Chapter Text
August 1913
“This is 14th Street Station,” came the shout from the conductor of the elevated railroad car.
As if his feet were operating of their own volition, without any input from his brain, Jack stood up from his seat on the train, picked up his coat and stepped onto the platform. As he saw the sign, once again indicating he was at 14th Street Station and saw the short, sprawling buildings of Chelsea on the ground, he nearly turned right back around and got back on the train. But before he could make up his mind – stay or go – the doors had closed and the train continued on its journey, completely unaware of the turbulence in the mind of one of the passengers it had just dropped off.
He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and started descending the stairs to ground level. It was a hot day, one of the hottest of the summer so far. He definitely didn't need the coat, but it had become a habit of his over the last year and a half to always carry it with him, even well into the summer. Today, however, with sun's warmth on his face, he watched two young boys rush up to a hot dog cart and saw a group of young woman strolling in their colorful summer dresses. Suddenly, he felt a little silly wearing the heavy garment, and tucked in neatly across his arm.
Maybe it'll be nice to walk around in the fresh air a little, he thought to himself. Then, remembering where he was, he quickly corrected himself. Fat chance. Not in Chelsea.
It had taken Jack a long time to build up a life in New York after the sinking. He had barely survived that night, just to be nearly killed once again by the worst pneumonia he had ever experienced. His first two weeks back in America had been spent barely coherent, fighting for his life in the hospital. The next few months he had spent in a fugue state, all of the guilt and despair at having lost Rose that night weighing down on him until could hardly breathe. He lived aimlessly, unable to draw, unable to remove himself from the cocoon he had build around himself.
Somehow, he had no idea how, he managed to find a manufacturing job. The long hours of manual labor meant that, at least sometimes, he was too tired to think about anything painful. It was far from an ideal life, but it was what he could manage for now.
As the months continued to go on, some of the happy memories began seeping in among the pain. Eventually, he could think of Rose's smile and return his own smile back at the image in his head. He even got a new job: maintenance in a large Brooklyn apartment building in exchange for a place to live and a small stipend.
Over the last year, he had built some some good friends among his neighbors in Bushwick. It was a large, multicultural neighborhood, and he loved hearing stories from people from all over the world. He had even started drawing again, setting up a portrait stand in Prospect Park. Once in a while, when he was up for it, he would walk through Crown Heights and look at some of the old mansions and brownstones, trying to imagine Rose's childhood in a similar building. But, most of the time, he was content to stick to all Bushwick had to offer. Yes, his world had shrunk over the last few years, but he was as content as he had any right to be.
Today, though, as he exited the elevated platform onto the street, an unease overtook him. He knew exactly what was causing it. Almost as if the air were different here, he felt a distinct discomfort being anywhere in Manhattan, but especially in Chelsea. The station he had just exited was only a few blocks away from where Titanic would have docked, where he and Rose should have gotten off the ship together. He had very little memory of being removed from the Carpathia and taken to the hospital, but he had a very clear memory of the last time he had been in Chelsea.
April 1912
Less than two hours after being released from the hospital with nothing but the clothes on his back and a stern warning to take it easy, he found himself in the White Star Office, across the counter from a gruff-looking man in uniform. He somehow managed to look both wearied and disinterested at the same time.
“Name, please.”
Jack was startled by the brusque tone and didn't answer right away.
“What is the name of the passenger you came to ask about?” He could hear the annoyance in the man's tone as clearly as if he had rolled his eyes at him. This was the man they had informing people the fate of their loved ones?
“Uh, Rose. Rose Dewitt--”
“All right, move along, son. We aren't here to answer questions from the press.”
“What?”
It was then that the man behind the counter looked him up and down, eyeing his ragged clothes and gaunt appearance from the sinking and the illness.
“Look, kid. I don't know if you're on some sort of mission for information or if this is a sick joke, but we can't just give out information about the dead girl who's been all over the papers to any ruffian who walks in here.”
The man was still talking, much more animated than he had been at any other point in the interaction. But the words no longer made sense to Jack. Just one was ringing through his head. Dead. All of the fear, all of the love, all of the hope that had been racing through his head had been snuffed out like a candle. The only thing left was anguish.
“Her fiancé has been very vocal about it all. Seriously, it's like you haven't even looked at a newspaper in two weeks.”
It was then that Jack remembered the foul man in the White Star Line uniform behind the counter. The man who had been talking so flippantly while his whole heart was destroyed. Acting purely on instinct, Jack slammed his fist onto the counter, hard, not giving a single thought to the inevitable bruise. His other fist, as if acting of its own accord, reached up and grabbed the man's lapel, and the scream he let out was more animalistic than human, burning his still-fragile lungs.
Suddenly, two strong hands belonging to faceless men in uniform gripped each of his arms and violently escorted him out to the street. He only half noticed what was happening, as the only thing he was able to focus on was Rose. The dead girl all over the newspapers. Dead girl. All his emotion spent, he crumpled to the dirty city street and stayed there for hours.
August 1913
Walking these streets for the first time since that awful day he learned of Rose's fate was difficult. Maybe not as difficult as he had built it up to be in his head, but still, he would have preferred to be safe at home in Brooklyn.
A few weeks ago, Jack had received a letter from Harry Chapman, an Englishman he had met three years ago in Paris and who had served as a bit of a mentor to him in his art. Harry was several years older than Jack, and had been steadily rising in the Parisian art world. Harry was the youngest son of a tenant farmer from Yorkshire, and had shocked not just his family, but everyone in his village when he packed up his easel and nothing else and headed for Montmartre.
Harry had seen a kindred spirit in Jack – Fabrizio, too, but mostly Jack, and had taken the pair under his wing. Harry had been the one to teach him poker, how to hold his own in a fight, and Harry had even been the one to pay for Dorothée's time so that Jack could draw her and her hands.
When Jack and Fabrizio moved on from Paris, they had told Harry to look them up if he ever made it to America. But, it still came as a shock when the letter arrived, with a Royal Mail stamp on it, informing Jack of Harry's upcoming arrival in New York. Jack had written back immediately, offering his couch and a few beers, an offer which Harry had gratefully accepted, via the letter in his hand now, along with details of when and where Jack should meet his ship.
There hadn't been time for Jack to write back and suggest another meeting place, so instead, he had spent all week reserved, dreading the journey to the pier even more than he was looking forward to catching up with his friend. But, he had gotten off the train, and that was the first step. A chill ran through his body despite the warmth of the day, and Jack wrapped the coat around his shoulders anyway. As the sparkling blue water of the Hudson and the smokestacks of several large ships appeared off in the distance, he found himself blinking away other images that flashed before his eyes. Images of ice. Of darkness. Of the faces of people in the water. Of Rose. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to feel the warmth of the sun on his neck and to hear the sounds of horse carts and motor cars behind him, indicating he was still on solid ground.
There was a small crowd gathered to welcome the ship and meet passengers. Jack joined near the back, not trusting his emotions if he got any closer. From his vantage point, he could see a steady stream of passengers disembarking, mostly first class. He pressed his eyes closed, hard, and turned away, trying to avoid any chance of seeing someone that might remind him of her.
“Jack! There you are!”
A familiar voice sounded behind him, and he turned around on his heel to see his old friend, laden with his cabin luggage, and a grin on his face.
“Harry! Aren't you the sight for sore eyes?” he said, rushing to embrace the man he hadn't seen in nearly two years. “Here, let me help you with those bags. Is there anything else?”
“I've arranged for the rest of my luggage to be brought to the train station,” Harry said. “I'm moving onward to Chicago tomorrow.”
“Chicago? What brings you there? Your letter was a little short on details.”
“You, my friend, are looking at the new Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute.”
Forgetting all of his nerves from moments ago, even forgetting where he was, Jack let out a small whoop of congratulations, and then clapped Harry on the shoulder. “That's quite the job for a Yorkshire farm boy. Maybe one day I'll get to say I knew you before you were such a big shot.”
Harry chuckled. “Yes, I'm chuffed about it” he said, sounding much more prim than could usually be achieved with his Northern accent. Usually, only one person came to mind when someone spoke that way, but she somehow didn't make her way into Jack's imagination this time. “Now, I believe someone promised me beers. And I'd like to take him up on that offer in celebration.”
“Sure thing,” said Jack. “My favorite pub in Bushwick is just up the street from my apartment. Let's go drop off your things and head straight there.”
–
“Another round?”
“Only if it's on you, Mr Curator,” Jack said. He was two beers in, and maybe he should be pacing himself, but he was having more fun than he'd had in months. Harry had brought news of all their friends from Paris – Dorothée was now going by Madame Mains – and they discussed the state of the art world at length. Jack had told Harry all about his life in New York, as well as what he could remember about Chicago from the last time he had been there, as a newly-orphaned 15-year-old.
Harry had briefly asked Jack about his love life. Maybe it was the fog from the beer, maybe it was the old company, but somehow that question didn't hurt as much as it would any other time, from any other person. Jack was able to laugh it off in a self-deprecating, but cheery, “who'd be interested in a bum like me?” and turn the question back on Harry, who spoke with ardor about his most recent conquests. Harry had also asked after Fabrizio, and that question was harder to dodge. But Jack was able to deflect just enough, and Harry was savvy enough to not ask further questions.
“All right,” said Harry, handing over a crisp American bill, that he must have just recently changed over, from his pocket. “Why don't you go get us two more beers, and then I have something I want to discuss with you.”
Jack took the cash and went up to the bar. He wondered, briefly, what Harry could want to discuss. The only topic that had been challenging all night had been Fabrizio, and Jack thought he had done a decent job of indicating it wasn't the right time to talk about it. Could it have something to do with his apartment? He and Harry had only stepped inside for a few moments, to drop off Harry's things and for Jack to pick up a few of his recent pieces to show him. Jack had made up the couch thinking of Harry's garret in Paris, but maybe now that he had a fancy job he would expect something nicer than a couch in Brooklyn with thin linens?
“Hiya, Jack! What'll you have?”
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of the regular bartenders. Jack frequented this pub, especially in the summer after a long day of drawing in the park, and he was on good terms with most of the staff.
“Hey, Reggie. Two more of these,” he said, indicating the empty glass in his hand.
“You got it,” said Reggie, moving to pull two more beers. “Say, have you already put your name in the tombola for this week?”
“I don't think I have,” said Jack, as Reggie handed over the beers. “Still ten cents to enter?”
“You got it. I think we're getting close.”
Three months ago, Julia, the young daughter of one of the bar backs, had fallen off her horse after it had been spooked. As a regular, Jack had heard endless stories about the girl, and she sounded like a plucky, high-spirited kid. Julia survived the fall, but needed extensive medical treatment, beyond the means of a Brooklyn bar back. So, the bar staff had set up a weekly tombola drawing, allowing patrons a chance to win a small prize if they donated to Julia's fund. Jack had never cared much for the prizes, but he faithfully donated what he could to the pot each week to help Julia.
Jack gave Reggie the bill to pay for the beers, and, as Reggie gave him his change back, he turned his hand over to drop a few coins into the pot.
“Thank you,” both men said at the same time, and Jack took a beer in each hand and made his way back to Harry.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Jack as he arrived back at the table, suddenly remembering Harry's vaguely ominous message as he got up to get more beer. He set the drinks down and took his seat, his back straight and alert.
“Oh, yes,” said Harry, taking a deep swig of his beer. “There's a reason I looked you up and got in touch with you on my way to Chicago.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, indeed.” Harry then launched into the story of how he first learned about the job opening in Chicago. He told Jack how he had applied, and a little about some of the artwork and other supporting materials he had submitted. He spoke about the long distance interviewing process, where he and the museum staff exchanged letter after letter talking about art and Harry's credentials. By the time Harry finished, the pair had nearly finished their third beer.
“So, what does this all have to do with me?” Jack asked.
“I'm glad you asked,” said Harry. “You see, when they hired me, they said I could bring along anyone I wanted as my Assistant Curator, and I immediately thought of you. Is that something you'd be interested in? It would mean moving to Chicago.”
Jack hardly heard anything Harry said after I immediately thought of you. He was getting a job offer. A real job offer in the art world. He had been to the Art Institute twice, once as a young boy accompanied by his parents, next as a teenager, alone in the world. Both times he had been awed, made to feel small in the presence of great works of art. And that feeling had stuck with him; even as he improved his craft in Europe, he still thought back to that grand art museum, not too far from his humble midwest home town, and knew he'd never match up to the masters whose works hung in those halls. But still, sometimes in his dreams, he pictured his name on the wall – not of the Louvre, but of the Art Institute of Chicago.
“Yes,” he croaked. “I'll take it.”
“To the new Assistant Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago!” shouted Harry as he raised his glass, then drained the rest of it in one long swig. Jack followed suit and then got up to get them a fourth round, taking the time to empty every last coin in his pocket into the tombola.
Two Weeks Later
It had been a whirlwind getting ready to leave Brooklyn and move to Chicago. Jack had never been much of one for roots, and it certainly hadn't felt like he was putting any down here. But as he told his friends and neighbors one by one about the new job, and they told him one by one how much they would miss him, he realized for the first time just how much of a home he had made for himself in Bushwick.
He still had about a month before he would leave for good. The Assistant Curator appointment started officially on October 1, and it was still the first week of September. Autumn had begun to hit the city, the air feeling just a little crisper and the sun setting just a little earlier. He thought, with a shudder, about the winter clothes packed away in his apartment. New York winters could be bad, but if Chippewa Falls was anything to go by, Chicago winters could be far worse. But, he had recently seen the mind-boggling amount of money he was set to make, and he reassured himself that he could afford to buy several new heavy winter coats should the need arise.
It was Friday evening, and he had just finished a day of drawing in Prospect Park. He knew he would miss the large green space in the middle of the city. Each time he came here to draw, he saw the cross section of humanity – rich, poor, black, white, young, old – come together in one big park. He heard dozens of languages being spoken, and was beginning to pick up a few words of Hungarian, German, Haitian Creole, Spanish, and Portuguese. He tried to think about next summer, perhaps setting up his portrait stand on the banks of Lake Michigan after a long day of working with his favorite paintings, and the ache he knew he'd feel for the familiar park was replaced with excitement at the upcoming adventure.
There was just a touch of light left in the sky. Not enough to draw with, but enough that it didn't feel right heading straight back to his apartment. In the frenzy of trying to get everything ready for a move, he had not had time to make it to his favorite pub since the night Harry had offered him the job. But, tonight, as he turned onto his street, he headed straight for the pub.
Reggie was once again behind the bar, and greeted Jack with a bright smile as he walked in the door.
“Jack! I was hoping you'd stop by tonight,” he said, beckoning him over to the bar. “You haven't picked up your prize.”
“My what?”
“You won last week's tombola drawing. It's two tickets to tonight's performance of H.M.S Pinafore at the Hippodrome Theatre. I'm glad I caught you! The show starts in just a few hours.”
“Thanks, Reggie,” he said, accepting the tickets and stuffing them into his pocket, but silently knowing he had no one to bring to the theatre, and little interest to go on his own. “How'd we do raising money for Julia?”
“We're almost there,” he said. “I think one more week should just about do it.”
–
Jack had left the pub on foot, aimlessly walking over the newly constructed Williamsburg Bridge. Looking out over the East River to see the city in the dying light of day, he was struck with a sudden urge to make the most of his time remaining in New York. To make it count as he had once said. He wandered through The Bowery, trying to study the details of people who passed him by to perhaps use in a future sketch. He made his way through Chinatown and Little Italy, making notes of restaurants that he might want to come back to to celebrate his last evening in New York.
In Tompkins Square Park, a memory struck him of the last time he had been in New York, as a seventeen-year-old, trying to save up enough money to book a passage to Europe. He had set up his art stand in Central Park, near some of the newly built mansions of the Upper West Side. He had been there less than an hour when the rich folks who lived near the park – new money, he now knew they were – had driven him straight out with their caustic remarks.
Then, he had retreated to the safety Tompkins Square, drawing portraits of immigrants and newsboys. Now that he had returned to the small park, he noticed a few artists – painters by the look of it – and all of them looking quite young, closing up shop for the day, surely headed back to one of the nearby tenements. He felt a sudden pang of sadness for the boy he had been, aping confidence while still letting a few snide remarks intimidate him, and decided he would return to Central Park.
Besides, he was the goddamn Assistant Curator of Impressionist Paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago, after all.
He gathered up his coat and his sketchbook and headed north. Nightfall was quickly overtaking the city, but if he hurried, there might be just enough light left by the time he got there to do one portrait. Maybe he could even try his hand at drawing under one of the electric streetlights. But, the walk was longer than he anticipated. The sky had gone fully black before he even reached 40th Street, and he realized it had been a fool's errand to make it all the way to Central Park in time to still do a portrait. Oh well, maybe he'd try again tomorrow.
He felt around in his pocket, checking to see if he had enough cash on hand to afford a dinner out, when he grabbed onto a thick piece of paper. The Theatre Tickets. Reggie had said the show started at 8, and he had just passed a clock on the street indicating it was a little after 7:30.
He started walking, vaguely in the direction of the theatre – his first thought was to go to the box office and see if her could return the tickets for cash. He would, of course, give that cash back to Julia, as she was a much worthier cause than him seeing some silly play.
As he reached the theatre district, all the well coiffed men and women rushing from dinner to the theatre, all the bright lights, everything about the area shouted at him: You are out of place. You are underdressed and under cultured. But, Jack, remembering the boy he had been who had run away from Central Park, remembering the man who had loved Rose Dewitt Bukater, would not let himself be unnerved by any of these displays of wealth. He wandered for a while, looking for the Hippodrome, until he came across a large marquee advertising Gilbert and Sullivan's most famous comedic opera, H.M.S Pinafore.
“Hi, I'd like to sell these tickets back,” Jack said, as he made his way into the box office.
“I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. These tickets are nonrefundable.”
“So – So what do I do with these two tickets I won?”
“You could always...see the show,” said the man in the box, doing a better job than most would to mask the sarcasm in his voice. “It's quite funny, if I do say so myself.”
Even as Reggie first handed over the tickets, Jack had not ever considered actually seeing the show. But the streak of sentimentality he had felt looking out over the East River earlier than night had not gone away. He had never seen a show on Broadway before, and by the end of the month, he wouldn't have another chance.
“All right,” he said. “Where am I sitting?”
“You have decent seats,” the man said, directing him into the theatre. “Right side orchestra, Row N. You're close enough to see everything.”
Even before he realized he was actually doing it, Jack strode into the theatre towards his seat. He knew the seat next to him would be empty, and he wished there could be a way for him to pay it forward – to Julia, or perhaps to a young person interested in learning about theatre. But there was nothing to be done this close to curtain.
An usher handed him a program, and Jack thanked him curtly, as he took his seat in Row N. The man in the box office was right. He was a little far back, but he had a good view of the whole stage.
When he had entered, the seats around him had been mostly empty. But now, as 8:00 drew nearer, they began to fill with people much more well-dressed than him. He tried not to think about the last time he had been surrounded by this many people wearing suits, and tried to make himself look invisible in his seat. Then, he had ben out of his comfort zone, but he had had a friendly face to look towards all night. Now, though he wasn't phased by wealth for the sake of wealth, he still felt a little out of place, sitting alone, waiting for an opera to start.
He pulled out the program the usher had handed him, and he opened it to the first page, containing a brief summary of the opera he was about to watch. He skimmed it, not wanting to know the whole story before he watched it, and then turned the page to the roster of characters.
In This Performance:
Sir Joseph Porter will be played by Jeremiah McLean
Captain Corcoran will be played by Arthur Wilson
Ralph Rackstraw will be played by Oliver St. James
Dick Deadeye will be played by Matthew Ellis
Bill Bobstay will be played by Alexander Sharpe
Bob Becket will be played by Stanley Driscoll
Josephine will be played by Rose Dawson
Cousin Hebe will be played by Bessie Finch
Little Buttercup will be played by Vera Hall
Jack had only been skimming the program, but his heart stopped dead as one name jumped out to him. He knew he had a common last name and she had had one of the most popular given names of the era. Just mathematically, there could be hundreds of Rose Dawsons in this city alone. She's dead, he reminded himself. But, even still, his finger hovered over the name in his program.
Without warning, the lights dimmed and the theatre was cast in darkness. Moments later, the stage was lit up with electric lights, and a chorus of actors dressed as sailors began to sing:
We sail the ocean blue,
And our saucy ship’s a beauty;
We’re sober men and true,
And attentive to our duty.
When the balls whistle free
O’er the bright blue sea,
We stand to our guns all day;
When at anchor we ride
On the Portsmouth tide,
We’ve plenty of time to play.
Jack found himself hardly following the play. He was steeling himself for the introduction of a character named Josephine. Josephine. The first scene passed with no one by that name, and Jack realized that not only did he have no idea what had happened in the first scene, but the program in his hand had been ripped to shreds in his nervousness.
As the first scene ended, and Little Buttercup and the Captain exited, the stage was fully empty for just a moment. Nothing was there except the scenery, mimicking an old-fashioned ship, well lit, almost eerily, by the bright electric stage lights. Tense moments passed. Silence that could have lasted seconds or minutes. Maybe years.
And then a young woman, with short, black hair, wearing a white dress with a full, old-fashioned skirt entered the stage alone, and began to sing.
Sorry her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell,
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When love is alive and hope is dead!
Sad is the hour when sets the sun –
Dark is the night to earth’s poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When love is alive and hope is dead!
She had walked on from stage left, at first only showing the audience her side profile. Jack hadn't believed it would be her, not really. But still, something in him, some breath that he had been holding, released, and he felt deflated. Anger bubbled deep inside him, and he suddenly felt the urge to punch something. To utterly destroy some physical item. Nervous energy flowed through his body, with nowhere to go, and he stood up in his seat.
But then, the actress on stage, still singing, turned to face the audience, and he saw her eyes. Every last drop of tension in his body released, and he nearly screamed as he fell back into his chair, unable to look away from the woman on stage for even one fraction of one second.