Chapter Six

March 3rd, 1913
New York City, New York

The sounds of clattering paint cans and a screaming frustrated man awoke Jack. His eyes popped open and he yawned widely, rubbing his face, not at all concerned with all the ruckus beneath his bedroom. He sat up and rubbed his bare shoulder sorely, cursing his springy mattress. Jack raked his hands through his hair and swung his legs to the side of the bed. He rubbed his eyes again, not at all a morning person.

"Jack! Jack! Get down here!"

Jack sighed and stood, taking his time picking his clothes. He opted for a light blue button up and tan slacks. He glanced at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall above his wash basin. He fingered his hair into place and reached for the suspenders dangling over the back of his brass bed frame. He had just got his shirt tucked in and was clamping the first half of the suspenders, when he heard a thunking of boots coming up the straight and narrow stairwell that lead only to his room, the attic. The door flew open. Standing there was a man wearing a mustard yellow smock and light green pants. He thought he was trendy, but Jack didn't quite agree. He always wore a black beret over his dark brown hair that was showing the early stages of gray at the roots. His trendy-look, however, was spoiled by the splatter of red paint up his right pant leg. Jack grinned at the sight of the trembling man. He continued his task.

"Mornin', Frenchie," Jack said, his eyes focused on the clamp of his suspender, "Did you run into those paint cans I warned you about last night? You know," Jack looked at him with a smirk, "the ones we just mixed?"

"This is a disaster!" Frenchie declared in his typical melodramatic way, "First of all, how will I get this stain out of these pants? They're soiled. And second of all, I needed the red for today! Jack, you gotta mix more for me while I work on 'Duvet'. As soon as the red is properly mixed, I'll go right back to the 'The Autumn Night'."

Jack set his hands on his hips, knitting his eyebrows together, "Don't you want the paint to sit first and then have a re-mix? That's your preference, remember?"

"No time for your logical thinking, Jack," Frenchie waved his hand dismissively, "'The Autumn Night' has to make it to Lord Farris' house by the end of the week, no exceptions. He's having a social this weekend and the residency manager for the Museum of Art here in New York will be there! Do you realize how monumental that is, Jack?" Frenchie sighed at the thought, "I could finally get a block in the museum, even if it's just for a little awhile."

"Well, hold on," Jack held his hand up, "why are you stressing so much over 'The Autumn Night'? There are other completed or near completed paintings-"

"No, no, they're not good enough, Jack," Frenchie sighed, "Whose art studio is this?"

Jack sighed and grinned, knowing Frenchie all too well. The man had become a dear friend to him and, in a lot of ways, had saved him. Jack had been in the hospital from April to November. Due to a large amount of sick people, Jack was forced to leave, deemed healthy enough. He was easily prone to fevers and fatigue and had only enough money for cheap sleezy hotel rooms buried beneath the city skyline. Jack had been desperate for a job and had stumbled across Frenchie's ad in a newspaper for an assistant. Jack was eager and Frenchie had hired him on the spot. After learning of what Jack had been through, he offered him the small attic room, since it was unused. Jack had been there for the past three months and was indeed humbled. The two men worked well together, however. Jack was a precise and calculating artist and balanced out the frenzied and over-ambitious Frenchie.

"I know, it's yours," Jack nodded, his smile never wavering, "Just tryin' to help you out."

"You can help me by mixing me more red paint," Frenchie clapped his hands together, "Chop-chop, let's get to it. I still need you to trace out 'Lady Red' so I can prepare to paint that tomorrow for Miss Clark. So, actually, make it a double batch of red."

...

Jack sat in the back part of the studio where the few large, loud, and clunky industrial machines Frenchie was able to afford were. He was hunched over on a stool, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had flecks of paint stuck to his face as he used a stick to mix a large bucket of paint, praying for the right shade.

As he stirred the paint, his face softened, watching the red glisten in the light pouring in through the tall industrial windows. It was almost the same color as Rose's curls. He nearly wanted to stick his hand into the paint, as if to grasp for the texture of her silken hair. Jack ground his teeth together and cursed under his breath. The slightest things reminded him of her. It had been nearly a year and, still, he could not get over her. His survivor's guilt had subsided, but the pain had never gone away. He hated thinking back on the nights he lost sleep thinking about what he could have done differently to ensure she had lived, to be certain they had never lost sight of each other in the panic and chaos. There was only one tangible thing he had left from his brief time with Rose. Her obituary. He had stumbled across it in the newspaper. The only reason he cut it out was because it had a picture of her, taken only a year before the Titanic. She was wearing a short sleeve dress, her hair free around her shoulders. And she was smiling. That was the most important thing to him. He kept it taped to the wall beside his bed and gazed at it frequently.

The sound of shoes scuffing on the concrete floors drew Jack from his thoughts. He felt his shoulders tense. Slowly, his blue eyes peaked over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was a slim girl, wearing a light grey dress. She had long wavy blonde hair that she always wore down. Her eyes were an exuberant blue. She grinned when she saw Jack and leaned against the doorframe.

"Oh, hey, Iris," Jack sat up straight now, "Come to work on some art?"

"Yeah," Iris giggled, coming into the room, her hands clapsed behind her back, "I thought maybe some of my artistic energy would rub off on my brother, so he can finish that painting for the party. It'd be a really great thing for him, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Jack nodded, straightening his back out and taking a breath from his stirring, "He's just workin' himself like a dog. You and I both know great art cannot be rushed."

"Oh, Jack," Iris laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder, "you're just the person to help my poor dear brother out, who has it set in his eyes to cover this whole world in his art."

"Well, we gotta pay the bills, right," Jack teased, making Iris break into giggles again. Jack nodded his head at her, "What's he doin' out there?"

"Working on a painting," Iris grinned, "and trying to convince himself that maybe he can do 'The Autumn Night' without red."

"What!" Jack came to his feet, letting the stir stick sink into the paint, "No, is he insane! This is good enough, let me take it to him before he makes a crazy choice," Jack picked the paint up, staggering a few feet. He held his breath as he lugged it through the steel doorway and into the main area of the studio. It had tall ceilings with rafters and big windows that could be wheeled open on a pulley, "Frenchie!" Jack's voice echoed.

The artist lifted his head from inspecting a bucket of hunter green paint.

"What are you doing?" Jack asked, stopping in place, the bucket of paint swinging at his side.

"Is the red done? Oh, thank heavens," Frenchie sighed, putting the lid back on the can. Iris was laughing again as she walked towards the large community table, where her art portfolio and charcoal pencils were waiting.

"You were seriously considering dropping the red from a scene of autumn?" Jack set the bucket of paint down in front of the painting, "We live in a state that turns red every year! Frenchie, you gotta take a breath, man. Please. For the sake of art?"

Frenchie did as he was told, probably because he was appeased by finally being brought red paint. He looked to Jack with serious brown eyes, "Thank you. Now move. This has to be done!"

Jack grinned and stepped aside as Frenchie pulled a long bundled up tarp out and pulled the paint bucket over to it. He set his hands on his hips and looked around the canvas for a few moments before he nodded and grabbed a clean brush, sopping it in fresh paint. Jack turned to look towards Iris, who was gazing at him with great admiration.

...

Jack and Iris decided to head towards the industrial side of town to pick up more supplies for the frazzled Frenchie, who was beginning to murmer under his breath as he desperately painted to finish all of his current commissions. The afternoon was warm with a cool breeze, just right where they didn't have to wear jackets. Jack was glad. The cold now reared something ugly upon his once healthy body. Beside him, nearly six inches shorter, was Iris, carrying a bag full of new paint brushes. Jack had cluttered in his arms paint thinner and primary colors.

"Do you think he'll finish?" She asked, casting her blue eyes towards him.

Jack smirked at the question as they stood on a street corner waiting to pass. Many horse drawn carriages rolled by, hauling feeder, salt, and other materials. The industrial part of New York City was right along the wide open river that trailed along New York City to Manhattan. The duo could distantly hears the washing of waves and squawks of seagulls.

"Knowing Frenchie, he will," Jack peered down on her, "It always seems like he bites off more than he can chew, but somehow, he pulls it off."

"You know," Iris shifted the bag of paint brushes to her other hip, "Mama is really happy you're working at the studio with Frenchie. With you helping take some of the load off, Frenchie can actually come home from dinner. Mama likes it when we're both there with her eating."

Jack and Iris began across the street. Jack was grinning as he stared forward at the approaching sidewalk, his hair blowing across his forehead, "Well, it's a two-way street. Frenchie gives me somewhere to live in exchange. What better place than my natural habitat?"

Iris giggled at the thought, "I saw a painting that you're working on in the studio."

"What?" Jack's head snapped towards her, "Where?"

"You have it tucked behind the piping by the furnance in the storage room," Iris said, looking at him with arched eyebrows, "Why do you hide it? It looked to be of a beautiful woman with bright red hair."

"It's Frenchie's studio," Jack shrugged, the painting running through his mind, "I don't want him to think I'm horsin' around when I could be getting his things ready."

"Oh, he wouldn't think that," Iris clucked her tongue, "Frenchie has said he's never seen your art. Why do you hide that from him? When we get back, I'm pulling it out and showing it to Frenchie, okay?"

"Do we really have to?" Jack asked, knitting his eyebrows together as the sun shone across his face in between two buildings.

"Yes, we have to!" Iris demanded, "Jack it was exquisite work. Had you painted her before?"

Jack licked his lips and glanced towards the cracked sidewalk as they continued towards the studio. He blinked for a moment, "I drew her once."

"Just once? And you remembered all that detail?" Iris sounded so surprised, "How long ago was this? Recent?"

"Almost a year now," Jack shrugged.

"Hmmm, I'm suspecting she was a past lover, huh?" Iris grinned. When she looked to Jack, though, he didn't at all seem sheepish. If anything, he looked gravely sorrowful. He glanced towards the sky for a moment.

"She was my one true love," He said slowly, "She was the only girl for me."

"Where is she now?" Iris asked.

"She's dead."