RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Sixteen

Rose hadn’t really had a close friend in a long time. Her best friend in grade school, Deborah Hill, had moved to San Francisco in 1905. She and Rose had written to each other for a while, but had lost contact after the earthquake in 1906. Rose hadn’t had many friends amongst her schoolmates after that—she had always insisted upon being different, and at an age and in a society where conformity was prized, many of her classmates had shunned her.

She had always gotten along well with the servants, but there was a barrier between them that Rose could not surmount. Despite her youth, she was the boss, and they the employees. Even with Trudy, the closest thing to a friend that Rose had had in a long time, the gulf was there.

Rose had wished that she could confide in Trudy, who she suspected knew what was going on with Cal. Trudy had worked for the Hockleys before transferring to the Bukater household, and she had held a rather low opinion of Cal, although she tried to keep her thoughts to herself. But Rose had suspected that Trudy hadn’t believed her story about falling off her horse the first time Cal had beaten her, and she hadn’t believed her story about looking at the propellers, either.

Still, despite Trudy’s sympathy with Rose’s plight, she had never commented on the problem, and Rose had kept her troubles to herself. Trudy was the maid, and Rose the person she served, forming a barricade that neither one could cross.

So it was almost a new experience for Rose to have close confidantes again. Alice and Robert had both become friends, although it took Rose a while to learn to trust them, and only Alice knew that Rose Dawson had once been Rose DeWitt Bukater of Philadelphia society. Robert was still determined to ferret out her secret, and Rose and Alice often laughed at his off-the-wall theories, ranging from the absurd—Rose was a globe-trotting adventuress who was gracing New York with her presence—to the uncomfortably close—Rose was a runaway society girl. Rose laughed and teased him about his theories, hoping all the while that he wouldn’t find out who she really was. The fewer people who knew, the better.

Rose’s own difficulties had made her more sensitive to the troubles of others, and it wasn’t long before she realized that neither Robert nor Alice were as cheerful and blasé as they tried to appear.

Oftentimes after work the three would congregate in the parlor, or, when it was especially hot, the front steps, where they would sit for an hour or two, discussing the theater, the latest happenings in the neighborhood, or, as time passed, their own individual trials and tribulations.

Upon listening to them commiserating one night, Gabe, whose latest goal in life was to be a philosopher, declared that Alice, Robert, and Rose were the three lost souls.

Rose thought it was an apt description. Despite their camaraderie, they each carried secrets inside that they were reluctant to share.

Rose in particular was reluctant to speak out. Her lingering fear of being found was partly responsible, but more than that, she wanted to forget the sorrows of the past—her abuse at Cal’s hands, the sinking of the Titanic, Jack’s death. The events of the past still haunted her sleep at night. Beyond that, guilt nagged at her conscience. She had abandoned her mother, leaving her to the Hockleys’ tender mercies and the vagaries of a world she didn’t know how to survive in. Still, as much as Rose worried about Ruth, she had no intention of going back, or even letting Ruth know where she was. The consequences were unthinkable.

Robert, too, liked to keep his past to himself. Although he was more forthcoming than Rose, he didn’t give many details of his life. She did learn, however, that his family had been part of a traveling theater troupe that had been in San Francisco when the earthquake had occurred in 1906. Robert had been just shy of fifteen years old at the time, but after that, he told her, he had been on his own.

Rose wondered what had happened, if perhaps he had lost someone close to him. She wondered, but he never gave any details. But Rose had noticed that Robert had an almost desperate need to experience everything in life, all at once, as though the opportunity would soon be taken away. His hedonistic view on life puzzled Rose at first, and despite the fact that she genuinely liked him, caused her distrust him initially.

Alice, despite her world-weary demeanor, was actually the most forthcoming of the three, especially after a few drinks. Her over-consumption of alcohol the night of the cast party had not been the first time, nor was it the last. Alice liked to sit and sip at a glass of sherry in the evenings after the show—just sip, she told Rose one night; she wasn’t like her father, who would drink the whole bottle at once. And Rose had to admit, Alice never drank an entire bottle of sherry at once. Half a bottle, however, was not unheard of. Alice would finish one drink, and then decide to have just one more. Just one more often translated into six or eight glasses, until Alice was decidedly tipsy. This wasn’t a nightly occurrence; it seldom happened more than once a week. But when it did, Alice was inclined to run off at the mouth.

One night late in July, after her fifth glass of sherry, Alice started talking about her childhood.

Robert, who had been half-dozing in a worn horsehair chair, sat up, listening curiously. Alice had always been content to banter with him. She had seldom spoken about anything serious.

"I’m from upstate New York," Alice told Rose in response to Rose’s query about where she was from. "Some of the prettiest country you’ll ever see. Lots of farms, small towns. Lots of uppity people, too. Think if your daddy’s a drunk and a no-good, you must be, too." She laughed, pouring more sherry. "I was almost glad when he left, even though we hardly had a penny left. Mama sold the only valuable thing she had left, her wedding ring. She’d hidden it from Daddy so he couldn’t sell it to buy liquor or gamble—he was always one game away from a big fortune, and every game was gonna be his last, just like every time he got drunk was gonna be the last time. It wasn’t, of course, and one night he ran off with the creditors at his heels. Mama would’ve been glad to see him go, but then we didn’t have any means of support. So a week later we took a train to New York City. We thought life might be better here."

Alice paused, staring at her half-empty glass. She sighed and gulped the rest of the sherry down. When she reached for the bottle again, Robert moved it out of her reach. She glared at him for a moment, then forgot about it. Warming to her story, she continued.

"We were wrong. People are just as close-minded in the city as they are in the country. Mama tried to find a job, but a lot of people wouldn’t hire a woman, especially not one with two children and no husband present. It didn’t matter that Daddy had run out on us—they assumed that Mama must be an immoral hussy. Of course, she had to keep us fed, so she did some things that convinced them she was immoral. Some of those nice businessmen who wouldn’t hire her during the day were only too happy to hire her at night. Of course, this only lowered her further in their eyes."

Alice paused again; then, before Robert could stop her, snatched the bottle of sherry back. After pouring herself another glass, she continued.

"Mama finally found a job sewing clothes in a sweatshop. It was horrible—crowded, dirty, low-paying. There wasn’t any ventilation, and it was hot in summer and freezing in winter. If one person got sick, everyone did, but you didn’t dare miss a day because they’d replace you. There were always people looking for jobs. They hired Gabe and me, too, at much lower pay, even though Gabe was really too young. We worked for about two months, until Mama decided that the work was too much for Gabe and made him quit. After about a week, when she realized that Gabe couldn’t watch himself, she made me quit, too, even though it sometimes meant she didn’t get to eat. Sixteen hours a day and she couldn’t feed herself. She tried to find another job, but she was at work so much that she didn’t have time. The workers got Sundays off, but there still wasn’t really time to look, and a lot of places were also closed then. There was a free school nearby, so she sent me there, and Gabe joined me after a couple of years. Mama wanted to make sure we didn’t wind up like her. She only had a third grade education. So we went to school and she worked, and that place sapped her strength and made her old before her time. She was twenty-eight when she started working, and thirty-three when she died, but she looked fifty. She literally worked herself to death. When the cholera came, she didn’t have the strength to fight it. She died within two days. I was already working in the theater, so we weren’t completely without support. I had been working since I was fourteen—I looked older than I was, and the men appreciated that."

At Rose’s shocked look, she elaborated, "I was very talented on the casting couches, and I knew enough to keep from getting pregnant—men are often stupid about such things, so it’s up to us to worry about it. I worked in the sort of places that only men go to. The money was good, and it was even better if you were willing to do extra favors for the customers—but I only did that if we really needed the money. I finally found work in a respectable theater, even though it didn’t pay as well. It was still better than what I’d been doing. No more favors. Mama never knew for sure what I was doing, but I think she suspected. She didn’t say anything, though, even after I got kicked out of school when one of the teachers saw me dancing. I’d learned enough anyway, and I was making more money than Mama was. We had enough that there was always food, and we moved into a small apartment instead of the one room we’d had in a boarding house. Gabe and I had to find a new place to live after she died, but that was okay—this place is decent. We could afford to live here with me working in a respectable place. I didn’t have to do any special favors to make ends meet."

Alice stared at her now-empty glass. She glanced at the bottle blearily, then set her glass aside.

"I’ve had enough," she declared, her words a bit slurred.

"No lie," Robert told her, taking the bottle before she could drop it.

"Shut up, Robert," she told him, getting unsteadily to her feet. Rose got up, too, uncertain as to whether Alice could remain on her feet.

Alice moved unsteadily in the direction of the door. As she reached it, she turned back to Rose.

"You know, one of those men who wanted special favors looked just like your ex-fiancé. He liked redheads, too, especially if he could beat up on them."

Rose stared at her, stunned. Alice grinned drunkenly and stumbled out the door. Rose and Robert heard her swear as she tripped on the bottom stair; then her feet thumped loudly as she made her way to the second floor.

"Ex-fiancé?" Robert looked at Rose speculatively, as though a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

"She didn’t mean anything by it," Rose told him. "She’s drunk..."

"In vino veritas," he told her, hoping that more information would be forthcoming.

When Rose stubbornly refused to say anything, he sighed and held up the half-empty bottle. "That explains a lot."

"What does?"

"Alice. Why she is the way she is." He had never sounded so serious.

"You care about her, don’t you?"

"Like a sister."

Rose raised an eyebrow at him.

"I have no interest in any other sort of relationship with her. She’s too unstable. She flits from man to man, leaving more than one broken heart in her wake. She always convinces herself she’s in love, but as soon as she gets bored she’s gone. Some of these men have abused her, taken advantage of her, though she always claims to be in control. She’s not; she lets them control her, until she’s ready to leave. Then there’s no stopping her. She’ll degrade herself for the worst of them, but when she’s ready to go, she’ll leave the nicest ones just as fast as the worst."

Rose shook her head. "That doesn’t sound very...healthy."

"It isn’t, and she knows it. But I don’t think she can help herself, which may be why she drinks so much—she’s trying to get away from it. She’s actually doing pretty well right now—Norman is a good influence on her. I think she’s starting to get bored, though. It’s going to be rough on both of them when she drops him—he’s her boss."

He looked at the bottle. It had been full at the beginning of the night.

"She probably won’t remember what she said. We’d probably do best not to mention it. She can have a temper, especially if she has a hangover."

Rose nodded. "It would be best not to repeat anything she’s said." She looked him in the eye. "There is no ex-fiancé. Got it?"

Robert had never seen this expression on Rose’s face before—a mixture of fear, determination, and desperation. He would be wise not to cross her on this.

"It doesn’t leave this room," he promised her.

"Good." Rose started up the stairs, her mind awhirl. She knew that Alice hadn’t meant to blurt out her secret, but the fact remained that she had. In vino veritas, as Robert had said.

Rose realized that she would have to be careful what she said around Alice. Sober, Alice was a loyal friend who would never betray Rose’s confidence. Drunk, anything went.

She thought about what Alice had said, certain that her friend would never have been so talkative sober. Alice had seen the darker side of life even more than Rose had.

As Rose slipped into bed, she thought about what Alice had said about her mother. Shuddering, she wondered if Ruth would wind up like that—working in some dark, cramped sweatshop, struggling to survive. Her mother was only thirty-seven years old; she should have many good years left. Where was she now? What was she doing? Had Rose truly made the right decision in not contacting her?

Chapter Seventeen
Stories