A Blank Space
The life of Jack Dawson – one year after Titanic.
A blank space. Only an artist would know how frustrating it was to sit and look at a blank page. Inspiration should come at the tips of their fingers and within moments the page would begin to grow less filled with empty spaces. But this was a big white sheet and it was empty.
A huge sigh did nothing to help and neither did a pathetic attempt at creating something. The lines looked odd and the paper was wasted. Jack Dawson knew these feelings well. Perhaps a cigarette would help. He threw his charcoal and paper to the ground, not even caring if the wind blew it away. He placed his head in his hands for a moment; he almost slapped his own cheeks in order to take some frustration out of himself but he knew that this was a respectable public park and a young man hitting himself would surely ensure a passer-by would alert a policeman.
Digging deeper into his pocket he pulled out an already rolled up cigarette, he placed it between his lips before locating his matches. Striking one alight, he puffed it. The feeling which followed allowed him to calm. He sat back on the park bench and ran his fingers through his hair; he had cut it once in recent months after negotiating a deal with a drunken barber. He would exchange two cigs for a haircut. The deal was shook on and he didn't do a bad job despite been leathered.
The sun beat down and he should have been smiling; enjoying the April sunshine but there a blockage there, just like it blocked his ability to draw and it also blocked his heart.
He exhaled the smoke and glanced around the park through squinted eyes at all of the different scenes which lay out before him: - A young family with children, a young girl reading a book, a few children playing football and then an old couple sat together with the love still obvious between them with their old, worn faces still showing signs of happiness. That was it right there! That was what he used to capture on paper. He knew not to try it for it would only make him angrier. He sat surrounded by happiness but yet he struggled to find a drop anywhere except at the bottom of a bottle. Where was his happiness? He wanted to scream the words so loud, he wanted God to hear and offer an answer.
He stood from the bench, kicking it backwards to allow some anger to vent out. He threw his stub to the ground, not even bothering to find a trash can nearby. Women gasped and he laughed at their shocked and horrified faces. He didn't even bother to collect his sketch paper, what use were they to him anyway?
Happiness surround him everywhere, it was almost as though it was taunting him. He left the park and found himself on a main road. He dodged past horse drawn carts, women and children making their way to the park with a picnic basket in tow, men heading to a business lunch and the occasional slow driving automobile. He reached a corner which overlooked the park, the upper class houses which spread as far as the eye could see and swarms of people enjoying this lovely warm spring day. Why was everyone so oblivious? He thrust his hands into his pockets as he walked, putting his head down. He thought of how he had ended up in this place. How two months before he had ran from the train believing this place would help him find peace. As soon as the train conductor had announced they had reached Philadelphia, he had a two second decision to make – to stay on the train or to go. And so he had run, clutching a small backpack which contained all of his possessions, he hadn't made out an alternate plan, so as he ran from the train he had some new hope. His life for the last few months had been a meagre existence. Philadelphia had brought nothing to him.
The risk of running into her family had been high but he had almost looked for some sign of them. He had spent his days wondering the upper class neighbourhood, wishing to see any signs of something which would let him know that this was where she had grown up. He had waited outside every church on a Sunday morning to catch a glimpse of her mother or Cal but there hadn't been anything. That was when he had found something which helped him, which numbed the pain and ensure he slept on a night, wherever that may be. Alcohol.
The bar where he spent most of his nights loomed, it was hidden in the shade and out of the way, almost like it knew it shouldn't be there. The entrance into the pub was darker and inside his eyes adjusted to the change in light. He found he was joined by two men, both lacking teeth and wore dark clothing. He ordered two whiskeys before locating a table in the corner next to a dirty window. He necked the first glass, allowing it to burn his throat and numb his insides. He nursed the other glass, pushing it around the table and watching the watery ring it left on the wood. He took a sip from the small glass, it wasn't so bitter anymore. It never was, once the first drink was necked, the rest of the bottle went down a treat. He began to feel the effects straight away. His head felt lighter and as he watched out of the dirty window as passers-by went about their daily business, he felt hatred for them, just for living such normal lives.
He took another sip, this time he laid his head back against the chair he was sitting on. His eyes automatically closed. Once in his half drunken state, he allowed his mind to wonder. He saw the colour red like he always did. Those red curls which flew as she ran down the boiler room, the fire which burned inside of her which was so bright even when they had first met but over the course of the next few days it had glowed brighter. She haunted his dreams and had done so for as long as he could remember. It hurt him more so, the fact that he had lived while she had lost her life. He could never have given her a luxurious life; all of those things which she probably deserved but had so badly wanted to break free from. She needed love, someone to listen to her and not tell her to shut up. She needed to be free and he had encouraged her freedom. He could see her dancing in his mind, so free like a bird. The smile upon her face, her eyes which came alive and sparkled. The images which flew around his mind were too much to bear and only when he was drunk did he allow himself to think of deeply of her. It was half a dream and half a reality.
A stack of papers was thrown onto his table, he quickly opened his eyes and it was an unwelcome return to the present. He watched as a sorry looking man scattered towards the exit, noting Jack's scowl. Jack glanced at the table; it was a stack of newspapers. He eyes up the man as he walked away before finding the energy to reach forward and grab one of them. He opened it full length before seeing the headline ''The Titanic disaster – one year on.'' There was an artist's impression of the ship sinking. His breathe became caught in his throat and he struggled to read for a moment. The picture was so real, as though it was a photograph. He didn't know if the other customers had heard the sharp intake of breath or could see the tears welling in his eyes. He turned to page four and saw the list of familiar faces. He squeezed his eyes shut as his mind cast back to the evening of April the 13th of the previous year; Rose had led him to dinner introducing him to all of the prominent faces. He had listened intently but not giving a damn who they were but, just being happy in her company. He could hear the strings of the band as it played that beautiful music. As he opened his eyes, they fell upon a certain picture and he felt the tear run freely from his eyes, he wiped it way quickly. Rose was stood with her mother and her fiancé at some event the month before boarding Titanic. Jack swallowed the lump in his throat as he touched the picture gingerly, as though it was her face right there before him. She wore her hair up like she had at those formal events and a large pair of diamond earrings. He hadn't seen a picture of her before, he had simply used his memory for the last year but now, to see her face there right now in front of him, brought it back all the more. Her lips weren't curved into a smile, instead she appeared sad. He whispered her name just once and it rolled off his tongue so easy. He touched her face before scanning his eyes over the print.
''Rose Dewitt Bukater, daughter of Ruth Dewitt Bukater and the late Stuart Bukater have never been recovered from the wreck. Her fiancé Caledon Hockley, whose father Nathan is of Hockley Steel, is still deeply upset over her death. The family hoped she had returned on another boat but one year on there is still no sign. The family plan to hold a memorial service on Sunday at St Agnes church. Mr Hockley had planned to marry Miss Dewitt Bukater in late April of 1912, they were returning home on the Titanic.''
Jack sighed, yet another piece of information he didn't know about Rose. He hadnt known when the wedding would be held, but, then his heart sank when he realised that she had told him she would get getting off the ship with him, not Cal.
Jack found he was still realising just how little he knew about the girl he had fell in love with but he seemed to know her so well. He ran his fingers over the print one last time before ripping up the paper and ripping his way around the picture of Rose. He opened the other two newspapers. The second one had a similar headline; the alcohol went down a little easier as he sipped from the glass. He allowed himself to lay back and think of her again. What was it about her? He saw her lips curve into a smile, the scent of standing so close to her washed over him and then her kiss. It was so tender and hesitant at first, such strange territory for them both but once the passion had kicked in nothing could tear them apart. When he had made love to her, she had become a woman. From that moment, it was them against the world. Those unspoken three words had no reason to be exchanged because deep down they both knew. He was in love with her. She had been with him.
As he flickered his eyes open, he came back with a bang. He fully saw the grotty pub which had become a home to him, the place where he had attempted pathetically to draw something in order to make a living but most of that money had gone on the alcohol which he had consumed daily.
He picked up the newspaper, finding her name in the print. It mentioned the memorial service yet again. He grabbed his glass to drink but for some reason he couldn't lift it, it was as though it was the heaviest boulder. He attempted again but he felt weak. He gave up in frustration. For some reason the whiskey was suddenly the least appealing thing to him. He grabbed the picture he had ripped out and placed it in his pocket; he then stood from the chair and left leaving behind almost a full glass. The barman stood gaping; Jack had never left a full glass in the months he had been coming here. In that moment, something amazing had happened. Jack didn't touch a drop the next day, nor the day after that. As quickly as the addiction had come to him, it had left him as quickly.
That Sunday rolled around quicker than he thought and before he knew it, Jack found himself stood across the road from St Agnes Church. It was packed full of mourners dressed from head to toe in black but yet this event still appeared to be a contest between who was wearing the most expensive hat, diamond ring or gown. Sickness threatened in the bottom of his stomach as he finished the cigarette he was smoking. It was still something which calmed his nerves. He moved his hair from his eyes in order to catch a better glimpse. He narrowed his eyes in order to see and that was when Caledon Hockley fell into his line of vision. He was tall, still penguin looking and Jack felt his anger build. This was the man playing the grieving widow when he was the one who had hit Rose, made her feel so uncomfortable and suppressed and then chased them with a gun. He was no victim in this. On his arm was Ruth, she looked just as he remembered. Tall and thin with the same red hair which Rose had inherited. There were no tears from the two as far as he could see and he wondered if Rose had any other family, he knew her father had passed the year before leaving some debts but an uncle or cousins perhaps? Or had she been like him? The only Dawson left. He had been orphaned at fifteen but he had felt alone for a lot longer. The crowds were huge, perhaps hundreds and he remembered her words on board the Titanic: ''Five hundred invitations have been sent out, all of Philadelphia society will be there and all the while I feel I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up.''
Would this be the church where the wedding would have taken place? Had all these people gathered to mourn her or to gather that week's gossip for when they drank tea at the country club? He had fantasised about showing his face. Just walking straight through the middle of the crowds, just to ruffle some feathers and to see Cal's face. He knew the family thought of him dead and would probably blame him for her death. He knew the people of the city thought Cal to be the grieving widow, the man who was so in love with his fiancée until the end. They wouldn't know she had fallen in love with someone else. Someone who had taught her what love was.
The crowds appeared to be thinning out; he had been here longer than he thought. He hid further behind a bush as people left in their hundreds. He heard parts of conversations as he left. ''Poor Rose, wasn't she wonderful.'' One had said to her husband as they walked past him, not even noticing. ''Cal and Ruth are holding up well.''
Jack watched them one by one and he wondered who they were to Rose, if some had even met her. Then he saw Cal lead Ruth into a vehicle, they appeared to be sharing a joke. He thought of showing his face now, standing in the middle of the road as they drove out but he knew not to cause such a stir.
Once the crowds had cleared he found himself walking into the churchyard. The memorial stone was cold as he placed his hand on the new plaque. Her name was spelled out in golden letters with her birthday underneath. Quick maths allowed Jack to work out she was just turned seventeen when she had boarded Titanic. He shook his head, there was no body beneath the grass and he knew he was doing this as a pathetic attempt to feel close to her. He fell to his knees and glanced around the churchyard to find it empty except from himself. But that was how he felt. He rested his right arm against the stone, bowing his head with his hair falling into his eyes. He closed them; he could almost smell her scent. Her family had been here just an hour ago. This was her hometown. He had visited her school, the park where she had gone to escape her family – everything which she had mentioned during their short time together. Did he need to see her home? Meet more of her family or simply leave on the next train?
''Oh Rose.'' He sighed. ''Where are you?''
Tears welled in his eyes as he thought aloud.
''Why am I here? Why am I the one who is sat here? You died because I couldn't save you.''
He said the words he had kept within for a full year. A tear came down his face and he didn't attempt to swat it away.
''I thought we would be all right. I thought we were both going to be safe.''
He gripped the stone tighter.
''I remember seeing the fear in your eyes as we found out the ship had hit the iceberg. All I wanted was to take that fear away.''
The wind blew his hair and he took a deep breath. The sky was clouding over as he realised he had been there for a while. Soft scents fill the air and his stomach flipped for the first time since her death.
''This year has been hell, not just with the guilt but the pain of being without you. You made me realise my life had no meaning before you. You brought light into my life.''
Then, when he closed his eyes he allowed himself to think of her. The way she had danced, she clung to him with fear and excitement. Their first kiss, as the wind had softly blown their hair, the feeling of freedom in their stomachs as they entwined fingers and touched lips. The electricity which had been there from the moment they had met had grown more so. He had seen her naked, seen her shake with nerves and felt himself blush. She had stripped away everything in that one day and when the evening came and he had touched her soft skin, feeling the way she clung to him in the heat of the moment. The dizziness and pleasure which had overcome them both and sealed their love. His heart beat faster as he remembered all of the details and the feeling which he had felt, right in that moment. She had broken free. What did he say to her? ''They've got you in a glass jar like some butterfly and you're going to die if you don't break free.'' But she had broken free. She had.
As he opened his eyes, he noticed a butterfly on the grass beside him. He gasped at the beautiful blue colours and it fluttered upwards resting on his finger, tickling as it moved. It seemed to dance about his finger, fluttering it's pretty little wings.
That's when Jack smiled, for the first time in a full year. It was Rose, and she was free.