THE NEPHEW
Chapter Four
April 13
Pure coincidence. That's what it was.
Or at least that was what Rose convinced
herself after downing four glasses of sherry from her well-stocked wine rack.
"I ought to be a writer," she
speculated to Josie, who watched her from a safe distance in front of the
parlor fireplace. "The last three days could have only sprung from my very
overactive imagination."
So why, then, had she agreed to meet his
mother?
Rose awoke late the next morning, nursing a
blinding headache that was probably the result of a combination of the liquor
and a bizarre dream. She'd been aboard the Titanic again, walking with purpose
toward the Grand Staircase. Catching a glimpse of herself reflected in a window
pane, she was shocked at the image; she was once again a girl of seventeen,
donned in the same brocaded evening dress she'd worn to dinner with Jack twenty
years earlier, only it was white. Like a bridal gown.
And like wedding guests, the passengers and
crew awaited her arrival: from Captain Smith to the members of the band; from
Trudy, her maid, to Jack's friend Fabrizio. Everyone who was lost was here, and
it was here she would be reunited with her love, at the clock, just as he'd
promised.
But when she approached the top of the
stairs, he wasn't there.
*****
Rose picked her most modest dress for the
occasion, but opted against pinning her hair up in a chignon, thinking it would
age her. Instead she wore her fiery curls down and flowing about her shoulders,
and a straw hat. That morning she'd driven to a nearby bakery and bought some
fresh hot cross buns, which she wrapped in a warm towel in a bowl to bring with
her.
As she pulled into the drive of a small
one-story white frame house, she couldn't have felt more nervous, although the
home appeared inviting enough from the outside. Bright, cheery curtains and
flower boxes decorated the windows. Rose self-consciously wiped her shoes on the
welcome mate in front of the door.
John answered, his smile so wide at the sight
of her it broke Rose's heart.
"I--I brought you some pastries,"
she offered.
He took the bowl and ushered her into a cozy
living room, where a woman in her mid-forties lay under a thin blanket on the
sofa, propped up with pillows. From a radio in the corner came the sound of a
banjo and a high-pitched male voice.
"Mama, this is Rose."
She turned slowly, and even the skilled
actress in Rose had difficulty concealing the pity in her expression. The woman
looked a good ten years older than she actually was. Her once blond hair had
gone silver, and had thinned to the point where her scalp showed in parts. Skin
hung from her bones. Her eyes watered, and Rose could almost feel the agony she
was experiencing. There was something familiar about her...
Rose stepped forward, reluctantly, and put
out her hand. Mrs. Calvert took it and squeezed it with surprising strength.
"Imagine, the famous Rose Dawson come to
call," she whispered, and a spasm of coughs wracked her body. John rushed
over with a glass of water and held it to her lips.
"My doting son." Mrs. Calvert
smiled, transforming her bony face into something beautiful. "I told him
not to take leave before the semester was over, but he wouldn't hear of
it."
Rose could imagine why. This woman looked as
if she wouldn't last another month.
"There's no one else to take care of
you, Mama," John replied. "I couldn't leave you here alone."
"Do you have a good doctor?" Rose
inquired, unsure of what else to say. She wanted to recommend a cancer
specialist she'd heard about in Los Angeles, but of course travel would be out
of the question for this patient.
"Oh, yes, I suppose he's done did all he
can. Gives me enough medicine so I don't feel the pain all the time. Have a
seat, darling. John, don't just stand there gawking, get our company something
to drink."
Mrs. Calvert helped herself to one of the
buns and studied Rose carefully. "You got such fine manners. I so hate to
say this, but when my son told me he'd met ya, I had a very different picture
of you in my head."
"It's quite all right. Not many folks
think very highly of actors, but most of the ones I know are just the average
sort."
"John seems to believe we're
related." Mrs. Calvert chuckled. "No offense, but it's just not
possible. You don't look nothing like the Dawsons of Chippewa Falls."
Rose almost choked on the piece of pastry in
her mouth and averted her head quickly so that her hostess wouldn't see. John
came to her rescue just in time, bearing a tray with a pitcher of iced tea,
three glasses and a plate of something that looked like pancakes.
"These are fried corn fritters,"
Mrs. Calvert said. "My secret recipe. I taught Jack to make 'em when I got
sick."
"You're wondering why I called him
Jack," she added, eyeing Rose closely as the younger woman sampled a
fritter. Satisfied that their guest was enjoying her secret recipe, Mrs.
Calvert went on, "It was my brother's name."
Rose nodded. From the moment she'd met John,
a part of her knew.
"I was six years older than him, but it
was just us two youngsters in the family, no other relatives in Wisconsin and
we lived on a farm out in the middle of nowhere, so we had no one but each
other to play with. Jack and Jane. Sounds awfully precious, doesn't it?"
Her eyes suddenly misted. She blinked back tears.
"Anyways, I was the rebellious type,
always fighting with my folks. We just never could get along. As soon as I hit
adulthood, I hit the road for New York. Jack was only twelve years old at the
time, and he begged and pleaded with me not to go. I wish I hadn't, 'cause it
was the last time I ever did see him."
She paused, and Rose, growing more
uncomfortable by the minute, glanced at John. His eyes were riveted on his
mother, and he was frowning.
"I fell on hard times not long after,
but I was too proud to go home," Mrs. Calvert continued bitterly. "My
parents weren't too forgiving, and I couldn't stand the possibility of living
out my days on that farm with some country bumpkin they handpicked for me. Jack
was their favorite. They had high hopes for him; he had a talent. Like my boy
here, he was an artist. And they knew he was destined for better things than
life on the farm. If it hadn't been for the fire..." Her voice trailed
off.
"They died three years after Mama
left," John finished for her.
"I'd completely lost contact," Mrs.
Calvert said. "By the time a friend got word to me in New York, they'd
already been buried. I came home anyway, to get my baby brother. But he was
gone. Nobody knew where he ran off to. I searched for him for a while, but he
hadn't contacted any of our people and I just gave up."
A tear slowly trickled its way down a gaunt
cheek. "I wish I'd kept looking. Because a part of me thinks he's
dead."
"Don't say that," John
Jack
said. "He could still be looking for
you."
Rose suddenly had the urge to leave, to run
from this sad little house and its occupants, who were closer to being family
than they were aware. She knew she should tell them the truth, but why hurt
this woman with the news that her beloved brother had gone to a grave at the
bottom of the Atlantic Ocean when he was about her son's age? She would find
out soon enough anyway.
Fortunately, John sensed Rose was ill at ease
and changed the subject to the gallery. The remainder of the visit was pleasant
as it could be under the circumstances. As John cleared the dishes, his mother
clasped Rose's hands.
"You're a good woman, Rose. I had my
doubts, your being so much older than my son. But I see how he gets around you.
He's never been this happy, not even before his daddy took off. Promise me
this, Rose. Look out for my Jack when I'm gone. Will you make me that promise,
please? He has no one else in this world."
She promised. It was the second time she'd
made such a weighty promise to a Dawson.
*****
Her door chime rang that evening around
seven. Even Josephine didn't appear surprised to see John on the threshold.
He thanked her for coming to see his mother.
She'd seemed so at peace when Rose left. "I don't know what you said to
her, but it worked like a charm."
It was at that moment that he noticed the
sketch on the easel. Rose had forgotten to put it safely away.
"Hey, that's me!" he exclaimed, and
picked it up. "Can I keep this?"
"I'd rather you not." Rose said
stiffly. She silently added, It's not you.
John shrugged and reached down to pet the
terrier, who was clamoring for his attention. As Rose looked for a place to
hide the sketch--preferably someplace where she'd never see it again unless she
went looking for it--he began to sing, softly and off-key, "Come
Josephine, in my flying machine, and it's up she goes, up she goes."
Why was he singing that song? It was old
as him, or older.
Rose's eyes bulged and she backed away from
him, only stopping when a brick wall impeded her progress.
Sunset at the bow. Jack's arms around her,
holding her steady.
"Come Josephine, in my flying
machine--"
"Rose? Are you okay?"
John
Jack
John
was at her side. He cupped her chin gently
with his artist's fingers and pressed his lips against hers. She yielded,
letting her arms encircle his neck. They pulled apart for air and he held her
tight, murmuring into her ear, "You are the most amazingly astounding
woman I've ever met, Rose Dawson."
She pushed him away, roughly, and fled into
the parlor. John followed.
"What is it? Did I say something
wrong?"
"You most certainly did," Rose
replied, refusing to look him in the eye. "You'll have to leave now,
please."
"But why? You kissed me back, I felt
it!"
"We can't do this." She was crying,
unable to dam the onslaught of tears that had been threatening for three days
now. "Please respect my wishes, John. It isn't right."
"I thought we'd decided that the age
difference doesn't matter," John said, on the verge of tears himself.
"It's not that."
"Then what is it? Rose, you're no
picnic, you know that?"
"So I've been told. And yet you're still
here."
"Because I love you, dammit! It's not
your fame, or your beauty, or your money. It's that fire in you, and I'm afraid
that whatever's happened in your life to make you so lonely and so scared to
love anyone is gonna burn that fire out."
"I can't do this, Jack," she
whimpered. "I can't lose you again."
"You won't ever lose me," he said.
She went to him this time.
Sometime later, Rose lay entwined with him on
the couch in the parlor, mulling over just how comfortable it had turned out to
be. She hadn't know passion of the likes she felt this night in twenty years.
He was somewhat inexperienced and allowed her to take the lead; she was pleased
to discover he was a fast learner.
An antique cuckoo clock struck the nine
o'clock hour. John stirred, and moaned.
"Must you go?" Rose asked.
"Well, Mama will be wondering--"
"I know."
"Listen," he said, propping himself
up on one elbow. "We're having a few friends over for my birthday, nothing
fancy, just dinner and drinks. I'd love for you to come."
"Your birthday? You didn't tell me! When
is it?"
"Day after tomorrow." John stood
and began awkwardly gathering his clothing from the floor.
A cold finger of dread began to tickle at
Rose's stomach.
"Just how old will you be,
exactly?" she inquired, keeping her tone as casual as possible. "I
don't believe you ever told me."
John
Jack
smiled warmly at her. "I'll be
twenty."
Which meant he was born the day Jack died.