Enjoy it!
The train station was cloaked in dreary predawn darkness. Like a banshee, eerie locomotive whistles moaned through the fog of early January and soft snow swirled from shadowy clouds that promised to bring a storm. There were few at the station in this ungodly hour of four A.M. The adventurous souls among those few were men cloaked in heavy, floor length black coats with collars turned upwards against a bitter wind or early morning laborers shivering in alleys, feebly attempting to catch a smoke and warm their weak insides before work started.
One man, however, stood out from the rest. His deep brown coat was only waist-length and was pretty beat up. Underneath it was a thin, homespun dark blue shirt that did nothing to protect him from the cold. He was wearing brown, worn out trousers above heavy, untied leather boots. Unlike the others, he had no tired smears under his mystical blue eyes and was not stifling yawns. Unlike the others, he was on a mission – a mission of destiny.
Jack was not in a hurry. In a matter of fact, he hesitated as he eased up to the ticket booth. He knew he had to do what he had to do, but something inside of him still resisted. He also knew that his task was purely for Rose's benefit, and that was one of the only reasons that he defeated his inner desire to run away very fast.
His sole purpose for that early morning was to buy two locomotive tickets to Eau Claire, which was a mere buggy ride away from Chippewa Falls. Jack had no family there anymore, but he did have several friends and he was hopeful that his old house hadn't been torn down. He could not keep Rose in New York anymore. He couldn't stand it himself. There was nothing here for them but empty memories that hurt terribly and the grave of a daughter that had been taken from her parents.
He had not slept at all last night. As Rose peacefully dreamed beside him, one of the first nights she had not been torn awake with nightmares of her lost baby, he had weighed the action he wanted so desperately to take. There were ghosts waiting for him in Chippewa Falls, and he was terrified of them. They made his blood run cold. But at the same time, there had to be something better. Something more. And he wanted that something urgently for his wife, because she deserved everything he could get her.
He had lit out of that small town when he was fifteen without much of an explanation or a promise of ever returning. He assumed most of the town's occupants had pronounced him a foolish, grief-stricken boy who would be dead soon anyway. They had severely underestimated him, and in his time away he had learned so much, and had matured far beyond what was expected of him. Perhaps most importantly, he had fallen in love, and it was that love that was making him return.
He had fallen in love all over again with his parents, who had raised him and given him some lessons he could find no where else. He had fallen in love with a friendship that exceeded a miracle, that had given him a foundation and a place to run in a storm. He had fallen in love with the world, in all of its ugliness and hatred and beauty and paradise. But what had really altered the path of his destiny was the fact that he had fallen completely, totally, and irrevocably in love with a Rose.
He was no longer the boy he had been. His twenty-first birthday had just past, and he had been a man for many years before. There was no way someone could see what he had seen and not become a man.
The last time Jack had thought about being home so much had not been in America. It had been on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, lying out in the cool, crisp, salty sea air. He had been smoking, and now he remembered watching those misty clouds of cigarette smoke momentarily blot out the amazing masterpiece of white stars. The stars had awestruck him. There had been so many, thousands, millions even, weaving and winding and strewn across the blackest sky he had ever seen.
Now, even though it was dark as pitch outside, the pollution and electric lamps blocked out any sort of view of the heavens that he had. He felt trapped, completely and totally, and he had to get out. He did not know if returning to a place that still haunted his dreams was the best remedy for that, but he had no other choice. At least he had people there who could get him on his feet, and a shoe factory nearby that would employ him. There were no more options and by nature he tried to look at the bright side.
It was hard to find any sort of happiness that morning. He trudged up to the ticket booth, and he was aware of a sleepy looking man in a navy uniform with gold braiding standing safely out of the cold behind glass. A roaring woodstove belched a strong scent of embers and smoke into the air, and Jack coughed as it filled his lungs. He knew he was taking another step in life, a new step that would lead to a fresh beginning all over again.
For some reason that made him desperate. He hated the feelings inside of him all the time now, the feelings of darkness and doom and depression. But at the same time, he did not want to give away the only part of his life that mattered. He began to cling fiercely to memories, as he imagined some dark monster taking them away from him. As a result, they were taking Fabri from him. He began to shiver so hard that anyone glancing had to know it had nothing to do with the bitter chilliness. He grabbed at one of the last significant times he had spent with his friend, and as he began to relive the thought he realized he did not want to. His eyes burned as his throat began to become sore with unshed tears. It was too late, though. He couldn't stop remembering now even if he wanted to. His mind was spinning horribly out of control and he, powerless and defenseless, was forced to grit his teeth and hang on as his heart threw him on a murderous emotional ride.
There was complete silence except for the soft snores of Erïk and Kraig, the two Swedes in the bunk across the room. It was late Saturday night, and Jack had just returned from changing back into his own clothes and thanking Molly for loaning her son's.
Jack quietly shut the door behind him and was greeted by two socked feet hanging over the edge of the bed above his. He stifled the urge to laugh and kicked off his own boots as Fabrizio de Rossi sat straight up with bright eyes that told Jack he wasn't about to fall asleep either.
"Jack, you smell interesting. Like the daises of a field!" He teased, dramatically sniffing the air and throwing a hand over his head, pretending to swoon back onto his pillow.
Jack rolled his eyes and hit his best friend on the shoulder. "Knock it off, you idiot," he muttered. He knew exactly what scent was on him and who the scent belonged to. In the matter of fact, she was all that was on his mind. He couldn't stop thinking of her. It was driving him insane. He could almost feel that celestial body pressed up against him and her soft hands in his as they danced and danced . . .
That silly lovesick look must have come over him again. Fabrizio winked at him and whispered, "Ah. You do not smell like daisies. I a' take it all back. You smell like . . . the Rose!" The warm brown eyes danced with anticipation at an angry comeback, but Jack couldn't muster one because it was true.
He sunk to his bed, stripping off his shirt and tossing it into his bag on the floor in one quick motion. He looked down on his chest, right below the left part of his collar bone. While they were dancing, Rose had clutched at him so hard that she had left little half moon marks in his skin with her shapely nails.
He knew he was lost forever when he ran his thumb over the scars and sighed. There was something so intoxicatingly right about her, about him, and about them, He had been able to take her away from all of her pressures and problems just for a couple of hours, and what he had seen shocked him.
The true Rose, the one that she hid from the rest of the world under lies and rules and restrictions of a Society determined to kill her, absolutely shone. It wasn't just spiritually, either, but her beauty simply sparkled. There was more luster in her deep green eyes, more pink to her blush, more excitement in her smile. Her laugh was not fake and orchestrated, but full and light, like tiny bells. And it was this Rose that he adored.
He had danced with hundreds of women. He had flirted with dozens. He had drawn countless. And yet not a single one of them, from Wisconsin to Paris to London, was as alive and fiery as this one trapped redhead that he was completely falling head over heels with.
"Something special about bella Rosa, no?" Fabri asked quietly, hanging down over the rail on his bed and peering into Jack's face. When Jack looked up, he knew that Fabri probably knew more about his predicament than he did. Maybe he was partially in denial. That wouldn't surprise him. Part of him was desperately trying to stay above the surface of love, because he knew that he could never be with Rose. It was impossible. This was not some petty difference in clothes or taste or style or age. This was a true and undefeatable thing – Rose DeWitt-Bukater was from a level of status that he could only catch glances of every now and then. He had never even cared about those people before, but now he was forced to watch their every move as she drew him on like a fish on a line. He was worse than even the poorest people back home. He didn't have a job waiting for him, or a place to stay. Hell, he didn't even know if he wanted to go back to Chippewa Falls. He had been in the company of prostitutes. He was unworthy, unclean, unacceptable to her kind.
He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but she was so . . . different. His best friend was right. She was something special, but she might be even more than that. Something inside of him tried to fly out of his heart whenever he was with her and make its home in hers. It was taking all the strength he had to be around her and not make some sort of move. Yet it was simple to just be still, because he respected who she was and where she came from. She came from a place he could not go, and he from a place she had to stay away from.
If only he could convince himself that it was that simple! If only he could keep that in mind whenever he got lost in her magnolia eyes and daydreamed about her ripe red lips! If only she didn't fit in so well, if only she didn't make his stomach flip flop when she was close to him, if only he didn't get passionate desires whenever she whispered in his ear, if only she would stay away, if only, if only, if only . . .
If only she wasn't his soulmate.
That thought shocked him so terribly that he gasped and nearly fell out of the damn bed. He had never dared to dream that deep. He had never dared to think that maybe one day, she would be his. Just his. If God could give her to him, he couldn't think of another way to complete his life. Right now, she was his life. And that terrified him too.
"Fabri . . . I think I'm in love with her!" He whispered urgently, looking up again at the Italian. There was a desperation in his brilliant blue eyes that had never been there before, a sort of plead for his friend to convince him otherwise even though he knew it was impossible.
Jack had flirted. Jack had flatteringly raked girls with his black pupils before. He had felt lust building up in him when he looked a particularly pretty or scantily clad woman. He had even felt puppy love, the kind that schoolboys feel for the cute little girl next door. But never, not once, not even partially, had he ever felt that blinding, earth-shaking, mountain-moving sensation he had gotten when he met eyes with Rose. There was an invisible fire leaping from her magnolia green irises, sizzling on the currents of air, bounding the space between them, and scorching his heart. Forever and eternally she, knowingly or unknowingly, imprinted her picture on his mind and he would never be able to get rid of her. She stood like a princess of a lost people, on the deck above him, staring out over the ocean like she thought it might hold some sort of secret she hadn't been let into. Something about her had drawn him in immediately, shockingly, painfully, wholly. There was no turning back the second she turned the graceful waterfall of her neck to look at him, and some sort of chain had cuffed him to her.
He had tried to make her leave his head that first night after he had just seen her. He was willing to do anything to get her out. He had gone and lay down on his bottom bunk with his sketchbook, flipping through all his drawings and telling himself that those were the loves of his life, not some upper-class snob. He had forced himself to remember Belle, the beautiful dark haired seductress whose hands he had captured so many times, or Flora, the lovely English girl with caramel curls. Flora he had never drawn, because he had never felt that sort of drive when he was with her to make her last forever on paper. She had been a gorgeous specimen of a young woman, barely eighteen, and they had messed around together last November. He would go to her flat, which was on the top story of three, and just like some sort of ancient Greek lover he would throw rocks at her window. When she was sure it was him she would come to the window and lean out, flirt fantastically from her perch on the windowsill, and eventually make her way down the fire escape out back to meet his waiting arms. However it soon became apparent to Jack that he held no real feelings for and was just lonely and wanted company. It had never turned even remotely serious and he stopped showing up, and she had never been able to find him. That was one of the reasons Fabri called him a heartbreaker now, even if he didn't think he fully deserved the title.
But Rose . . . when he had first seen her, it was like a volcano in heaven had erupted and all of that celestial lava had set his heart afire. He could think of nothing else but that mysterious woman with the sad eyes and the wild red hair. It had become his obsession, an obsession with just a face and no name. Even if he had refused to recognize it then, and even if he didn't want to recognize it now, he had fallen in love at first sight. It had been incredible. Not a thing in the world could compare to it because never had he seen something so magnificent – that was the best word he could think of to describe her beauty. If Aphrodite herself had descended upon him at that moment, he would not have noticed or even glanced at her. Nothing could have compared to that tempting, haunting, glorious splendor that was just too blinding to try to move to paper. He didn't even attempt the transfer because in that moment his skills were nothing. They were pathetic in comparison to that lovely girl with fiery curls and alabaster skin, the one who was bathed in the golden sheen of midday on the Atlantic.
He whispered curses quietly for his hopelessness. Never could Rose be his, but whether he liked it or not he would always be hers. He knew that, regardless of how long he had known her or how much information he still would have liked to hear about her. In the darkness, he saw Fabrizio shake his head, the tousled dark waves blacker than the night around him. There seemed to be an emotion in his chocolate eyes that told Jack that Fabri knew . . . maybe he had known before Jack admitted it himself. In one word, he completely summed up everything that Jack was turning over in his numb mind. "Destino?"
He looked up at his friend again, massaging his forehead with his fingers. Truth be told, he didn't know if he would recognize destiny if it stared him in the face. Yet maybe, just maybe, it had already stared him in the face, and if that was the case he could never let her go. Never. It scared him, because he knew such passion was bound to kill him eventually, and he didn't really want to die. For the first time in a long time, the thirst for adventure that he felt always and the hunger for something new that never left him were overshadowed by something greater, something that meant more. Something that towered in the form of a petite, ivory girl with bloody hair that hung in wild curls and who possessed haunted green eyes. He had felt the strongest desire to kiss her today, so many times, and it had nearly overwhelmed him. That was strange, because normally he was strong against that sort of thing.
He was exhausted. It was hard for him to think this deep this late. "I dunno . . . I just don't know anymore." He paused for a minute, and Fabrizio's look seemed to beckon him to go on and explain further. He tried to organize what he was attempting to say but it didn't work. "I gotta see her again. I need to. I want to be with her all the time, I want to touch her, I want to hear her laugh. When I'm around her, I don't want her to leave, ever. I want to protect her, and I need her. I've never felt that way about a girl before. I need her."
Fabri seemed to get it. He himself had said that he had felt some sort of mystique around Rose the first time he had seen her, when she had come looking for Jack and interrupted their poker game. He had admitted that when she and Jack had talked there had been some sort of electricity rocketing around them, and, as he had put it, an invisible but blinding glow that had overflowed and splashed on him. He also recognized them to be meant to be something.
The only question was, what something?
Desperate to rest his aching brain, Jack snapped off his suspenders and let them fall on his rumpled shirt. He shook his head back and forth and looked back up at the Italian. "What about you and Helga?" He asked, trying to change the subject in a vain attempt that his mind would take the hint and stop musing over Rose.
A smile cracked on Fabrizio's face. His cheeks started to glow, and he looked like a schoolboy that had a crush on a little girl. Jack chuckled as he answered, "Ah, I don't know what she say, she don't know what I say. We get along fine!" But Jack knew there was something more to this amusing little story so he just waited patiently. It wouldn't be long before his friend had to tell him.
"Stop staring at me a'like that!" Fabri muttered, glancing around nervously. A wave of hesitation crossed his face. "She only speak Swedish and German, I only speak Italian and English. Little English. But we did get along really well, and I was in the thought that the night was going good. So . . . I walked her to her cabin, or to the . . . the . . . the path? The . . .?" He hit himself in the forehead, and was again frustrated with his limited English vocabulary. Jack felt sorry for him, because he remembered how diligently Fabrizio had practiced his English every night, and he still hit these snags. So instead of making fun of him like he usually would have, he just helped him.
"Corridor?"
"Yes, the corridor. I think she telling me her papa is staying in berths near us, with the men, but she's sharing a cabin with a group of the women. So we say goodnight, ciao. And at the last momento, I grab her and kiss her." He grinned sheepishly, as if he were amazed at his daring, while Jack could only whistle. "Not a long kiss, but she did not seem to mind too awful much. Then she ran away. If she did not mind, why ran away? I do not know these things." He buried his hanging head in hanging hands.
Jack laughed again, and was promptly glared at. He realized that Fabri was serious, and he really didn't know. Now that Jack recalled, Fabri never really had been involved strongly in a girl, so he had no reason to know. "Well sometimes, most of the time, when you kiss a girl and she runs away, it means she's overwhelmed." He loosened his trousers and peeled back his cover to get in bed.
"Overwhelmed?" Fabrizio asked quietly, not remembering this new word. Again anger at himself flashed in his coal eyes.
"Uh . . . they can't take it. They're confused. They think they were too bold. It doesn't mean she doesn't like ya. I mean, hell, if she kissed you back I'd say she likes you a lot. Seems like you're further along with girls than I am, pal."
Now it was the Italian's turn to laugh, a laugh that came out as a giggle, and shake his head. "You aren't really in the thinking that la Rosa doesn't feel for you what you feel for her, no? I would chance that if you decided to kiss her, she would definitely not fight too terribly much, si?" He smiled, but didn't get one in return. This was apparently an interesting concept to Jack, who seemed lost in thought. He went on. "I seeing all of this desire inside of the lady, and you, Artiste, should see it too."
Jack nearly stopped breathing. He couldn't imagine Rose feeling that way about him. It was his dream, his want, his hope. But he knew it wasn't true. It was actually impossible, because she came from the gleaming sophisticated Society and was already promised to another man while he came from wading in rivers for things to sell, picking trash for food, smoking just to calm his nerves. But what if, just maybe, those barriers were not as strong as true love? Damn it. His mind was aching again. "Goodnight, Fabri," he murmured as he lay down to pretend to sleep on the soft standard issue blankets.
He glanced out of the porthole at the black night. There was nothing but a sliver of white moon and a dusty trail of brilliant milky stars against the coal colored sky. He couldn't see or hear the water, but he felt its dark and comforting presence all the same. It was as if he were the only soul in the North Atlantic, all by himself, where time didn't exist.
When he tore his eyes from the glass, he heard Fabrizio's breathing slow and steady. Absentmindedly, he traced the half moon scars on his chest. He was awake for hours and when a smudge of pinkish gold appeared on the horizon at dawn, he fell into a fitful sleep full of untamable fiery hair and haunting magnolia irises over ripe rosebud lips.
"Can I help you, sir?" The ticket man asked, sounding tired and somewhat irritated. He traced his stubbly mustache and beard with a finger and ran his free hand through matted sandy hair. There was an open book in front of him that listed places and times, probably available trains, and he had focused steel grey eyes curiously on Jack. Was he repeating the question? Had he asked another one?
Tearing himself from memories, Jack quickly recollected his purpose that dull, dark morning and the overbearing sense of duty resumed its place open his broad shoulders. Chippewa Falls was to be another chapter in his life. Briefly he had discussed the idea with Rose and knew that she too wanted out of the city, this goddamn city that imprisoned them with all of their empty memories and bleak past. They were two people meant to be together forever, and he was going to ensure her happiness in that fact.
"I . . . I need two train tickets from New York to –" He paused when he saw the man rustling through his book and scrolling an oily finger down neatly columns all printed in midnight ink. This was it. How many times had he stood in line, waiting to get out of some place and explode into a newer one? Now he was waiting to return home, if he could call Wisconsin home.
The clerk gazed at him impatiently over thick, rounded spectacles, waiting for Jack had to finish the sentence that would make his life change . . . yet again. He could see the gleaming train station back up north as though he were actually there. Bright, warm sunshine splashed off of the dark, cold metal of a locomotive and fell broken onto the platform, where dozens of people waited to board. Steam belched from the smokestack and the whole train vibrated like some living thing, while boxes and parcels and trunks sat on the loading platform and workers shoved them into an old car. His parents stood nearby, watching their son lap up his first sight of such an amazing –
"Sir? Your destination, sir?" There was obvious irritation in his voice and his fingertips found their way to the edges of his book, as if he were threatening to close it. Jack wanted to chuckle at such a stupid warning.
"Oh, sorry. Uh . . . Eau Claire, Wisconsin." The man totaled his purchase and made two tidy little marks with a fountain pen next to the precise words underneath New York that read the town Jack had named. Deep into the folds of pants pocket his palm closed around a clump of dollar bills that he had been saving since his wedding. He had even sold a few drawings. He had told himself he had done that because he needed the extra money, but even though he did, truthfully he had done it because he needed to. He needed to share his knowledge of things with the world, and that was his way of doing that.
"What date, what price, and under whose name should I register you?" The clerk's eyes never met his as he continued to scratch things out on a tiny piece of yellowed paper.
It wouldn't take them long to pack. All they really had was clothes. Everything else had been lost when . . . when . . . he didn't have the strength to remember right now so he moved onto the next thing in the apartment. They couldn't take the piano, and even if Tom gave them permission they wouldn't be able to afford shipping it. There were no paintings, no keepsakes, nothing that couldn't fit in a trunk or two. They just needed out, and they needed out now.
"Uh, Jack Dawson," he muttered, not willing to give Rose's full name to some stranger. Some people called him paranoid, but after all he had been through he knew that something you loved could be taken away from you before you could utter a sound and he refused to give that a chance to happen. She was so beautiful that she could tempt a completely honorable man to do things that the Devil himself would forbid. "We'll be traveling in the coach compartment, third class. And . . . I want to leave as soon as possible."
Unlike other third-class passengers, his voice held absolutely no remorse or shame when he announced that he had to ride coach. He was proud that they could afford tickets at all, and he remembered that his father had always told him to stand straight when he did something his best. He held no regrets about his position in life, he knew his hand of cards, and he played them well.
He stared at his hands while the man checked the next available train. They were broad, strong, lean from hard work. He had charcoal buried in his knuckles and around the edges of his fingernails. The calluses were smoothed over now, rough but slick to the touch. Life had been so simple back when the only part of his life had been these two hands.
"The soonest an engine bound for Eau Claire pulls into the depot is . . . two days from now. Thursday, January 9." He looked up curiously, waiting for his customer's answer and idly twirling his fountain pen between sleepy fingers.
Jack sighed and nodded. He wanted this, there was no doubt. He had to go back home. The thought scared him so much that there was an ache somewhere in his heart, an actual physical one, but he would endure that terror and that ache because Jack Dawson had always been a dreamer. He had always believed that there was something beautiful on the horizon and he had to get to it. He was willing to take risks and gamble his chances a little just to get one step closer, and this was simply another inch in the right direction. Somewhere along the way he had reached his goal, and now he was taking her to a place he felt would be better for her. It didn't matter what he had to loose in the process as long as she gained something in the end.
"Alright, sir. Your purchase will be eighteen dollars and fifty four cents. The train leaves on January 9 at eight o'clock in the morning." He held out his hand under the glass window expectantly. With his free one, he rubbed his eyes and then he let out a yawn which he tried in vain to hide.
Jack dug out the money, trying his best not to think. For once, just once, he wanted to be able to do the right thing without hurting or second guessing himself. He tried to turn off his mind and tried not to think deeply about what he was doing. It was just money, nothing more and nothing less. It had no meaning.
Yet somewhere in the back of his brain, he couldn't banish the thought that he was selling one life and buying a new one. He prayed that it was worth it, and that the trade was fair to his wife. He couldn't live if he caused her any more pain.
He slammed the paper notes and an odd assortment of coins on the wooden board, missing the man's hand intentionally. That sort of behavior disgusted him, and it was obvious the clerk caught on. His fingertips shrank back immediately and he sheepishly looked at Jack before cautiously slipping the money closer to him and in separate sorted drawers.
"Here are the tickets, Mr. Dawson," the man muttered, embarrassed. Two handwritten sections of paper with his name, the date of their departure, and their destination were held out to him, and he hesitantly grasped them. "You should arrive a tad bit early to stow your baggage. Just show those to whoever is manning this station at the time. Have a good morning, and if you have any questions feel free to come back." With a tip of his navy hat, the man retreated back into a different world, reading what appeared to be a book of poems and trying to keep himself awake.
It was done. That was it. Another chapter in his life had been ripped open. He pocketed the tickets as fast as he could, as if they were burning his fingertips. Then he swore to himself that he would shove it all out of his mind until he came home that evening. With sure steps he strode towards work, seeing the black smoke from the factory belching into the air roughly a mile away. He was hours early, but he thought that maybe he could round up some paper and charcoal to sketch with. If he couldn't do that, he'd bum a cigarette off of someone. He hadn't smoked in months, but damn, he needed to calm down. He couldn't steady his trembling fingers.
Victoria carefully sipped tea from the cracked cup on Rose's kitchen. She idly twirled a section of her hair around her finger, making little conversation, but every once in awhile Rose caught her searching Rose's eyes as if she were looking for an answer to some question that she was afraid to ask. The moment that Rose looked back, Victoria's deep brown gaze would drop to the table and she would examine the sandwiches before her with what seemed like great interest.
Rose knew Victoria was worried about her. Since Anna Jamie, Rose had not gone out of the house except to buy groceries. For the first week, it had not looked unusual because many people were driven inside by the bitter cold. But Rose had not been able to bring herself to visit the Benova's home a mere block away because the cut was still too deep and too fresh. She couldn't simply move on and go back into a normal routine. Nothing was normal anymore.
She assumed Jack had asked Victoria to come. The timid woman wouldn't have come calling on her own account. She would have been afraid to upset Rose and not willing to break Rose's dark days of mourning, for fear that she would be unwelcome.
Jack coped with loss in a different way than she did. He went on with his life, continued to be strong, and only let himself hurt in private. Little by little, step by step, he had mounted the stairs to a healing and was very close to letting his child go. At first Rose had refused to follow, refused to even try to fix something that she bitterly insisted remain broken. But, because he loved her, he had dragged her with him. She had kicked and screamed the whole way, and the stress on their marriage had been almost unbearable. Eventually she had seen that he too had pain shining out of his eyes, and he too cried quietly at night, and he too needed help to get through this. Very recently they had both begun to work together, and progress was being slowly and excruciatingly made.
There had been no funeral for her daughter, because there had been no life to remember. She wouldn't have been able to reminisce with her husband or with the Benovas or even with Charlie about how things had been. There had been nothing. Just a blue, empty, beautiful baby girl that had never even been given one breath.
Instead, she and Jack had buried their child, and their hope for a future with her, in the frozen, cold, hard dirt of a local cemetery. Dr. Zablowski had bought the plot for them, and he had even gone out with Jack to dig the six foot deep hole, since the cemetery workers wouldn't have dug a grave until April. Tom had purchased the casket, or so Jack had told her. She had not been there. It had been nothing but a rough cut pine box, because wood was impossible to find in the city in winter and they had taken leftovers. No one had been there but the Dawsons when the last clump of dirt was pressed into the earth over their baby. They had tied together slabs of wood to form a cross, and Jack had whittled out Anna's name and dates into the wood and securely buried it at her head. The laborers had stopped by to make sure that the grave fit regulations, and after seeing that it did, they had left.
Rose would never forget standing there over her child. She had not been able to cry. A lump of stone seemed to have held back all of her tears, or maybe she just hadn't had any anymore. She didn't know. Trying to ignore the pain, she had gone frantic about there not being any flowers. She wanted to lay flowers over the final resting place of her baby. She had screamed in agony about the blossoms, had pounded Jack's chest in fury. He had pulled her into his arms, with her still beating on him, and held her until she ceased and just became a heap in his arms. There had been no sobs, but the hurt silence spoke just as well as weeping would have and they stood there, entwined together, amidst dozens of other tortured souls that had lost and been lost.
That day had been a horrible day, the kind that she couldn't completely remember because her own mind had censored the anguish. But she would not forget saying goodbye to something she had never been able to welcome.
Victoria didn't seem to know what to say. There was nothing to talk about, nothing that would not stir the terrible past. After a long, quiet moment, Victoria finally opened her mouth and, following several attempts to speak, finally formed words.
"So how are you and Jack doing?"
Rose immediately thought of her mother, who had schooled her into asking such diplomatic questions. That question could be interpreted one of two ways depending on the mood of its recipient: Rose could take it as a subtle hint at inquiring about the recent awful events of her life or just simple, mundane conversation. Victoria could learn what she wanted to know and feel out if Rose felt like talking about it. Rose assumed that if she didn't, Victoria would simply let the topic slide and allow her to think that she had never meant anything by it in the first place. She decided to play it out and give her a little of both.
"Well, we've both been a little strained lately, as I'm sure you must know," she murmured, stirring her own tea and watching the amber brown swirl into paths across the liquid, "But we love each other enough to get over it. He's just a little stressed from his horrible job. He has started selling drawings again, though. Has he ever showed you any? He's quite a fine artist . . ." She trailed off faintly, her mind soaring back to the last time she had said that, and the different circumstances, but the same tone of adoration.
"Ah, I . . . I didn't know he sketched. You're a . . . a very lucky woman to have such a wonderful husband that stands beside you."
Rose gracefully hid the smile that was pulling the corners of her lips. She had succeeded in confusing Victoria, who didn't know what path Rose's answer had taken and thus didn't know what to say. Victoria was a nice woman, a kind, gentle-hearted lady, but they just didn't connect for some reason. They visited constantly because there was no other respectful female around for miles, but there was just no bond whatsoever. Tom and Jack had hit it off fine, and probably would have been best friends by now, but Jack held him away at arm's length because that spot was still filled by someone who did not have the physical life to fill it anymore.
She wouldn't think about that now. Fabrizio wouldn't want her to think about that now. A strong bond had been tied between her and that stocky Italian man, a bond that ran through Jack and knotted around all three of them, with one more loop for a tall Irishman she had hardly even met. They seemed so terribly far away now; as if the events that had occurred just months ago were hidden behind some misty shroud that she couldn't pull back. She reached for those people and that place, because they had marked her life, and yet a cold fog would hide her view and she'd be groping for things she couldn't see. Then there were the nightmares . . . the awful horrible nightmares . . . and Jack's silent sobs at night . . . No, Rose, she told herself sternly. You will not go back. You can't do this to yourself. You can't handle that much right now. Calmly, she took a deep breath and ushered Fabrizio and Tommy back into the locked room of her mind, begging them to stay there until she had the composure to free them again. A sense of peace flowed over her and she leaned back into her chair.
"So . . ." Victoria's eyes wandered about the kitchen, trying to find anything to get away from this uncomfortable lull in an uncomfortable conversation. Her gaze seemed to fall on an old, greasy frying pan. "Oh, is that one of the new pans from the silver shop in the richer part of town? It's so beautiful, I wanted one for myself but Tom wouldn't buy it, he said we needed food, silly man, he eats as much as a horse and all our money goes down the pipes, but anyway, what a lovely pan! Let me take a look at it!" Under Rose's shocked stare, Victoria stopped blabbering and actually proceeded to hike her full skirts, lean down, and stare at the pan with wonder as if it were some jewel. Unbelievably, Rose could have sworn that she heard the woman "ooh" and "ahh" over the hunk of junk that was at least two decades old, had layers of hundreds of previous suppers from previous owners caked on it, and was cheap scrap metal.
For the first time in a long time, Rose's entire body shook with barely contained mirth. She had a hard time stopping the tears now, but finally, these were tears of laughter.
"Lunch break, boys! See you back here in exactly twenty minutes!" A deep, sandy voice boomed across the long, noisy hallway that contained rows of machinery. The second shift returned from their break at that exact moment, and through the clouds of soot and smoke they took over the first shift's positions so that the contraptions could continue to run nonstop. Red hot irons clanked incessantly on lumps of fabricated steel, quickly molding it into disfigured shapes that would be perfected later. Jack slid over to allow a big, burly man named Mac to control his station. All day, he used tongs to put the metal into a huge vat of water that cooled it, after which another worker would take the solidified shape and smack it back onto a long table surrounded by dozens of men. On this table, the steel would be poked, hammered, chiseled, polished, and oiled – eventually a part used in building a locomotive.
Mac ran a hand through his grizzly red hair, wiped that hand on his work pants, gave a slight nod to Jack, and took the tongs. A look of tedious dedication washed over his face, but Jack didn't stay long enough to observe any more. He hated this damn factory, with the air that was so hot and filthy it was almost a curse to breathe. He'd work himself into a very early grave, and he couldn't describe how happy he was to be leaving. Maybe he just wouldn't show up after today.
He stalked out of the main room, down several corridors, and into a small mess with narrow wooden tables. Cups of cold coffee, slices of stale bread, and portions of meat that had gone bad were all that were offered. Smart men brought things from home, but food was scarce and he wasn't going to take anything that Rose might need or even want. He told her that he was fine with the food there, and she seemed to accept that because it meant that she had to spend less money on groceries.
He picked a clump of bread that wasn't as hard as some of the others and coffee that wasn't complete slime and went to sit at a table of guys that didn't look like they were all hardened criminals or something similar. Harry, a man that Jack had slightly befriended, plopped down beside him and started tearing into a chunk of stuff that looked kind of like ham. Jack shook his head.
"Well, Dawson," Harry shouted to have his speech with the English lilt heard over the dull noise of machines and other loud conversations, "How's the gorgeous lady doing?"
Harry had only seen Rose once when she had come to the factory to meet Jack on his walk home. It had been last October, she had been having a particularly painful day with memories, and she needed him. He remembered how poised and elegant she had appeared when she had spotted Jack and stood from a wrought iron bench to glide to him. Giving off the very essence of high class, she had laced her arm through his and allowed him to quickly introduce her to Harry Schneider, to whom she had graciously engaged in a light and brief conversation. But the look in her magnolia eyes had screamed pain, and Jack had hastily excused them and led her away. The minute they were out of sight, she had dissolved into sobs and fallen into his arms.
"She's . . . getting better, I guess." He sighed in a helpless sort of way and began to pull layers off of the bread clump. "She's been through an awful lot." He meant more than Anna, he meant more than Titanic, he meant more than loss. He meant the sheer weight of having it all thrown on her in one year, and the torture of being unable to remove it but forced to learn to live with it. He had told nobody about Titanic.
"So have you, mate." Harry laughed good-naturedly, trying not to loose Jack to a cauldron of memories, and clapped him heavily on the back. Then, taking on a more serious tone he added, "Just make sure you don't let the woman go. She's got more than beauty; anyone with a pint of a brain can see that. And she loves you." He smiled and turned back to his synthetic ham.
Rose sighed as she lifted a dress from the beaten up wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom and folded it carefully, as she had seen Trudy do hundreds of times. It was six-thirty in the morning, and she had packed almost everything last night. Unfortunately, she had allowed herself to lie down and stretch out for a moment just to rest, and of course she had fallen asleep. Jack hadn't woken her and likewise she now did not wake him as she gently lowered the frock into one of two beaten suitcases that lay flung open on the musty floor. They had showed up mysteriously on her doorstep yesterday afternoon and she assumed that the Benovas had something to do with it.
She pulled out her traveling outfit of choice, which was the warmest thing she had – a white dress that only provided three-quarter length sleeves, but its hem fell below her ankles. Victoria had given it to her a week ago, claiming that she didn't need it and that the color white wasn't flattering on her, but Rose strongly suspected that she couldn't fit into it anymore or she felt sympathy for the Dawsons, who were in financial straits worse than any she and her husband had ever been in. Perhaps both. It didn't matter anyway. She was grateful for the dress and wasn't about to turn her nose to a free offering of clothes. She had labored to sew several shirts for Jack and recently her attempts had taken a turn for the better. They were not hideous anymore, simply awkward, so she devoted all her spare time to perfecting them. She didn't have the opportunity to worry about herself.
Deciding that she should change as soon as possible so she could pack her nightdress, she slipped into the tiny bathroom and shut the door so as not to wake Jack. With a flick of her fingertips, cold water was trickling out of a rusty pipe and she splashed some on her face.
Chippewa Falls. She had never thought that some tiny town in Wisconsin would be the place where she would spend her years, raising children, and growing old. Yet the more she thought about it, the more any opposition to the idea dissolved. She had this strange longing to see the place where Jack had grown up, to see a part of him that she hadn't ventured into. She knew little things – his favorite colors were black, because he could do anything with that color of charcoal in his hand, and he stubbornly insisted that he also loved green, the color of her eyes. He had left his home when he was fifteen. He hadn't had any siblings, and neither had his parents. He wanted to live in a place with open air. He loved adventure. But what she really wanted and needed was to have his entire past meld into one with hers, and she knew that could be accomplished by finding that past. For the first time since Anna, she was filled with a giddy excitement of things yet to come and a happy apprehension of learning lessons that she had never heard of before. Only Jack could do that to her. Only Jack could help her let Anna go.
Balancing carefully so she wouldn't fall over in the little space and make any undue noise, she changed and folded her nightclothes neatly on the floor. Surprisingly, the dress was an exact fit and rather comfortable. She began to think that maybe Victoria had bought it specifically for her and inwardly spat at the idea of charity, but accepted that as a possibility none the less and put it out of her mind.
She ran a brush through her long blood-colored curls. It was far too cold for her to tie them up, so she left them down and decided not to care how uncivilized it looked. She was far, far past caring about appearances and Society. Critically, she examined herself in the spotted looking glass that was spidered with cracks. The neckline was quite low, and in the bitter cold of winter that was not a good thing. She had no choice, but she cast a disapproving eye at her reflection as if she expected it to pull out a more appropriate garment. It didn't, and she sighed in defeat as she pushed open the door from the dark bathroom into the equally dark bedroom.
There was desperation in her silent movements as she raked through her wardrobe, looking for a coat that she had bought at a thrift shop several months ago when coats were not in high demand. If she couldn't find it, then she would surely freeze to death before they even boarded the locomotive. Her breathing began to accelerate and she realized she was dangerously close to hyperventilating when sweat began to bead on her forehead despite the chilly January morning air.
She stepped back for a moment, clamped one hand over her mouth, and rested the other on her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered closed briefly as she began to regulate her breaths. You're with Jack, she murmured in her head over and over again. Nothing can possibly be that overwhelming. He's here. He'll take care of it. Calm down. Her roaring headache began to subside as a love that was irrevocable suddenly poured out all over again and, once more, it was the only thing that truly mattered.
"Goodbye, leaky apartment," Jack cried out in triumph as he easily lifted the two suitcases over the threshold and onto the sidewalk outside. His ocean blue eyes danced, and Rose found herself perilously drowning in them again. His mood was contagious and she couldn't help but laugh. A silver ribbon of warm air colliding with a frosty mass lazily curled upwards from her lips, as if personifying the laugh itself.
Thankfully, she had been able to find it – a cream colored, ankle length coat with white lace trimming the edges and white flower patterns intricately stitched into the thick, soft fabric. There were no beads, so of course most women in upper class hadn't really given it a second glance, but there had been no true reason for it to be marked down as low as it was. She guessed there had been some mistake in the pricing, and she recalled the clerk had told her that it was his first day working there. He must not have known enough about the piece to check it. That in itself was a small miracle, because due to that Rose would be kept warm and safe throughout a winter even in Wisconsin, which shamed winters in New York.
"Would you like to do the honors, my love?" Jack asked in an extremely terrible English accent, making a slight bow towards the door. He couldn't hide the grin that played on the corners of his mouth, even when he pulled the collar of his dark brown coat up to attempt to conceal his face.
Rose always held herself with a stately and dignified posture, but catching onto his game, she dramatically lifted her nose to the air and reached out an elegant hand to the cracked and faded doorknob. Then, with a devilish grin, she yanked it shut as hard as she could and literally sent the building shaking. In that moment, a rush of something heavy escaped her. In that second, a terrible pressure that had been building suddenly snapped. For some reason the air around her seemed fresher than it usually was and the pure white snow that drifted lazily down from cottony skies seemed more beautiful than she remembered.
She had kept herself imprisoned inside of this little, rundown flat for far too long. After awhile, so many painful events and thoughts had been sewn into the walls of her apartment that she had not been able to escape, and eventually she had convinced herself that she didn't want to. But strangely the ember inside of her that had been dying was without warning fueled into a leaping, hot, dancing mass of boiling orange and yellow flame the minute that door was shut. She knew she would never have to open it again, and it would lie peacefully somewhere in the realms of her mind along with everything else she had endured.
A true smile finally gleamed on her face, and her magnolia irises glittered. "I can't wait!" She suddenly cried out, her cheeks flushed pink. Something wonderful, something like a promise, sizzled the icy air and she leapt into Jack's waiting arms. As he lifted her off the ground and crushed her too him, she murmured every sweet word of thanks that she could think of and didn't notice when his magnificent blue eyes filled with tears of disbelief. Then, still dangling above the sidewalk, she pressed her lips to his and hungrily filled him with every emotion she had right then, emotions of excitement and awe. Their kiss ignited things that they had painfully forgotten over the last month, and Jack lost all sense of time. There was no such thing as Time, or Place, or anything else that didn't have to do with this gorgeous angel that was up against him like this. He tangled his hands through her loose fiery hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and the kiss she had intended to be brief lasted for at least ten minutes. They'd never truly know. The only thing Rose knew was that her entire body was trembling when he finally pulled away, he had crushed her against the rotting brick wall, and they were both breathing very shakily and heavily into each other's faces. Reaching up with a wavering hand, she brushed a strand of blonde hair from his face and kissed his bowed forehead gently. He cupped her face with his free palm, the other arm pinning her against him and the building. Each stroke of his fingertips made her trembling become noticeably worse, and soon she could hardly stand.
"Let's get goin', shall we?" It was hardly a whisper in her ear, but somehow she heard it over the roar in her head. She saw the smoke of desire in his eyes, and she knew it was mirrored in their own, but they both let go of the feeling with great difficulty, knowing that nothing could be done to tame it. She licked her burning lips and nodded with difficulty, pushing against him to free herself. He wouldn't let her go at first, and claimed her mouth with another kiss, but this one was sweet and brief.
Soon they were walking with Rose's arm looped through Jack's and both of his hands each grasped around separate handles of two full-to-bursting suitcases. The train station was a mere half-mile away, as they were constantly reminded by the scream of engines arriving and departing from one of the busiest stations in New York City. The hard snow beneath their feet crunched loudly with each step they took.
When they passed the Benova's small duplex, Rose was the first to see Tom and Victoria waiting on the porch covered in several layers of warm clothes. They seemed to be waiting for the Dawsons, and in a moment they were slipping down the steps and across the icy sidewalk.
"You've only just gotten here, and now you have to leave already!" Victoria almost seemed to be in tears as she threw herself at Rose, who had not been expecting the embrace and would have toppled over had it not been for Jack's support to her frame that was unseen by the others. "Why are you going? I've heard that Jack's doing wonderful at his job, and we'll cut down the renting rates if you want us to!"
Tom looked sharply at his wife, and Rose could tell that he didn't agree with her. There was a warning in his eyes that Victoria obviously saw, but she pretended she didn't, and searched Rose's eyes for an answer.
Rose had never wanted to live in New York. She had been offered no choice at the time, with the financial strain and . . . well, and a baby on the way. But so many things had changed since then, from saving up every penny to the loss of something so dear and close to her. Everything was closing in on her, and she had to get out. Again, just in the nick of time, Jack had shown her an escape route which she fully intended to pursue.
She couldn't believe that she was leaving the east coast. All of her life, except for the brief six month stay in England after her father had passed, she had been forced to live in Philadelphia among Society and the privileged; she had been threatened into bearing yachts and cotillions and debuts and balls. There had actually been a time, long ago when she was a little girl, that she had looked forward to these high class parties that made her feel like some princess out of a fairytale. She had allowed her mother's maids to dress her up until she was dripping with lace, beads, silk, velvet, and jewels. But the lovely innocence of her childhood had eventually faded and with it faded the fakeness of wealth, leaving nothing but ugly, exposed lies and ego. She had wanted so desperately to get away.
Now was her chance to completely leave that entire area behind. She could leave the rich bastards of Philadelphia and the dirty, prostitute-infested streets of New York City in her past for good. There was not a single doubt in her mind. "I'm sorry, Victoria, but Jack and I need to get . . . away."
A disappointed understanding crept into Victoria's expression and she hugged Rose tightly. "Good luck, and don't forget to write. It's been wonderful getting to know you," Mrs. Benova murmured, directing her sentence at both Rose and her husband.
Tom was much more dignified and formal in his farewells. He shook Jack's hand and lightly kissed Rose's. "I'm sure Wisconsin will treat you fine, fine, fine, chap," he exclaimed to Jack as he clapped him on the back. "But don't haste to forget that, if things don't work out, we'll always have room for you two here." As he finished his sentence, he pulled Rose into one last embrace and told her one last time that she was beautiful. Jack smiled good-naturedly, but Rose could see a small flash of what could be wariness fade into his irises. Victoria, on the other hand, openly echoed the sentiment.
Feeling like a smothered puppy, Rose graciously thanked them, said final goodbyes, and walked into the light swirling snow towards the train station with Jack and the suitcases close behind. They never saw the Benovas again.
