RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Thirty-Four

Rose walked slowly down the street, her bag in her hand. She had been in New Orleans for two weeks now, and she had no idea what to do next. She hadn’t worried about money when she was considering New Orleans as a vacation destination, but now, with no job and no prospects for one, she was getting worried.

She was grateful for the food and money Deborah had insisted that she take, but it would only last so long. She needed to buy food and shelter, and, while she had learned to search out bargains and make do with very little, her money wouldn’t last forever. She had been searching for a job since she had arrived, but jobs were scarce for a woman alone, especially one with no references. She had been very lucky when she had arrived in New York City almost two years earlier, but her luck didn’t seem to be holding out.

Rose sighed, sitting down on a bench. She had been staying in cheap hotels, some even sleazier than the one she had stayed in her first night in New York. She had saved every penny possible, but her money still seemed to disappear too quickly. Rose estimated that she had enough money left for about two more weeks, and then, if she didn’t find work first, she would be on the streets, scrounging for food and shelter. Although New Orleans was warmer than San Francisco, it still got cold at times, and it rained frequently.

Rose had considered contacting Deborah and Will and asking for help, but her pride held her back. She had made the decision to leave, and she wasn’t about to come crawling back, admitting failure. There had to be other options, although many of them didn’t appeal to her.

She had looked every day for a legitimate job, but had thus far been unsuccessful. Worried, she wondered if she would have to turn to less legitimate forms of work to survive—dancing in girlie shows, prostitution, stealing. She didn’t want to, but she would do what she had to. Giving up was not an option.

"Did you know this bench is for colored folks only?"

Rose looked up, startled out of her ruminations. A Negro man with graying hair stood in front of her, looking at her impatiently.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Colored only. That’s what the sign says."

Rose hadn’t been paying attention to what any sign said. Looking around, she saw the sign he was pointing to.

For a moment, she considered leaving, but then changed her mind. "Why is it for colored folks only?" she asked, already knowing the answer, but looking for a fight.

"Because that’s the law."

"That’s a stupid law."

"Yes, but it’s still the law. You need to move."

"No." Rose had been walking all day, and she was tired. She knew the law, but she really didn’t care at the moment. Whoever came up with that law, she thought, must never have walked all day and needed a place to sit down. Besides, who would it hurt if Negroes and whites sat together? What did the lawmakers think would happen? Maybe they thought that white people would darken, or Negroes would lighten. Rose sincerely doubted that such was possible, and even if it was, who cared?

The man sat down at the other end of the bench. Rose glared at him.

"Couldn’t you get arrested for sitting on the same bench as me?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, but you’re the one whose sitting in the wrong place. It’s no skin off my back if you get in trouble."

Rose scowled and looked away. She knew that she could get in trouble, but she didn’t really care. If she got arrested, she might get put in jail for the night, and then she wouldn’t have to pay for her own shelter and food.

Rose glanced up as the man began to play an unfamiliar stringed instrument. She looked at him, then looked away, refusing to admit that she was curious. Finally, though, her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to look at the instrument.

"What is that?" she asked, looking closer. She had seen stringed instruments before, but none like this one.

"It’s a banjo," he told her, continuing to play.

"I’ve never seen one of those before."

"You’re from the North, aren’t you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, really."

"Then why ask it?"

"You’ve got a northern accent."

"I’m from Philadelphia."

"You sound like it."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Rose demanded, her face flushing with irritation.

"Nope."

"Then why comment on it?"

He shrugged, and returned to his instrument. Rose glared at him.

"I think I know why there’s separate benches for Negroes and whites," she told him insultingly. "You drive white people crazy."

"I drive Negroes crazy, too."

Rose snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing." She turned her nose up.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you. There’s a lot of birds around here."

Rose stared at him indignantly, her mouth hanging open. "They wouldn’t dare!"

"You stick your nose up like that, you look like a statue. Birds love statues."

Rose was about to snap back a reply when she noticed a police officer walking by, looking at them suspiciously. Casually, Rose got to her feet and walked away, strolling around the block. When she got back, the police officer was gone.

Looking around to make sure he wasn’t coming back, Rose sat back down on the bench, looking at the instrument again. The only instrument close to it that she was familiar with was the guitar, but the greatest similarity there was that both instruments were played with the fingers. She listened as he began a familiar tune, one that her mother had sung to her as a small child. When she had grown older, her mother had stopped singing it, telling her that it wasn’t appropriate, although Rose had occasionally heard her humming it later. Apparently Ruth had learned it as a child and remembered it throughout the years. Although Ruth had unlearned her southern accent before Rose was born—she had married Rose’s father when she was eighteen, and had dropped her accent by the time she had Rose at age twenty—she had always sung the song with the accent she had learned it in.

Rose listened for a moment, then sang along.

Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home.

Well, I looked over yonder
And-a what did I see
Coming for to carry me home
A band of angels a-coming after me
Coming for to carry me home.

Her high, sweet voice carried down the street, causing a few people to stop and look. Some looked offended at the sight of a Negro man and a white woman sitting on a bench together. Others glanced at them briefly, then went about their business. One passerby tossed a nickel to each of them, then tipped his hat and strolled down the street.

Rose caught the nickel deftly, an idea suddenly forming in her head. She had seen street performers many times in New Orleans, singing and dancing or reciting. People would stop and listen and watch, and some would toss coins to the performers.

"Do you make any money from your music?" she asked the man, who was looking at her in amusement.

"Sometimes someone will toss some money. Why? Are you planning to rob me?"

"No. I have this idea, though." Quickly, she outlined her idea to him, mentioning the street performers she had seen.

He shook his head. "It’s a nice idea, but it wouldn’t work."

"Why not?"

"You’re a white woman, I’m a Negro man. I’d get arrested if I went into business with you, and you might get arrested, too."

Rose rolled her eyes. "You’re old enough to be my grandfather. Surely no one would think there was anything...funny...going on."

"You haven’t spent much time in the South, have you?"

"No."

"Well, let me assure you, there’s laws in some places, and it’s frowned on anywhere."

"That’s stupid."

"It may be stupid, but—"

"—it’s the way things are." How many times had Rose been told that, growing up? It’s the way things are, and they can’t be changed. She wasn’t ready to give up, though—not by a long shot.

"I can dress up as a man."

"And the minute you opened your mouth, you’d be found out. Your voice is too high."

"Good point." Rose thought some more. "I know! I’ll get some makeup and go around in blackface. Nobody will condemn you for working with your granddaughter."

"And what about your hair?"

"I’ll pin it up, and put one those handkerchief things over it."

"A tignon."

"A tignon. And then no one will know that I’m really white."

"Have you ever seen anyone in blackface close up?"

"Yes. I used to work in vaudeville."

"They don’t look very realistic up close."

Rose shrugged. "It always fooled the audience."

"We wouldn’t be working behind lights on a stage. You couldn’t pass for Negro in natural light. Besides, if that tignon ever came off, people would see that red hair and know right away what you were up to."

Rose thought about this for a minute, conceding that he was right. But another idea had occurred to her.

"I’ll apply makeup lightly, and color my hair black. I did that once and no one made a fuss. If I look just a little dark, and have dark curly hair, I could pass for a...an octoroon."

"Kissed by the tar brush, eh?"

"Exactly!" Rose was familiar with the phrase; her mother had used it on occasion. In the South, they had very stringent laws governing race, and a person was considered Negro if they had even one Negro ancestor. As far as Rose knew, she had no Negro ancestors, but her family had been in the country for a long time. Few things would surprise her anymore.

"So, you’re going to pose as...my granddaughter, I take it?"

"I think that will work. You’re kind of light, like you had some white ancestors or something, so it wouldn’t surprise people if you had an octoroon granddaughter. I’d be willing to bet that such things happen a lot."

"They do. Are you sure you want to do this? Colored people get looked down on."

"People already look down on me. How much worse could it get?"

He smiled condescendingly, but didn’t comment. She would find out in her own time. It could actually be worse for those who were of mixed race, as he was, than for those who were one or the other. He looked at her, wondering if that would shock her.

"You said that I was kind of light, as if I had white ancestors. So I’ll tell you straight out, my father was white."

"Really?" It occurred to Rose that she should be shocked, but she wasn’t. She had seen too many things for something like that to shock her. A person’s status in society no longer meant to her what it once had, and intermarriage or otherwise interbreeding didn’t bother her. She had a more shocking background than he did, but she wouldn’t speak of that.

"My mother was a slave, and my father owned her."

"You’re that old?"

"I’m fifty-four. I was born in 1860, before slavery was abolished."

"What’s your name?" Rose had suddenly realized that she was going into business with someone whose name she didn’t know.

"Tom DeWitt."

Rose looked at him, startled. DeWitt? That was her mother’s family’s name. Of course, the chances of their being related were remote—DeWitt was probably a common name. Still...

"I’m Rose Dawson," she told him, her mind racing. What if they were related? "What was your father’s name?"

"Reginald DeWitt."

Reginald DeWitt. That had been the name of Rose’s great-grandfather.

"Did he have a white family, too?"

"Oh, yeah. He had a wife and three children—Harold, Susan, and Anthony. My late wife and I worked for Harold’s family for years. Harold and his wife, Madeline, had two children—Ruth and John. John still lives in New Orleans, though I haven’t seen him in years. Harold died a few years back, and Madeline moved to live with her relatives in Atlanta about two years ago."

Rose was stunned. Harold and Madeline DeWitt were her grandparents, and they had visited with them and her Uncle John the Christmas they had come to New Orleans. She looked up as Tom began to speak again.

"Ruth, now, she married a Yankee and moved up North somewhere. I haven’t heard anything of her since."

"Walter Bukater," Rose responded without thinking.

"Yes, that was his name. Walter Bukater. How did you know?"

"I—I knew them. Up in Philadelphia. Walter died a few years ago of a heart attack. Ruth still lives there." At least, Rose hoped she did.

"Well, that’s interesting. I always wondered what had happened to her. Pretty girl. Very elegant. People were shocked when she married a northerner, but then, he had money. Do you know if they had any children?"

"Yes, actually. They...they had a daughter. I knew her...years ago." And in a way, Rose thought, it was true. She had been Rose DeWitt Bukater, long ago. That girl had ceased to exist.

Rose stood, still shaken from what she had learned. What strange coincidences life holds, she thought. She had sat down to rest, and had wound up meeting a long-lost relative—even though she couldn’t bring herself to tell him of their relationship. Tom DeWitt was her great-uncle, although no one would believe it to look at them.

"Rose."

She looked up as Tom spoke.

"Get yourself some makeup, and take care of your hair. Get a tignon, and meet me back here tomorrow morning. We’re in business!"

"Thanks...Tom," she told him, holding out her hand. He shook it, looking a bit surprised. Rose guessed that he wasn’t used to white people shaking hands with him on deals.

Rose hurried down the street, turning once to wave to her new business partner and relative before returning to her hotel.

Chapter Thirty-Five
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