Titanic

{Chapter Eleven}

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"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history..." J. Bruce Ismay, Managing Director of the White Star Line, was extolling the virtues of the ship. "...and our Master Shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews, here, designed her from the keel plates up." He indicated a handsome, thirty-nine-year-old, Irish gentleman to his right, Thomas Andrews, of Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders.

The group was assembled for lunch on Friday. Ismay was seated with Cal, Rose, Ruth, Molly Brown, and Thomas Andrews. They were in the Palm Court, a beautiful, sunny spot, enclosed by high-arched windows.

Andrews disliked the attention he was receiving. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is..." He slapped the table. "...willed into solid reality."

Molly spoke up. "Why are ships always bein' called 'she'? Is it because men think half the woman around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" They all laughed. "Just another example of men settin' the rules their way."

The waiter arrived to take orders. Rose lit a cigarette.

"You know I don't like that, Rose," Ruth told her.

Rose just simply turned to her mother before blowing the smoke into her face. An act of rebelliousness.

"She knows." Cal took the cigarette from her and stubbed it out. To the waiter, he said, "We'll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce." After the waiter moved on, Cal turned to Rose and asked, "You like lamb, don't you, sweetpea?"

She gave him the fakest smile in return.

Molly was watching the dynamic between Rose, Cal, and Ruth. "So, you gonna cut her meat for her, too, there, Cal?" Turning to Ismay, she asked, "Hey, who came up with the name Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, safety, luxury...and above all, strength--"

Rose couldn't resist. "Do you know of Dr. Freud? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."

Andrews choked on his breadstick, suppressing laughter.

Ruth was shocked and embarrassed. "My God, Rose! What's gotten into--"

"Excuse me." Rose abruptly stood up and stalked away.

Ruth was mortified. "I do apologize."

"She's a pistol, Cal. You think you can handle her?" Molly was delighted with the whole thing.

Tense but feigning unconcern, Cal replied, "Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won't I, Mrs. Brown."

Ismay was still confused. "Freud? Who is he? Is he a passenger?"

. . . . .

On the steerage decks below, Jack sat on a bench in the sun. Titanic's wake spread out behind him to the horizon. He had his knees pulled up, supporting a leather-bound sketching pad, his only valuable possession. With a conte crayon, he drew rapidly, using sure strokes.

An emigrant from Manchester, named Cartmell, had his three-year-old daughter, Cora, standing on the lower rung of the rail. She was leaned back against his beer-barrel of a stomach, watching the seagulls.

The sketch captured them perfectly, with a great sense of the humanity of the moment. Jack was good. Really good. Fabrizio looked over Jack's shoulder, nodding appreciatively.

Tommy Ryan, a scowling, young, Irish emigrant, watched as a crewmember came by, walking three small dogs around the deck. One of them, a black French Bulldog, was among the ugliest creatures on the planet.

"That's typical. First Class dogs come down here to take a shite."

Jack looked up from his sketch. "That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things."

"Like we could forget." The man extended his hand. "I'm Tommy Ryan."

Jack shook his hand. "Jack Dawson."

Fabrizio took it next. "Fabrizio di Rossi."

Tommy turned to Jack. "Do you make any money with your drawings?"

But Jack didn't hear his question. For something had entranced him. He glanced across the well deck. At the aft railing of the B Deck promenade stood Rose, in a long, lace gown and white gloves; her wild, red curls pinned into a loose yet elegant bun.

Jack was unable to take his eyes off of her. They were across from each other, about sixty feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between them. She on her promontory, he on his much lower one. She stared down at the water. He was riveted by her. She looked like a figure in a romantic novel; sad and isolated.

Fabrizio tapped Tommy, and they both looked at Jack gazing at Rose. Fabrizio and Tommy grinned at each other.

Rose turned, suddenly, and looked right at Jack. He was caught staring...but he didn't look away. She did...but then looked back. Their eyes met across the space of the well deck...across the gulf between worlds.

Jack saw a man, Cal, come up behind her and take her arm. She jerked her arm away. They argued inaudibly. She stormed away, and he went after her, disappearing along the B Deck promenade. Jack stared after her.

Tommy grinned. "Ah, Forget it, boyo. You'd as like have angels fly out o' your arse to get next to the likes o' her."

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My Heart is Going On so hard from all of the Titanic feels I'm getting right now!!!