Written by Roxy Parkington
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.
"He married, of course,
and inherited his millions, but the crash of ’29 hit his interests hard, and he
put a pistol in his mouth that year, or so I read."
--Rose Dawson Calvert
The house was quiet today; his
wife had gone out shopping with what little money they had left. Once upon a
time, in an era that he wished the world could grasp again, he had been on top
of the world. Handsome, rich, and engaged to a beautiful girl, Caledon
Hockley’s gilded cage could not be shattered.
Until a man by the name of Jack
Dawson shook the bars of that cage and shattered it, like Sampson in the old
Bible story Cal loved as a child. Rose, his fiancée, fell in love with that
penniless artist, and what she saw in him Cal could only guess. Rose died for
Dawson when Titanic foundered, and in retrospect Cal had to admit he was rough
with Rose. Abigail, his wife, was a sweet girl bred in a rich family; she, too,
was not used to the fact that they had lost most of their fortune. She had
given him a boy, a fine baby worth carrying the Hockley name; that much she was
good for.
Wait. Why was he thinking of all
the things that had happened when he should be thinking about the things that
were? Seventeen years ago, Dawson had shaken his gilded cage; now it was
getting shaken, very hard, by the stock market crash of 1929. At least he and
Abigail still held claim to their beautiful mansion, but there was no doubt he
was broken. He moved quietly up the stairs to peek in at Robert, sleeping in
his crib, and kissed his son. "A fine boy, a fine boy," Nathan
Hockley had chortled when he held his grandson for the first time. Looking at
Robert now, Cal knew there could be no doubt of that.
Cal closed the door softly on his
way out of Robert’s nursery; his son did not deserve to witness this. How could
he be a good father when he had lost the one element in his life he so desired?
Cal could feel his muscles tense, a mix of fear, adrenaline, pain, and suspense
pulsing in his veins. He began to visibly shake, knowing that he was at the end
of his rope and that this was the only thing he knew to do.
Still silent and swift, Cal
marched into the study downstairs, his mahogany desk illuminated by a single
lamp. Stationery, stationery, I need stationery, damn it! he thought,
searching the drawers of his desk in a frenzy. Finally, he found a spare sheet,
a piece adorned with Caledon M. Hockley as the letterhead. "Quite fitting
for one about to die a respectable death," he smirked before writing the
following to Abigail.
November 3, 1929
Dearest Abigail,
If you have found this letter,
my blood is staining the carpet upstairs and I am already dead. I have failed
you, my father, my son, and anyone else that has the…pleasure of knowing me. I
leave you the house and Robert, but little else. Amusing, isn’t it, that my
last will and testament is only a single sentence while others spend lifetimes
writing theirs? I died a gentleman and I want to be buried as one. Burn
everything I own, as it will be of little use to you.
I love you; what I am about to
undertake is for the good of us all.
Cal
There. He was satisfied; at least
he had done something right in his last hours on earth. He put the pen next to
the finished note and opened another drawer. His prized pistol, a present for
his eighteenth birthday, lay there in its black case with velvet lining. Cal
stroked it with a slight hunger, then carried it out of the study and back
upstairs with him. Simultaneously, the clock chimed and Robert let out a wail
from the nursery. Cal ignored his son’s plaintive cry; Abigail could take care
of him when she returned.
He shed his current suit for one
that reminded him of that once upon a time the world would never grasp. Cal
hadn’t worn that suit since the sinking of the Titanic on April 15, 1912, but
now it seemed entirely appropriate. He was shaking no more because he finally
was at peace with himself.
The front door was being opened
downstairs; this had to be done as quickly as possible. It also had to be as
clean a death as possible. Cal darted into the bedroom, shut the door, and
gently slid the pistol in his mouth. Thank God it had only one bullet left. His
tongue tasted cold, silver metal before he pulled the trigger with a trembling
hand and a gunshot rang through the house. He fell to the floor with a thump,
blood flowing in small rivers onto the white carpet. Abigail heard the thump
and Robert’s crying, quickly ascending the stairs.
Cal Hockley died a broken man in
the early November twilight, not in cold, suicidal blood…but in cold silver.
The End.
