Chapter Thirteen

Rose's first few weeks in Los Angeles were not quite as she had hoped. After a week on the train, she and Christopher had arrived in the California city—only to be confronted with their first problem. They had no place to live, and many places refused to rent to a single mother.

Rose had argued that she was a widow trying to make a life for herself and her son, but many landlords were unsympathetic anyway. Some wanted to know why she hadn't remarried, or why she had come to California with no family, no job, and a small child to care for. A few noticed her lack of a wedding ring and didn't believe her story about being a widow.

Finally, toward the end of a long day of searching, Christopher in tow, Rose was able to rent a small room in a boarding house. The building was ancient, probably a century old, but it was a place to stay. The landlady didn't care who lived there as long as they paid their rent and were quiet.

The next day, Rose confronted her second problem—unemployment. She had some money left from her work in New York, but not much, especially not with a child to feed and clothe. She couldn't take Christopher with her when looking for work—few employers wanted a three-year-old as part of the bargain—but she couldn't leave him alone, either. He was too young to watch himself.

Rose had never thought much about the problem of what to do with her son while she was working before—she had just naturally taken him along wherever she and John's daughters went. However, jobs as a nanny or governess were few and far between here, and she doubted that many of them would want to hire a woman whose goal was to become an actress. Actresses were still considered to be little better than prostitutes, and her single motherhood cemented the image.

By the second day of searching for a job, Rose found a solution to the problem of what to do with Christopher. An elderly woman in her building had taken a liking to the boy, saying that he reminded her of her grandson. For a few pennies a day, she was willing to take care of the three-year-old while his mother tried to make a living.

Rose was grateful for her help, but knew that she couldn't afford to pay the woman to watch her son for long unless she found work. The first places she looked were the movie studios, but aspiring actresses were a dime a dozen, and she was unwilling to do what some did to get ahead. Casting couches and short, pornographic films did not appeal to her.

She continued her search for a way to support herself and her son, trying to avoid the sweatshops that many women wound up working in. She had worked in one once, and had hated it. It was not an experience she cared to repeat, and in order to make a living for the two of them she would have to have Christopher work beside her. Having seen the young children who were often employed in such places, she had no wish to put her son to work in one of them. The hours were far too long for an adult, and would be much worse for a small child. Safety was not a high priority in many sweatshops, and she had seen people, both children and adults, maimed and crippled by accidents. The pay was low, the environment stifling, both mentally and physically. Rose rejected the idea of a sweatshop job. She would return to New York first.

Fortunately, Rose had far more skills now than she had when she had first stepped off the Carpathia in 1912. She had learned to cook, clean, do laundry, sew, and care for children. She was quite capable of being a cook or a maid if need be, and by her third day of searching she turned to asking for jobs at the numerous restaurants in the city.

The first few rejected her outright, saying that she was too inexperienced and lacked references. She persisted, however—she had to find a way to support herself and Christopher—and eventually some of the lower class restaurants began to consider her.

Most of the places she visited did not need more cooks, and the people working in them did the cleaning, eliminating the need for a separate cleaning woman. Waitresses, however, were often in demand, and it was these jobs she soon learned to ask for first.

Rose had never been a professional waitress, but she had seen such work done, and she had served food at home in New York. Oftentimes waitressing required heavy lifting, but Rose had spent sufficient time moving furniture, carrying sopping wet laundry, and lifting children that she had grown strong.

The first three places she asked for jobs at sent her away, the managers not believing that she was strong enough for the work required. The fourth had no openings of any sort. At the fifth, however, they were willing to give her a chance.

*****

The manager led Rose to a corner table, out of the way of the hustle and bustle of customers and waitresses. Gesturing to her to have a seat, he sat across from her and began the interview.

"What's your name?"

"Rose Dawson, sir." It was only the second interview Rose had gotten, so just being given a chance gave her hope.

"Miss...Mrs...how do you call yourself?"

"Mrs. Dawson, sir. I'm a widow."

The manager nodded sympathetically but didn't comment. "All right, Mrs. Dawson, why do want to work here?"

This was one of the hardest parts of the interview, Rose knew. If she told the truth and said that she wanted the job to earn a living, she would be almost guaranteed of not getting it. She had to find an excuse for wanting the job that he would accept.

"It looks like a lively, friendly place to work," she told him. "I like working with people, and food service is something I have always enjoyed." She mentally crossed her fingers as she said this. Cooking and serving food was all right, but it wasn't at the top of her list of favorite activities. Still, a job was a job, and it certainly looked better than a sweatshop.

"What kind of experience do you have, Mrs. Dawson?"

"I worked as a cook for a family in New York City. I also did the shopping and menu selection."

"We really don't need another cook here right now," he told her. "What we're looking for is waitresses."

"I've served food, too," Rose replied. "I have an excellent record—very few spills, and none of them on the person I was serving." In fact, most of the spills when she had been working for the Calverts had been the result of something hot sloshing onto her hands, or by the unexpected obstacle of a small child, toy, or dog. She had once spilled gravy on Allegro, but after jumping up, startled, the dog hadn't been at all offended, lying down where he was and licking the gravy off the floor and himself.

"How heavy a load can you lift?" the manager asked her, looking as though he doubted she were strong enough for the job.

Here it comes, Rose thought. You aren't strong enough. I'm sorry, but perhaps another restaurant would be a better place for you. An idea suddenly occurred to her. She rejected it for a moment, then changed her mind. What could it hurt? The worst she could be told was no.

Standing, she carefully lifted the table, still spread with dirty dishes and condiments. The heavy piece of furniture rattled somewhat, but she lifted it to chin level and held it there for a moment, not spilling a thing. Just as carefully, she set it back down and took her seat.

The manager stared at her, half-surprised, half-amused. "I'm stronger than I look," Rose told him, lifting her chin.

"That table's not that heavy—maybe twenty pounds," he argued, looking her in the eye.

"And it's covered with dishes. If I can lift that without a problem, surely I can carry plates and trays to people."

"Without dropping them?"

"I didn't drop the table. In fact, I rarely drop anything. It's too hard to replace items that are broken."

He chuckled. "Well, Mrs. Dawson, you certainly have an interesting way of demonstrating your skills. I'm going to give you a chance to prove yourself. If you can wait tables adequately for the rest of the week, you'll be hired on permanently. I may also need you to help occasionally in the kitchen, especially at peak business hours. Waitresses are allowed to complete the cooking process if they knew what they are doing, so you may yet get to cook—but only if you need to get food to a customer quickly."

"I won't disappoint you, sir. I can do this job."

"Well, we'll see. You have to bring the food quickly, take orders, and be sure to bring the customers the right items. In addition, you have to be polite to the customers, no matter how ill-mannered they are. You will have to put up with crying children and angry adults. Do you still think you can do it?"

Since everything he described was something that she had experience with, in one form or another, Rose quickly nodded. "Of course."

"All right, Mrs. Dawson. You're hired. The first week you will be paid fifteen cents an hour, which will be raised to twenty cents if you continue beyond that time. For every six months here, I will add an additional one cent an hour to your pay. You will work nine hours a day, from seven o'clock in the morning until four o'clock in the afternoon. If more help is needed, you will have the option of working additional hours. Your days are Monday through Saturday. We're closed on Sunday. Is this acceptable to you, Mrs. Dawson?"

Rose quickly calculated the amount of money she would be making against her expenses. Fifteen cents an hour for the first week, then twenty cents an hour after that. It would come out to $1.80 a day, and $10.80 a week, once she got to the twenty cent an hour rate. Her rent was ten dollars a month, and the cost of food for herself and Christopher was about the same. She paid three cents an hour for the old woman to watch Christopher, coming out to thirty cents a day, between the hours she spent working and the time spent traveling to and from work. Money would be tight, but they would manage.

"I'll take it," she told him, smiling. It looked like a decent place to work, and she would be able to make enough to live on.

"There is one other thing I neglected to mention," he told her, sitting back and smiling. "Employees get one-third of the cost off of food items here at their lunch times. In addition, if there is food that we are discarding at the end of the day—seven o'clock Monday through Thursday and ten o'clock on Friday and Saturday—people are welcome to take home whatever they want of it. I realize that some people have families to feed, and food that isn't acceptable to paying customers is still acceptable when it's free."

Rose nodded, taking a mental note to be there at the end of the day if she could. Christopher rarely cared how old food was, as long as it still tasted good, and she would take what she could get. She had long since stopped expecting food to be of the highest quality, finding that it was usually good enough even if it didn't cost a lot.

"Thank you, sir. When do I start?"

"Right now, if you can. You'll be paid at the end of the week. Oh, and the waitresses put their tips into a common jar and split it evenly at the end of the week. Tips can be the difference between paying the rent or not at times, so serve the customers well. They tip more if you do."

Remembering how generous Cal had sometimes been with tips, Rose nodded. He had only been showing off how rich he was, but if she could garner extra income from a customer's desire to show off, she wouldn't complain.

"I'm ready to work," she told him. "Where do I start?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Follow me."