room knew who she was.
"Rose Dawson!" It was
Buster Keaton, her old vaudeville acquaintance, now a comic star in the
tradition of Charlie Chaplin. She'd never thought she'd see him up close and
personal again, much less that he'd remember her. He grasped her by the
shoulders and kissed her cheek, to Anderson's amazement and that of the
dark-haired beauty who accompanied him.
"Buster! Oh, my goodness.
It's wonderful to see you," Rose babbled.
"Same here. Now, tell me,
did you come three thousand miles just to see me? I'm flattered." He
winked. "Last I heard, you were Broadway's newest darling."
"You heard about me?"
"Everybody who's anybody in
New York theater knows about you. I still have friends back East. So, why are
you here? And why didn't you look me up?"
He even remembered telling her to
look him up. Rose beamed. The nerves were melting away. "I came to
visit—" She turned to Anderson, awkward.
"—her cousin." Anderson
gracefully offered his hand; Buster shook it. "Anderson Calvert."
"Right. Helene's
brother."
"Did you say you're Helene's
cousin?" A very large man had joined the circle forming around her; Rose
instantly recognized him, as well, and it was all she could do to keep her
composure. "Where's she been hiding you?"
"Roscoe!" Buster's
companion snapped in disapproval. "How do you do?" she said to Rose
and Anderson. "I'm Natalie Keaton." Emphasis on Keaton. Until that
moment she'd been silently surveying Rose with distaste. Now she easily
dismissed her, swinging back to her husband. "Dearest, my sisters have
arrived. If you'll excuse me."
When she was gone, Buster hastily
introduced Rose and his good friend Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle. Anderson had
already met the actor, and the two began to talk shop. Buster asked Rose what
her plans were for the following week; she was sharing the news of Fritz
Geisel's death when Helene appeared, resplendent in a silver gown and feathered
headdress.
"You two know each other?
Rose, I didn't realize."
"Oh, we go way back."
Buster squeezed Rose's hand. "I'm so sorry about Fritz. He was a class
act. Let's talk later, all right?"
Rose looked for Anderson, who was
still deep in conversation with Arbuckle. She was alone with Helene.
"I must say, you look
positively elegant this evening," Helene commented. "It's a vast
improvement."
Rose mumbled her thanks at the
backhanded compliment.
They exchanged a few more stiff pleasantries,
Helene offering condolences at Fritz's passing. "How sad. Will the theater
be closing down?"
"Yes. His family is moving
back to New York."
"You're not going with them?
What will you do?"
You'd love for me to go with
them, wouldn't you? Rose
thought. Aloud, she said, "I haven't decided yet."
"Well, in case you decide to
stay--though I don't see why you'd want to after your friends are gone—I know
someone, a director, who's looking for new talent for a project he's trying to
put together. You'd be perfect."
Rose couldn't help but raise her
eyebrows at that, considering the source. "Are you certain? I mean, I've
never acted in a film before."
"Oh, it's easy." Helene
shrugged. "If my husband can do it—" She let out a loud and
unladylike cackle. For the first time, Rose noticed the redness in her eyes.
"Speaking of Terrence, he's been asking after you all night. Do go outside
and say hello."
She moved on to greet her
brother. Feeling abandoned, Rose drifted towards the sliding doors that led to
the patio. Several guests had gathered around an Olympic-sized swimming pool;
some were even in it. Rose couldn't reconcile the sight with the fact that in
less than an hour it would be January.
"You should stay the night.
The view at sunrise is breathtaking."
He was standing awfully close to
her. Rose pulled her wrap tighter to hide her exposed cleavage. "I can
imagine. But you put your life on the line to drive up here."
Terry grinned. "I've missed
you, Rose. You don't write. You don't call. Nobody's seen you at the
pier."
"I've been working."
She avoided his eyes.
"Working too hard to visit
your cousins? Surely you could endure Helene just for Thanksgiving. She
actually cooks! All right, she doesn't lift a finger in the kitchen, but she
does prepare the menu."
There was a scream and a splash.
Rose looked in the direction of the noise and did a double take. "That
woman on the chaise--is that--"
"Theda Bara, yes,"
Terry said. "Wanna meet her?" He had Rose by the arm and was dragging
her over before she could open her mouth in protest. "You shouldn't be so
easily intimidated, Rose. She's just a Jewish girl from Ohio."
"She's not French?"
Terry found that hilarious.
"Don't tell her you know the truth, okay?"
They made the rounds, and Rose
found herself relaxing more and more in Terry's company. Or perhaps it was the
champagne. The fact that Terry was drinking didn't bother her as it should
have; she applauded just as loudly as everyone else when, at the urging of his
guests, he stripped to his skivvies and dove into the deep end of the pool.
"Loco." Someone spoke
at Rose's shoulder.
The man was slightly taller than
she and impeccably dressed. His skin was tan. He wore his black hair to his
collar and sported a thin--almost invisible--mustache. He smiled pleasantly at Rose
and she caught herself staring at his eyelashes. They were the longest
eyelashes she'd seen on a man. Rose wondered what pictures he'd starred in.
"Have you tried the lobster
bisque?" he inquired.
"Pardon?"
He indicated the bowl in his
hand. "It's the best soup I have ever tasted. You should have some before
it's gone." He had a pronounced Spanish accent, although his voice was
smooth and refined.
Terry surfaced, spotted the man,
and cupped his hands around his lips. "Hey, Rafe, come on in!"
"Thank you, no." To
Rose, he said, "I don't believe we've met. I'm Raphael de la Cruz,
Terrence's assistant."
Raphael. How romantic. "Rose
Dawson," she introduced herself. "Pleased to meet you."
His eyes widened. "You're
the Rose? You are a legend around here."
She blushed. "Terry
exaggerates."
"Not in this case," he
said.
By this time, Terry had climbed
out of the pool and helped himself to one of the bath towels that lay folded in
a neat pile on a chair. He wrapped it around his waist and made his way over to
them.
"See, Rafe, she's real. What
did I tell you? Ain't she a dish?" The cocky expression on his face
suddenly turned sheepish. "Oh, hello, Anderson."
*****
It was nearly three AM when
Anderson pulled up in front of the boarding house and deposited a bleary-eyed
Rose at the door with a warm and dramatic kiss. She could barely drag herself
to the top of the stairs, and she fell backwards on her bed, focusing on a spot
on the ceiling until the room stopped rotating on its axis.
She'd always remember this night--dancing
the foxtrot in that enormous ballroom, the lobster bisque, which was as good as
Raphael said and then some, toasting in the New Year with all those luminaries.
She fell asleep in her gown, dreaming of two men. Neither of them was Anderson.
A sound like the repeated blows
of a hammer awoke her. She moaned, grimaced at the mushy taste in her mouth,
and rolled onto her side.
"Rose?" came a voice
from very, very far away. "Open the door."
"Go away."
Whoever it was kept tapping at
the door. "Rose, you need to get up, now!"
She dozed off again. Next time
she heard the knocking, she was in the lavatory, scrubbing her face over the
washbasin. Her gown was safely stowed away and she wore a kimono over a
loose-fitting nightgown for comfort. She'd go to the kitchen and indulge in a
cup of steaming black coffee. Or two.
"Rose, answer me!"
Angelica sounded frantic.
"I'll be right down. You can
start breakfast without me." Honestly, the girl was rude. She probably
just wanted to rehash her fight with Max. Rose made sure she was gone before
opening her door, but Angelica was waiting for her downstairs.
"You mustn't go in
there," she whispered. "Someone's here..."
Her head was throbbing and she
barely heard a word. "Please, can't this wait? I'm exhausted." Rose
pushed past her and walked into the dining room.
Anna was pouring coffee for a
stately woman in her fifties, who wore a traveling suit and hadn't taken the
time to remove her hat. The man seated beside her was devouring a plate of
sausage and eggs as if he'd been fasting for a week.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Anna, I
didn't know you had comp—" Rose stopped and stared. The woman looked at
her askance, but she didn't notice. She couldn't take her eyes off the man.
Slowly, she moved around the
table until they were face-to-face. He had just become aware of her presence
and met her stare.
"Rose?" Anna spoke
softly. "I tried to tell you."
"Sebastian," Rose said.