The service had already started, and that made it easy to slip unnoticed into the back of the congregation. The old man behind the pulpit was the same old man he had been five and a half years ago. He was looking ancient now, instead of just elderly, but his untamable white hair still stood up in shocks, weirdly framed his heavily lined face. He was as animated as he had ever been, waving his loose arms furiously and slamming his fist onto the surface of his podium whenever he wanted to make a point. His oddly green eyes burned brightly with a passion that few other people had ever known, his strange checkered shirt was still covered with a horribly clashing pinstripe suit jacket. He had a glass of water beside him, on a table to the left, and it was completely normal for him to pause while giving a particularly energetic burst of preaching to swig down a few gulps so he could keep talking. The Bible in front of him was his very own, just as it had always been, and it was so dog-eared that sometimes words had been torn off of the edges of the pages and he filled them in from memory, because he knew that Book like he knew the back of his hand.

"When we get to Heaven, we cannot justify ourselves!" He was thundering now, stomping his foot for emphasis. "We cannot say, 'I am better than my neighbor,' and expect to be allowed entrance! No! Only the blood of Jesus Christ is strong enough to break the chains which bind us to Hell!"

Jack remembered the hundreds of sermons he had heard just like these. The summer ones stuck especially heavily to his mind. He recalled his mother fanning herself with her husband's handkerchief, and the sweat that had run down his father's back. There wasn't very good ventilation in this old building, and the heat had sat thick as lead upon them without being stirred at all. The preacher, Pastor Levoux, had been shiny with perspiration even after he had shed his suit coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Now, though, it was chilly. Most people were still bundled up in coats and scarves, and the very few and very brave people who had taken them off had goosebumps on their skin. The overcoat that Peter had given him was thick and charcoal grey. The inside layer had been patched many times. Jack thought he remembered Pete's father wearing it long ago, but he wasn't sure. In any case, it was clearly worn through but it was so old that it felt soft and comforting against these hard wooden pews.

He was surprised that he and Rose had managed to slip into the sanctuary unnoticed. They had been silent as they sat, and not even the seats had creaked, or maybe the pastor was just storming too loud for any other sound to be heard. Now, his mind was too full to meditate on Heaven. He prayed a silent prayer begging for God to forgive him for not being able to focus, and he thought that it was received well. He looked across the small sea of heads, curious to if he could recognize anyone, and yet not fully wanting to for fear that he wouldn't be able to keep himself silent for the next forty-five minutes until the sermon was complete.

A girl up front caught his eye. He tried to remember who she reminded him of. She had sandy brown hair; it was all twisted up in a knot even though wisps had fallen out and framed her face. Her expression was drawn in, as though she were incredibly tired. From his angle she could see the way her mouth drooped at the corners with weariness. She looked too thin just by the way her collarbone jutted outward. Everything about her seemed to cry that she was simply too exhausted to go on much longer, from her dull brown eyes to the way she loosely held a sleeping baby in her lap.

All of the sudden it hit him. This was Grace, the young girl who had once been May's best friend, who wasn't even his own age of twenty-one. Another painful wave of shock hit him when he saw the little boy that was sitting next to her in ragged clothes and leaning his head against her shoulder. He had to be about five. It wasn't possible that she already had two children, was it? He looked desperately about her for any sign of a husband, but there was none. No one seemed to want to even go near her. The young ones looked very well taken care of, they were so clean that they might as well have been scrubbed down like people did to automobiles, and they appeared well fed. Although Grace too seemed to have taken great pains to make herself as presentable as possible, she looked like she had aged a hundred years in the space of half a decade. The baby began to stir under its knitted blanket. It couldn't have been much older than Anna Jamie. It seemed to think for a moment, wondering if whatever distress it was in was enough to cause a disturbance for, and then apparently decided it was. A shrill cry came from its mouth as it began to kick restlessly against its entrapment.

Grace didn't roll her eyes and she didn't complain. She didn't even hesitate. In two seconds she had stood and helped the boy to his feet. She silently towed him and the baby out of the room, and the baby's yells stopped soon thereafter as she attended to whatever had been wrong.

He sat there in disbelief, not understanding what had happened but knowing that he wanted to. He remembered what a happy, carefree girl she had been, running barefoot through the grass and swimming in lakes even when May was too afraid to follow her. Now she had an infant on her hip and a little one following in her wake, and there was no man with her. Feeling acutely responsible for some reason, he leaned over to Rose and whispered in her ear, "C'mon, I need to talk to that girl. Grace. Her name is Grace." He wasn't about to leave her alone here, but he couldn't rightfully explain everything under the present circumstances. To her credit, she didn't protest and immediately walked in front of him through the doors to where Grace had disappeared. When they reached the entrance, she held a hand to stop him. "Stay here," she murmured, and then she disappeared behind the corner and into a coat closet.

He couldn't make out what was being said and waited impatiently. Curiosity was getting the better of him; he didn't think he could stand much more of this. His mind flew at a thousand miles an hour until he was so confused he could hardly think. He was probably making a big deal out of nothing, after all. Grace's husband was most likely just out of town for the morning or something. But the loneliness in her eyes . . . he remembered the emptiness, the hurt, and he knew otherwise. After a few moments, Rose reappeared. "She was nursing," she whispered. "She's presentable now, though."

He felt a blush rising on his cheeks when he though of how he had almost stormed in on a woman breastfeeding a baby. He needed to calm down and get control of himself or else he was going to end up doing something equally and incredibly stupid. He hadn't seen Grace in years; he hardly knew anything about her. He refused to let himself jump to conclusions.

Rose's gentle hand rested on his shoulder. He looked over at her briefly, just long enough to see the encouragement in her smile. That was enough for him. All of his doubts and worries suddenly didn't seem so huge anymore. He felt like he could conquer them if he needed to. He walked across the planked floor, his boots making hollow thudding sounds that reminded him vaguely of a beating heart.

"Jack!" It was a forced whisper that he heard, almost like it came from someone who was being stepped on. He raised his eyes to meet the face of the woman whom it had come from. From the smoky, unreachable past, beneath years and years of life, he saw a person. She looked like a hauntingly forgotten doll, like someone who had once soaked in the warm rays of beauty and love like one would soak in a bath, but who had been given up like a child gives up a toy for a newer, brighter model. Her pain had sewn years onto her that were beyond her age, making her look like a shadow of the bubbly girl he remembered. Something mysterious and dark lingered in the deep brown of her eyes, even as golden flecks of amazement burst across her irises. She seemed to have stopped breathing, and he was suddenly aware that so had he.

"Grace," he whispered, even as he heard Rose shut the coat closet door behind him. Half of him was praying that he was wrong, that he had the wrong girl, that God had not dealt someone he had known – even if not well – a piece of life that was so hard.

He was suddenly transported back to Paris. In his mind's eye he again saw the woman he remembered, huddling under the projection of a roof. She had been trying to shield her three children from the rain as it cascaded in a river down the road and soaked her thin dress. He had been standing on a nearby door stoop while he waited for Fabrizio to come back from scrounging for food. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had had no urge whatsoever to draw raw emotions like the ones he saw on that woman's face. They were too hopeless, too devoid of anything that resembled dreams or life. She had been crying, he remembered now. He had watched each tear mix with the rain, until he was unable to distinguish them from the mud in the streets. Her oldest, a boy, had looked like he wanted to cry too, but the fierceness in his face forbade it. He had gathered his two siblings to him and held his mother while she wept. To the random passerby, it might seem as though he was trying to protect them from the storm, but Jack knew otherwise. Jack knew he was trying to protect them from the world.

Grace reminded him of that boy. The strength that was in her face was betrayed horribly by the desperation in her eyes. She looked hungry, and not for food, but for life. Her son had fallen asleep next to her on the bench on which she sat, and the baby seemed about to drift off as well. Only with her children not looking did she allow that hurt to show on her features, even though she was now working frantically to hide it from him.

"You're here . . . does May know you're here?" She hastily wrapped the tiny infant tighter in the knit blanket and set it gently on a bundled up wad that had to be her own coat. She stood up, shakily, so that she could hug him. She didn't wait for him to answer. He pulled her carefully to him as she buried her face in his shirt, and he felt her leaning against him more than she had to. A deeper gash of worry cut into his heart.

"Yeah," he muttered over her head, "She knows." She smelled like something soft, maybe bread. He felt how coarse the material of her dress was. He could even feel her spine through the fabric. "How are you, Grace?"

She didn't remove herself from his arms, and he could tell that she wasn't being flirtatious or even overly friendly. She was exhausted. She could hardly stand. And all of the sudden he knew that he absolutely had to help her.
"I'm . . . I'm alright," she replied, finally looking up at his face. She reached a hand out to touch his cheek. "I can't believe you're back. Where did you go?" She didn't seem to believe that he was really there. That scared him even more. He soothingly helped her sit down again, not feeling like he should get into deep conversations right here.

"I've been around. This is my wife, Rose," he answered. Rose didn't hang onto him like she usually did. She was suddenly independent and strong. He could tell that she, too, sensed the vulnerability of the woman before her. He let out a sigh of relief as a weight was lifted from his shoulders – he knew that he would not have to face Grace and her hurt alone. He knew that he didn't have to face anything alone. He could have cried, that realization felt so good.

Grace didn't seem to be able to speak for a moment. She simply sat there, her eyes bleary as they rested upon this fiery-haired apparition. She pressed her lips together as Rose smiled.
"I met you just a minute ago, remember Grace? Right before Jack came in?" Rose's voice was so tender and so soft that it in itself was like a balm to all of the hurt that was in the room. The look on Grace's face said that she had felt it. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, and the flicker of confusion that had sprang into her irises slowly died.
"Oh, yes . . . I didn't know . . . Pleased to meet you . . ." Grace extended a hand to shake Rose's, and even as Grace smiled, she was carefully looking over the woman in front of her. The Jack that she remembered would have died before he got tied down to any woman, except perhaps May. The fact that he had taken a foreign bride – because to Grace, anything outside of Chippewa Falls was foreign – only attested to how much he had been changed. She tore her stare from this Rose back to Jack, and she tried to see what had changed in him. He was taller, he was stronger, but there was something else. Something terribly, terribly sad lived in his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that she had forever coveted. He looked young still, he looked happy to be alive, but something in those eyes betrayed him. It spoke to her, spoke of wisdom and sights that no man Jack's age should have ever been forced to see yet. There was joy there, too, but it was so surely entangled with the pain that she couldn't separate them. Was it possible for pain to be joy and for joy to be pain? She had never thought about this before.
Rose shook her hand, and Grace noticed how soft those hands were. Even in the cold winter air, her hands were not cracked and callused like every other woman's were in this place. They were smooth and unblemished; her nails were rounded and clean, almost as if she had never known any work in her life. Maybe she was just that careful or that graceful, but even the way she stood held certain elegance. It was not acquired elegance, but something deeper – it was elegance by birthright, almost as if the world had been obliged to give her such grace, almost as if because she had been born she deserved such beauty, for she certainly was beautiful. The symmetry of her face, the richness of her lips, the color of her eyes . . . she was absolutely magnificent. How and why she had ended up with the tumbleweed known as Jack Dawson was lost on Grace. There was no snobbery about her, it was as if the entire Earth and all its people knew that she was entitled to such gloriousness and didn't dare to question it, or even want to question it, because it was true.

Grace knew how she looked. She had once been beautiful, too; perhaps not as stunning but very pleasant too look at. She was too thin now, too tired, too worn out by what life had dealt her. She remembered how her own eyes had once sparkled, their amber color radiating all the time, but that color had been dulled and dampened. She was strong only and always because of her children, but now that they were asleep, she was just too tired to pretend anymore. She held two jobs and raised two kids without any help at all. She was coming down with something, too, maybe a cold. The landlord that lived in Eau Claire had threatened to evict her because she hadn't turned in her rent on time for the last five months. Life had been very hard on her, indeed.

Rose sat down next to Grace, making sure her green dress didn't brush against the baby and wake her. She had never heard of Grace before. She didn't know why she had never been told so many, many things . . . and she meant to ask Jack about it, most certainly, but not now. She bit back a hot tongue of anger and kept her gentle smile on her face as she turned to the woman next to her. She needed to get them all out of this coat closet, she knew, because it was apparent that this whole little family was in some sort of trouble and she wasn't going to sit by and let them wither. People had simply watched Rose die once, long ago, and she had learned enough to never let that happen to another human being.
"Jack and I haven't eaten yet. Would you allow us to treat you and your children to lunch? It really would be our pleasure." She was so entirely sincere that it almost broke Jack's heart. He knew by the one look she had spared him that he had hell to pay later, but he didn't really mind, because he also knew he deserved it. He actually didn't know why he had never shared his whole past with her; it just hadn't seemed worthy to bring up, or maybe it had just been too painful. But what he realized now was that she was his wife and she needed to know him.
"Yeah, Grace, c'mon, let's get outta here," he pleaded. "We'll go down by Kris' place and eat over there, at the diner. It'll still open on Sundays, remember?" He grinned at her and he saw her giving in even against her will to take any form of charity whatsoever. Then she looked at her little boy, sound asleep in his worn clothes, and she nodded. Jack understood that she was dismantling herself from her pride for her children.
"What's his name?" Jack asked, as he squatted down next to the kid. His face looked familiar, but Jack couldn't quite place it. His nose . . . his hair . . .

"Tristan," Grace answered quietly. "And this is Lana." She picked up the infant girl and held her against her chest.

"May I?" Rose's voice was tremulous as she reached her hands out to the baby. Grace didn't know what was passing through her mind, but the desperation in her eyes was enough for her to nod. Wonderingly, she passed Lana to this stranger that she for some reason trusted so completely. She watched, confused, as tears brimmed on Rose's eyelids and then seeped over to slide soundlessly down her cheeks.

Jack was standing nearby, watching her with an expression of anxiety, seeming ready to spring to her defense at any moment. Grace had no idea why. Rose slowly rocked Lana back and forth, one of her fingers touching the soft baby skin as gently as a breeze might. There was something dead in her past that was suddenly resurrected, and even as much as it had to hurt, Rose smiled beautifully behind her tears. "She's gorgeous," she whispered, looking up at the little one's mother. "She's absolutely perfect, truly."

"Thank you," Grace answered, and for the first time in a long time a real ray of hope burst into her soul.

The diner was warm and smelled like freshly made coffee. One lone man stood chewing on a pipe in the corner, for the entire place was empty. He would go to the church service in the evening. He didn't know why Owen insisted that they keep the restaurant open on Sunday mornings, because no one ever came. Oh sure, a couple of times a lost and wayward traveler had stumbled through the big oak door to find solace in a hot plate of scrambled eggs and sausage or a steaming mug of tea, but that happened so rarely that the man figured he could count the number of times on one hand. Owen was the boss, though, and the man was grateful for the job and the money it provided that he could bring home to his pregnant wife. She was in her fifth month now, and before he knew it he'd be holding a little baby in his arms. The thought both scared and excited him. Even though he knew he shouldn't on the Sabbath, he grabbed the beer next to him and gulped half the bottle down in seconds.
He glanced out the window into the snow covered world of Chippewa Falls. He had moved here four years ago, and by now he had learned there was no such thing as mild winter. His parents lived nearby – just a couple of miles south – and they had begged him to bring his new wife and settle close to them so that they could be a part of his life. The thought made him laugh and he ran a hand through his tangled mass of sandy hair. His mother was going to drive him crazy any day now, and his father was getting so grouchy as he got older that sometimes the man thought he preferred the company of his parents' dog, Lucy.
All of the sudden he slammed the beer down. "I'll be damned," he whispered to himself. Three people – two women and a man – were heading towards the diner. The man held a little boy in his arms and one of the women, one with pale skin and brown hair that threatened to tumble out of the pins that were keeping it up, cradled an infant to her chest. He recognized her as the single mother who lived in the only apartment complex in the whole town. What was her name . . . something like Mercy? Grace? It was awfully early for her to be out of church. He checked his pocket watch quickly. It was hardly eleven o'clock.
The door swung open and with it came the icy fingers of a cold wind that bit at his hands and cheeks. The man, even though the boy had to be heavy, ushered the two ladies inside before shutting the door behind him. He laid the child gently down on a cushioned seat even as the little guy stirred and slowly awoke. Then he helped the first woman sit down and become situated with her baby before turning to the second and helping her out of her coat.
He chewed on his pipe some more in thought. He hadn't seen the second woman at first, and she was like no female he had ever seen. Yes, he was married, and yes, and he thought that his wife was the most beautiful creature on Earth, but this girl ran a close second. The first thing he noticed about her was what he assumed was the first thing everyone noticed about her – her hair. It was perhaps the most magnificent hair he had ever seen, the color of hot coals or maybe maples in autumn, up in a perfect upsweep and yet wild ringlets still curling down to her neck, looking so soft and silky he wanted to touch it.
He took his time getting over to them, trying to suppress this urge to reach out his work-callused hand and feel the strands of blood fire in front of him. He wondered who she was. He had never seen her before. Maybe she was some kind of model, or a phantom.
"How can I help you?"
Jack turned when he heard a person next to him speak. He briefly assessed the man, studying him carefully with his piercing blue eyes. He didn't recognize him. Was it possible that Chippewa Falls had actually gotten some new blood since he had left? The sandy blonde hair and crooked nose looked familiar, but he couldn't quite remember why. He had a stocky build, and his belt looked a little tight. His eyebrows were furrowed with curiosity and they made him look sinister, but his face was warm and friendly. For the first time in a half an hour, Jack let himself relax. "Uh . . . what's on the menu today?"
Rose tried to glance at Grace but be discreet at the same time. She had never had much experience in truly helping people; giving out charity, except for appearance reasons, had generally been ignored in her home. Yet some kind of instinct was kicking up inside her, the instinct that she was sure her husband had as well, an instinct that could only be called compassion. Her heart cracked in so many places for this woman and her children that she could feel it breaking. She was half relieved that, although her parents hadn't been able to, she could still feel. The other part of her was terribly sad for the life God had given Grace.
"Yeah, I'll have just a ham sandwich and some potatoes," Jack said, selecting the cheapest thing that the man had listed. The idea of hot, creamy potatoes was appetizing to him anyway.
And all of the sudden the memories started to hit him. He couldn't have stopped them if he tried, he hadn't even seen them coming. He swallowed as they threatened to overwhelm him, and suddenly he wasn't in Wisconsin anymore. He wasn't even in America. He was on the ocean.

Jack, being a seasoned traveler, didn't expect to be impressed by the third class dining room on Titanic. By the ship itself, he had been absolutely amazed – mostly by the sheer size and sparkling newness of everything. Yet Jack was not naïve, and he knew that no matter how much advertising there had been about the Grandest Ship in the World, the steerage mess hall would still be on the bottom of the priority list. Yes, he had been pleased with his cabins. But the place for the poor folk to eat? It would be just like all the others: dirty, long rows of wooden planked tables, a counter that you had to line up in front of to get your food, and a floor covered in sawdust to muffle the horrible stenches that came from the kitchen. The meal would be small, and you were considered lucky if you could tell what you were eating. He usually lost a lot of muscle and about fifteen pounds on voyages like this.
Well, he had been wrong.
As he sat in a warm, roomy chair with blue upholstery, he was still dumbfounded. The room was so white that he thought maybe Heaven looked like this, so bright and airy. Decorative posters of other ships were carefully mounted along the walls, and green plants overflowed from tastefully simple pots. He drummed his fingers nervously on the white linen tablecloth, uncomfortable with the upper crust style he was so unaccustomed to. A line of waiters trouped out of a swinging door that must have led to the kitchen, carrying all kinds of steaming food. A bowl of mashed potatoes was set down in front of Jack, along with sausages and soft bread. He didn't move.
Fabrizio, however, wasn't so shy. In one sweeping motion he had emptied two sausages and a mountain of potatoes onto his porcelain plate. He gnawed on a piece of bread that was being held in his free hand. The grin on his face probably was enough to stretch across a couple of continents. They hadn't eaten very well in the last few weeks. Their most recent meal had been week old vegetables discarded from a restaurant in Southampton, since they had pitched the rest of their money on cigarettes.
He managed to grab a roll that was in a wicker basket near him. He tossed it back and forth between his hands. It wasn't the hardtack he was used to from tramp steamers; it was light and fluffy feeling. Of course, there weren't elegant tables or crystal goblets or caviar or lamb, but the bread itself seemed miraculous. He was very hungry. After examining it for a few more seconds, he finally ate for the first time in twenty-four hours.

The breeze lifted the hair off of the back of Jack's neck as he stood on the stern, leaning against the rail. Night had fallen over the Atlantic. He twirled an unlit cigarette aimlessly between his fingers, rubbing it against his palms. The water was as black as the sky, almost like charcoal. The Titanic steamed through the air that was thick with blackness, penetrating it with its thousands of lights. His eyes caught the stars the glimmered above him. He had never seen so many stars in his entire life. They were too beautiful to be from Earth, he decided, and that was when he knew, forever and eternally, there was a God. He picked out the constellations that Fabrizio had taught him, ones that Fabri's father had pointed out to him when he was a young boy. They shone and sparkled, winking at him from their celestial place in the heavens, painting beautiful pictures that were as ancient as Time itself.
Fabri was standing next to him. His deep brown eyes reflected the voidness of the world around him. He hadn't spoken for a long time. Jack glanced over at him, silently wondering what he was thinking. He remembered Fabrizio's mother, and how, right before he had left, Fabri had promised her he would be back within two years. Those two years were about to run out, and he wasn't coming home. Fabrizio de Rossi was a man who would rather die than break his word. It had to be killing him. America was the one thing he had aimed at his whole life, and he had wanted to get there more than anything else. But he had left a mother and a sister behind who were forced to provide for themselves. Even though they had insisted that he go, he had to feel guilty about it.

Just as though he could read Jack's thoughts, Fabrizio started to talk, his eyes still staring emptily over the ocean. "Mama needed me," he muttered. "She needs me still." He took a deep breath of the cold air around him, and Jack had the impression that he was trying viciously to bite back tears. The smell of beer was on him. Even though Jack, too, had drunk alcohol, he knew his friend had drunk more. He knew his friend was trying to drown out his shame. He looked away for a minute. It was his fault, his entire damned fault, that he had taken Fabri from Europe. As long as there was not the Atlantic separating them, he had known that Fabri would go back to his family farm someday. Not anymore. It wasn't going to happen now. And he had been the one who had made them enter the poker game for the tickets, who had stupidly gotten on the ship without thinking, who was towing an Italian away from the world he knew. It had been bad enough that he had been so much of a coward that he had ran away from his dead parents. It was anguish that he had taken a man away from his alive mother.
"And I just a' can't go to her anymore," Fabri continued, his voice rising as his emotions did, almost to a note of hysteria that Jack had never heard from him before. Jack buried his face in his hands, all of his energy gone, feeling like an old man. "I a' can't. I let her down. I was man of the house, and I left." He swore violently in Italian, his entire face as white as a sheet. Jack had always known his friend was innocent, maybe even a little naïve, but the consequences of this action Fabri could never have dreamed. "She will die old and alone, after my sister gets a' married!" But then his entire body stooped as he thought of a more horrible outcome. "Or maybe . . . my sister won't get a' married. Maybe she will spend her whole life caring for a woman whose son should have been there!"

Half of Jack wanted to embrace the poor, broken man, but he wouldn't do that. He was a man, and men didn't hug. Men didn't cry. Men didn't show any weakness at all, because if he did, surely that would be the death of him. He bit his lip and remained silent.
"I will never get the money to bring Mama to America!" The tears in Fabrizio's throat made his accent thicker, to the point where he was hardly understandable. "Even if I do, she no come. She loves
Italia, and so did I! So did I!"
Jack prayed furiously that it was only the booze talking, only the harmless deep brown beer, and not Fabri at all. He prayed that Fabri would forgive himself, forgive him, forgive the world and forgive his dream for betraying him. He sank against the railing, feeling the cold metal press against his forearms where his plaid jacket was bunched up. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain, so he didn't talk at all. He took a match out of his pocket and lit up the cigarette, puffing steadily on it, watching the silvery clouds of smoke turn and twist into the empty space above him, trying to touch the stars.
He heard Fabri's boot scuffing up the deck next to him and saw his knuckles clutch the rail so hard they turned white. He began to pray again, more fervently this time, almost more than he had in his entire life. He hated to see his best friend in agony like this; it was worse than him being in such pain himself. He swallowed.
"But I still go," Fabrizio whispered, his voice so low that it was like the delicate doves in Paris. He looked over at Jack, and the tears that had reflected in his eyes vanished to leave them deep and dark. "I still decide to go. Is that a sin?" The questioning in his face was so honest that it twisted Jack's heart.

Jack continued to watch the glowing embers on the end of his cigarette as they sparkled. A few ashes dropped from the tip and fell into the churning black water. He knew he needed to say something, but he had no idea what to say. Nothing he thought of seemed any good. He was usually the type to carefully choose his words, but right now, he sensed that some logical answer wasn't what Fabrizio needed. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times before finally talking.
"I don't know," he muttered, giving up on his attempted smoke and throwing the whole damn thing as far into the ocean as it would go. He saw the orange was extinguished by the wind before it disappeared into the darkness that surrounded him. "I don't know." He felt so tired.
Fabri seemed to consider this. He swept his hat off of his head and twisted it between his rough hands. His dark hair blew off his forehead, the same color as the night. Jack didn't know what was running through his mind. He didn't want to know. For some reason, it seemed like a moment to let private thoughts stay private. He walked a few steps away, aimlessly wandering across the deck, stepping over thick mooring ropes and vents. Because he was on the back of the ship, he could look behind them into the deep void that was the Atlantic. It was as if the
Titanic and its passengers were the only signs of civilization left on the planet.

He felt blessed silence wrapping itself around him, punctuated only by the steady hum of the engines and the whispering sound of water being peeled back as the ship cut through it. Even thoughts couldn't break this thick blanket of quiet. He forced himself to not think, to not feel, even if just for a moment. There was nothing but him and the blackness and the stars. Maybe Time had never existed in the first place.
It didn't last very long. He heard Fabrizio coming up behind him, breaking into his little world, but he didn't mind. Two years ago, he had said without really saying that his world was now Fabri's, too. They just stood there in compatible quiet for a moment, listening to the ocean and the sky talk to one another.
Finally, whispering so low that it sounded like summer rain, Jack muttered, "I'm sorry." It was all he had to offer, this meager apology. If he could have given his best friend the world in offering, he would have, but the world was not his to give. He stood there, his head bowed but his shoulders square as only a man's could be, waiting to find out if his humble admission would be accepted and at the same time knowing that the kind Italian next to him would be able to do nothing else. Fabrizio didn't say anything for a minute. He fumbled in the pocket of his old faded black coat and brought out a smoke much like the one Jack had just tossed. He held out his hand, and wordlessly Jack gave him a match. After the end had been lit, he shook it furiously to stifle the flame and then threw it into the water. He took a deep drag, the heavy aroma of the first puff on the cigarette making him cough. The next inhale was better since the scent was diluted and he didn't even blink as he blew out a cloud of smoke that mixed with the steam of their breath.
"Did you a' see that girl? That girl I talking to after dinner?"
Jack looked over at him with eyes that stung from the smoke, and his knees went weak with relief. Fabri had just completely forgiven him without having to say a word. He swallowed, not able to put his emotions into words. Instead he too pretended that their earlier conversation had never happened.
"Yeah, she was a looker," he said, swatting his hair out of his face again. He turned his eyes back to the heavens for half a second before looking down again.
"Her name Helga," Fabrizio went on, and for the first time in the past half an hour, he smiled. "She's
bella. But I . . . I . . . I no good for her. I can't be loving a woman like that. She's too good for me."

Jack looked over at his friend, and saw the compassion in his eyes. He had been wrong. He wouldn't give Fabri the world – the world wasn't enough for someone who had a heart like that, who had the capability to be a friend like that. He laughed. "There is no one too good for you, Fabrizio de Rossi."

Rose didn't even know what she was saying to Grace at the moment . . . something about New York? It was dangerous to not have control over her own mind, but that was how it was at the second. For all she was thinking about the conversation, she might as well have told the woman that she was an ex-convict and she had met Jack on a chain gang.
The reason Rose was so unfocused was Jack. He was always the reason, it seemed, but now she was getting angry with him. It was an emotion she had only experienced a few times before in her life, and she still didn't know how to handle it. His spirit was so closely entwined with hers that she didn't know how to be mad at him without being mad at herself, but his actions left her no choice. He hadn't even spoken a word for the last ten minutes, leaving her to try to host a woman that she didn't even know. It was obvious that Grace didn't mind speaking with her, but her eyes kept flitting over to Jack every few moments and Rose knew that she had something serious on her mind. Would it kill Jack to listen for two seconds? To seem even somewhat engaged in the moment? He was being the most unsocial she had ever seen him, and to a friend that he hadn't seen in years, for God's sake! She felt completely out of place and it was all his fault.
Hostilely, she spared him a glare when Grace was preoccupied Lana for a second, but he didn't even look at her. The fogginess in his eyes told her he was thinking deeply about something, but what that something was she didn't know. She couldn't read him as easily as he read her; she wasn't the artist. This was not a good moment for him to do what he was doing. She wanted to be an immature child and kick him under the table, but she didn't. Instead, she ignored him completely, like he wasn't even there, because he certainly didn't seem to be. Eventually she felt him shift, but she was busy asking Grace about the best time to go to the markets in Chippewa Falls and she didn't even give him a second of her time. He must have understood that he was getting the cold shoulder by now.

"What have you been doing the last six years?" Jack asked. That had been the wrong thing to talk about; he knew that now, both from Rose's horrified stare and from the way the smile left Grace's face. How could he have been so stupid? It was obvious that whatever she had been doing was not lunchtime conversation. Tristan was playing with the buttons on his shirt.
Moderate relief was given by the man who worked there, since he came over with their food at that second. Everyone had ordered sandwiches all around, except for little Lana, of course. The baby slept on in her mother's lap, while the little boy nearly jumped off his seat with excitement at the chocolate milkshake that the man had given him – for free, nonetheless. The Dawsons didn't have a wallet exactly overflowing with cash. Maybe the man had sensed that. Jack smiled at him gratefully.
The distraction had caused him to forget that he had ever asked an awkward question, so he almost choked on his sandwich when Grace finally answered, albeit indirectly. "You've seen Peter, then," she murmured. It was not a question, but a statement. She brushed back a few loose strands of brown hair behind her ears. Jack remained confused, but he had not failed to notice how Rose's eyes lit with understanding. Feeling like an idiot, he nodded.
"I haven't seen him since . . . well . . . almost a year ago . . ."

Alright, now Jack knew something was wrong. Tears were gathering on Grace's eyelashes, making her eyes shimmer and sparkle like glass. He put down his fork. She pressed her lips together, and he wanted very much to know what she was thinking. When he looked at her, he saw someone who had been betrayed by trust, and it must have stung her deeply.
"Tristan, honey, you didn't wash your hands. Go into the bathroom and wash your hands," Grace said, her voice suddenly bright as she fought to keep herself from crying. Her son, who sweetly obliged without a word of protest, plopped down onto the floor and padded away. Once he was out of earshot, she turned and stared at the table. "Why, Jack, why did you leave when you did?" She whispered, and regardless of her struggle a tear managed to find its way to her cheek. It fell and splattered on the worn table top.
Jack balled his hands into fists. He had no idea what this woman was talking about, and yet the absolute pleading and regret in her voice made a needle sharp pain dig into his soul. He turned his stony gaze from her to the snow outside, which was swirling like thick cotton blown about by the wind. A tabby cat wandered aimlessly over the frozen ground, looking like it was an inch from death. Even from this distance he could see the bones under its fur. It slid underneath a porch.
"I don't know," he muttered, his expression empty. He wasn't hungry anymore. Rose, who always was there for him when he needed her, set her frustration aside and laid a soft hand on his upper arm, and he felt the hardness of his insides beginning to melt. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't talk. Something was putting so much weight on the back of his throat that he was incapable of making a sound. He sat up straighter, prouder, stronger, because he knew that the something was tears, and he would not give into them. He felt Rose's fingers running up and down his shirtsleeve, calming him, trying to convey to him that he needed to hold onto whatever shred of sanity he still had. He didn't understand the pain in Grace's eyes, nor the accusation. There was no doubt that she was unwillingly blaming him for something. Fire burned in her irises, hot and dancing and furious, but mixed with that fire were the tears of the terribly sad, hesitant and empty.

As Grace studied Jack, trying to decide if he was worthy of the information she was thinking about giving him, she realized that she already knew the answer. This was the boy who had been the young love of her best friend, with whom she had spent hours talking to and laughing with. She had never known him as well as May had, but she had felt connected with him. Maybe everyone who met Jack Dawson felt connected with him. Either way, she adored him with the naïve adoration of a friend, and she couldn't stay angry with him. All of the fault she had held with his memory for the last few years faded away. The volatile, carefree light that had always surrounded him and made him so appealing still did surround him, making him seem innocent in a way she knew he wasn't. Regardless, it was enough to make her open her mouth and speak the words she had never spoken to another human being because of the shame, because of the failure.
"After you left . . . Peter didn't want me anymore." Her voice was so timid that she wondered if he had heard, but in the end she knew he had because of the shock that sizzled in the currents of air between them. She studied her sandwich with newfound interest as he remained silent, not even breathing. Before he could say anything, Tristan promptly bounded back to the table, talking loudly about how wonderful chocolate milkshakes were.

Jack nodded an uneasy goodbye to Grace Malone, watching as she made her way around a corner to the poorer side of town with shanties, where he assumed she lived. The last thing he saw was the tattered end of her coat as the wind whipped it around the post office, and then she was gone, Tristan following happily in her wake and Lana gurgling in her arms. He bit his lip so hard that a scar reopened and he tasted blood. The coppery essence of it made him want to gag and was it the same time a wonderful distraction for his brain, which had been working on double time for the last half an hour. He hadn't been very good company, and he hadn't said a word to Grace since she had last spoken except to accept her sincere thanks and to tell her he'd be seeing her soon. His thoughts throbbed.

If he had understood her correctly, and he was quite sure he had because his mind was incapable of fabricating such a statement, she had implied to him that Peter, Pete Filner, was the father of her children. Although the idea bounced against his skull, he refused to dissect it because the consequences were just too severe and he couldn't absorb them. He wanted to believe Grace was crazy. She certainly didn't appear to be in a healthy state. He shot down that hypothesis immediately, because no matter how her physical health was her mental health seemed to be just fine. Okay, then, maybe she just wanted someone to accuse for how life had treated her. Maybe she wanted to lash out at whoever was near her by hurting them with someone whom they loved, and she knew that when they had all been children Jack had loved Pete like a brother. That was it. She was just a bitter woman with a hard heart who needed to spit venom back at the cold world that first hated her.

But then he remembered the sadness in her face, the tenderness in her voice when she had spoke to her son and daughter, and the dignity she maintained throughout the whole encounter. He remembered how kind she had been to Rose, and how her eyes had lit up when he had walked into the coat closet. He kneaded his forehead with his hands, ignoring the biting cold. There were only two options – either she had been lying or she had been telling the truth – and he was going to figure it out right now.
As if reading his thoughts, he felt icy but gentle fingertips on his chest. "Don't do anything absurd," Rose whispered, and she moved her thumb to wipe the blood off of his lip. He pressed her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes, trying to soak in her softness.

"I won't," he muttered, pulling her close to him for the briefest second. Church was out by now, and he looked up the street to the Filner's place. An oil lamp was burning in one of the windows. "Do you know your way back home?"

She nodded, completely unafraid, completely understanding what he had to do. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, right there on the doorstep of the restaurant, throwing her arms around him. It was a sweet kiss, one like the kisses they show in the nickelodeons, beautiful and pure like rain. Then she was gone.

He stood there for a long time in the bitter wind, letting it rake through his hair and burn his skin. He tried to decide what he was going to say but he couldn't. A good while later, he turned heavily toward the old house up the road and trudged through the snow to get to it.

May was just changing into her everyday clothes when she heard the downstairs door open. She didn't recall hearing anyone knock, and immediately her blood chilled. Her brother had borrowed a neighbor's mule to go to the lumberyard and buy more firewood, and she was alone. In Chippewa Falls, one didn't usually lock the front door, but then again intruders didn't usually barge in uninvited. Clad only in a slip, she managed to tiptoe barefoot to the landing with a candlestick holder from her bedroom in her hand. The soft carpet masked her footsteps, but just as she reached the edge of the stairs a floorboard underneath her creaked and, because she hadn't been expecting it, she let out a gasp of surprise. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she heard the door shut softly again and boots stomp across the floor, quickly, as if they were in a hurry. Terrified, she did the only thing one could do in a situation. "Who is it?" She asked, her voice wavering pathetically with fear.

There was no answer.

Now she began to inch down the staircase, one fragile step at a time, raising the candlestick holder back over her head. She was cold and gooseflesh broke out across her body. Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders, and the idea of a rapist being in her house made her freeze with horror. "Who's there?" She called out again, looking in the direction of the back door and trying to gauge how long it would take her to bolt for it.
"Where's Pete?" The voice came suddenly, from nowhere, and loudly, from everywhere. She recognized it immediately and she wished instantly that it was indeed a rapist instead of Jack Dawson, who stood five feet to her left at the bottom of the stairs, and who was staring at her face without blinking. She dropped the candlestick holder with a crash, and it rolled down each step to his feet. She crossed her arms over the thin fabric that covered her chest.
"Why didn't you knock?" She asked harshly, tears coming to her eyes. She was so embarrassed she was afraid she was going to die. Each time her heart beat it hurt her ribcage and she felt like she was suffocating. She considered turning her back on him to run upstairs, but she couldn't move. She saw his gaze and the way that he never looked down to rove her but only stayed respectfully on her eyes. Although half of her was thankful, the other half of her was offended and wished that he would look so she'd know he wanted to look, so she'd know he was still attracted to her.

It was he who moved first. He shrugged out of the old patched overcoat that her brother had loaned him, the one that had been her father's, and he walked up to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. She nearly died when his fingertips touched her shoulder. The gentleness in his eyes was not what she wanted, but the blistering heat that lingered there when he looked at his wife. When she didn't do anything, he took it upon himself to button it up so as to cover her completely down to her shins. Then he stepped away, and muttered an apology for not knocking before he asked again about the whereabouts of Peter.
"He . . . he went to get firewood . . .," she stuttered, at a loss for her voice. If they had been alone in a house when they where teenagers, and if he had found her looking like this, then most certainly something would have happened. The fact that she still wanted it to and he didn't attested to how much he had changed. She gestured meekly to the empty grate beside the fireplace, and to the dying flames. In seconds he had messed around with the smoldering logs enough to start up a roaring blaze.
"I'll wait for him," Jack said in the quiet way he had, and sank in the nearest armchair. She watched him, transfixed by his ethereal quality, half drunk with the sudden realization that the coat that was touching her bare skin had been touching his moments before. After that, all thought burned away and she just stood there, barefoot and dumbfounded and freezing, but not comprehending any of it. Like a brainwashed zombie, she had been drawn into his aura of carefree attractiveness; she had been yanked into his magnetic personality. She was like a suicidal fish that had jumped onto shore and now lay dying on the burning sand, but didn't know enough to get back in the water. It could be said that she nearly worshipped him, and he still remained oblivious. The fact that he couldn't see her adoration made her feel as if something cold and hard and heavy was squashing her, laughing at her, killing her. The sun was getting blotted from her life, the end had to be near, she couldn't even breathe! The desperation to love him and for him to love her was murdering her in cold blood and there was no escaping it! She wanted to get sick, and she thought that if she could move she most certainly would, but she couldn't. All she could do was silently scream and weep and mourn for a love that had been hers but no longer was, and it was driving her to the brink of madness!

"Why . . . why did you leave me?" She croaked, unable to stop herself from asking and unable to stop the hot tears of hurt from rolling down her cheeks. It had all built up for so long, all of this anger and pain that he had caused, and she had held it back for years. But now the dam of her anguish had broken and the torture was just too much for her to bear. Her entire body shook as she cried. "Why? Why did you go when I needed you? Why didn't you take me with you? I waited for you for so long! Why did you do that to me, Jack, why!" She was furious now, her eyes hard and cold and empty as she stood there crying so hard she thought she was going to break into pieces, glaring at him like only those with a broken heart can glare.

He looked at her in shock, and for some reason this awoke even more of her irate, bubbling rage. He looked so innocent – how could he not know all the horror he had caused her? If he hadn't seen how much he was hurting her, that made him a despicable asshole, and she told him so on that cold winter Sunday.

He didn't get up and he didn't speak a word. His mouth was slightly parted in surprise and she had had enough. She slapped him full across the face, not understanding why because she loved him still, but it was like she didn't have control of her hand. He didn't blink. She swore at him until she couldn't talk anymore because the gasping sobs were taking away her air, and then she crumpled onto the floor and buried her head in her palms and wept, her black hair hiding her face.
There was no sound for several moments except for her anguished crying, and Jack still didn't say anything. Maybe he couldn't, but she could. She had been waiting for years to say something. She had been waiting for him, waiting for love, waiting for life, and she had been left empty and forgotten.

Finally she whispered through her fingers the words that had been the source of her pain for so long. "I loved you, Jack. I loved you and you left me to love alone." Her voice was so marred by tears she wondered if he could understand her, but it didn't matter anymore. She couldn't tell him that her love had survived to today, she just couldn't, but the admittance she had just made burned her heart like cold steel.

When she managed to raise her head, she saw that he had covered his face with his hands.