HEARTS WILL GO ON
Chapter Six
Come Josephine in my flying
machine
Going up she goes
Up she goes.
I never minded the name I was
given, Josephine. It fit. Most girls complained that their names were dull or
unimpressive, but I never experienced that. My childhood was a simple one. I
was born in Santa Monica, California, and until I was seven, my mother raised
me on her own. I can still remember our rundown little apartment and how, even
though we had very little, we were happy. Life seemed to begin for me when my
mother married James Calvert. I never had trouble adjusting to him as a father,
perhaps because I’d never known my own father. All I knew of him was his name
and that I resembled him and could draw like he could.
All my life, I had been out to
achieve something, to make something of my life. Ma always said I was the
easiest child to raise, because I could have raised myself if she would have
allowed me to. After Jim died, things got hard again, with Mom having two boys
as well as me to support, so I took the initiative and got a job at a horse
farm, which I despised. When I was seventeen, I learned I had an aunt on my
father’s side and, with my mother, met her at her home in Boston. She was
wonderful…just as I would have wished her to be.
During high school, I had been
contacted by a professor of art wishing me to study under him. I’d tried to
apply at a university, but had not been accepted for one poor excuse or
another. I’d all but given up hope when I’d gotten his letter. For nearly three
years, I’d scrimped and saved, trying to save up enough money to go to
Philadelphia, and when Aunt Olivia offered a room in her home for the summer
when I was nineteen, I accepted, enrolling in a finishing school’s art program.
Still, I found it very strange that through the whole summer I stayed with her,
I had yet to see a picture of Jack. I couldn’t bring myself to refer to him as
Dad, or Father, even yet. It was too strange.
When Aunt Olivia saw my drawings,
she immediately offered to give me the money to travel to Philadelphia with my
mother and brothers. Reluctantly, Ma accepted, and we brought the boys and most
of our things to a hotel my aunt had arranged for us. I was overwhelmed, since
it was all so grand, but when I met Professor Rose, all of my fear and
trepidations of what he would be like were quelled. He looked younger than I’d
imagined, as I had pictured some fifty-year-old with graying hair and a beard.
This man was, at the most, maybe a few years older than my mother, in his early
forties. He had a day’s worth of stubble, which fit the tan complexion of his
face well, and shaggy but well-kept hair. Inwardly, I snickered, thinking I
could tease Ma about him…she never allowed herself to have fun. What caught me
the most about Thomas Rose was his eyes. They were so warm. I immediately felt
comfortable with him.
I walked into his studio around
noon that first day and was staring at his works on the wall…though it was odd
to me that he didn’t sign his work.
"Josephine Dawson?" A
lighthearted male voice made me jump, to which a chuckle followed.
"Yeah…sorry," I said
stupidly, turning around. He was not an extremely tall man, but he was by no
means short, and for the smallest of moments, I think he swallowed really hard.
"I’m Thomas Rose…just call
me Tom," he said, extending his hand to me. I nodded politely.
"Call me Jo, if you wouldn’t
mind…I’ve never gone by Josephine."
"All right…Jo," he
began, sitting casually in one of the meager chairs in the studio. "How
much do you know about art?" he asked kindly, and I thought back to the
summer program.
"Just basic things like
shading and how to draw, really…most of what I’ve done just kind of came
naturally to me. I draw what I see." He smiled then, almost proudly.
"I was like that as a kid,
too. All right, then…let’s start from the beginning," he said, standing
and pulling out a piece of sketch paper and an art pencil, which I took from
him, sitting at his drawing table.
"The first thing you need to
know about art is exactly what you just told me. You draw what you see. What do
you see, Jo?" he asked, and I frowned.
"I don’t know what you mean,
Professor…"
"Tom," he corrected
with a laugh. "No, I just meant, what do you like to draw?" I felt
thoroughly stupid.
"Oh…well…mostly
people…sometimes animals…like horses," I replied, to which he nodded.
"Great…as you can see, I do
a lot of portraits and life drawing, but lately I’ve been really enjoying
scenery. I am actually an architect. Have been for about eighteen years
now."
I laughed.
"How old are you?" I
asked, and he sighed, chuckling.
"Pretty ancient. I just
turned forty this September," he said, making a face.
I had to laugh. He was like a big
kid. I set down my pencil and said, "You know…for some reason, I always
thought architects were stuffy old men." He shrugged, sitting across from
me and picking up another pencil.
"Sorry to disappoint."
He grinned and nodded toward the paper. "Start, shall we?" I nodded
nervously and he suddenly became very businesslike. "Okay…first thing…just
a small test. Let’s draw something from memory. Any memory you might
have."
By the time we had finished, I
had a picture of a young woman with curls, asleep with her head on the kitchen
table. He’d drawn a little boy and his father fishing. I frowned at my drawing,
because I hadn’t wanted to draw that.
"Who is that? Is it
you?" Tom asked me, and I shook my head, blinking back tears.
"No. It’s my mother. Back
before she married my stepfather, we used to live in this shitty little
apartment in Santa Monica, California. She’d come home every night from work
and manage to cook dinner, but sometimes it got to her, and I remember this one
time, I was in my room reading. I was about five, and she was crying her eyes
out. I was too afraid to ask her what was wrong, so I waited until she stopped
and then I went into the kitchen to see what the matter was. I found her like
this on the table…so I turned off the stove and wrapped a small blanket around
her. I still remember that like it was yesterday."
"What happened to your real
dad?" he asked kindly, and though it usually would have bothered me, I
could tell that Tom was not a malicious person.
"Oh, I never knew him. He
died before I was born," I explained, and the man nodded in understanding.
I took a breath before changing the subject.
"What is yours about?"
I asked, and he smiled sadly.
"Back when I was around
seven or eight, we used to live on a lake. It was real nice. Quiet. My dad and
I used to fish all the time. I miss that…he died when I was just a kid." I
sighed.
"Oh, I’m sorry…" I
said, unable to think of the right thing to say. He shrugged.
"It was a long time ago. All
you can do is move on with your life, because you only get to live once. At
least, that’s I how see it, ya know?"
"Yeah. I mean, my stepfather
died when I was sixteen, and Ma was pregnant with my youngest brother, Luke. It
was hard for me…because he was so good to her…I mean, she didn’t deserve to
lose him, too. I mean, I’m just glad the nightmares didn’t come back." I
shut up then, realizing I was talking too much. Confusion filled my teacher’s
eyes.
"Nightmares?" he asked,
and I nodded, unable to stop.
"She…um…there was this
traumatic experience she had before I was born…I mean, you remember that ship,
the Titanic, and all that mess?"
He nodded uncomfortably.
"Sure do…everyone who was
around back then remembers that…lost a few friends myself because of that
disaster," he said, sitting back and seeming to remember it as if it had
just happened.
"Well, she used to call out
in her sleep, or she’d wake up screaming," I said, feeling like I was
betraying her somehow, but I’d never talked to anyone about this before and it
felt wonderful.
"Like what?" he asked
curiously, and I bit my lip.
"Like Mama or stop it!
Mostly, though, she just called out for Jack. That was my father. I never told
her I heard it."
"Man…that’s awful, Jo. I’m
sorry your mom had to go through that," he said sincerely, and I nodded my
gratitude.
"Thank you…you know…to this
day, she will not even get on a ferry," I said. "I’ve been on boats
dozens of times, but she won’t go." He nodded.
"Stuff like that will mess a
person up," he said, and I swallowed heavily, feeling a sense of guilt.
I left his studio with a new
appreciation for my mother, and was planning to tell her when I heard a voice
beside me.
"Hey! Don’t I know
you?" I turned to look, and recognized the boy, but I couldn’t recall from
where. "I think so…have we met?" he asked, and I shrugged, thinking,
when suddenly a random name came into my mind.
"Johnny!" I said,
miraculously recalling his name. He’d helped me at the train station in Boston
a while back. He grinned.
"I knew it…Jo, right?"
he asked, and I nodded, surprised. "Why haven’t I seen you around
Boston?" he asked, and I laughed.
"I don’t live in Boston. I’m
actually from Cedar Rapids, Iowa…what are you doing here?" He grinned.
"I live here...well, my
family does. I just graduated from college..." he said, and though
jealousy shot through me, I managed a polite smile.
"Oh, I am studying art under
Thomas Rose," I explained, getting an impressed look from him.
"Well, he is very good, from
what I hear…what’s he like? I hear he’s some veteran who survived an explosion
or something," he said, and I laughed.
"Where did you hear that?
He’s an architect…a very normal man," I said as the clock began to chime
through the city, and suddenly, I remembered that it was close to dinnertime
and we had been invited somewhere. "Look, I have to go, Johnny…maybe I’ll
see you around," I said, hurrying away.
I heard him say,
"Maybe."