Chapter Fifty

March 29th, 1914
New York City, New York

The clock on the wall had just struck past two in the morning. Jack's back hurt from the stiff chair he had been planted in for nearly three hours. On his shoulder was Rose's head. She was nodding in and out of slumber. Jack wanted to take her home, but she had insisted they remained at the hospital with Iris and Frenchie. They had both been awake for nearly twenty-four hours at that point and fatigue was beginning to rear its ugly end. Even Jack found himself nodding off, only to catch himself and perk up, making Rose's eyes flutter. He rubbed his face and let out a long sigh, tilting his head back against the wall. He shuddered to think that right on the other side of the plaster behind him, Irene was taking her final breaths. Jack's mind was clouded in distant memories of his parents. He could see them dancing in their socks in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve. He could see his mother's pearly smile as she skated gracefully across thin ice. He could see his father's big burly figure chopping wood in the blistering wind to be sure the family could stay warm. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, trying to close down the memories.

He reached through his armrest and pressed his palm to Rose's swollen belly. He let out a sigh, doing his best to focus on that. Jack tried instead to imagine the future. He didn't want to wallow on the past. He was powerless to change that. But just beneath his hand, there was a viable future. One that he was in control of. One that he had an obligation to make right, on account of all his wrongs. He focused on what he needed to do to complete the nursery. All the projects he wanted to do. Like building a sandbox in the backyard. Even a see-saw. He imagined all the paintings he would do of the baby as it napped. They would have so many, some wouldn't even be able to hang on the wall. Jack focused the last of his energy into loving the unborn child, as if it was already there.

The door to Irene's room creaked open. Rose's head snapped up at the sound, bumping against Jack's jaw. Immediately, Rose rubbed her eyes and straightened her hair, looking anxiously towards the door. She lowered her hand to Jack's on her belly, gripping it tightly. Iris and Frenchie wandered into the hallway somewhat dazed.

"She's... uh.. She's passed," Frenchie told them slowly, as if it was still sinking in.

"She died peacefully..." Iris croaked, a river of tears flowing down her face, "The doctor's said she wasn't in much pain."

"Frenchie... Iris..." Jack came to his feet and dug his hands into his pockets. He paused and shrugged, "There are no words. I'm just sorry."

"It's okay," Frenchie said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He wrapped his arm around Iris' wiry shoulders, "I think we'll be fine. We'll keep making art... we'll keep on living. It's all we can do. Right, Iris?"

She swallowed roughly, pursing her lips, "Yeah... It's all we can do for the time being."

"We'll do something to honor her," Jack told them, "I promise."

...

April 2nd, 1914
New York City, New York

It was a beautiful fresh spring day out. However, it fell forgotten on Jack and Rose as they got up and began dressing grimly for Irene's funeral. They were quiet. Jack buttoned his black shirt with his eyes cast down. Rose pinned her hair atop her head without bothering to look at herself in the mirror. She was the first out of the bedroom door and wandered down to the kitchen, getting the coffee pot brewing. Jack followed her shortly after and pulled some fresh fruit off the counter, handing Rose an apple.

"It's going to be a long day," He told her quietly, "A long exhausting day."

"Do you think the newspapers come?" Rose asked, setting the apple on the island and pulling the curtains back on the window above the sink, "If Irene's funeral announcement is in there, I'd like to clip it out. They usually include nice photos of the person," Rose said. Jack nodded, knowing all about that.

"Probably has come," Jack said, beginning for the door.

"I'll get it," Rose told him, brushing past, "I want some fresh air, anyway."

Rose stepped out onto the front porch and took in a deep breath. It was a crisp day. She was pleased to know she wouldn't even need a light coat. The temperature outside was absolutely perfect. She began down the stairs and towards the end of their foot path. She spotted the newspaper, laying amongst the dewey grass. She knelt down carefully and picked it up, unfolding it as she walked back towards the house.

She thumbed through a few loose pages, passing sports news, world news, and Hollywood news without a second glance. As Rose slowly began back up the porch steps, she found the announcement column. Right on top was Irene's funeral announcement. Rose paused on the stairs, staring sadly at the paragraph. They had used a nice picture of her, however, sandwiched between Frenchie and Iris lovingly. She was about to continue back into the house, when the next bold headline announcement beneath Irene's caught her eyes. Rose felt her body grow cold and begin to quake. Her stomach tossed violently, so much so, she was sure she was going to be sick.

WALL-STREET TYCOON, CALEDON HOCKLEY, TO MARRY ARISTROCRAT ELIZABETH FULLTON APRIL 4TH, 1914, AT THE DIAMOND BALLROOM ON FOURTH AVENUE AND SECOND STREET.

Rose went back inside rather stiffly. Jack was just finishing up their coffees and was setting them on the island when she came back inside. Robotically, she grabbed her apple and seated herself at the island, staring straight ahead, as Jack put her mug infront of her.

"You okay?" Jack eyed her as he shined his apple on his shirt, "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I... I might have," Rose breathed, still not looking at Jack.

"Was it Irene's funeral announcement?" Jack asked, picking the newspaper up for himself.

"No, no," Rose shook her head, "Look underneath it."

Jack was silent for a few moments, his nose stuck into the newspaper, "Well I'll be goddamned. Never thought I'd see that smug face again," He lowered the paper now, looking to Rose, "Who is Elizabeth Fullton?"

"Hah, believe it or not," Her coffee mug hovered in front of her lips, "She actually was in the same class as me at prep school. Our families were friends."

"Hm, sounds to me like he doesn't venture outside of his social circles much."

"What made you think that?" Rose teased after she took a sip of coffee.

"Wonder if I show up early enough, I could get a chance to throw eggs at him and his five hundred dollar Italian suit," Jack tapped his finger to his chin.

"Oh, absolutely not," Rose perked up, "He thinks we're dead. And that's for the better, trust me."

"Do you really think I would do that?" Jack laughed, "I'd pay to never be in his general vincinity ever again. And I bet that goes double for you."

"It does," Rose replied without a moment of hesitation. But in the back of her mind, a pit of curiosity was beginning to bloom.

...

The walk to the studio was quiet, but short. Rose watched a group of young boys race by on bicycles. She observed as they weaved between each other, coming close to a crash, but continuing while impishly giggling all the while. Rose grinned to herself as she turned the corner for the final stretch to the studio. She hoped to see her child like that one day, surrounded by friends, and enjoying the world through the eyes of a kid. Entering the studio, however, lead to Rose walking into a different type of atmosphere.

Frenchie and Iris were seated at the communal table. They were holding hands, their heads bowed. The studio was silent. Jack caught the door behind them, being sure not to let it slam. Rose was careful in her steps to not allow her heels to echo. She folded her hands in front of her round belly, watching the siblings closely. Iris had her eyes squeezed shut, her hand clenching her brother's tightly. Rose lowered her head, as well. She could feel her hands trembling as she recalled her past that more and more had been catching up to her. Rose lowered her eyes to the dirty concrete floor, her mother's face filling her vision. She hadn't attempted to remember her mother in nearly two years, but there she was, with her matching emerald eyes, her curly short red hair, and her forever exasperated pursed lips, sealing away a barrage of insults and a novels-worth of judgement. Rose felt her skin pucker in goosebumps as, for the first time in two years, she recalled her mother's sharp voice echoing through her mind. Rose stiffly lifted her head, trying to shake the past from creeping up onto her.

"Jack, Rose…" Frenchie came to his feet, gently sliding his hand along Iris' shoulders, "Thank you for being with us on this day. It truly means a lot."

"Frenchie, we wouldn't miss it for the world," Jack replied, "She was like family to me, too, anyway."

Frenchie smiled weakly, lowering his eyes to the floor, "Yeah... she always said how much she liked you."

Iris rubbed at her flushed cheeks for a moment and heaved a sigh, looking over her shoulder at the people dressed as grimly as she was, "Maybe we should get going," She said with a scratchy voice. She brushed her hair from her face, looking to her brother, "We don't want to keep Father Stephen waiting."

...

The group of four stuck out like a sore thumb on that fresh spring day. They walked in silence, side by side, as they weaved through the outskirts of downtown New York. Rose watched Frenchie's black woolen coat drift behind him, grazing her legs. She couldn't help but shutter as she recalled the last funeral she had gone to; her father's.

It had been mid-October when he passed and the day of his funeral was greeted by a steady chilling downpour. Rose's legs had been splattered in ice cold water, her shoes leaving soggy blisters around her ankles. Rose shook her head, immediately shutting those thoughts down. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils, flaring them, as she begged herself to stop.

"Rose, dear, my deepest condolences. I know your father was an honorable man."

He wasn't, Rose recalled. But she had bitten her tongue.

"Rose, John was a special man. You were so lucky to be nurtured by a man of his magnitude."

He was horrible and ugly.

"Hey," Jack's hand touched her arm and Rose nearly leapt from her skin, "are you alright? Do you feel okay?"

"Yes," Rose nodded, turning her eyes forward, "I just... I don't like funerals."

Jack smirked, "I don't think anyone finds any joy in 'em."

Rose allowed herself to smile at Jack's gentle teasing. It was the only thing that could relax the knots in her stomach. She took a deep breath and looked to Jack, "Did your parents have a funeral?"

"If anyone held one for them, I didn't know about it," Jack shook his head, "I was out of Chippewa Falls within thirty-two hours. Who knows... they probably think I was in that house, too."

"My father's was pure misery," Rose said, looking away from him, "Not because he died... No, that was not the upsetting part. What was worse was seeing all those fake people, only there to show face. The ones that thought he was a remarkable man. The lies of the integrity of his character every person who spoke spewed," Rose paused, her blood throbbing in her veins, "He was a wretched mean-spirited man who enjoyed making people miserable. He fed off it. A man like him deserved to be in the ground," She paused abruptly, looking to Jack, "I'm sorry... that was terrible to say."

Jack simply shrugged, "Why? 'Cause it was your father?" Jack shook his head, "I believe you when you said he deserved it," Jack laced his fingers through Rose's, "This funeral will be different. We're mourning, sure, but we're also celebrating what a wonderful woman Irene was. This is someone who brought joy and made an impact. This will be different, I promise."

"You're right," Rose whispered, her voice feeling pinched, "The past can't define the future."

Slowly, tall iron-wrought fencing began to run along them. Rose peered between the bars as they walked. Her eyes looked over all the marble headstones. There were large oak trees in the cemetery, casting long shadows across the resting place of dozens. The group stopped in the open gates, soaking in their envrionment.

"Many of our family are buried here," Frenchie said, looking out amongst the property, "Our mother's parents, our aunt, my father and his two brothers..."

They heard the creak of a wooden door and turned their attention to the corner of the property. Emerging from a small quaint cottage was the caretaker of the cemetery, Father Stephen. He was an elderly man with a slight hunch in his back. He wore a long black robe with his signature white collar. Around his shoulders was a white silk shawl. He raised his hand in salutations as he walked down the gravel path to meet them. Tucked under his arm was a frequently used and worn Bible.

"Good morning, Mr. and Miss Cohan," Father Stephen bowed slightly once he had approached the group, "God has graced us today with beautiful weather to remember your mother by. Come, you know where your family plot is. Nathaniel dug the plot this morning. All should be ready."

Stiffly, everyone walked along the winding path. Jack looked to each name they past and even felt himself shudder as he saw some had been there for decades. Behind an oak tree facing the back of the property, they came across a hole. Jack paused, looking beside the freshly dug plot to where Frenchie and Iris' father had laid since 1910. Now, just four years later, his wife would finally lay beside him again. Iris clenched her hands into fists, feeling overwhelmed by the emotions flooding over her. Rose felt her insides growing cold as she slowly lifted her eyes to look at the mahoganey coffin laying beside the hole. It looked as if it had been polished just that morning. It glowed in the overhead sunlight. Rose reached for Jack's hands, her eyes never leaving the coffin.

Father Stephen took his spot beside Irene's future resting spot in front of the group. He cleared his throat, holding his Bible against his chest, as if it would feed him strength, "Good morning, everyone. I know the reason for our gathering is not precursored in happiness, but again, I ask you to look to the clear blue sky and relish in the fact that we are here to remember a woman who made the world as bright as this spring day," He grinned, almost paternally, "I've known Irene personally since 1899, when her own mother passed away. She was the first of this lovely family to be buried here. Irene was more than just a wife and mother. She was also an artist. She never made art for herself, oh no, every piece she ever made was gifted to someone. Even I received a quilt from her in her time here on this earth," Father Stephen paused, looking over his audience, "We bury her today in sorrow, but the feeling of gratefulness for knowing her, the feeling of love she gifted us, is what we will leave today with and carry with us for the rest of our lives. Irene Polk-Cohan was a child of God and I know, she is resting with Him now, safe in His arms, for us to not worry about. Her children, Frenchie and Iris, are her flesh and blood, and will carry her spirit in each of their steps. She may be gone physically, but never shall she be forgotten in our memories. Never will we take for granted the time each of us had to spend with her. Her belongings may never be held in her own hands again, but we are still fortunate to touch the things she once did. Today, we do not mourn, but rather, we rejoice. We celebrate God in thanks for giving us a woman like Irene. For it is not every day you meet a woman of this magnitude," Slowly, Father Stephen opened his Bible. Frenchie wrapped his arms around Iris, who had a river of tears flowing from her eyes, her body visibly shaking. Again, the Father cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles on his nose, "From John 14... Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am..."

Father Stephen slowly lowered his Bible, "I spoke that verse at her mother's funeral. Irene had expressed great comfort in a verse such as that. Out of honor, I read it today, over her resting body. May God bless her soul and bless the people she left behind. May He light the way for those who feel lost without her physical-self. For we are not less without her, but more with her memory," Father Stephen set his Bible down on one of the roots from the oak tree and reached for two shovels. Slowly, the elderly man outstretched them to Frenchie and Iris, "Children... let us lay your mother down one last time, as she had done for you in times of your youth."

Iris and Frenchie took the shovels into their hands and slowly dug the heads into the mound of dirt. Together, they took turns tenderly dumping the dirt over their mother's coffin, tears blurring their vision. Rose felt her body wracked in sorrow as she watched the siblings cover their mother into the earth. Father Stephen hummed lowly, a hymn, as Iris and Frenchie continued. After a few more scoops, Iris collapsed in tears, falling to a kneel and letting the shovel clatter to the ground beside her. She pressed her sticky palms to her face, shaking her head. Immediately, Jack stepped in, slowly guiding her beside Rose. He took the shovel into his hand and alongside Frenchie, helped him bury his mother.