ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS
Chapter Three

I reread each of the letters that the Chippewa Falls postmaster had saved for Jack. He had given them to me to hold onto when I told him that I was Jack's widow. It was very difficult to talk about the short time I had spent with Jack when the wounds were so fresh, but the people he had grown up around deserved to know. I still only gave vague answers to their questions, still stunned from the tragedy. I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to talk about Jack.

It felt strange talking about the man I loved so much. It wasn't shame--no, it definitely wasn't shame. Loving Jack was one of the first things in my life that I was actually proud of. I think the reason that I found it so difficult to speak of him was because I was protecting him. Keeping him sheltered within my fragile heart. I didn't want to expose him to the cruel outside world--the world that ripped him from me. I didn't think that world deserved such an amazing man. I was one of the few people still alive that knew him well. How I wished he could have touched a million more lives!

The creases on the two letters were well worn, I had folded and refolded them several times on just the short train ride. But it didn't matter, the words on the page didn't change. I knew that I should have been trying to sleep, but I couldn't forget what I had read in the letters.

The first was just as the innkeeper had told me it would be. It was a formal letter signed by the governor of Wisconsin, thanking him for the portrait that would hang in the capitol. What bothered me was the date at the top of the page. November 1908. It stared back at me. He had told me that he had been in Santa Monica during that time. But this letter proved that, instead, he was in Madison, Wisconsin.

The second letter confused me even further. The people of Chippewa Falls had not opened this one because it was addressed to Jack's parents. I felt a little nosy opening it, but I considered it my duty as the--the thought made me cringe--last living Dawson. The second letter had been from the orphanage in Madison. The same one to which I was planning on donating Cal's money. The same one that the people of Chippewa Falls had believed held Jack. This orphanage housed a young boy named Walter. The matron was searching around for his relatives and had found and aunt, uncle, and cousin in Chippewa Falls. The letter asked them to come for their nephew. The matron didn't know, however, that Thomas and Anna Dawson, the boy's aunt and uncle, had perished two years before her letter was even sent.

As the train finally came to a stop, I was determined to get to the orphanage quickly. It was associated with Jack. Whether or not he had actually lived there, he had been nearby when he drew the governor.

The cloudy dawn was beginning to lighten the sky from black to gray as I approached the old brick building with a thick iron fence. I hurried through the cold morning, clutching both of Jack's letters and the cash I was planning to donate away from the wind. When I found myself at the base of the stone steps that led up to the large building, I froze. Would Jack really want me digging through his past? The building all of a sudden looked cold and menacing. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up at the red and black bricks that formed the building. Though I was not even sure anymore if Jack would appreciate my donation to this particular orphanage, I had come all this way. I hurried up the three steps and left the money, wrapped in Cal's coat in front of the door. As soon as the bundle was on the ground, I turned around and ran, letting the tears fall freely.

I felt as if I were leaving a baby in front of the orphanage. But really, I was leaving so much more than that. I left the horrors of my past life. I left any potential I had to create a life with Jack. And I left Cal's coat, one of my only reminders of the disaster that had taken these lives from me.

I felt like I had been running for quite a while, though when I heard a small voice shout out, I turned around to see that I had not run far from the orphanage. The voice I had heard belonged to a very small boy. He had honey-colored hair and sad-looking eyes. His face was dirty but I could tell the grime covered a very fair complexion. He couldn't have been more than six years old.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, in a shy and tiny voice. "I believe you dropped this."

I turned around to see that the little boy had Cal's coat in his hands. "No," I said. "It's a gift."

As I spoke, I saw a skinny older woman step out of the heavy door of the large building and stand behind the young boy. She opened the bundle and I saw her eyes grow large. "What is this all about, ma'am?"

"I wanted to make a donation in memory of my late husband. I thought he would appreciate the money going here," I explained.

"Why here?" asked the woman, the matron of the orphanage.

"His parents died when he was young and he was from around here--out west a bit."

"Where out west?" the young boy asked, but the matron gave him a look to quiet him.

"And what was your husband's name?" the matron asked.

My curiosity was already piqued. I wanted to tell her Jack's name and find out for sure whether he had been here or not. But I was already not feeling comfortable in the situation. I had come to make an anonymous donation and move on to California and that was what I was going to do.

"I'd rather it just be made anonymously," I said. "I...um...don't have much more to donate and I wouldn't want people hunting me down for money." It was mostly true.

I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Both the matron and the boy were looking at me with adoration, but it was not me they should be admiring. It was Cal's money and Jack's memory. That was the true reason I didn't want my name associated with the donation. I was simply a vessel for Jack's adventures to continue. Without him, I wouldn't even be alive.

"I have a train to catch," I said hurriedly, starting to turn around again.

"Oh, posh! I can't let you leave without at least giving you a cup of tea," the matron told me. "Come in."

Though I was a bit uncomfortable, I could tell how grateful she was. Accepting the tea was the least I could do. One cup wouldn't hurt anything. So I followed the matron and the boy through the heavy door into the old building. There was a bit of a draft inside, but it was well built. The plaster walls and the large staircase in the entrance gave it the feel of an old library.

The two of us sat down at a small table in the kitchen. The matron walked in with a teapot wrapped in a cozy. She poured each of us a cupful and offered me the bowl of sugar.

"I guess I've never actually introduced myself," she said as she sat down. "I'm Sister Millie and I run this orphanage."

"My name is Rose. But I'd still like that donation to be anonymous."

"Sure, dear."

We sipped our tea in silence, but I did enjoy the warm liquid.

"Who was that boy that I first talked to?" I asked. "He seemed very friendly."

"Oh, that's little Walter Harris. He has quite the interesting story. He came here a little more than four years ago from Milwaukee. There was a passing reference in the newspaper to a family member of his not long after he arrived here. So, I did a bit of research and discovered that he had family living nearby. He was very excited to learn of them. So, I wrote a letter and waited. Unfortunately, they never came. Walter was devastated. He's never lost hope, though. He's always been very curious whenever we have a visitor. In fact, I would wager anything he's listening at the door right now."

"How terrible," I said. I was truly sympathetic for this boy whose family couldn't be bothered to come pick him up from an orphanage. I knew all about bad family. I somehow felt connected to this young boy. Millie had been so nice to me. I wanted to be able to open up to her. I wanted to talk about Jack. I reached my hand into my pocket and fingered the two letters that should have been his and opened my mouth to speak.

But the words that came out were not the ones I was anticipating. "Walter Harris?" My hand was still closed around the worn letters addressed to Jack and to his parents. His mother was Anna Harris, from Milwaukee. The letter addressed to his parents had been from Sister Millie. Jack was Walter's family. The one that hadn't come to pick him up. The realization hit me like a brick to my chest.

I quickly stood up, tears falling from my eyes, shakily knocking over my cup of tea. "I have to go," I managed to mutter to Millie.

She immediately had a fragile arm around my shoulder. I wanted to shake it off, but I was to emotional to bother. She managed to sit me down in a soft chair and ask me what was wrong.

"Jack," I moaned. "Jack Dawson," was all I could say through my wild tears. Simultaneously, I heard a gasp and a shriek. Then the door flew open and a small yellow bullet, Walter, ran in.

"Rose, talk," Millie said gently, as she pulled Walter onto her lap in a chair across from me.

"I--I--Jack," I said. Tears were streaming. "He d-died, saving me. I came here to learn about his past and they sent me here. I love him." And I really did. It was almost disturbing that I loved him so blindly that I could love him despite his abandoning of Walter. But it didn't sound like the Jack I knew. There had to be a mistake. I knew it.

Luckily, Sister Millie could see that I was distraught so she took over the conversation. "Whenever we get a new child, I look through any family records to see if he has family. Walter had an aunt, uncle, and cousin up north in Chippewa Falls. He and I took the train out there one day and saw that the farmhouse was empty. Then, about three years ago, I saw in the local paper that a man with the same name as Walter's cousin had drawn a picture of the governor. I guessed that his family had been gone when I went to check on them. I cursed myself for not checking more thoroughly. That's when I sent the letter, but never got a reply."

I pulled out her letter and handed it over. "Jack's parents both died five years ago. The townspeople thought that he had come here. I wanted to learn more about his past."

"I'm sure you can find the microfiche of the newspaper at the library. And I always take Walter whenever I have business near the governor's office. He loves to look at his cousin's drawing in the lobby."

"Thank you," I said. I wanted--needed to see the picture. I said a very quick good-bye to Millie and Walter and left them. Though it was probably rude, it didn't matter. I was going to see a real reminder of Jack.

It was not a long walk to the governor's office. Both the orphanage and the office were in downtown Madison. I wiped my tears as I walked, hoping to compose myself a bit before I would have to face a receptionist of the governor. When I arrived, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The inside of the building was marble, nicely decorated. My eyes glanced around the room, knowing they would gravitate to Jack's drawing. When I didn't see it, I scanned the room again. There were a handful of paintings, but none looked like Jack could have done them. Nevertheless, I looked at each of them. The second one I walked up to was a canvas painting of an old man with white hair. He looked extremely posed and fake. The background was red, and he was looking through a monocle. The caption read Robert M. Lafollette, by J. Dawson.

It couldn't have been. This drawing was everything that Jack's weren't. It was pretentious and false. Jack had told me that he had never tried painting before. There was no possible way that Jack had painted this.

I was relieved. Millie had contacted Jack's family just based on the name in the newspaper. There must have been hundreds of people named Jack Dawson. Somebody else had painted this picture. The Jack I loved had never set foot in Madison. He had been in Santa Monica like he told me. I couldn't believe that I had ever doubted that.

Chapter Four
Stories