Jack can't explain it, but something about being back on campus with Rose just a hall away has him feeling on-edge. Having been here for the better part of a decade, he had become used to being on campus and to his routines. He was a part of the architecture of this university now— a fixture, and so it had become easy to be ignored and to blend in. Sure, there had been the odd story about him occasionally, and speculation. People would whisper about him being a war hero because he had received a Purple Heart — something he particularly disliked. He had fought in the war, and had been injured but that didn't make him a hero. In his mind the only men who were war heroes were those who had been successful in saving their comrades or civilians. As much as he had tried, he hadn't been able to save any of those around him in the blast that had ultimately sent him home. But the war is no longer at the forefront of anyone's consciousness, and so he had been able to fade into the background and become part of the woodwork of the school— the teacher that could always be depended upon to be found in their studio, and who never really strayed from routine down to the jazz music that he played during his students' studio time. These days, students were far less interested in art than they had been. Art didn't pay, and in the grips of the Great Depression, as this time had come to be called, not many people wanted to gamble their livelihoods on the stroke of a paintbrush, and so most of his classes were made up of students who needed an arts credit to put towards their various degrees. This morning, as his pupils file in and take their seats on the drawing horses in front of their easels, Jack finds that he's distracted. A part of his mind is conjuring the idea that all of these students can see that in the past two days his life has once again changed course dramatically.
Jack and Rose had spent most of the previous day together, talking late into the morning and then going for another long walk before Rose had decided that she needed to get some preparation done for her lectures, declaring that she couldn't concentrate with Jack in the same room, and Jack had reluctantly agreed that he too, needed to do some work. He knows that the museum won't wait around for his paintings forever. While Jack had knocked upon Rose's door that evening to wish her goodnight, they had decided that perhaps after the passion of the previous night they should slow it down and take some space to reflect.
They had however walked to campus together that morning, careful to appear casual, and he had been somewhat relieved to find that Rose felt the same odd awkwardness and apprehension about being seen together in the academic halls. "I suppose its not that odd," she had reasoned to him. "After all we both teach in the arts. It only makes sense that a painting professor and an art history professor would converse and even become friends."
He had nodded his agreement. "Of course it makes sense." It also was not lost on them that after their trip to the bar with some of the other faculty on Friday, the staff that were there had at least pieced together that Jack and Rose are familiar to one another, and they both know that displaying their affections in view of students wouldn't be taken kindly.
They had gone their separate ways at her office door and she had left him with a secretive knowing smile and a light touch to his arm. Now, four hours later he's still wondering how such a light graze of her fingertips could be occupying his mind the way that it had been. He's counting down until five o'clock, when he'll be able to go and meet Rose and Cora and take them both to dinner at Tommy's pub, looking forward to being at ease after a day that by all accounts shouldn't have felt as long as it has.
By his third class of the day, Jack finds himself so in need of distraction that he does something he doesn't think he has ever done in his career at the school— he changes up his lesson plan and veers from the schedule and curriculum he has followed for a decade, directing his students to put away their paints and back away from their easels. Instead, he has them form a circle with their chairs in the middle of the studio classroom, and hands a drawing board, a large sheet of paper, and a piece of charcoal to each student.
"We're going to do something different today," he tells them, aware of the perplexed stares he's getting. Most of the students in this class are junior and senior level, and so they know what a departure from the norm Jack's sudden behavior is, and he holds their attention, rapt. The professor who is as much a mystery on campus as he is a familiar sight, is letting his personality show for one of the first times they can remember.
"Who here, and raise your hands, enjoys art?" He asks.
Most hands go up. He nods, getting the response he had suspected. "And who here thinks that they could be an artist beyond this class they make you take here in school?"
No hands raise, just as he suspected, and he nods again.
"Look around," he tells them. "Not a single one of you raised your hands, and I am here to tell you that you're wrong. Somebody tell me, what does it mean to be an artist? How does one become an artist?" He asks now.
A timid hand goes up. "It means you're good at art," the student says. "People want the work you make."
He nods. "Maybe, yeah, that's one way. What else?" He asks, looking around. All of the women in the room look like deer in headlights, so used to having the correct textbook answers, and unsure how to respond to Jack's questioning.
"An artist shows their work in galleries?" Someone responds.
"Sometimes, they can," he agrees. "But not always. Van Gogh never sold a single painting in his lifetime to anyone but his own brother. What else? What makes someone an artist? Come on. I promise this isn't some trick question."
Met with silence, he smiles. "To be an artist, all someone has to do is make something," he tells them. "That's it."
"Just making something doesn't make you an artist," someone pipes up argumentatively.
Jack turns their way. The junior level girl is looking at him somewhat defiantly and Jack sees that she's ready to debate her opinion, and knows that his goading has worked.
"Okay," says Jack. "Why not?" She seems to pause for a moment, considering.
"Well, if that's all it took, then anyone could be an artist," she tells him.
"Anyone can be an artist," he responds."
"Not a good one," another student responds, and Jack grins.
"And what makes art good?" He asks
"Technique?" Someone answers, more a question than a definite response.
"Michelangelo, Vermeer, and Monet all had different techniques," says Jack. "Does that make any one of them inherently bad or good?"
Silence. "But there are rules," someone finally answers. "You've been teaching us these rules for three years."
"Rules, guidelines, suggestions—" says Jack. "What you have been learning here are fundamentals— color, perspective, composition, framing, use of space. They can all be important and certainly useful," he explains, "but they can also all be ignored or pushed, or used in new and different ways. The impressionists didn't get to the core of Impressionism without first eschewing realism, but they still used light and shadow. The cubists then went and disregarded even the suggestion of form that impressionists still held onto, and then we only had color and the suggestion of movement. No single art movement has been more or less valid than another. They all coexist as an answer to time and place and history, just like the existence of working artists will never invalidate the fact that the mother decorating a cake at home for a child's birthday or the woodworker carving out a cabinet are also making art— they too are artists. Everyone in this room right now is an artist."
Looking around he can tell that every eye is on him as he speaks. "I know that outside of this classroom each and every one of you have lives and ambitions— whether those ambitions include painting and drawing— that doesn't matter. I am aware that most of you are here because you have to be for the course credit, and that's fine. I can guarantee however that without a doubt that each and every one of you, in the course of your lives will create something— be it an essay or a thesis or a poem, or a masterpiece painting, or a three course meal or even a sandwich. You will go on to curate your lives— the jobs you want, the relationships you hold, the colors and patterns and pictures you put in your homes— even that is job, while you're in this class is to consider yourself an artist— even if you only ever think of yourself that way while you are actively in this room with a paintbrush in your hands— here, you're an artist. I hope that afterwards— out there— you will continue to think of yourselves as artists, but I'll accept baby steps," tells them, pausing to pick up a spare drawing board and piece of charcoal.
"Your assignment today is to throw out the rules. Disregard everything you've learned in the hours we've spent painting apples and bananas. This art we're about to make isn't going to be pretty, and you are probably not going to like it. That's not the point. What we're going to do is give our thinking, rational brains a rest for the day. In this circle, I want you to angle yourself towards the girl on your right, and then, with only your non-dominant hand, you're going to draw their portrait."
"But Professor Dawson," someone pipes up, —
"Jack." He corrects the student.
"-Jack," she starts, uneasily at his correction, the first name sounding far too informal for the setting, "We've even never drawn people right handed. How are we supposed do it with our left?"
Jack shrugs, grinning again. "I have found that the best way to start learning something new is to let myself be bad at it in the beginning," he explains. "Using the wrong hand, you won't be able to get caught up on detail. Detail comes later." He claps his hands. "Alright. On my count, you'll have ten minutes—"
— —
Already set off by the volume of the students' laughter through the thin wall between the art studios and his office, Bernie is even more annoyed by realization that it is Jack Dawson and his class that has caused the disruption. Walking past the doorway and peering in, he can see the students sitting in a circle, drawing on big pieces of paper and laughing riotously, with Jack talking animatedly from the middle. He can see sheets of paper covered in what look like complete scribbles discarded on the floor. From his perspective it looks like the class is doing nothing but goofing off and wasting supplies.
While he personally has never liked the painting professor, he has never had real reason to complain. Jack is courteous, almost to a fault, and had always kept the noise down, even when playing that obnoxious jazz music. He had also never known the professor to break from the routine of the university sanctioned curriculum— not with anything like he's witnessing now. He can only think of one change that may be influencing Jack's behavior— one new person who had arrived on campus and had somehow already shaken things up: Rose Dawson. Jack's behavior now has Bernie questioning all of the little coincidences surrounding the pair even further. There were too many glaring synchronicities, the least of which being their shared last names, although as far as anyone knows, neither one had married. It's obvious to him as well, in the way that the pair had been so caught up in one another at the bar that they know each other or had known each other— how well, he's not sure, but he is sure that the manner of their relationship can't be strictly friendly or professional. He himself had only had to catch one glimpse of Rose to see that no man would ever only want friendship with her. Or, if they did only want friendship, they're either queer abominations like Robert and Lawrence, or they're blind. Being neither of those things himself, he had been determined to try his luck with the redhead, and Jack taking all of her attention on Friday had surely rubbed him the wrong way.
Giving up on regaining the peace and quiet he needs to do his grading as Jack's apparent lesson continues he makes his way down the hall towards Rose's classroom. Its' nearing the end of the work day, so perhaps he can catch her before she's able to make another excuse and disappear.
—
As the class time wraps up, Jack has each student select their favorite from the left-handed experiment, and hang their picture on the wall, taking down some of his own work, and older student examples to make room.
"These drawings will stay up for the semester," Jack tells the class. "At the end, your favorite finished piece will go next to it, and we'll be able to compare the progress— to see how far you've come. I don't know about you, but I think after three years we've all had enough of painting fruit baskets. Your assignment for tonight is to go home and find one image— it can anything— a painting, an advertisement, a photograph— just one image that inspires you, and tomorrow we'll start creating new art."
As the class files out, full of excited chatter, Jack himself feels reinvigorated. He feels a sudden passion for art and teaching that he has not felt in years, if ever, and the way that the class had responded to the impromptu lesson had given him hope that maybe his passion and way of seeing people before the Titanic disaster and the war hadn't been completely lost. Rose being back so suddenly has him feeling like a new person, his lust for life restored, and he is determined to hang on to that energy, and to use it.
After a bit more admin work, it is finally time for him stop for the day, and just as he does, Cora appears, letting herself into the studio.
She seats herself on a stool, throwing her bag onto the work table next to her, and Jack greets her cheerfully, drawing close enough to drop a kiss to her hair.
"How was your day?" He asks, leaning agains the table next to her as they wait for Rose.
She peers up at him, eyebrow raised. He's in a much more jovial, talkative mood than normal, and she had heard some of her peers chattering in the hallway about today's interesting art lesson.
"Not as interesting as yours, it seems," she tells him, and nods towards the messy drawings tacked to the wall.
"What, those?" Asks Jack. "I just thought it was time to try something different in class is all. Break everyone out of their habits and routines."
Cora's expression is one of disbelief. Especially since his return from the war, Jack had become a true creature of habit, so even the idea of him shaking things up is hard for her to grasp, and yet with the way he had acted over the weekend she can't say she's fully surprised.
"Is Rose being back going to change you completely, papa?" She asks, only partially joking. He meets her eye, however, his reply holding some seriousness.
"Change me? No." He answers. "Change our routines and circumstances and the way that I feel about everything? Probably." He sighs, knowing that Rose's entire sudden reappearance and the way he has acted have been hard for his adopted daughter so far, and so he tries to think of how best to explain it.
"Sweetheart, you have been my rock since we stepped off that rescue boat and only had each other. I was still a kid when that happened— younger than you are now. I know that things were never easy, and that I messed up a lot, but we had each other and we had Fabri and Tommy, but you have to understand— with Rose being alive— even just knowing that she survived, I feel like I can breathe easier. I feel like I can think clearly again because the part of my mind that has always been left wondering no longer has to wonder. I feel inspired again for the first time in years, and I feel good about using that inspiration and just seeing what happens. With everything going on in this world right now, with so much uncertainty, I feel like your peers could use some fun and inspiration, don't you think?" He asks her. "You've found your art— that thing you love. Don't you want your peers to have the same joy? I should have started teaching how I really wanted to years ago, and instead I've played it safe."
"I understand, Papa. Of course I do, and I'm so happy for you. I just— a little warning would have been nice, rather than getting out of a lecture and hearing all of my friends talk about how much fun my father is. I'm glad that her return is bringing back your humor and enthusiasm. I've hated seeing you so depressed."
"I'm sorry, princess," he tells her, using a very old nickname. "I don't think I realized how bad it had gotten until now."
"Speaking of Rose," says Cora now looking at the clock on the far wall, "Where is she? I thought she was meeting us here at five."
He follows her gaze realizing that twenty minutes have passed since the work day ended.
"She must be held up or thinking we're meeting at her office," he says, standing up again and grabbing his coat and cane. "Come on. We'll go find her. I don't know about you, but I'm starved and some of Shannon's cooking sounds like just the thing."
— — —
Rose's lectures seem to be going over better and better each time. Her students are starting to seem engaged and excited about the topics they're covering, and she herself couldn't be more thrilled. As the end of the day draws near and she's back in her office planning for the rest of the week and biding time until five, she finds herself excited to tell Jack all about how the day had gone. Even just the idea of having someone to tell about her day feels novel in the best way.
When she hears a knock on her office door right before the end of the day, she answers it hurriedly, thinking that perhaps Jack had finished early or maybe Ida had come to say hello. When she realizes however that it is Bernie on the other side, she knows that the struggle to keep the disappointment from her face is probably noticeable. She had not seen him yet today, and she had hoped, apparently against hope, that their awkward and somewhat hostile interactions at the bar on Friday would have deterred him from continually trying to make passes at her.
"Bernie," she says, not leaving the doorway, "what brings you by?"
"Oh, you know," he says, stepping past her and into her office on his own accord, "Another day, another dollar. Just thought I'd come and see how you're getting on."
He's smiling at her, but she can't help but feel that it seems empty, just like his desire to check up on her. The more she sees of this man the more she is sure that he doesn't have any kind or altruistic intentions that don't also benefit him in some way— one off the things she was least able to stand about Cal.
She turns from her doorway and makes a point of starting to pack up her things from the day, leaving him no illusion that she is about to sit back down and entertain his presence for longer than necessary. This early into her job here she doesn't feel like she can get away with shirking the small talk, and while an annoyance he hasn't done anything to constitute complaining about harassment.
"I'm getting on just fine, Bernie," she tells him. "Very well, in fact. The students are a delight, thank you. Now if you'll excuse—"
"A delight, Ha! That's an exaggeration if I've ever heard one," he says, seating himself in her desk chair.
"I beg your pardon?" She asks, her head whipping up from securing her bag to study him.
"No, it's just— that's really funny." He's actually laughing now. "You know you're a real riot, Rose. That's why I like you."
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand the joke," she tells him, now feeling a little defensive.
"Well, that the students could be a delight when they're anything but!" He exclaims. He looks at her then, his face turning serious. "Oh, you actually think they're here to learn?" He asks, laughing anew.
Rose refrains from sighing in exasperation, feeling nothing but irked by both his presence and attitude. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact," says Rose. "The students I have interacted with thus far are bright and inquisitive and fully invested in their education here."
"Oh, you're still so naive," he says, leaning back in her chair. "Don't let them fool you. These girls who can afford to be here are only here for one reason— to make an attractive match for a husband. They don't truly care about what they're learning here, and will forget all about it once they're married and settled and having their babies and running their households."
Rose is bristling, for uncountable reasons. It had been a long time since someone had called her naive— and admittedly she once had been about a lot of things, but even just the word, let alone the rest of this god awful conversation is stirring up memories of her mother and her upbringing that she doesn't particularly want to dredge to the surface, and especially not on the behalf of one Bernard Fitzgerald, who is very quickly revealing himself as the most boring and arrogant professor in all of Boston.
"Contrary to what may unfortunately be popular opinion, Mr. Fitzgerald," she says, addressing him formally, and slinging her tote over her shoulder, "not all women view marriage as an end goal to life, and women, especially many of the young women here, are in possession of their own minds and ambitions. I wouldn't write your students off too quickly if I were you, now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Pssh," says Bernie, standing himself now, and looking slightly annoyed. "I should have known. You know there's a word for women like you," he says, leaning forward into her space, causing her to take a step back. "Several actually."
She looks down on him as he seemingly sizes her up, her eyebrow raising. She's not sure what about her previous statement has caused his words now to be laced with so much ire, but she also can't say that she's even remotely sorry. "I would weigh those words before you use any of them with me," she warns him, planting her feet now, and placing her hands on her hips, not backing down as he tries to encroach on her space again.
Realizing that his intimidation tactics aren't working as he had hoped, he backs up, once again seating himself in her chair and this time propping his feet up on the table, crinkling the calendar she has sitting there. "This place really is going to the birds," he says. "First they hire that Dawson fellow who has suddenly decided he's going to inspire the next generation of artists, while making the loudest ruckus I've ever heard in these halls, and then they go and hire you. Remind me, what even are your credentials, beyond rubbing elbows with a few famous drunks and addicts who like to call themselves artists? Maybe the place should just instate a rule against hiring anyone with the surname Dawson, and save us all the trouble. You may be naive, but the rest of us aren't. It's obvious that the pair of you know each other."
"Look, I'm not sure why you've sought me out only then to insult me, but unfortunately I am running late meeting someone, and so I shall have to ask you to step out of my office so that I may lock up and leave," she tells him, giving up on even trying to be nice at this point. It's obvious that Bernie had been in a mood before even coming here, and she's not about to take the fallout, nor does she deserve any of the criticism, and neither does Jack.
"Have I hit a nerve?" He asks, as he stands again getting closer to her once more. Before he can say anything else however, as if on cue, Jack is poking his head through the still open door.
"Everything alright, Rose?" He asks, his eyes trained on Bernie who is standing closer to her than she looks comfortable with.
"Oh speak of the devil!" Says Bernie, in such an animated way that Rose is starting to consider whether the man may have been drinking on the job. He certainly is acting much more sure of himself than he had any time she had run into him the previous week.
"Just fine, Jack," she answers, not yet looking away from the man invading her space. "Bernie here was just leaving. I'm sorry for holding you up."
Bernie takes a step back from her again, making a show of straightening his tie and clearing his throat.
"So this is who you've been so anxious to run away and meet? I should have guessed." Says Bernie.
Rose crosses her arms over her chest, just about fed up with Bernie's judgement, even if his insinuations about their relationship are technically true, and resists the urge to roll her eyes, not wanting to appear childish.
"As a matter of fact it is. Come in, Jack. Hello Cora," she greets the young woman standing in the hallway just behind the door before turning back to Bernie. "As you seem so concerned about misconduct, Bernie, and the roles of women at this university, I've read the bi-laws. There is nothing that forbids having dinner with old acquaintances, and as you've guessed already, Jack and I are familiar with one-another. In fact, we go way back. It's not some sordid secret like you seem to think it is. No matter what word you may want to use for me, I am perfectly within my rights. Now, if you'll excuse us, I would like to lock up and leave."
If Bernie is about to say something else to Rose, he thinks the better of it, stepping through the doorway where Cora steps rather dramatically out of his way, much to Rose's amusement.
"Dawson," he says now, and both of their heads snap up. This time he appears to be addressing Jack however. "I would appreciate it if in future you would keep your class' volume and enthusiasm to a minimum. It would be a shame if I had to report the negligent use of expensive materials to the board."
Jack shakes his head, but shrugs, ever the one to try and remain easy-going. "Right.." he agrees. "I'll uh, see what I can do about the volume." He moves aside to allow Rose to exit the small office first, grabbing her jacket off of the stand by the door and holding it out for her, receiving a smile of gratitude. "Have a good evening, Bern," he tells the other man, none of them sticking around to give him a chance to say anything else.
"What was with that guy?" Jack asks, once they're out on the street and heading in the direction of Tommy's pub.
"Your guess is as good as mine," says Rose, trying to shake her aggravation. She had been looking forward to this all day and isn't about to let Bernie's words or attitude put a damper on her spirit. "He seems to think that I'll just let him insult my students, myself, and my work without and consequence or reaction."
"He insulted you?" Jack asks, his eyebrows rising under his bangs, and Rose and Cora both smirk for a moment at his protective behavior.
"Not overtly," says Rose, "but there were some things implied. He truly thinks so little of any of the women attending the school. Thinks they're all just there biding their time until marriage. It's like to him, women don't even possess a brain. I don't understand why he's in this profession."
"I hate to break it to you, Rose, but men like Bernie are a dime-a-dozen here. I've been here long enough to know that very few of the guys teaching here actually care. They're all in it for the paycheck."
"You don't think like that, though, Jack."
"Well no," he says. "I'll admit, I haven't always been on my A-game when it comes to actually doing the teaching, but every single one of my students has been bright and gifted in some way."
"Well," says Rose, "Whatever you did in your classes today sure had Bernie fuming."
Jack barks a laugh, and looks conspiratorially to Cora who giggles as well. "Well, Bern always did a have a rather large stick up his ass," he says.
"Papa!" Exclaims Cora, acting scandalized.
"Don't pretend you haven't heard me say worse, Cor," he tells her, shaking his head in amusement.
"Why do I feel like I'm missing a joke here?" Rose asks.
"I uh, I was trying a new method today— something to get the class to loosen up and have a little fun— to explore art in it new way. At one point there was quite a bit of laughter, and I guess 'ol Bernie didn't appreciate the volume."
"I think Jack became the campus favorite in one afternoon," Cora explains.
Jack shrugs again. "What can I say? I was inspired." Feeling as if they're far enough away from campus now that it won't matter, he wraps his arm around Rose's waist, emphasizing his meaning. Cora's eye roll is not lost on either of them, but Rose grins at him anyway, feeling her heart flutter at his flirtation.
As they near the pub Cora suddenly runs ahead, having spotted her beau Christopher near the doorway, seemingly waiting for her.
Jack slows their walk, giving Cora space to talk with the boy before they approach. Jack notes a worried look on his face, and Cora appears suddenly exasperated, and almost angry about something, which makes Jack frown with worry.
"Hello, Christopher. Great to see you again. Will you be joining us?" Asks Jack as they near into earshot.
"No, he will not be joining us," Cora answers for him, with a somewhat stern look on her face now that causes both men to frown.
"Thanks Mr. Dawson, but no. I've got to be getting home to help Ma anyway. I just wanted to have a word with Cora and knew she had mentioned being here this evening." He looks to Rose. "Lovely to meet you, erm—"
"Ms. Dawson," Rose finishes for him, understanding the oddness of the shared last name. "Likewise."
"I'll meet you inside, Papa," says Cora, giving her father a pointed look, and Jack knows to take the cue and give them some space. His hand still at the small of Rose's back, he holds the door open as she steps inside, both of them wondering what that odd interaction could have been about.