CARPE DIEM
Chapter Five
The young man who I had seen on
the boat deck, at the entryway, found his way after all. He was introduced at
our table as Jack Dawson, the boy who had saved Rose--Rose! This time I swear I’ll
remember--DeWitt Bukater from certain death. I had not been informed of her
near fall off the ship’s stern, nor could I imagine how such a thing had
transpired. However, by all accounts, the sharply dressed American was a hero,
and he was pleasant enough that I didn’t doubt it. I sat beside Thomas Andrews
at dinner, as I always did. He had looked up from his black book when Madeline
and I entered the dining salon. The quick lift of his head brought his eyes
level with mine as we approached. He did not smile. His expression remained
passive, but his gaze held mine firmly, too long to speak in apathy. He rose at
our presence, as did my brother and Colonel Gracie, seated further down the
table.
"Mary Catherine," he
greeted, then dragged his gaze off my face, finally offering a smile to
someone. "Mrs. Astor, how are you?"
"Oh, quite well. Thank you,
Mr. Andrews," she answered, and took the seat across and to the right of
Thomas Andrews. I walked around and took the seat beside him. Her husband
joined us, greeting the men with hearty handshakes all around. Mr. Guggenheim
and Madame Aubert followed close behind. Mrs. DeWitt Bukater entered with Molly
Brown, her daughter, Mr. Hockley, and Jack Dawson. Mr. Dawson was the only new
face and introductions were brief. He sat across from Rose DeWitt Bukater, who
was flanked by Thomas Andrews on her right and Mr. Hockley on her left. Molly
Brown sat down next to me, silently, frowning, without her usual boisterous
greeting. Unnerved, I tried to account for her changed disposition and then
remembered that the woman had been in the company of high society all day. Had
they broken her spirit? Uncharacteristically, I hoped not. I suddenly regretted
my prior, highly uncharitable thoughts towards Molly Brown.
"You are well, I trust, Mrs.
Brown?" I asked. She looked up at my words, surprised, but then a smile
softened her features.
"Why sure,
Mary…yourself?" she replied.
"Very well. Thank you,"
I answered.
Dinner was a superficial affair,
at times indulgent, at others fairly tacit. Jack Dawson was apparently a free
spirit, live-by-his-luck, financially deficient vagrant. My previous
impression, that he was out of place, was obviously understated. Mr. Guggenheim
and his mistress spoke in low, conspiratorial tones at the other end of the
table. Bruce and Colonel Gracie laughed near them, Rose graciously complimented
Thomas Andrews on his ship, and he thanked her with modesty. The salad was
served, and the elder Mrs. DeWitt Bukater not-so-innocently asked Mr. Dawson
where he was from.
"Well, right now my address
is the RMS Titanic…" he answered, without apology, without shame.
"After that, I’m on God’s good humor." Not surprisingly, Mrs. DeWitt
Bukater was unimpressed.
"You find that sort of
rootless existence appealing, do you?"
Molly Brown gave the woman a long
look that I couldn’t mimic if I tried. I looked down quickly, hiding the smirk
that threatened to steal over my lips.
"Well…" Jack began
slowly, no fool to what Ruth DeWitt Bukater was attempting to do. He thought
about his answer before he said it, and sounded wise beyond his years because
of it. "…yes, ma’am, I do. I mean, I’ve got everything I need right here
with me…I got the air in my lungs and I got a few blank sheets of paper."
The waiter brought bread, Jack took a roll, started chewing on it as he
continued. He had caught the attention of the whole table. "I love waking
up and not knowing what’s gonna happen, who I’m gonna meet, where I’m gonna end
up…just a few nights ago, I was sleepin’ under a bridge and now I’m here, on
the greatest ship in the world, havin’ champagne with you fine folks." He
raised his glass with a grin. Laughter followed, and Colonel Gracie may have
added a "Hear, hear" as he always does. I glanced to my right. Thomas
was lost in his thoughts, salad forgotten.
"I figure life’s a gift and
I don’t intend on wasting it." Mr. Dawson spoke with uncommon conviction.
"You never know what hand you’re gonna get dealt next. Here you go,
Cal—" He threw a lighter to Mr. Hockley, or something of a similar shape
and size. Cal caught it roughly, unprepared as he was. Jack Dawson returned to
his audience. "…got to make each day count."
"Well said, Jack,"
Molly Brown muttered. Colonel Gracie chimed in with another "Hear,
hear."
"Carpe diem." I
breathed the words, hadn’t meant to speak aloud. I broke Thomas Andrews out of
his reverie. He glanced at me sharply. Jack Dawson met my gaze evenly, nodding
his head.
"Seize the day. Yes,
ma’am," he answered.
"To making it count."
Rose proposed a toast and the entire table answered. I raised my glass while
turning slightly to my right, meeting the Irishman’s scrutiny with a shrug of
my shoulders, a slight shake of my head. I admit, it was an odd comment for me
to make, and Thomas Andrews knew this. Wondered at it. Asked me, by his
expression, what I meant by it. But honestly, I had no explanation for him.
Later that night, Jack Dawson’s
words crept into my head as I brushed my long hair before the vanity mirror in
my stateroom. The candlelit likeness staring back at me held the ends of her
hair between two fingers, twisted them slowly. Seize the day? Oh, but what if
your day has come, and you missed it? What if your day stood before you in
brilliant sunlight and warm Irish breezes, and you hid from it? Locked yourself
away in a prison for fear of accepting it? Life’s a gift, and I don’t intend
on wasting it...
"Oh, you’ve wasted it, Mary
Catherine," the image in the mirror muttered back at me. I set the brush
aside, covering my face with my hands, though no tears stung at my eyes. I was
too exhausted to cry, hadn’t wept in half a dozen years anyway…couldn’t
remember what it felt like.