April 8th, 1913
Rose
On the morning of Tuesday April 8th, Rose headed through the busy streets of New York towards Levain's Boulangerie, her place of work. She worked – but not for the money. After selling the Heart of the Ocean, Rose bought herself a small but comfortable home, a new wardrobe and the company of a maid. Frankly, Rose Dewitt Bukater, now known as Rose Dawson, was set for life. No – she needn't work a day. The reason for her employment at the bakery was simply for the company. Because she wanted to be around people, even if she didn't really talk to them. Because she wanted to see how people lived, in spite of what had happened nearly a year ago. Because she wanted to have a purpose. A reason to get out of bed in the morning. Most of all – she wanted to see that it was still possible to lead a normal life.
When she turned the corner on Elridge Street, Rose's eyes fell on a small boy – standing in the middle of the street, holding up a newspaper. His cheeks were dirty, his clothes too and she could spot a hole in his shoe from a few feet away. Rose suspected he wasn't yet ten. However, it wasn't so much the boy's scrubby appearance that caught her eye, but the newspaper in his hands. In big, bold letters the headline screamed: ''TITANIC TRAVESTY: THE SURVIVORS SPEAK''. Beneath it a grainy picture of the Titanic in Southampton, minutes before it left on its first and last voyage.
The boy had apparently interpreted the look on her face to be interest, because he came running towards her, a hopeful smile on his face. ''G'morning, miss! Fresh paper?''. Rose stared at the picture and was, only for a slight moment, taken aback by the sudden sadness she felt. ''Miss?''. The boy looked at her, his eyebrows raised. Rose quickly forced a smile on her face and shook her head. ''No thank you'', she whispered. The boy lowered his hand in disappointment and Rose couldn't help but feel bad. She knew that he struggled to make money – she could see the exhaustion in his face. ''What's your name?'', Rose asked, visibly surprising the young boy. His dirty cheeks seemed to blush, only for a second, before he answered. ''William, miss''. Rose smiled, took a dollar from her pocket and put it in the boys hand. ''Take good care of yourself, William''.
The boy's eyes lit up, a big smile appeared on his dirty face and he happily exclaimed a ''Much thanks!'' before running off. Rose watched him reclaim his spot on the street – filled with fresh hope.
Once she arrived at the bakery, Mr. Oliver Levain was already attending to the first customers. Rose greeted him, hung her coat behind the counter and quickly put her red hair in a braid. Mr. Oliver was big on hygiene in his bakery. Understandable, of course.
''Good morning, sweet Rose!'', a familiar voice called from the passage above her. Rose looked up and saw Mrs Levain's brown eyes glistening.
''A good morning, Alma!'', Rose smiled back.
Mr and Mrs Levain were in their late fifty's. They'd moved to New York from France a long time ago, though their French accent had never completely faded. After moving, they invested all their money in a French bakery and they'd worked there ever since. No sons, no daughters. Just a small, delicious smelling shop in one of the richest cities in the world. That was their legacy.
''You're late!'', Alma chuckled as she made her way downstairs, her grey hair tucked neatly beneath a linen scarf.
''Yes, well – I was stopped by a paperboy''.
Alma softly shook her head and brushed a loose hair from Rose's face.
''Ah, yes. The anniversary of the majestic Titanic. It's all over the city. Truly- everywhere! D'you know what? They have flyers hanging around.. with the names of all the people that died. Pictures too! Mainly of the rich people – but still. The scumbags! Imagine if that was your family! It's absolutely vile''.
Rose simply smiled.
''It's sad – don't you think? The exploitation of the survivors. The usage of their stories. It must be traumatizing to be haunted by people, all wanting to hear the most terrible tales. I don't think anybody could ever truly recover from an event like that – but it certainly doesn't help when people keep reminding them!''.
Rose had never told anybody apart from Jenny about her voyage on the Titanic. She wanted it to be over with. Forgotten. She hated when people treated her like a fragile little bird and she knew that if she told anyone about her experiences, she'd be known all over the city as ''that girl''. It would no longer matter who she was. All that mattered was that she was damaged.
''Yes'', Rose whispered. ''It's horrible''.
When she noticed the concerned, almost suspicious look in Alma's eyes, Rose quickly recovered. ''I suppose that's just human nature'', she added. Alma, satisfied with the response, nodded immediately and shuffled her way into the baking area. Rose swallowed hard, clenched her jaws together and decided that she was not going to allow the sadness. Not today. Not tomorrow. She'd made a promise to Jack and she intended on keeping it. She was going to be happy.
The bell above the door rang. Footsteps across the wooden floor.
''Hello''.
Rose looked up and smiled – untroubled and kind. ''Hello! How may I help you?''.
Jack
Meanwhile in Brooklyn, on the other side of the island, a young man was making his way across Atlantic Avenue – a Silverpoint sketchbook under his arm and a cigarette between his fingers. The pack he'd just bought hidden away in the pocket of his tweed pants – his other hand wrapped around it.
When he blew the smoke from his lungs and into the sky – he caught the gaze of a young, rich woman. She was just leaving the tailor. The way she looked at him was with fascination. The young man couldn't help but smile, took another drag of his cigarette and kept walking – towards the edge of the park.
The woman was rightfully fascinated. Although the young man was clearly a lower class citizen – he walked with confidence. He walked like he owned the streets, like nothing could touch him. His blue greyish eyes were sharp. His smile witty. There was no hesitation in the way he moved.
''Aye, Jack!'', a loud voice called out.
The young man smiled widely, dropped his cigarette on the street beneath him and gave his friend a clap on the shoulder – having him almost fall of his seat.
''How's it going?'', Jack asked. He pulled a wooden stool from out a big bush, sat down and slapped his sketchbook onto his knees.
''Eh – it's goin'''.
Pete Barreyfield, a man is his early twenties with nothing more to his name than a stool to sit on and the clothes on his back, had quickly become Jack Dawson's best friend. Like Jack, he too was an artist. A lesser one, but still. The young men made their money by sitting by the edge of the park, drawing the portraits of young women they managed to lure in with a charming comment and a mysterious smile. For every portrait they drew, they asked ten pennies. Five each. It wasn't much, but enough to buy the boys a meal and a pack of cigs.
''I've drawn two so far'', Pete said as a sigh escaped his throat. He looked up at Jack, his dark eyes showing signs of mischief, and he smiled wide.
''What happened to yesterday's lady? The brunette?''.
Jack laughed and shook his head. ''Nothing''.
''Ah, come on, man! Don't lie to me. I'm the only friend you've got!''.
It hadn't been the first time that one of Jack's customers had asked for a private session and he suspected it wouldn't be the last. One of the ladies he drew yesterday showed a particular interest in Jack. So much so – that she requested he come by her house to draw her again.
''Did ya sleep with the gal or not?'', Pete asked, his impatience growing as he moved closer to his friend's face.
Jack moved his face even nearer, until the tips of their noses nearly touched and then wacked his friend across the head. ''Not''.
Pete rolled his eyes, leaned back and shook his head in disbelief. ''You're too professional''.
Jack simply shrugged his shoulders, put the cardboard sign in front of them and smiled. ''Well, that's my job''.
It wasn't just his job. It was much more than that, but Pete didn't have to know. So many times, his friend asked him about the drawings in his sketchbook. The almond shaped eyes, the full lips, the curls falling across a beautiful face, they were all strange to him. Pete thought Jack secretly had a girl somewhere. He'd given up asking about her when Jack stopped drawing her. He'd never tell him who she was, but she was important enough for his friend to keep the drawings.
When Jack first arrived in New York, he was a broken man. He had always managed to live alone on the streets, moving from park to park and from doorstep to doorstep. He'd always been perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he'd lost everything. Everything he owned, though it was very little, had been swallowed by the dark waves of the North Atlantic. His clothes, his saved money, his sketchbook, his charcoal – and most importantly, her.
He'd fought to keep her safe from the very moment he met her. And he'd failed. He told her to not let go of his hand, but she had to. Jack remembered kicking. Kicking and mowing his arms, not knowing what was up or down. The only thing he felt was the ship, sucking him to the bottom of the ocean – and the cold, piercing every inch of his skin, forcing its way right into his bones.
He thought he'd die, right there. But eventually the kicking stopped. He could breathe again. There was screaming. Water was splashing everywhere. He called out for her, he swam in circles, in between corpses and people trying to use him to stay afloat – until his body finally gave up. He managed to get ahold of a piece of wreckage before he passed out – and he woke up on the RMS Carpathia.
After being forced to eat and rest, he searched for her. He searched the entire ship, from top to bottom and back to the top, but she was nowhere to be found. When the night came and he'd spent the whole day walking around – he began to understand that she hadn't made it onto the Carpathia. It broke him. What made his suffering even worse was the fact that Cal Hockley did. As soon as Jack spotted him, he'd thought about throwing him off the ship. Right over the railing. He'd counted the crew on deck and he'd estimated that he'd have about thirty seconds to get the deed done before someone would come to interfere.
Still – he didn't do it. A part of him knew damn well he wouldn't succeed and Cal Hockley wasn't worth getting arrested over. So he retreated and hid away, spending the rest of the journey to New York wondering about Rose's last moments. Jack never believed in a God – but that night, he prayed that she hadn't felt any pain.
''Jack?''.
The young man was rudely awakened from his daydreaming and looked up at his friend. Pete had a serious frown between his eyebrows. ''Are you all right?''.
He wasn't, of course, but he nodded anyway. ''Perfect'', Jack smiled, squeezing his friend's shoulder. ''Couldn't be happier''.