On Wednesdays Rose liked to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wednesday afternoons, the museum was free and Wednesdays also happened to be her day off. It was one of the first things she did after spending a week alone in the hotel room, a week that felt like a year of mourning, barely leaving, eating only at the bar, trying to take a bath hot enough to get the cold out of her bones.
On her first trip there she scarcely could notice the paintings. She was still overwhelmed that the world had gone on without her. She was supposed to be dead, she could be dead, and people would keep filing through the streets.
She would have lived there, by the fountain in the room made of glass, had she been able. She watched children make wishes on pennies. What would she wish for? It was always something she couldn't have.
I used to have one of these in the parlor. She thought, looking at the Degas. She told no one, not that they would believe her if she did. Why did she never realize until now that art was better this way? It was lovely to be surprised by it around every corner. It was lovely to see other people react to it. Some looked amused, some didn't understand it, children ran by without even noticing, some were moved to tears and Rose would have to look away as she felt her own sadness rising up within her.
Art is not just an artifact to hang about the fire. It is a communal experience. It is about sharing something with others. Art can come from anywhere, the richest person on earth might own a painting by someone who was no one, someone like Jack.
There was one painting in the museum she was afraid to look at. She didn't even dare go in the room that held it. It depicted a shipwreck, late at night, the water reflected the stars and a man in a lifeboat is trying to reach his fallen comrade, who you can tell is dead, his face terrifying, white and distorted. Rose always ran by the corridor leading to this painting without looking.
The tattoo parlor on the pier reminded her of the museum. A more economical version. Every inch of wall space was covered with pictures. Sparrows, snakes, tigers, a jungle of them dotted the walls, shipwrecks and flowers, stars, mermaids, naked women. Rose looked at all of them, while the men nearby looked at her. She had attracted strange looks as she made her way there with Willem but had held her head high and avoided looking at them or the dark water.
She made no sound as the needle entered her skin, but bit her lip and stared straight forward. It had been a week now but the letters on her breast still hadn't stopped bleeding. The thorny stem, the soft petals all had scared over and healed but the black ink of the name remained raw. It strung in bath. It let tiny drops of blood on her dresses and bed sheets. She would wake up with her hand on his name, in the place where he touched. She could always feel his invisible fingers there.