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She Has Wings

"For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more."

- Luke 12:48 (KJV)

"Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings."

- Victor Hugo

Rosalie – Friday – May 1932

Friday afternoons is the time I breathe the easiest. I release an actual sigh of relief. Even though I still have an image to maintain, it is my time off, if you will: a time to do what I please, as long as I keep it in the realms of respectability. Mother spends her afternoon volunteering for some organization. It is somewhat required of our family, being in the financial situation we enjoy.

"People would look down on us otherwise, Rosalie. Where much is given, much is required," Mother often quotes.

The Book of Luke, I think. Our family is well-versed in scripture. Even if we say it in a negative connotation, I think hypocritically of my mother. It's a scripture by which my father actually governs his life.

Of course, I also bring it back to me. Does that apply to my looks, I ask myself? I have been given much in the visually-stimulating department. People tell me all the time how beautiful and beguiling I am. I'll smile at them artificially. Is that wrong of me, thinking they are telling me something I already know and have had drilled into me since I could speak. Am I required more from my beauty? If so, I couldn't even guess as to what it is.

In a town of over 300,000 I am fairly well-known. I haven't created anything, I'm not an outspoken activist for any cause, yet people recognize me as I walk past them.

Men smile at me bewitchingly, as if I cast some spell upon them. Women and girls alike look at me with envy and scorn. Some look at me with pity (as if knowing some secret about me and the burden I carry), while others truly smile. The array of reactions is something I've gotten my entire life. It becomes second nature to me at times, when I want to be left alone. But other times I crave the reactions, needing the vain validation that comes along with the adoration.

Beauty and maintaining said beauty have always been at the forefront of my education.

My mother is responsible for most of my upbringing and education. She tells me, from the moment of my birth and from seeing my unique beauty at so young an age, that I will be something special. I often think about being "special".

Sometimes I feel silly for being "special" for something I can't even physically control. If I were ugly, would my mother pay less attention to me? Would I be like Mary (my hairdresser) and take envy in other people's looks? Would people know my name, anyway, and still want to be in my company? More importantly, would I be okay with being unattractive? Would I crave to be beautiful if I wasn't born into it?

It is difficult to refute the many doors opening up for me because of my looks. People are attracted to gorgeous people, and not always in the romantic sense; alluring people have a charisma that attracts the attentions of others in everything they do. I can simply be bending over to pick up something I dropped, on accident (truly), and jaws will come unhinged. It is amusing at times, but also pitiable.

If I'm being honest with myself, I've come to expect the attention. I can always claim to be a product of my environment, that everyone around me conditions me to be this way, but I like to believe that even though I'm vain, I can take some sort of responsibility for my actions.

My father has taught me better than that, even if mother disagrees. She thinks if I admit fault, it shows weakness. Perhaps she is right in showing some weakness, but it hasn't lessened the attention I get from everyone: males and females inclusive.

I like being above the fray (the normality the Depression has brought) and being noticed for something in a world that has gone mad. Even though I'm kept from the everyday downtrodden and beggars, I still read about current events in the Newspaper; father sees to it. I could be one of those women, ravaged and exploited to the sickly environment, but I'm not and my father makes sure to point it out. He is the antitheses of my mother in such regards. She would have me a spoiled, well-preserved princess, sitting on the proverbial thrown of Rochester's Privileged society. And though that is my public persona and I act it very well, father makes sure there is more to me.

Mother has prepared, drilled and worked me tirelessly into what she believes is the perfect high society girl. Mother has done well; there is no denying that, I can be as conceited as the next person. However, father has made sure there is a deeper layer to my pretty, perfect package.

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While girls and women, my age, are less educated than men, father has made sure it isn't the case with me. My mother, in the beginning, argued, saying I didn't "need any more education" . . . my "purposes in life lay elsewhere". She deems me smart enough for a "woman of her breeding and station".

I know how to take care of a household, even though it isn't completely necessary with my family, what with our hired help, but I still have the knowledge. My head is filled with fashion, make-up, proper decorum and how to make everyone notice me in every which way. I know how to arrange and organize parties and how to cultivate productive acquaints in society. Mother does very well to see that every aspect of my socialite education is perfect.

Where society deemed women to have limited education and enough for them to run a respectable household, father wanted more. I attended and complete Finishing school at the age of fifteen in New York City, but I've also completed my required higher education. I didn't get to go to private schools (like my brothers), but father made sure to hire the best tutors available.

"I will see her given every advantage, Lillian!" father demands. My young, impressionable ears of fourteen years old listen in rapt attention. I know it's wrong to ease-drop, but I cannot help my curiosity. "I have conceded to you on many things concerning my Rose, but I draw the line here. My girl will have the best education, and I'll hear no more complaints. She's to attend Finishing school next summer; granted, but after, she will finish her general education. She needs to know more than the proper place settings at a dinner and the perfect colors to highlight her complexion. Am I understood, Lillian?" my father finally stops to breathe. I wonder how he is able to get all that out in one breath.

I listen to see what mother will say. She can be an outspoken woman, but when her husband usually lays down the law, in such a forceful manner, she knows to pay heed. I want to peek around the corner to see her face, but I refrain. It won't do well to be caught.

After a few tense moments pass, and she says nothing, I start to feel hope. Where some girls, my age, may be content with the limited education they receive, I'm not. I've always been inquisitive, wanting to know how things work and how they're put together.

I remember once, telling my mother how I wanted to look under the hood of a car. "I want to see how it runs and is put together, mommy," my excited voice begged. Instead of seeing an exasperated smile like I expected, she took me home, washed my mouth out with lye soap and told me to never say such uncouth things. "I never want to hear that again, Rosalie! You are better than some common mechanic! To think my daughter wants to tinker with some unrefined, grease vagrant!" she exclaims wildly. I never mentioned my fascination again.

Now that she is at an impasse with my father, I'm ever grateful to him. Like he says, he doesn't interfere with her raising me often, but when he does, it's law. After my mother left in a huff, I took the chance of getting in trouble for listening-in and kissed my father all over his face. I was beyond grateful I would get to continue my education. He laughs boisterously before kissing my forehead.

"It's my right as a father, darling, and we have the means. You're education shouldn't differ that much from your brothers. One will never know the situation we'll be placed in, and I shall have you educated and with every advantage at your disposal, Rose, baby." I never loved my father more than in that moment. He doesn't tell me often of his love, but his actions always speak louder.

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Once I finished my general education in April, my father gave me his permission to take university courses at University of Rochester. I was even more ecstatic then being able to finish my high-school career.

It's possible I won't finish my degree, but just having the option to further my education and interested pursuits is quite the honor. My father is progressive in that way to his other contemporaries. Some would think I wouldn't be excited to have to go to school, but they're wrong. Everything I learn and excel at will help me to become a better mother. It is always my end goal, no matter what other pursuits I may have in my life. Nothing has ever eclipsed that dream.

I take my father's admonition to heart, "One will never know the situation we'll be placed in . . ." So I take every opportunity given to me. I want to have the knowledge and fortitude to take care of my little one's in any situation. It's like a driving force inside my chest and keeps my heart beating, my lungs filling with oxygen.

With my goals and aspirations in the forefront of my mind, I place my hat over my beautifully-curled blonde tresses and head to the main family parlor. Mother is there, taking her tea before she's off. I once asked to go with her, wanting to also help with what she was doing, but I was instantly shot down.

"There isn't a need for you, Rosalie," she spoke, but not harshly, just matter-of-factly. "I go because it looks good on your father and our family name. When it falls to you to uphold your husband's name, then you will be of service. As of now, you need to focus your attentions on landing that infamous husband. It's imperative you get one with deep pockets and loads of ambition, darling. You wouldn't want your beauty to be for naught, right, darling?"

I didn't respond, but nodded along. She may have wanted me married off because it would raise her position in society even higher and have us set for life, but I also have other ambitions. Everything I do is for my future children, and not for my future social-standing. I want my babies happy and healthy.

So I continue with my vanity, appeasing my mother and looking for that elusive husband, which will be able to provide for me and my golden little ones.

"I'm off, mother," I report. She knows I'm off to campus to finish my assignment. I give her my most dazzling smile. "Do I look presentable enough?" I ask, knowing I'll be able to leave sooner and without any truly snide comments.

She gives me the once-over before taking a tiny sip of her tea. "You look well, darling. Did you get enough sleep last night? You look a little peaked?" I muster up my courage, telling myself I'm the most beautiful person ever. It gets me where I need to be with her. It gives me the strength to continue, as odd as it sounds. It's always been my mask to hide behind; something that gave me a purpose and ground to stand on where mother is concerned. It helps me to stay somewhat detached.

I don't, however, tell her why I'm weary.

"Plenty, mother," I answer efficiently and politely. "I'm anxious to finish my assignment. I need to make sure I'm totally ready for Saturday next's dinner party," I fib expertly. It is a necessary evil where Lillian Hale is concerned. She gives me a pleasing smile before deeming me appropriate.

I pick up my bag, make sure not to let it wrinkle my outfit and head for the waiting car to take me away.

"Be sure to keep safe, Rosalie. Keep your eyes and ears opened," she admonishes. One would think she was referring to my safety, but she isn't. She means to keep myself pure because "career women aren't the chastest" and "they have little regard for finding a suitable husband". She tells me to be safe so I don't allow myself to turn out as such, and to keep my ears and eyes opened for a suitable match. Sometimes her words can be trying.

I am the most beautiful person ever, I tell myself, trying to give my heart the strength and proper decorum she seeks after. It is the only way I know to stay afloat with the madam.

"Perfect, darling," she coos as my mask comes over my visage, "beautiful, striking like a tigress, yet entirely demure." It is the essence of my armor.

"Goodbye, mom," I say courteously. She frowns a little at the title "mom", but that makes me somewhat happy within. It is my little rebellion. She never approved of that term. "It sounds almost trite and common," she told us three children.

I leave before she can say anything else, or rebuke me. Father would smile at my effort, along with Henry and Benjamin (my little brothers). We take little rebellion where we can.

I greet my driver/sometimes bodyguard cordially, and tell him we're finally off. He chuckles and says, "That sounds about right, Miss. Rose."

Mother would flip if she hears Clarence refer to me by my first name, but I absolutely insist. It's one of those little revolts I'm proud of. I giggle at Clarence's double-meaning and think we may all be "finally off our minds", at least when mother is present.

"Are we going to the downtown or River Campus," Clarence asks. I tilt my head to the side and bat my eyelashes rapidly. He knows the answer immediately. "Watch out, young men, Miss. Rose is about to blow you away," he jokes and causes me to actually laugh unladylike.

Since 1930 and with the completion of the new River campus, the university has been separated. We women take our classes at the downtown location, while the men have been relocated to the River campus. Even though I take classes on the downtown campus, I am headed to the other one. The Rush Rhees Library holds what I need.

"You know me all too well, and I shan't flirt too much, Clar," I say slyly. "I actually have a purpose today."

He looks at me covertly. "You mean other than the purpose you gave your mama?" I stick my nose in the air and pretend to be affronted. "Thus the reason for you being 'peaked'," he joshes. It's not easy concealing things from Lillian Hale.

"I don't know to what you are referring, Clar," I say loftily. "And you're a dirty ease-dropper." He just chuckles at my feigned attempt to come off angry and haughty.

He continues to drive and smile covertly. He knows exactly what I'm up too. He does have to follow me, while "protecting" me, but he gives me some space. Sometimes I feel as if Mr. Clarence Ryder is my best friend. He may be big, burly, quite intimidating and a little on the ugly side, but he respects and loves me. I know he does.

We finally pull up to the campus and I wait for him to come open my door. I may love him, also, but he does get paid to do his job, and I could never let it get back to my mother that he wasn't. I would be crushed if I ever lost my friend. He lets me have my rebellions and keeps them secret.

"I'll be right in behind you, Miss. Hale," he informs me in what is considered the polite response. I give him a quick head nod before continuing on. Etiquette must be kept, after all, in public. I carry my bag and start for the Library. I can hear the bells ringing above in the Rush Rhees Tower as I make my way inside. It's twelve on the dot; I can feel the anticipation start to build within.

Some people may think my "rebellion" dim-witted and infantile, but I don't care a jot. It makes me feel happy and free; even if I get to spread my wings and fly only a few feet.

I can feel my regal chin start to rise as my thoughts progress. I make sure to keep my façade tight and mask in place. I am among possible suitors.

I am the most beautiful person ever, I have on continuous replay. I have been trained well. I can hear mother speaking in my head as she warns about my thoughts and actions never being simply my own or safe. "They see any small imperfection, Rosalie Lillian. You think your thoughts private and secluded, but it isn't true. They've been trained to see weaknesses, even in thoughts. Keep it all at bay, dear, and think as I've trained you to. Put on your regal armor and watch as it outshines everyone else."

I've been trained very, very well.

I time my arrival perfectly. Rush Rhees Library is practically empty, now that the lunch hour has settled. Not many people are on campus to begin with, what with it being the beginning of Summer holiday. I take it all in as I keep walking.

Before I know it, I'm in the stacks and headed for the Otis Traction Elevator. I'm not very fond of it, but it wouldn't do for me to sweat having to climb the stairs. As I walk, I catch the gazes of the little population in the library. Some of their eyes are slightly glazed over and some have their jaws unhinged. One would think I'd tire of this response, but I don't (well, much). Honestly, I enjoy the attention of standing out. It gives me the validation that I'm actually worth someone's attention.

I may be bold and softly confident to those who observe me, but even I need the validation, probably more so than most. I have expectations and need to know I'm living up to those.

A demure smile blooms over my lips as I stop in front of the elevator. Now that my public spectacle is done, I seek solitude. Even though Clarence will be near, I'll have privacy.

I push the up button and wait for it to retrieve me. I take deep breaths. When it arrives, I pull open the green pocket door and step in. I press for my intended floor and start to panic as the pocket door and scissor gate close automatically.

"It is okay, Rose," I tell myself. "Only a short ride up." Not known to many, I have a great fear of enclosed spaces, and the elevator isn't the biggest of spaces. When little, I once got locked in the pantry of our kitchen. I was curious and wanted to explore. It took hours for someone to find me. When finally found, my voice was horse and my nails scraped off. Dirty tear tracks lined my salt-encrusted face. My father held me in his arms for hours, attending to my rational fears.

Still, to this day, I become slightly hysterical if enclosed for too long in a tight space.

Once the bell chimes and the scissor gate opens, the mint green pocket doors and I rush out. It is one time I don't care how undignified I appear. The door closes and I take a moment to collect myself, making sure my mind and emotions are in check. Once refined, I start out.

My mask doesn't last for too long, but I can't see anyone else around. I am excited to start to fly. Once I reach my intended section, I can feel my childish anticipation start to become unmanageable. I can giggle for how silly I feel.

I turn the corner and my finger finally enclose around my form of rebellion. A little giggle slips out before I can stop it. I'm utterly hopeless, I think. I go to my regular table and sigh when I see no one around; not even Clarence.

In my disobeying hands is a copy of the Owners Handbook for the Austin's Twelve-Six 1931 model. I know it sounds strange, an owner's handbook in a library, but it was a foreign car and I was in the automotive section. An exuberant smile breaks out over my full lips (yes, I had finally grown into them). This is my rebellion. I can still taste the lye soap in my mouth as I open the cover and start to read my little bible.

This book and 'Morris 8 and Minor Service and Maintenance Manuel' is the wind that allows my little wings to soar. My mother has no idea that I found a way to learn about cars and how to service them. I may not be able to literally get under the hood, but I am pretty darn close.

My heart beats rapidly at the thought.

I hear a slight noise to my left and the book falls from my fingers. My heart rate increases even more. I feel like a spy going under cover. I casually look over my shoulder, then right and left before not seeing anyone. Even though my hands sweat and my heart pounds, I appear calm. It is a trick learned while lying to the madam. Again, it is a necessary evil.

I allow my mask to rise as I let the thoughts of my beauty and appearance overtake me. When composed, I sit there for several minutes, waiting for someone to come into sight. I hide the books under my bag and examine my perfectly-manicured fingernails. My hands are quite attractive and delicate. My ring size is four; mother had it measured when I turned seventeen (several months prior). She anticipates me getting married soon.

After ten minutes and with no other noises interrupting my solitude, I take out the books and start to read again. My mask drops as I lose myself in a world of grease, three-cylinder transmissions, rigid front and back axles, coil ignition and fabric-bodied saloons.

Four hours pass as if they are simply minutes. It amazes even me that I can become so lost in a world so entirely different than my own. I shut the book and stretch a little. I can feel my muscles lengthening from my crapped position. I even slouched over while reading. I can see mother's hair turning grey from such a notion. I allow myself a rogue giggle before I know it's time to lock it all away.

I so enjoy my Friday afternoons.

. .

I make my way back to the scary elevator after I've put everything back and perfected myself. I push the button and wait for it to arrive. I can feel myself start to shake and my hands start to sweat. I cannot stand this reaction. I straighten my spine and will myself to calm down. I feel worry creeping along my spine, and I, of course, ignore it even more. I feel as if I have a steel rod for a backbone instead of cartilage and marrow. The bell chimes and I slide the door open. My feet seem to hesitate, but I overrule them. I step into the small box and gulp noticeably as the scissor gate and pocket door slide close.

"This is completely disreputable, Rose," I chide myself. Talking aloud seems to help as the elevator starts to move and lower me to the main level. "You mustn't ever let mother find out about the car manuals," I lecture, just waiting and praying this contraption opens soon. "She'd have a conniption: hysterics indeed!"

I laugh embarrassingly before all goes dark.

Blood-curling screams leave my lips before I can even think to stop it.

Author's Notes: Hello, lovelies. Sorry it's taken me a while to post the next chapter. Hopefully the edit job is fine and the tense(s) aren't totally messed up. Please, if you find something, let me know.

Anyhow, what'd you think of the chapter? I know it seems like a filler, but it gives us more of Rose's past and a deeper look into her mind. I really enjoyed writing it and doing tons of research. I learn so much.

So, I want to dedicate this chapter to my only reviewer for chapter two: AIL. It is really so much appreciated, love! Also, thanks to those who read and add me to their alerts/favorites. I hope, if you have the time, you'll let me know your thoughts. They truly help me to shape this story. Please, don't make me beg . . . LOL. Too late, right? (*wink*).

Lots of love sent to everyone! Next update will be next week – promise.

Updated: Saturday, March 30 2012

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Factual Notes:

(1) University of Rochester is a private college founded in 1850. Thanks to the efforts of Susan B. Anthony and Helen Barrett Montgomery, the first female students were admitted in 1900. In 1930 the River Campus was officially completed and male students were moved to the location, while the female population continued to attend classes at the downtown location.

(2) The Rush Rhees Library began construction in 1927 and was dedicated in 1930. Its tower is the most noticeable on the River Campus, standing at 186 feet. The Otis Traction Elevator is real and original to the Library. It was also completed in 1930 and is still functional today.