RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Seventy-Seven

Rose arrived in San Francisco late in the afternoon of August 16, 1917. It had been a long trip, giving her ample time to reflect on what she had done.

She still couldn’t quite believe that she had left Jack. She had mourned him for years, and had been shocked and overjoyed when she found that he was alive. He was alive, and they were together—she had never thought any further than that. As was so often the case, she hadn’t thought about the future, about the consequences of her actions, until it was too late. If she had thought about the potential consequences, she would never have seduced Jack that last night in Riverside, when no forms of contraception were available and she was vulnerable to pregnancy. She would have waited until a better time. But she hadn’t thought about it, anymore than she had considered the consequences the night they had come together in the backseat of the Renault.

As she left the train station, suitcase in hand, she shook her head. She might have conceived that night, too—but she could never be sure. It didn’t matter now, anyway. She had lost that baby, over five years ago now, and whether the child’s father had been Jack or Cal was of no consequence. She knew who this baby’s father was, and wished desperately that she could have stayed with him. But it was best that she hadn’t.

Forty-five minutes later, Rose arrived at Deborah’s front door. The walk was long and steep, but no worse than other journeys she had undertaken over the years. She hadn’t done so much walking recently—her waitressing job in Los Angeles had been only a few blocks from the apartment she had shared with Jack, and the movie studio just down the street from there—but she was still strong and fit from the long miles she had walked in her wanderings.

The maid who answered the door immediately recognized Rose from her previous stays with the Hutchisons. Ushering her inside, she hurried to find Deborah.

Rose sat on a chair in the foyer, waiting. The brilliant summer sunlight streamed through the large windows of the house, and from a distant room she could hear a child giggling. Grace, she thought, realizing that Deborah’s daughter was almost three years old now. She wondered if her friend had anymore children. They hadn’t heard from each other since Rose had left for Los Angeles in 1915.

"Rosie!" Deborah wheeled herself into the foyer, her ever-present little dog running along beside the wheelchair.

Rose jumped up, running to Deborah. "Debbie! It’s so good to see you."

The two friends embraced, Rose leaning over to hug Deborah in her wheelchair while the dog circled her, sniffing her and yapping suspiciously.

"How long has it been, Rosie? Two years?"

"Two years," Rose agreed, stepping back and looking at her. "You’re looking well."

"Yes. I am well, and so is Grace."

"She’ll be three years old next month, won’t she?"

"Yes." Deborah sighed. "The time goes by so quickly."

"It does." Rose reached down to pat the dog, who had decided to accept her. It wagged its tail and shook itself before leaping into Deborah’s lap.

"What brings you to San Francisco this time, Rosie?" Deborah asked, turning her wheelchair to head towards the parlor.

Rose hesitated. How would Deborah react to the news that she was pregnant and had left the baby’s father? Coming to San Francisco had seemed like a good idea at first, but now Rose had to wonder what Deborah would think of her predicament.

Shrugging, she answered, "I’ve come to see you."

They had reached parlor. Deborah went in first, inviting Rose to follow her. Rose sat down on one of the horsehair chairs, while Deborah wheeled herself around the face her. A moment later, Grace came running in, looking curiously at Rose. Deborah pushed the dog down and picked up her daughter, setting her securely in her lap.

"Grace, this is Mrs. Calvert," she introduced. "She’s a good friend of mine. Do you remember her?"

Grace screwed up her face, thinking. "No," she said at last, shaking her head.

"You were pretty little the last time she was here. Can you say hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. Calvert," Grace dutifully replied.

"Hello, Grace. You’ve certainly gotten big."

Grace beamed at the praise. "Mama says I’m almost three."

"You’re growing up so fast," Deborah told her. "What happened to my baby?"

"I’m a big girl, Mama," Grace told her, indignant at being reminded that she was once a baby.

"Yes, Grace, you are. Could you go to the kitchen and see what Mrs. Bloomfield is making for dinner?"

"All right." Grace climbed down from her mother’s lap and raced toward the kitchen, the little dog chasing after her.

"She certainly is full of energy," Rose remarked, watching the child run.

"More than enough energy, sometimes. It’s hard to believe we were once that little."

"It has been a long time," Rose admitted. "Is she still your only child?"

"Yes. Will and I decided to wait before having another, since giving birth is so dangerous for me. Maybe when he gets back, though..." Her voice trailed off wistfully.

"Where is Will?" Rose asked, wondering if he was away on business. The times that she had been there before, he had always been home by this time of day.

"He’s in Europe," Deborah told her sadly, "fighting in that stupid war."

"He volunteered?"

Deborah shook her head. "No. He didn’t want to leave Grace and me alone. He was drafted. He tried to get out of it, because I’m in a wheelchair and Grace is so young, but they took one look at how much money he had and said that I could hire all the help I needed while he was gone." She sighed. "I just hope he comes back. It’s awful, Rosie. Mother got arrested for trying to undermine the war effort."

"Your mother got arrested?" Rose couldn’t imagine Belinda Hill in jail.

"Yes. Father had to bail her out. She’s still trying to impair the war endeavor, but she’s more discreet about it now."

"And what about you? Do you agree with her?"

Deborah looked at Rose. "I’m helping her, Rosie. I want my husband back in one piece. Grace misses her Daddy. Are you going to turn me in?"

"No, Debbie. I would never turn you in for doing what is right. Besides, isn’t it your right as an American citizen to speak out if you so choose?"

"Not in times of war, apparently."

Rose remembered Esther’s words on war and revolution, about how it was only an opportunity for the oppressees to become the oppressors. She remembered another man named Will, Esther’s grandson, William ‘Guillermo’ Murphy, a victim of another fruitless war. She had almost become a victim herself, but she had managed to survive, as she always had. It was over and done with now, and Esther’s property had no doubt been sold off to the highest bidder, with no one to inherit it.

Looking at Deborah’s sad face, Rose was suddenly glad that Jack was crippled. Even if he were drafted, he would never pass the physical. Not with his crippled leg, severe limp, and penchant for tripping on uneven ground. He would never be sent to war. Although Rose had left him behind, she couldn’t help but feel relief that he would never be put in such a dangerous position.

"Rosie." Deborah’s voice brought her back to the present. "Why are you here in San Francisco?"

"To visit you," Rose evaded, trying to think of a way to answer the question. "Why does every visit have to have a reason?"

"Rosie, everything you do has a reason."

"Do you really think me that mercenary, that I would only come to see you because I wanted something?" Hurt crept into her voice.

"No, Rosie, I don’t. I know you better than that. You’ve never been one to use people. But I do know that you have spent the last few years running away, from your past, from your losses, from anything that troubles you. You’ve come here, and then you’ve run again, whether it was to New Orleans, or Alaska, or Hollywood, you’re always running from something. What are you running from this time?"

"What makes you think I’m running?" Rose retorted, her fingers digging into the stiff arms of her chair.

"This is just a social visit, then?"

Rose turned away from Deborah’s assessing look. She couldn’t hide her reasons for coming forever.

After a moment of silence, she finally spoke. "I’m pregnant, Debbie. I didn’t know where else to go."

"What about the baby’s father? Where is he?"

"He’s still in Los Angeles."

"Does he know about the baby?"

"No."

"Why didn’t you tell him? Is he that low of a person that he would have set you aside because of the baby?"

Rose looked up. Jack, set her aside? She shook her head.

"No, he wouldn’t have set me aside. He’s a good man."

"Then why did you leave?"

"I can’t put that kind of burden on him." At Deborah’s skeptical look, she explained, "He’s crippled, Deborah. He was in New York City during the polio epidemic last year and caught it. He survived, of course, but his left leg is still crippled. I just couldn’t put that burden on him. He has enough troubles already. I won’t saddle him with a child. It’s my fault I’m pregnant, anyway. I seduced him, never considering that there was no way, that night, to prevent a baby from starting. He doesn’t need to know."

Deborah turned as Grace walked back into the room, munching on a cookie. "Mrs. Bloomfield’s making ham, Mama," she announced, holding out her arms to be picked up.

Deborah picked the little girl up and set her back in her lap. "Rosie, do you think a crippled person can’t be a good parent?"

"That’s not what I said, Debbie. I know that a crippled person can be a good parent—you’re obviously a good mother to Grace. But your situation is different. The problem with telling Jack about the baby is that he has difficulty finding work. We were living together in Los Angeles and barely making ends meet with both of us working. How can I expect him to support a child? The way things are for you is different. You have plenty of money. You don’t need to worry about being able to feed, clothe, and shelter your child. Jack would."

"And so you ran away without telling him, planning upon taking care of the baby alone."

"Yes."

"You’ll have to work to support your child. Wouldn’t it have been easier to stay with him and find a better job yourself? No one would need to know that your baby is illegitimate. You are a widow, after all. You still carry the name of Mrs. Calvert."

"No, Debbie, I couldn’t have stayed with him. He would have wanted to support the child himself."

"Do you love him?" Deborah asked softly.

"What?" Rose wasn’t certain she had heard right.

"Do you love him?"

Rose remembered another time, another conversation. Then it had been Jack asking her that same question about Cal. She hadn’t known what to say then. She did now.

"Yes, I love him. More than anyone I’ve ever known."

"Then you should tell him about the baby, and let him decide whether he’s capable of supporting a child or not."

Rose shook her head. "No, Debbie. No. I can’t tell him. I know him too well. He would want to marry me and take of the child, and that would be too hard for him. I love him too much to put that burden on him."

"So you simply left with no explanation."

"I told him that things weren’t going to work out between us."

"And that was all?"

"I’ll always love him, Debbie. I’ve loved him from the first time I met him, five and a half years ago. I never stopped loving him. But it won’t work, and I already know it."

"It won’t work because of the baby, or because when trouble comes you’re going to run again?"

"I can’t stay with him, Debbie. I just can’t." She turned pleading eyes to her best friend. "I need a place to stay for a while, just until I can find a job and another place to live."

"Rosie..."

"Please, Debbie. I don’t have anywhere else I can turn."

Deborah sighed. "All right, Rosie. You can stay here for the time being. But you need to stop running. What are you going to do when trouble finds you again? Are you going to abandon your child and flee again? Will you drag the child with you while you try to escape from whatever it is that haunts you? What are you going to do, Rose?"

*****

Deborah knew that her words had struck deeply at Rose. Her best friend had been running for five years, from her fiancé, from pain and sorrow, from her own haunted past. She and Rose had sat up late into the night, talking. Even after Rose had finally spoken of all she had endured over the years, Deborah still felt that she had only scratched the surface of what was bothering her best friend. She knew all too well how grief and suffering could work their way into a person’s mind until it was nearly impossible to set them aside. She had finally overcome her own demons, but Rose had not, and it was these demons that haunted her, pushing her to run whenever trouble came her way—or whenever someone got too close.

Rose had told her the story of how she had met Jack on the Titanic, and Deborah had finally understood that Rose’s misery had gone deeper than she had ever imagined. Rose had never really fit in with their society, but she had endured it until her mother had arranged the marriage with Caledon Hockley. Unable to bear Hockley’s abuse, she had tried to kill herself by jumping off the Titanic. But even as she had perched on the railing, ready to jump, Jack Dawson had come along and talked her out of it. She had thought that he had died when the Titanic sank, but it had been his memory that had kept her going when things were at their worst.

Now, Deborah couldn’t help but wonder if Jack could help Rose to finally banish the demons that had haunted her for so long. She had held onto his memory for so long and never stopped mourning him, not completely. She felt strongly that Rose should tell him about the baby, explain to him why she could not, would not stay. But that was up to Rose.

She looked up from her writing as the doorbell rang. A moment later, the maid knocked at her door, bringing her a telegram.

Deborah’s heart jumped into her throat at first—what if it was bad news about Will? Her concerns were eased, though, when she saw that the telegram had come from Los Angeles. Any telegram about Will would have come from Europe or the East Coast.

Opening it, she read the message, her eyes widening as she saw the name of the sender—Jack Dawson, Rose’s lover. She had disappeared two nights earlier without a trace, and he wondered if she had seen her.

Deborah’s thoughts whirled as she set the telegram on her desk. This could be a way to bring Rose back to Jack—but did she dare contact him? Rose had sworn her to secrecy, not wanting Jack to know where she was, if indeed he was able to contact Deborah.

But she also knew that Rose needed to stop running, and her intuition, honed by years of dealing with her own private sorrows, told her that if anyone could heal Rose, it would be him.

She thought over the dilemma all day, debating whether to contact Jack and tell him where Rose was or not. Rose trusted her to keep her secret, but her concerns for her best friend were almost enough to override that promise.

By mid-afternoon, Deborah knew what she would do. Summoning a servant, she composed a telegram, telling Jack that Rose was indeed in San Francisco with her, but not telling him why Rose had come there. She ended with a plea for him to come and talk some sense into Rose, then sent the servant to the telegraph office, swearing him to secrecy.

She could only hope that Rose would understand.

*****

Jack looked out the window as the train neared San Francisco. He had left just after midnight, telling his boss that something had come up and he had to leave immediately. His boss had told him that he hoped this was the last emergency, or Jack would be out of a job, but he already suspected that he would be unwelcome when he returned. He could only hope that he would be able to find a new job quickly.

When he exited the train, Jack stood for a moment, wondering where to go. Rose had mentioned that Deborah lived on Nob Hill, but the question was, where? He wasn’t even sure where Nob Hill was, having never been to San Francisco before.

A quick perusal of a city directory lent to him by the ticket office clerk gave him the Hutchisons’ address, but also let him know that it was much too far for him to walk. He sighed inwardly, not wanting to spend the money for transportation, but knowing that he had no choice.

Fortunately, the trolleys were cheap. It took him a while to figure out where he was going, but he eventually made his way as near as the trolleys went to the Hutchisons’ neighborhood. He walked the rest of the way, struggling up the steep hills.

It was 6:30 before he found the Hutchison mansion. As he had walked, he had marveled at the wealth around him, ignoring the stares and comments of people who knew he didn’t belong in these neighborhoods. He wondered where the people had obtained their wealth, wondering how many of them had obtained it through deceit and abuse of the people who worked for them.

He put the thoughts from his mind. He didn’t know the answer, and couldn’t solve such problems if they existed. He needed to concentrate upon Rose, upon finding out why she had run from him.

Ringing the doorbell, he told the maid who answered it who he was, then sat down on the bench beside the door to rest as he waited.

*****

The maid, Lucille, hurried up to the dining room. Deborah, Rose, and Grace were there, eating dinner.

"Mrs. Hutchison, there’s a Mr. Dawson here to see you," she announced.

Rose glanced at Deborah suspiciously. Mr. Dawson? Surely Deborah wouldn’t have betrayed her trust. There were any number of Mr. Dawsons in the world. It was probably a business associate of her husband or father.

Deborah avoided Rose’s gaze, filling Rose with an even deeper suspicion. She didn’t want to believe that her best friend would betray her, but the name of the visitor, combined with Deborah’s refusal to meet her eyes, told her that what she suspected was true.

Before Deborah could stop her, Rose raced out of the dining room and into the foyer. Deborah followed as quickly as she could in her wheelchair, arriving just as Rose flung open the door.

Rose had known, from the moment she saw the empty foyer, who she would find outside the door, but it didn’t stop the feelings of shock and hurt when she saw Jack sitting on the bench outside the door.

"Rosie..." Deborah reached out a hand to her to stop.

Rose just looked in shock from Jack to Deborah. "How could you?" she choked out, her hurt, angry glare impaling her best friend. "How could you tell him where I was? I trusted you, and you betrayed me."

"Rose..." Jack got up from the bench, leaning tiredly on his walking stick. "I asked her where you were."

Rose stepped away from both of them, her hurt and anger knowing no bounds. "Stay away from me," she told him, rushing down the ramp before either could follow.

"Rosie, if you’d just let me explain..." Deborah pleaded, but Rose wanted no part of it. Turning on her heel, she rushed down the sidewalk, away from her best friend and the man she loved.

Chapter Seventy-Eight
Stories