April 13, 1912
Dear Diary,
Today I acted on impulse and went down to the 3rd class general room to see Mr. Dawson. Everyone down there was quite shocked to see me, a rich first class girl in a silk dress with diamonds and pearls decorating her body. I felt rather foolish in all my nice clothes. Mr. Dawson just casually got up from what he was doing (which was drawing funny faces on a piece of paper with a little girl whom he called Cora) and went with me on to the 1st class boat deck. When we were finally up there, strolling alone, we began a conversation about how nice the weather was and then about our families. I admit I opened up to him quite a bit. And he told me the sad story of how his parents died in a fire when he was 15. It's been five years and he has traveled the world! He worked on a squid boat, he lived in L.A., and Paris!
He even told me to call him Jack, instead of Mr. Dawson. I then thanked him for pulling me back as well as for his discretion. And when I said, "Look, I know what you must be thinking: Poor little rich girl…"
He said, "No, that's not what I was thinking at all. What I was think was, what could have happened to this girl to make her think she had no way out."
"Well…" I began, "It wasn't just one thing. It was everything. My whole world, and all the people in it. 500 invitations have gone 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 and no one even looks up!"
"Do you love him?" he asked.
"What?" I said, not wanting to tell the truth.
"Do you love him?" he repeated.
"You shouldn't be asking me this…"
"Look, it's a simple question," he said, laughing. "Do you love the guy or not?"
"This is not a suitable conversation." I said. "You don't know me and I don't know you. You are rude, and uncouth, and presumptuous," I was furious that he had gotten the better of me. I shook his hand for a while. "I am leaving now, Jack…Mr. Dawson, it's been a pleasure." I was still shaking his hand.
He smiled. "I thought you were leaving," he said.
"I am!" And I turned and stormed away. Then I stopped and walked back. "Wait," I said, "I don't have to leave! This is my part of the ship! You leave!" I admit I was acting like quite a brat.
"Well, well, well," he laughed. "Now who's being rude?"
Angry, and looking to change the subject, I snatched the leather portfolio out of his hands that he had been carrying. "What is this?" I asked, looking through it. "What are you, an artist or something?" I asked, noticing some sketches. He nodded. I sat down on a deck chair, "These are rather good…very good." I said. I don't remember what all of them were like, but they were vivid, rather graphic, and above all, honest. One was of a woman breastfeeding her infant. Another of a little girl with her father. And there was one with hands around a tiny child's waist as she learned to walk. All of them were so realistic and beautiful. I'm no expert on art, though I do love it, (I am the owner of many paintings that I conned Cal into getting for me, although he calls them 'finger paintings') but I'm pretty sure they were drawn with charcoal. The I came across several featuring nude women. "And these were…drawn from life?" I said, trying very hard to be adult.
"That's the good thing about Paris," he said. "Lotsa women are willing to take their clothes off."
I grunt-like laugh escaped my lips. "Paris," I said without thinking, "You do get around, for a poor—"
"Go on, you can say it," he laughed, "A poor guy." He spoke with humor and didn't sound the least bit sorry for himself. There was one woman, another nude, whom he had used several times. I commented on it and told him I thought he must have had a love affair with her, though he claims he did not. And his eyes were honest.
I told Jack, "You have a gift. You do. You see people."
"I see you."
"And…?" I said, expecting a flourish of compliments.
"You wouldn't have jumped." No compliments. And for some reason, that only made me like him more. Any man could have gone on about beauty or wit, but Jack did not, showing he had no agenda. Though I can tell he likes me. I sense it. And would you like to know a secret, dear diary? I like him as well.
Soon we got up and started strolling around again. Two or three people from first class stared at him as if he was beneath them. It annoyed me and so I gave those people the same exact look, and they went away. I talked to Jack for a very long time about…well…everything. I told him how I hated being a rich girl. I would rather be an artist like him, or a dancer, or a moving picture actress! I've never told this to anyone. Not my Grandmother, my brother, or even this diary. "When I was 11," I told him, "I tried to run away. My brother had just died and I was home from school for the summer. My mother was being impossible and I had just been to the ballet with her the night before. So I packed a bag and tried to run away, set on being a ballerina. I didn't even make it out the door. My nurse caught me and sent me back up to my room, and locked all the doors and windows."
"So you've hated this for 6 years and you still haven't done anything about it?" He said skeptically, as if I should have really run away.
"Actually," I said, "I've hated it since I was a baby, it think. I just couldn't vocalize it yet." We both laughed.
"So leave." He said.
"What?" I was shocked. "Just get up and leave."
"Yeah, sure, why not?" Jack said. "That's what I did. You don't have to marry that Penguin if you don't want to. No one can force you to do anything you don't want to do."
"Penguin?" I said, "Oh…Cal…You don't understand. I have to marry him. I don't have a choice. No one can just pack up and leave their life."
"Yes they can." Jack said, "After my parents died, I left Wisconsin and moved to this pier in Santa Monica and did portraits there for 10 cents a piece." He told me all about the places he'd gone and how he got their. And each time it was a spontaneous action that led him to do so.
"Why can't I be like you, Jack?" I said, "Just…head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it. Say we'll go there sometime, to that pier. Even if we only ever just talk about it."
"No, we'll do it," he insisted. I unexpectedly realized that I had found a friend in Jack. A true friend. "We'll drink cheap beer, ride on the roller coaster till we throw up," I laughed out loud, "And we'll ride horses, right on the surf. But none of that side saddle stuff. No, you have to do it like a real cowboy."
"You mean…one leg on each side!" I was taken aback and delighted at the same time. "Can you show me?" He nodded. "Teach me to ride like a man." I said.
"And shoot tobacco like a man."
"And…spit like a man."
"Sure, we'll do it," he said, "Come on!" I struggled. Spit? Now?
"No, Jack, no, I couldn't possibly, Jack." He dragged me to the rail and held on, arched his neck and made a gross sound him collecting spit in his mouth and then he just…spit! I laughed "That's disgusting!" I said. But he told me to try it, which I did reluctantly.
"That was pathetic!" He exclaimed. He told me to try again, really get some body to it. The second time I did better. Oh, diary, I can't believe I'm writing this. I spent time spitting! And just as Jack was showing me how to spit "properly" again, I saw the most terrifying thing. Mother was coming! She was right next to me when Jack finally realized that I was hitting him arm, trying to get him to stop.
I was instantly composed. "Mother!" I said, "My I introduce Jack Dawson."
"Pleasure," said Mother, looking at him like a disgusting insect that must be squashed quickly. Molly Brown was with her and she indicated to Jack that he had some spit on his chin, which he quickly wiped away. I told them all about how he saved me (the fictional version anyway) and Molly said, "Well, Jack, looks like you're good to have around in a sticky spot." A horn announced that dinner would soon be served and Molly made a comment about it sounding like a "damn cattle recharge." I said goodbye to Jack and Mother and I left to go dress. We are about to go now. Mother is calling me. I have taken too long, writing in this diary. So I must go, but I will write all about dinner (which should be interesting since a 3rd classman shall be around those in 1st) tomorrow and won't miss a detail.
Your friend,
Rose
P.S. Is it wrong that I'm so excited to see Jack? I can talk to him. I really really really like him. Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack. I am such a fool. For some reason I would be content with writing 'Jack' all day. But I mustn't set my cap on him. I'm with Cal. Joy…
