We are quiet for a moment.
“Any thoughts of what you’ll do?” she asks.
Tony the chef and the hotel manager both want me to stay on as a regular employee. Mrs. Grissom found a room available to rent not too far from the hotel if I am interested. The older couple who have the room already expressed interest in welcoming me as their tenant. If I want to stay in Petaluma, I can.
I have to admit, I do like working at the hotel. I am learning so much from Tony. He has noticed my interest and has started teaching me recipes and techniques he learned in culinary school.
But there is something I need to do before I decide.
Go to San Jose and get my money.
Perhaps when I have it I’ll come back to Petaluma and get my own place. Or maybe I’ll finally feel like I have the means to strike out for somewhere totally new. Mr. Brohm has already said he will write a good letter of recommendation if I decide to move on.
Both options seem good. One is safe; one is a bit risky.
I don’t know yet which one I will choose.
“I’m not sure yet,” I answer honestly.
“I’ll miss you, Rosanne. I will,” Mrs. Clark says as she places a plate on the drainboard. “I hope you do stay in Petaluma so that you can come visit from time to time. You’ve been the easiest girl ever to care for. You certainly must know by now that I’m fond of you.”
I do know. And I am grateful to have had Mrs. Clark as a stand-in parent for the last two years. Mrs. Clark isn’t like Celine or Mrs. Grissom or Mrs. Crockett. She is in charge like they were and as unflinching in her expectations of me, but she is sympathetic and kind in a way those other women weren’t. Of all these women, she has been the most like my own mother and, in a way, most like my father, too. I have felt safe with her. Cared for by her. I matter to her. Mrs. Clark has been interested from theget-go in how I am feeling, not just how I am progressing. There was even a moment during those long months when I was tempted to fully confide in Mrs. Clark about the debilitating loss of my parents, what happened at the Calverts’, what happened at the institution, and the overarching dilemma of the colors. But then I asked myself: When had honesty about the colors ever helped me? Never. So I said nothing. Even now as I smile at Mrs. Clark, I say only that I am very fond of her, too.
On the day of my birthday, Mrs. Grissom arrives during breakfast with my release papers in hand. She, too, wants to know if I’ve decided what I’ll do next.
“I think I’m just going to take a little break from everything,” I answer. We are all gathered in the common room for doughnuts as my send-off. “And then I’ll decide.”
I have already asked Mr. Brohm if I might have a week off to sort things out, and he has agreed.
“Well,” Mrs. Grissom says. “That sweet couple is going to keep the room open for you through the month because I’ve told them what a responsible person you are, but they’re going to need an answer soon, Rosie.”
“And I will have one for them, I promise.”
For my birthday, Mrs. Grissom gives me a new suitcase with a shiny brass handle, and Mrs. Clark gives me a pretty blue tweed suit, as fashionable as can be found in the middle of wartime shortages. The girls of the house have chipped in and bought me a used wristwatch. They sing to me and wish me well. I am almost sad as I gather my things.
I leave well before noon on a Greyhound bound for San Jose.
20
OCTOBER 1942 TO OCTOBER 1943
The bus south to San Jose makes so many stops, it takes three hours to complete the ninety-mile trip, but I use the time to prepare myself to enter the bank and ask for what is mine. When we at last arrive, I use money I saved from working at the hotel to take a taxi to the First National Bank. I am glad for the new tweed suit, glad I decided to put it on before leaving Petaluma. I feel like I look responsible and mature as I walk into the bank and head to the area where the safety-deposit boxes are located. I took off the little silver key from the necklace while still on the bus and placed it in my pocketbook.
But Truman did not discuss with me how to open the box, other than to mention the note with his signature inside it, and now I realize as I am approaching the clerk who sits at a desk in front of the open vault that I don’t know how one initiates that. Truman must have thought I would know. I clear my throat and the man looks up and smiles at me.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” I say, feigning confidence. “I’d like to open a safety-deposit box, please. I have the key.”
“Certainly.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “And the name?”
I look at his outstretched palm, unsure. Am I supposed to hand over the key to him? Just like that? I don’t want it out of my sight for a second. Having it is the only proof I’ve got that the money is mine.
“Your key?”
I swallow the little knob of anxiousness at the back of my throat. “I would like to open the box myself.”
The man blinks several times as if needing a moment to find the right words. “Of course, but I must see the number on your key so that I can get its companion.”
