By Cecelia Dowdy - titanicfanfiction dotcom

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Chapter 8

"Miranda!" I covered my ears, glaring at my new roommate. "Don't scream." Removing my hands from my ears, I stared into Miranda's eyes. "I'm Ro-..I mean, I'm Lily. I had makeup on to make myself look like an old lady."

Narrowing her eyes, she plopped onto her bed, her brow furrowed, as if confused. I didn't blame her for wondering about my actions. I know if the situation were reversed, I'd wonder why my new roommate had to dress like an old lady. "Why did you do that?" Her eyes widened and her mouth suddenly dropped open, as if she'd discovered something. "Are you in trouble with the law?"

I thought about the necklace that was still ensconced in the pocket of Cal's coat. I hadn't stolen it, but, I would think that if Miranda found it, she'd think that I was a thief. I immediately knew I had to put her mind at ease, so that she'd know that I was an honest person. I needed to tell her the truth. "My mom was trying to force me to marry a man."

She grinned, her eyes sparkling. "Is he handsome?"

I thought about Cal's features. "I suppose some would think him handsome." But to me, he was ugly, ugly as sin because of his tortured soul. Swallowing, I fingered a tendril of my red hair, plopping onto the bed beside Miranda. "He was abusive to me." I pulled up my sleeve, showing her the bruise on my arm.

She gasped. "How on earth did you get that bruise?"

"I got this bruise from the man I'm supposed to marry." I shook my head. "I can't marry him, Miranda." I lowered my voice, leaning toward her. "I was afraid he might kill me," I whispered.

She gasped. "Is that why you were disguised as an old lady?"

I nodded. I toyed with telling her about Jack. I decided honesty was the best policy at the moment. "I'm in love with somebody else, but, my mom won't let me marry the man that I love. So, we had to sneak off the Carpathia wearing costumes, dressed like an old couple."

She shrugged. "Where's your man, the one that you love?"

"He says he has to make a living before we can try to make a life together. He's a drifter, and he's not used to staying in one place with a wife. But I know he's willing to make the effort."

Miranda's deep chuckle soon filled the room, and her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. "Lily, you are so naïve! This man you're in love with? You'll probably never see him again. He doesn't want to be shackled with a wife. He's just telling you that he'll come back because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings!"

My heart skipped, and a vision of Jack's handsome face filled my mind, making me remember my promise to trust him. He saved my life, literally. I knew he'd be back to get me. "Just be quiet!" I turned away, not wanting to hear Miranda's spiteful words. I knew it was childish for me to speak that way to her, but, I'd been so upset and emotional lately that I wasn't acting like myself.

Softening her voice, she placed her hand on my shoulder. "Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm just sayin' that I know how men are." She then looked me up and down, as if she were trying to figure me out. "Have you ever been with a man before?"

Unsure if I could trust her, I nodded, knowing she was asking if I'd ever been intimate with a male. "Miranda, he wouldn't lie to me. If he says he'll be back then he'll come back."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Well, you can believe that if you want to, but, I'm just sayin' be careful. You need to focus on your own needs before worrying about him comin' to take care of you. If he never shows up, then you need to have a plan as to how you're going to take care of yourself."

I turned away from her, anger simmering in my soul as hot as boiling pea soup. I refused to look at Miranda as she got ready for bed. Minutes later, she slipped beneath the covers and soon her deep, even breathing filled our small space, signaling that she'd fallen asleep.

Feeling uneasy, I slid off the bed, pacing around the room, sighing. After awhile, I trudged to the privy down the hall. After I was done, I exited the privy, tears pouring down my cheeks. I spotted Cecile standing in the hallway, staring at me. She opened her mouth, and then I realized she didn't know who I was. "I'm Ro—Lily. I had on a costume earlier, dressed as an old woman, because I was hiding from somebody abusive." The last thing I needed was for Cecile to do something stupid, like call the police or something. I also didn't want her to scream. I'd heard enough screaming for the evening.

She remained silent, staring at me. Her stare unnerved me and I looked her up and down, just as Miranda had done with me earlier. Cecile wore a night dress and her pale, thin arms were folded tightly in front of her. I boldly looked into her pretty eyes, telling her the truth about herself. "You're too uptight and skinny. You need to eat more food and learn to enjoy yourself before you turn into a miserable old lady like my mom."

Her mouth dropped open. "Well!" She stomped to the privy, slamming the door behind her. I chuckled while walking to my room, glad that I was bold enough to tell Cecile the truth about herself.

After changing into my nightdress, I opened my satchel and pulled out the lotion that Molly Brown had given to me. Pouring a generous amount into my palm, I smoothed the luxurious lotion over my dry skin. The deep rose scent filled the room, filling my soul with a small slice of joy. Finally, I was done using the lotion.

I closed the bottle with the small, silver-colored lid before slipping under the covers, and closing my eyes. I daydreamed about kissing Jack on the Titanic. After pulling me into his arms, our lips touched, enjoying the sweetness from each others' mouths. Thoughts of the kiss caused a deep ache within the core of my being. Suddenly, tears rushed into my eyes when Miranda's angry words slammed into my brain with the speed of a freight train. My eyes popped open, and I sat up in my bed, staring out the window. We'd gone to bed early, so, it was still light outside. Fear, anger, and sadness rushed through me and my soft cries echoed in the little room. What if Miranda was right? What if Jack had really abandoned me?


Earlier day...after Rose left Jack to go to her boarding house...

Jack held out his hand and the old, bearded person for the aid society pressed the bills into his palm. There was no way he'd be buying a ticket to Philadelphia – he needed to use this money to purchase art supplies. "Thanks," he muttered, anxious to get away. Rushing from the crowd, he stepped from the docks and onto the streets of New York.

Horse-drawn carts plodded down the street, while cars streamed by. He stopped, focusing on the crowds of people. Everybody from young, well-dressed children to old, homeless people thronged the streets of New York. He strolled down the sidewalk, catching snippets of conversation.

"I still can't believe the Titanic sank. Those poor people…"

"All that death, what will the survivors do without their loved ones?"

Hearing the chatter cluttered his mind, and to make himself feel sane, he thought about Rose. God, he loved that woman! Taking a deep breath, he stopped walking, leaning against a building. Desire coursed through his veins and he longed to kiss her red, full lips. Lord, how will I ever be able to take care of her?

Shaking thoughts of Rose away, he forced himself to focus. Taking a deep breath, he began walking again, thinking. He soon found that by walking fast, it helped him to forget his problems. He needed to find an art store, fast. Forcing himself to pay attention, he eyed the shops and stores that he passed. After walking for an hour, he spotted an art store. The professionally hand-painted sign simply read, ART STORE, in bold black letters against a cream-colored background.

His heart thumped with joy and he grinned, pushing the door open. A bell tinkled, signaling his arrival. He glanced around the dim store. The unique strong scent of artist paints filled the air, causing ripples of joy to explode in his heart. Grinning, he strolled the aisles, spotting vibrant pallets of colorful paints and rows of artist pencils and sharpeners. His footsteps echoed on the slatted floor. Where were the store workers? After browsing for a few minutes, a worker approached. "May I help you?" He appeared to be Jack's age, but, then Jack remembered that he was dressed as an old man. The young worker towered over Jack and appeared extremely thin. His lips were pressed into a hard line. Why was this worker so angry? Looking down at the man's long fingers, Jack noticed that the his nails were smudged with paint.

"I hope you can help me." Jack pointed to the pencils rolled in a canvas. The set was similar to the pencils he'd lost on the Titanic. "I was wondering how much that cost?"

The young man pursed his lips, pushing his bangs off his forehead, leaving a trail of bright red paint on his pale skin. Eyeing Jack for a few minutes, he named the price for the set.

Jack balled his hands into fists, remaining silent. That price would take all of the money he'd gotten for his ticket to Philadelphia! "Are there any other art stores in the area?"

The man nodded. "There's one more, but, I doubt you'll get a better price over there."

Gritting his teeth, Jack stomped out of the shop, his good mood evaporating. There had to be some way to get a set of art pencils for a cheaper price. But, he had no idea what to do. After he'd walked through the streets for an hour, he spotted a crowd of people. He stopped amidst the group, turning to the woman at his side. "What's everybody standing here for?"

The well-dressed woman looked at his tattered clothing with contempt, and Jack wondered if she was appalled that an old, poor man would speak to her. "There's an artist up there, doing sketches." She continued to glare at him. "I doubt you could afford to pay his fees."

Jack turned away from the rude woman, determined to speak to the artist. With his limited funds, he again wondered where he would be able to purchase some good quality art supplies for his drawings. He stepped aside, patiently waiting for the crowd to die down.

His stomach rumbled. He'd not had a meal since that morning. Again, he thought about the precious money lining his pocket. Not wanting to spend money on food at the moment, he decided to continue to wait to speak to the artist. Once he'd garnered his art supplies and made some money from drawings, he'd then worry about getting food into his belly. He forced the thoughts of food from his mind, determined to put his plan into action to make a living.

A woman stepped into the line behind him, and he glanced at her, picking up on the scent of cheap perfume and sausage. She bit into a sausage, her tight dress clinging to her thin body. He turned away from her, his stomach again grumbling.

"Hey, old man," she said. "Ya want some of my sausage?" She held the meat toward him and Jack's mouth watered. However, for some weird reason, he couldn't convince himself to eat after the woman.

Patting his stomach, he shook his head. "No thanks."

Time went by as slow as a snail's pace. The woman finished her sausage, licking her fingers. The sights and smells of New York cluttered his mind. Growing impatient, Jack stepped out of the line. This artist sure was slow! The line had barely moved and he'd been standing in it for an hour. He moved to the front of the line and patiently waited for the artist to finish the sketch he'd been working on. A child sat in front of the young artist. The artist looked about Jack's age, and he wondered how long the man had been doing sketches. His dark brown hair hung loose down his neck as he drew the child with slow, deliberate strokes.

Jack gazed at the drawing, noting the young artist's technique. Although the man's work proved good, Jack felt his work was much better, plus, Jack knew his method of drawing proved much swifter and cleaner than this artist's work. Once the artist was finished with the portrait, he presented it to the girl and her mother. The well-dressed mother dropped a coin into the artist's outstretched hand. Jack approached the young man, offering his hand. "Jack Dawson." The artist glared at Jack as if he were a viper before he finally shook his hand with a limp grip, not bothering to tell Jack his name. "Look, I need to buy some art supplies. Do you know where I can get some good quality art supplies for a cheap price? I need a sketch pencil set." He pointed to the man's supplies. "Kinda like the one you're using."

As the next person stepped forward, the artist sharpened his pencils for a new sketch. His voice came out haughty and rough while he relayed some information to Jack. "There's a pawn broker down in the neighborhood where the Blacks live. A friend of mine just pawned his sketch pencils last week because he had to pay bills from his gambling problem."

Jack's ears perked up at this news. He stood a bit taller, sensing that his career was about to get a fresh start in the land of New York. "Where's this pawn broker located?"

The young man grunted, continuing to ready his pencils with the sharp knife. After reciting the address, he gave Jack some more information. "You need to remember that the art supplies may have already been purchased by somebody else." Jack rolled his eyes, already knowing how pawn brokers worked. If he had to, he'd need to find supplies elsewhere if these were already taken. "Also, you need to remember this is a rough neighborhood." The rude young artist glared at Jack, brushing his brown hair away from his thin, angular face. "An old man like you would be an easy target in that rough neighborhood." He began the next drawing, running his pencil over the crisp white paper. "If you go inquiring about these art supplies, I'd be careful if I were you." He glanced toward the sky for a few seconds. "It'll be dark within an hour. If I were you, I'd go tomorrow."

Dismissing the young man's advice, Jack sprinted away, determined to get the art supplies. Used to living on his own, he figured he wouldn't encounter anything that he couldn't handle. An hour later, he traipsed into the neighborhood. The nasty scents of urine, dung, and trash permeated the air, and Jack winced, dismayed at the squalor. Several dark faces peered at him from shanty-like houses, but he trudged along, forcing his tired feet to go forward. He had to get these high-quality art supplies for this low price. If he were to get these supplies, he'd be taking the first step into the realm of making a living for both himself and Rose.

Longing for Rose drifted through him. He'd have to visit her soon, before she started to worry. His stomach again churned with hunger and his head drifted with dizziness. Perhaps he should've taken the woman up on her offer of a bite of sausage. Maybe he should've spent some of his precious dollars on food so that he wouldn't feel so lightheaded. His step faltered and he almost tripped. Licking his dry lips, he realized he needed water, too. When was the last time he'd had something to drink?

He stopped walking, leaning against a church. The battered-looking building contained busted windows and the wooden door had been scraped with abuse. Taking a deep breath, he fought to regain his balance, thinking he should've listened to the rude young artist after all.

An angry voice drifted from the semi-darkness. "Hey, old white man. You in the wrong place."

Before he could gather his bearings, a fist slammed into Jack's cheek. Hot, liquid pain splattered his face and he groaned. Balling his fingers into a fist, he swung, cracking his attacker in the mouth. The man cursed and soon, several dark-faced men appeared. A fist pummeled into Jack's belly and he screamed while men held his arms and legs, not allowing him to fight back. One dark-faced young man removed a knife and sliced the blade down Jack's cheek. The pain shot through his entire body and Jack screamed before his world faded to black.

Written by Cecelia Dowdy - Visit my website: titanicfanfiction dotcom