IMAGES OF ONESELF
Chapter Three

It had been ten days since young John Dalton had arrived on Jack’s doorstep. Ten days since they had settled into a comfortable routine. Jack, always an early riser would bathe, get dressed and make a hearty breakfast. Somehow Pepper knew when it was time to head out to the barn and wake the boy. John would come in, clean up and present himself at the table, always ready and agreeable to do the tasks that Jack assigned him. Sometimes it would be cleaning out the stalls, gathering the eggs, oiling the tracker, or raking the front lawn. Jack had told him what the harvest crew liked to have for lunch and the boy had good naturedly prepared the food and toted out into the fields. Some days when he had fewer chores, he’d even joined them for lunch. Everyone he came in contact with enjoyed his company. Jack himself had to say that for once in his life he looked forward to coming in to dinner, knowing that another person awaited his presence. While it was still troubling to Jack that the boy looked so much like him, he had pushed that idea further into the back of his mind, thinking only about the companionship they shared every evening.

Jack had noticed that young John had developed a rapport with the animals. Pepper followed him everywhere and sometimes slept on the boy’s bed during the day, waiting for him to come in from his chores. John had made a good attempt at learning to milk the cows. Even Peter Strand who came to help with the milking, had told Jack that his guest had a good technique for someone not brought up on the farm. He had suggested that it came from somewhere, maybe even it was in his blood. Jack had merely shrugged his shoulders. He was amused when John had given names to the chickens. When the old plow horse had an infection in his hoof, it was the boy who had stood by when Jack was absent in the fields, soothing the big animal while the veterinarian administered an injection.

The conversation between the two at dinner had been lively, but impersonal. Once in awhile the boy would throw out a question about Jack’s past, which was always answered vaguely. Jack was just not in the mood to talk about old times. He had too many sensitive memories. And when Jack tried to probe gently into the mysterious life of John Dalton, he too met with an invisible barrier. They had talked instead about the weather, the methods used in harvesting, and the affect of the depression on farm prices. John had a keen mind and a sense of humor. He absorbed whatever Jack told him like a sponge. Jack gave him a thorough education of the geological history of Wisconsin, telling him the names of the various glaciers that had once covered the state and John filled Jack in on his favorite movies. As long as neither intruded on any private turf, they were fine.

Jack wiped the sweat off his forehead and wiped his dirty hands on his blue jeans. “All I want to do is get in that tub,” he thought. He was exhausted, but relieved knowing that at last his harvesting was done. There was still the work to be done over at Miller’s, but Ed and Alice had four teenage sons who were experienced in farm work. Things ought to go a bit quicker over there. Another ten days or so and they could all take a well-deserved weekend off.

At the door of the machine shed, he stopped and glanced over at John who was patiently painting the chicken coop. He could see John moving the brush up and down in even strokes. At his feet was Pepper. The boy’s lips were moving as though he were having a conversation with the dog. Jack didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he moved closer to hear what John was saying. “You know Pepper, I always really wanted a dog. But it never worked out. I always wanted a dad too. I guess dogs are different. You kind of make humans your family. But us, we’re supposed to have moms and dads and live with them while we grow up.” John dipped the brush in the paint can, then tapped it against the top, letting the excess drip off. “Maybe I have a dad, but he doesn’t know or want to know.” John’s voice faded and he lowered his head sadly. Pepper got up and rubbed his back against John’s leg. “Maybe I’m gonna find out, Pepper,” he said stroking the dog’s ear.

Jack swallowed hard, understanding how the boy felt. What a tragedy if the boy’s father had abandoned him. John was too good a kid to deserve that. Yet, he had told him that his father was dead. Maybe he was just covering up some sad story. There were some bad things that happened out in the world. Jack knew that for sure.

He had not mentioned anything to John about leaving. Maybe he would want to stay here and sort things out for himself. As far as Jack was concerned, the boy was a real asset to have around. He shut the shed door with a bang to make John aware of his presence. “Say, John, I’ll be going in to finish dinner now. I’ve got a nice roasting chicken and some potatoes in the oven. And Mrs. Miller sent over some stuffing. How does that sound?” Jack asked him.

John looked up relieved to hear Jack’s voice. He was tired of beating around the bush. All day he had been planning how to find out what he needed to know about Dawson. “Sure, that’ll be great. Say, Mr. Dawson,” said John, “I know you are kind of an artist. I’ve seen your room up there when I’ve been going up to the bathroom. Would you mind if I went in and took a look around when I go in to clean up?” asked the boy, trying to sound innocent. “I saw you closed the door up there and I didn’t want to bother things.”

Jack had nothing to hide. There were pictures of people that he remembered from his travels in Europe, sketches of some of the Chippewa Falls locals, some family scenes from his childhood and of course, the pictures of Rose. Rose on the deck, Rose dancing, Rose in his arms. Rose, Rose, Rose. She was still an obsession that he had. He would never forget her. He had pictures of her doing everything he remembered and pictures of them doing what they had talked about. But it had seemed almost sacrilegious to draw her the way he wanted to and that was reclining on the couch. That was better saved in his mind.

“Yes, that’s alright,” said Jack. “And if you see one that you like, you can have it,” he offered. “I only shut the door, because at this time of year, there is a bad draft that blows out in the hall from that room. Sure, go have a look around. Just give me some time to have a bath first. I don’t want to eat looking like this.” Jack laughed as he tried to wipe the worst of the dirt off his hands with a kerchief.

“Alright. Then I’ll put this paint away and play with Pepper a little. I’ll hang out here until you give me the all clear.” John picked up the paint can and stood up. He watched Mr. Dawson go in the house. His nerves were on edge. If he found what he was looking for in that room, he was not sure how he would react. It was that one picture of a woman that had caught his eye last week. If it was who he thought, Dawson would have a lot to answer for.

John smelled the food cooking downstairs as he put on some clean clothes. While he was anxious to settle this question of Jack Dawson, he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed living in this pleasant place, having a sense of purpose each day and a good meal in his stomach every night. He looked in the mirror, smoothed back his hair, and finished buttoning his shirt. When he saw his reflection it was a big improvement over the gaunt face that stared back at him ten days ago. “Amazing what a few good dinners will do,” he thought.

He stepped out into the hall and opened the door to the room that served as Dawson’s studio. There was still enough daylight, so that he did not need to turn on the lights. He moved around slowly, looking at each drawing. The man had talent. That was for sure. Seemed kind of a waste to just have all this hanging in here. Finally he reached the picture of the woman that he had seen a few days ago. He removed the thumb tack that held it to the wall and took the sketch in his hands. He shook his head in confusion. Before his eyes, was a beautiful woman who looked just like his mother. In fact, he was certain it was his mother. She was standing alone on the deck of a ship, dressed in a very formal lace dress. Her hair was blowing in the wind. The picture was so realistic that he could almost feel the sea air.

He set the drawing down and examined several more. There was the same woman dancing and another of her sitting on a deck chair. Most of them seemed to be on a ship. The last picture he came to was the most troubling. It was of two people, his mother and Dawson himself and he was sure the location of the picture was the pier in Santa Monica. He ripped it down from the wall and marched downstairs. In his mind all he could see was this man coming to Santa Monica, getting his mother pregnant and then leaving her alone to raise a baby he could care less about. Anger was raging inside him as he made his way down the stairs to confront Jack Dawson.

“I see that you found a sketch that you liked,” said Jack, turning as he heard John enter the kitchen. He was just folding a towel, after having rinsed off some dishes. Too late Jack saw the menacing look on the boy’s face whose eyes were narrowed in anger. There was no time to duck out of the way of his raised arm.

“You no good, low down…I hate you,” yelled the boy as his fist made contact with Jack’s chin.

Jack was thrown back against the counter, stunned by the unexpected behavior of his guest. He squeezed his eyes shut from the pain and put his hand up against his face. Jack groaned and tried to catch his breath “What? What was that for?” He reached around for the wet towel and held it to his face, all the while staring at the boy.

The boy had stepped back a few feet, now seemingly scared that he had physically hurt another person. His initial bravado appeared to have left him. Jack could have been mistaken, but he thought that the young man’s eyes looked moist. However, the tirade of insults continued to spew from his mouth. “How can you live like this?” He waved the drawing in front of Jack. “You live off the fat of the land with a full stomach, have decent clothes, a truck and this big empty house? How can you live with yourself, while she is starving?” the boy screamed, pointing to the woman in the drawing.

Jack grabbed the sketch from the boy’s hand to see what it was that had upset him so much. He looked down and found that it was a drawing he had done of Rose and himself at the Santa Monica pier. A place they had been together only in his mind.

His eyes focused on the boy who had just flung these untruths at him. John Dalton was leaning against the table with his arms folded, giving Jack an accusing look. His chest was heaving up and down. He looked as if he were silently challenging him.

Jack opened his mouth to speak, but the boy started lashing out again. “I know about men like you. Men who romance some unsuspecting woman, tell them all kinds of romantic stuff, make them fall in love.” John turned his back to Jack and slammed his fist on the table. “Then you have your way, make some false promises or marry them for some money. Then when there is a baby on the way, they disappear. That’s what happened, isn’t it? That’s what you did to my mother.” The boys body started to shake in sobs and his voice cracked as he spoke.

As if in slow motion, the pieces of the puzzle of John Dalton were starting to come together in his mind. The picture of Rose, his own resemblance to the boy, John’s remarks to Pepper and now this anger as he tried to protect his mother. Jack was insulted by the false accusations thrown out by the boy and unable to control the furor that grew within him. He took several steps over to John and angrily took him by the shoulders, turning the boy to face him. He grabbed the front of John’s shirt, as the boy gasped, startled at this unexpected turn of events. Jack shoved him down into the nearest chair. He could feel John’s body starting to resist, but Jack had the advantage now, as he stood over his guest.

With his throat tight with outrage, Jack managed to speak a few words. “Just sit here and don’t say another word that you will regret.” Jack was breathing heavily. He kept up the pressure of his hands on John’s shoulders. “Let me ask the questions and you give the answers.

John squirmed under Jack’s tight hold. He looked up at Jack with distrust in his eyes. “Why should I?” he answered sullenly. “You’re the one who should answer my questions.” He felt Jack’s grip tighten as pain shot through his body. “Hey, easy does it. That hurts.”

Suddenly, Jack let go, realizing at last who this boy might be. Knowing now who John’s mother was. He shouldn’t be behaving like this. “I’m sorry,” said Jack, moving backward a few feet. “Please, just answer a few questions?” he asked John more politely. He bowed his head for a minute, trying to regain his control.

The boy fidgeted in his chair, sensing that Dawson would have his answers, one way or another. He thought briefly of his mother. She had always taught him to rise to the occasion, to be the best he could be. Alright. He’d meet Dawson on his own level. The man had backed down a little, he would too. “Okay,” he agreed, “what do you want to know?”

Jack pulled out the chair next John. “You know, I’ve had some funny feelings about you since the night you first showed up here. Your name isn’t John Dalton, is it?” He watched the boy’s face carefully, waiting to see if at last he was going to get the truth.

John raised his eyes to meet Jack’s look and then he glanced away. His next words seemed to stick in his throat. He shook his head nervously from side to side. “No, my name is Jack, Jack Dawson.” He paused briefly for Dawson’s reaction. When there was nothing but silence, he continued. “I’m named for my father. My mother named me for the father I never knew. She said he died in an accident in the spring of 1912. I was born in January of 1913.” His body was starting to feel chilled as he broke out into a cold sweat from his nervousness. There, he’d said it. He glanced at Dawson from under his lowered lids. And what he saw surprised him. For instead of a look of regret on the man’s face, he saw his host staring at him with an expression of wonder.

Jack sat looking in awe at the child he knew now that he had fathered. It was as if he had been given an unexpected gift. “You know me now,” whispered Jack, still staring at the boy. “And your mother? Rose, the woman in the picture? She goes by the name of Dawson too?” he asked softly. He could see that the boy was puzzled by this remark. Jack reached out to the boy and put his hand over his son’s. The boy’s fingers flinched slightly. “Jack, you have to believe me. What you think happened was not how it happened at all. I’ll explain later, but tell me now about Rose? I need to know if she is alright.”

Jack had heard the boy mumble something about her starving. He wondered just what had happened to make him say that. Perhaps the hard times of the depression had affected her too. Slowly in the back of his mind a sunrise of hope and promise started to dawn. He wanted to think only about her, but he forced himself to listen to what else the boy had to say.

Young Jack Dawson was confused by what his father had just said about his mother going by the name of Dawson. “What do you mean, about her name?” he asked, fearful of the answer. He watched as his father took a deep breath. “Weren’t you married?”

Jack’s face looked full of sadness. “We never quite got to that,” said Jack frankly. “Things happened, we got separated. Then I thought she was dead. I still love her. I never was able to get her out of my mind. You don’t think that I have all those pictures of her up in the room because I wanted to forget about her, do you? And you’ve spent almost 2 weeks here now. Do I seem like the kind of person that would do what you suggested to your mother? God, I hope not.” Jack rested his head in his hands, hoping for some words of reprieve from his son.

“I, I guess not. I don’t know. This is all so confusing.” Jack’s son felt an unfamiliar tug in his heart as he saw the pain on his father’s face. Something awful must have happened to his parents. Something they did not want to talk about. But he knew a couple of things now. He knew that his mother still loved this man, even though she believed him dead. Everything she did was preceded by the words, “your father would have liked this, your father used to say that, or that was your father’s favorite expression.” Apparently Jack Dawson had influenced his mother’s life so much, that despite whatever tragedy had occurred, it had given her the strength to go on. And he could see now that his father had never forgotten Rose, judging by the room devoted almost entirely to drawings of her. If he had wanted to forget that part of his life, he wouldn’t want to look at those pictures everyday. No there was something deeper here that he could not understand. He had always trusted his mother, surely she would not have knowingly lied to him.

Jack lifted his head and found his son’s eyes watching him. He could see the uncertainty written on his face. The anger seemed to be gone and he appeared to be waiting for a cue from him as to what was going to happen next. “Listen, we both just got a little hot under the collar here. Something I know that your mother would not approve of." His son flashed him a brief smile. Jack did a double take when he saw that look. Now that he knew who the boy was, something else was quite apparent. For even though the young man looked like him, he could see very clearly now that his wide smile belonged to his mother. What a wondrous thing it was to see the living breathing proof of their magical union.

“Let’s go out and cool off,” said Jack. “ Start this evening all over. We need to get to know each other and……….” Jack paused. Painful as it would be, his son was entitled to a full explanation of the story of Rose and himself. “I want to tell you the whole story about your mother and myself. Then you can make your own decisions about how you feel about me. Come on, get your jacket. Let’s take a walk.” Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked over to the stove and put the food back in the oven to stay warm. He looked back over his shoulder at his son. “We’ll eat later.”

Young Jack saw the hurt that lingered in his father’s eyes. Already he was sorry that he had attacked Dawson. But in his mind, he had been so convinced that Jack Dawson was just another man out for ill gotten gains, in this case his mother. His heart was telling him something very different. He was seeing a gentle, quiet man. An honest and hardworking person who would never take advantage of anyone. He liked him well enough during those times when he forgot that he might be his father. Now he was going to have to sort out his feelings. Those unfamiliar stirrings in his heart were telling him to trust this man as well. At the very least to give him a chance.

“I have a question for you, sir,” asked the boy quietly, his eyes averted, ashamed to look Jack in the face.

“What’s that? And what is with the sir?” Jack had to chuckle at that. Rose certainly had taught the boy good manners. But sir?

Young Jack looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well Mom is a stickler for proper behavior…..some of the time,” he said with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

Jack felt a sense of relief to know that Rose hadn’t lost her spirit. “Go on with your question.” He saw concern on his son’s face and he guessed what the boy wanted to know.

“You’re, you’re not sorry…I mean.” Young Jack was stumbling over the words.

Jack studied the boy trying to convey his feelings of fatherly pride with his look. “Am I sorry I have a son? Am I sorry you are here?” He could see the boy nodding his head, his eyes suspiciously wet. “I will remember this night forever, Jack. It will be second only to the night I met Rose. You have given me two wonderful things tonight. The knowledge that you exist and that your mother is alive.”

The two men stood face to face, each watching the other for some sign, something that would speak of acceptance and acknowledgement. For a moment neither moved. Then Jack opened his arms. He knew what he wanted to happen, though he was unsure whether or not it would. His heart was pounding and he felt the nerves in his face twitch. What occurred in the next few seconds would set the tone for what was to come in the future between his son and himself. Then there was movement. Young Jack stood up and stepped slowly into his father’s enfolding embrace, allowing his father to hug him. Jack savored the feeling of his son’s presence and cast his eyes upward thankfully. A slight rustling sound could be heard as the young man’s arms started to return his father’s show of affection. There was the sound of a choked sob and then his son’s muffled voice. In that voice, Jack heard for the first time a word that he thought would never be a part of his life. “Dad.” It was spoken with uncertainty, but with hope. But with that one syllable, their lives were irrevocably cemented together forever.

Chapter Four
Stories