Chapter Thirty
December 5th, 1913
New York City, New York
When Jack woke up, the sun was just showing through the window as dawn broke. It was a rather overcast day with snow caked along the panes of the window. He sat up and rubbed his eyes tenderly, letting out a wide yawn. He glanced towards Rose slumbering beside him. Her back was towards him, the morning light making her bare skin glow with an orange hue. By the rhythm of her breathing, he knew she was still asleep. And rightfully so, he thought.
Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his crumpled pants, hobbling into them silently, so as to not disturb Rose. As he laced up his belt and shrugged his dark purple button up on, he stared down at the angel in bed. She had come home an absolute disaster, so wound up, emotionally clogged. She hadn't wanted to talk much and Jack certainly didn't push anything. They sat in the same room in silence, relishing in the presence of the other. But when they had gone to bed, finally, as the moon sailed towards the center of the sky, she finally let her emotions out to him. In the most physical way she knew how.
Jack carelessly left his button up undone as he left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He scrunched his toes up against the plush cream carpet as he opened the curtains and windows to let the cool morning air in. He stuck his head out the window momentarily, allowing the cool air to prick his skin. When Jack went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, he noticed the pizza box from the night before. He opened the box slowly to see it completely untouched. He sighed, pushing it to the corner of the counter.
As he fumbled about to make coffee, his mind drifted down the hall, to the slumbering woman. He shook his head, running his tongue along the front of his teeth, She doesn't deserve to be so unhappy. Just, what can I do? What more? There has to be something... Feh, I thought moving on from the Titanic, moving on from her supposed death, was the hard part. It certainly was not, Jack snorted lightly, flicking the machine on and leaving it to do its business. He meandered into the living room, his arms crossed over his chest. He glanced to her stacks of books on the coffee table and came to pause behind her writing desk, looking to the variety of texts laid out, strewn across the next. Jack gripped the back of her chair, I understand her hurt. It's what we share. Tim has got to understand. Rose may have bought herself time, but what can I do to make Tim realize the break will never end? Make him know he will never hold her again. Never take her to another family gathering. Never kiss her.
Jack grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the bar and climbed onto the windowsill, uncaring of his dishevelled look so early in the morning. He inhaled deeply, folding a knee against his chest. He tilted his head back against the wood molding along the wall, allowing the coolness to seep against his neck. He glanced towards the low hanging gloomy clouds. They threatened to drop more snow on New York City in an instant. Jack pursed his lips, lowering his cigarette, I just want her to be mine. Is that such a crime? Why does it feel like I have to pry her out someone else's hands to have her? For once, I just want the security that she can be mine. I love her. She loves me. This should be simple. It was for my parents. Why am I havin' so much trouble? He scrunched his eyebrows together and put his cigarettes between his lips, Does it seem like a far shot? Is that what the universe is tryin' to tell me? Yeah, well, I know she's too good for me. Nothin' like that has ever stopped me before. Just try to stop me now.
He tapped some ash out the window, watching as finally the early bird tradesmen began to rise and wander out onto the street as the day grew brighter. Jack glanced to his cigarette and then down the hall towards the closed bedroom door, She's mine.
Jack looked around the brightening apartment and spied the manilla folder with his last name on the coffee table, shoehorned between two thick biographies. Holding his cigarette between his lips, he hopped down from the sill and slid the folder out, cradling it in his hands. He again looked towards the bedroom door. He then threw his cigarette out the window and sunk into a nearby recliner, opening the folder slowly. Jack was confronted with his birth certifcate. Carelessly, he strew it aside, and found his eyes locked on his parents, looking back at him. Jack lifted the picture, knitting his eyebrows together. He recalled their tender smiles in that moment, their warm voices. His eyes flickered to his own young self and he bit his lips, What would they think of me now?
He set the picture down and looked towards he next. His own mug shot. Jack had nearly forgotten about the entire ordeal. It had seemed like another lifetime ago. He smirked, looking at his sorry self, Yeah... sounds 'bout right for Chippewa Falls... Jack turned the page over to see death certificates. He lifted the two in them in separate hands, looking between his parents type-written name. Official Time of Death: June 23rd, 1906, 2:31am.
Jack set the certificates down as they began to sear his palm. He then saw two black and white pictures beneath them with the seal of Wisconsin state in the corner. The remains of the family home. Reduced to nothing but some sooty seared boards, stuck upright in piles of ash. Jack gnawed on his lip as he stared at what was left. Jack hadn't been home that despite his mother's asking. They had to be at church the next morning and Jack had fallen asleep the last sermon due to hanging out with friends all night, drinking, smoking, roaming where they had no business. Jack had disobeyed his mother and chose to lay in an open field with some friends from the school yard, nursing and sharing a bottle of whiskey someone had swiped from their father's liquor cabinet. He remembered distinctly that he and his friends noticed the billowing smoke across the field. But in their minds, under the influence, they convinced each other it was simply a bon fire, which was not uncommon in rural Wisconsin. But boy, Jack thought, they were totally off-base.
He stumbled home in the morning, washed-up, exhausted, from his wild escapade with the wrong crowd from the school yard. He came onto the dirt road leading to his family's farm, coming through some weeds that were waist high on the young boy. When he stepped on the road, that's when his red eyes finally laid on the commotion along where his house should have been. The smoke had grayed as it still wafted away from the disaster. Jack set the pictures down and closed the folder, setting it on the coffee table. He bobbed his knee for a moment before he lunged for his cigarettes, dangling against the window, No more of that. No more.
Just then, the coffee pot whistled, startling him. Jack took a few more puffs of his cigarette before he threw it out the window again, jogging towards the kitchen. He made two cups of coffee, rolling his sleeves up in the process. He found a small serving tray in a lower cabinet and quickly toasted some bread, spreading margarine across them. He then grabbed an apple, carrying it towards the bedroom on the tray. He gently pushed the door open to see her still in the same position she was when he left.
Jack closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, setting the tray down beside him. He tenderly reached over, grazing his hands along her bare shoulder blades. Gently, his hands rubbed her shoulders and down her arm and slowly, she began to stir. His eyes momentarily glanced to the pile of soaps sitting on her vanity stand as she turned over, pressing the quilt to her bare chest. Rose blinked for a few moments, taking in a deep breath and glancing towards the tray Jack had on the bed. Jack smirked at her, so sleepy as the morning light bathed her.
"Jack," Her voice cracked slightly as she sat up on her elbows. After a moment, she grinned lightly, "How'd you know I wanted coffee?"
"I had a hunch," Jack replied softly, "Prop yourself up. Have my mediocre breakfast in bed," He laughed now as she sat up and Jack handed her a cup of coffee, "How'd you sleep?" He asked, pushing some of his tossled hair from his forehead.
"I always sleep well when you're next to me," She replied quietly before taking a sip of coffee.
"Rose," Jack looked up from his toast, "what happens now?"
Rose looked to the window for a moment and licked her lips, lowering her mug, "I feel like I only gave myself time. It was... a mess, to say in the least," Rose exhaled, almost frustratingly, "It's only days until he's knocking at my door again, Jack. I don't want to hurt him," She looked to him, her green eyes shimmering in the morning light pouring through the window, "I don't know what to do."
"You're going to have to tell the truth..." Jack lowered his eyes, "The truth might hurt him," Jack looked back to Rose, whose eyes were locked on him, "but so be it. Not everything can be great. He has to understand, Rose. He has to."
"It just seems... heartless," Rose sat up now, folding her legs criss-cross, uncaring of the drooping quilt exposing her nude body, "I don't want to destroy his entire self-worth."
"It's not heartless," Jack insisted, looking to her intently, "It's the truth."
"A truth can be heartless," Rose said.
"But at least it's the truth," Jack shrugged, "All the cards are on the table."
Rose closed her eyes for a moment, "I just want to be with you, Jack."
"We'll get our chance," Jack told her, "if we tell the truth."
...
December 7th, 1913
New York City, New York
It was Frenchie and Iris' mother's birthday, so Jack knew they wouldn't be doing any painting that day. He left from the studio mid-morning after setting up his equipment so he could get a headstart that evening for Frenchie. Jack stepped out onto the street that was being layered in snow as it quietly fell from the sky in a steady wave. The street was practically desserted of any cars and carts. People walking along the paths were hurried to get out of the winter slush.
Jack walked at a leisurely pace, his hands dug deep into his woolen coat. The snowflakes caught into his layered hair and along his shoulders as he continued up the incline that would lead him out of the industrial section of the city. He glanced towards the sky, some snowflakes chilling his skin and leaving him wet. At a nearby park, he watched some children scramble about to put together a snowman. His face did not twitch, however. He walked with one goal in mind. His destination.
He fumbled to pull his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one as his shoes crunched into the street, which had not been cleaned by the street sweeper yet. He looked around, his breath puffing around him as he made it to the other side. Jack shifted his cigarette between his lips and paused to look at some artwork painted on the side of a tall brick building with an alleyway running along the side of it.
It featured someone's hands cupped together, outstretched towards the viewer. Their palms were full of dirt with a singular plant with two bright leaves perking out from the stem in the center. Jack's eyes slowly wandered towards the text beneath: THERE IS PROMISE IN LIFE.
Jack smirked, lowering his cigarette and exhaling slowly, She's mine.
He tossed his cigarette into a snow bank piled along the pathways. He scuffed his boots for a moment and began up the block, stopping at a familar building. He paused to stare at the directory, the snow drifting atop him. Eventually, Jack urged himself through the doors where he wiped his boots and nodded politely towards the receptionist before taking the elevator to the twelth level. As Jack walked down the quiet hallway, he unbuttoned his jacket and raked his hair backwards, not even bothering to knock, as he barged into Tim's office.
At first, the two men only stared at each other. Jack's eyes darted towards the wide picture windows, his eyes following some drifting snowflakes. Tim closed the book he was reading and stood, buttoning his blazer cordially.
"Mr. Barnes, hello," Tim said steadily. Jack's eyes pierced him, "You're back."
"I'm back..." Jack said weakly, nodding and glancing around the office fleetingly.
"Would you like to take a seat?" Tim asked, gesturing towards the chairs. After a moment of hesitation, Jack closed the office door and crossed, seating himself against the stiff leather chair. Jack was rather stiff and he attempted to readjusted himself, shifting his jacket on his shoulder, "How can I help you, Mr. Barnes?" Tim asked, lowering himself back in his seat behind his massive walnut desk. Jack looked to him with a gleam in his eyes, "Are you... wanting to pick up where we left off?"
"There's no fixing this, Tim," Jack said, breathily, gripping the arms of the chair.
Tim swallowed roughly and reached for his steno-page, thumbing through the notes he had taken from the last session, "Would you like to tell me what's happened since we've last seen each other, Jack?" He asked, still holding his voice strong and even. It was enough to drive Jack nuts.
"I tried to work it out, Tim," Jack shook his head, propping his ankle up on his knee, "She wasn't givin' me an easy time, though. What bugs me the most is she won't talk about things. She is just... so vague," Jack tapped his finger to his chin, his blood pulsating beneath his skin. Tim wrote these things down and Jack took the opportunity to examine his body movement. He seemed tense. Jack surpressed a smirk. Jack pat along his jacket and withdrew his pack of cigarettes, "May I?" He asked, arching his eyebrows. Tim looked up from writing.
"That's fine," He said, looking back down to his scrawling pen.
Jack lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply, and exhaling in the direction of Tim's desk. He watched the smoke waft around the busy lawyer, placing the cigarette between his lips as he watched Tim with his bright blue eyes. Tim licked his lips and lifted his eyes.
"Did you unconver any secrets?" Tim asked.
Jack shrugged and stood, pacing behind the chairs for a moment before turning towards the snow caked windows, "Do I even want to know the truth?" Jack asked, watching his smoke drift in lazy ribbons in front of him, "After so much time, you think the truth would've come out. But it hasn't. I'm done guessing. I'm done wondering. I simply don't care anymore, Tim."
"You've... tried everything you can?" Tim asked, his eyes staring at the paper in front of him.
"All that I can think of," Jack replied, lowering his cigarette, "I'm not tryin' to swim to the bottom of the ocean here."
"Jack..." Tim's voice seemed rather out-of-character. Rather dazed. Jack turned to him with arched eyebrows, his cigarette dangling between his lips, "What is your Rose like?"
"Sweet as a plum, when she wants to be," Jack replied, wandering closer to the desk. Tim seemed to be stewing on something while remaining absolutely still, "Beautiful, naturally. At this point, I could describe her as a damn siren. Enticing, but something dangerous underlays that beauty. Almost like..." Jack pondered for a moment, something inside of him quivering, "... a closet full of skeletons," Tim looked to Jack and the artist had a hard time withholding his chuckles. He looked to Tim, a grin spreading across his face, "Don't tell me... my own laywer is facing the same hardship!"
"No, no," Tim shook his head, trying to dissipate any feelings lingering across his face, "I'm completely capable of handling your case, Mr. Barnes-"
"Stop being so formal," Jack grabbed a leather chair, dragging it up right along the side of Tim's desk. Jack seated himself, uncaring of any ash falling onto the carpet. Tim seemed completely absent-minded to it as well, "You're a human, too, Tim. And I know when someone is troubled."
"This is inappropriate for your consultation," Tim replied, looking to Jack with his serious hazel eyes. His glasses glinted in the light of the wintry day, "You're here for help. It's not the other way around, Mr. Barnes."
"What'd I say about calling me Mr. Barnes?" Jack put his cigarette between his lips, inhaling evenly. Slowly, his eyes turned towards Tim.
"Jack," He faltered for a moment, "I would like to keep this about your matter at hand."
"No," Jack wagged his finger at Tim as he exhaled a plume of smoke, "I couldn't possibly sit here on a rant to you when you're under your own duress. Tim, I need quality service. And you only get that when you feel your best."
"Jack, really..." Tim shook his head and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, "I want to give you consistency in my service. I certainly don't want it muddled by my personal life."
"Look, I already know things are going to end with Rose and I," Jack shrugged, "You might think I ultimately need a lawyer, but I don't," Jack looked to Tim, "I need a friend."
They sat in silence for a few moments while Tim pondered what Jack had said. Jack peered at him as he took a drag of his cigarette and then lowered it, "Do you have time for a beer?"
"Sorry?" Tim looked to him.
"We should go for a drink," Jack told him, leaning back and snubbing his cigarette out in the pot of a pothos, "I sure as hell got nowhere to be. What about you? Is your Rose waiting on you?"
Tim tapped his pen to his paper before he finally shook his head, "No. She's not."
"Great," Jack grinned and stood up, straightening his coat, "Let's go."