November 5, 1961
Rose came into the dining room carrying a stack of canvases, the pile so high she could barely see over it. Jack followed close behind her, his portfolio in his hand.
"We can look at our art in here," Rose told him. "The table is big enough that we can spread out."
Jack nodded as he set his portfolio on the table and helped Rose set down her heavy pile of canvases. He raised an eyebrow at the top painting, a rather unflattering depiction of Richard Nixon, the Republican presidential candidate in the last election.
Rose saw the painting he was looking at and smiled. "I painted that last year. I entered it into a contest at school, but Mrs. Widmark gave it back and told me I should have more respect."
"I…uh…I take it you don’t like him much?"
Rose shook her head. "No. I don’t think he’s trustworthy. Dad doesn’t think much of him, either—a paranoid son of a bitch was what he called him, before Mom reminded him not to use such language in front me and the twins. I painted it after that and showed it to Dad. He thought it was funny."
Jack looked at the painting more closely. Rose had portrayed Nixon as having an unusually long nose, almost Pinocchio-like. His receding hairline was curved in such a way that it looked almost like horns, and his eyes looked like they were trying to avoid something. The painting could have been the work of an unskilled amateur, but Jack suspected Rose had done it on purpose.
"If he’d won, I would have sent it to him," Rose told him. "But he didn’t, so I kept it."
Jack opened his portfolio and leafed through the contents, finally pulling out a political cartoon his mother had drawn. He showed it to Rose.
"My mother drew this. She didn’t much care for him, either. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get this one published, so she let me have it."
Rose laughed when she looked at it. "Your mother was a smart woman. My mother thinks he should have won. She still went to Kennedy’s inauguration, though."
Jack set the painting of Nixon aside and looked at the next canvas. It was of a young man, not much more than a boy, in a Navy uniform.
"That’s my brother, Tom," Rose explained, "after he joined the Navy. He came home for a short time for our grandmother’s funeral early this year, and I had a chance to paint a portrait of him then. I want to have it framed and hang it in the hallway with the other family portraits, but Mom only wants ones done by professionals on display."
"Why don’t you hang it in your room or something?"
"I’ve thought about that, but I’d have to take something else down to make room, and I can’t decide what to take off the wall." She picked up Jack’s portfolio, opening it to the first drawing. "Did you draw this?"
Jack looked at the drawing…it was one of his family, his parents sitting on the couch while Betsy sat at their feet. He had been looking at it last night, not long before he had decided to climb down the trellis.
"Yeah. That’s my dad, my mom, and my sister, Betsy." He pointed to each one as he named them. "I drew it last Christmas."
"It looks good." Rose looked more closely at the picture. "You have your dad’s chin."
Jack rubbed his face. "Yeah, I guess I do." He gently took the picture from her, turning it face down to hide the familiar faces. Turning the pages, he showed her the other drawings—pictures of friends and relatives, some more cartoons drawn by his mother—and finally, a drawing he tried to hide from Rose, but he didn’t succeed in slipping it into the pile before she grabbed it.
"Is that me?" she asked, holding up the picture. "It is!"
It was picture of Rose as he had seen her the day before, a combination of the first two times he had met her. She could see that he had drawn her in the formal dress she had worn to dinner, but there was a streak on her face—the blue paint she had gotten smeared on her cheek. She was glancing at something outside the drawing as she held up an oozing snail shell.
"I…um…I…" Jack tried to think of a way to explain why he was drawing her.
"This is cool. I don’t look like a china doll like I do in my portrait in the hall." She grinned, setting the drawing down. "You have a gift, Jack. You do. You see people."
"I see you."
"And?" Rose tossed her head, expecting a compliment on her appearance.
"You’re the most real person I’ve met here so far."
Rose’s expression changed to one of surprise. "That…well…that’s something I haven’t heard before. I thought all of us were real," she joked.
"I mean…uh…well…it’s kind of hard to explain—" The doorbell rang, but they paid no attention to it, allowing the housekeeper to answer it. "You…you’re just…"
"Just what?"
"I don’t know…more down to earth than anyone else…"
"Rose!"
Rose looked up, startled, as an older boy with black hair came into the dining room.
"Why aren’t you ready?"
"What?" Rose’s eyes widened as she remembered. "Oh! Our date! I’m sorry, Cal. I forgot."
"Forgot? How could you forget…" His voice trailed off as he finally saw Jack. "Who’s this, Sweetpea?"
"Oh…um…Cal, this is Jack Dawson. Jack, this is my boyfriend, Cal Hockley. I think I mentioned him last night. He goes to the same school as us."
"What?!" Cal grabbed Rose’s arm. "Sweetpea, what is going on here?"
Rose yanked her arm away, rolling her eyes. "Don’t flip your wig, Cal. Jack is my new foster brother. He’s from Wisconsin. Dad took him in after his parents died."
"When did this happen?"
"Dad brought him here yesterday. Now, we’re going bowling, right?"
"So, you do remember."
Rose narrowed her eyes at him. "Don’t be rude. I’ll be ready in a few minutes. It’s not like the bowling alley’s going anywhere."
"Rose—"
"Give me about ten minutes." Rose turned and ran from the room, leaving the two boys alone together.
Cal glowered at Jack, not so sure that he was just Rose’s foster brother. Why had he appeared out of nowhere? Why was Rose so eager to spend time with him that she’d forgotten their date?
He picked up one of the paintings scattered across the table. Rose didn’t usually show him her artwork…not that he cared much about art, or thought much of her work when she did show it to him.
Cal frowned at the unflattering depiction of Nixon. He didn’t pay much attention to politics himself, but he knew that his father had supported the Republican candidate and wouldn’t think much of the rude painting if he saw it.
Rose’s interest in politics baffled Cal. He didn’t understand why she showed so much interest in something he found so dull, and his views on the subject, when he thought about it at all, rarely coincided with hers—especially her support of the civil rights movement and her assertion that women were equal to men and should be treated as such.
Setting the painting of Nixon down, he picked up another canvas, this one depicting a scene he has seen on television…a large group of black protestors being driven back by dogs and fire hoses. His father had ranted angrily about that, saying that "the Goddamned Negroes don’t know their place," but Rose’s sympathies were evidently with the protestors. Keeping her opinions to herself had never been Rose’s strong suit.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, setting the canvas down less than gently.
"I think they’re good," Jack told him, defending Rose.
Cal gave him an aggravated look. "It’s a silly hobby. And the things she paints…they’re pointless. She seems to think she’s going to be some sort of famous artist, righting the world’s wrongs or something." He smirked. "Maybe a man would have a chance, though I don’t know who would buy things like that. But a girl? Girls can’t be artists."
"My mother was a cartoonist," Jack said defensively. "She got a lot of her work published."
Cal looked at him disdainfully. "Not in anything important, I’m sure. A woman’s place is raise children and take care of the house, not draw pictures."
"You don’t know much about women." Katherine Dawson had never been content to simply raise children and do housework…she had enjoyed her cartooning, and her sales of those cartoons had brought in enough money to allow the family to enjoy certain luxuries—they had been the first ones on their block to get a television set, and some of Jack’s early memories involved half the neighborhood gathering at the Dawson house to watch TV.
Cal just looked at him scornfully, as if to say, And you do? Glancing at his watch, he clenched his teeth angrily, then looked at Jack.
"Stay away from her."
"Who?"
"Rose. She’s my girl."
Jack held up his hands defensively. "I’m just her foster brother."
"You’d better remember that." Cal narrowed his eyes.
The two boys stared at each other with open dislike until Rose came back into the room a few minutes later.
Immediately sensing the tension, she asked, "What’s going on?"
"Nothing, Sweetpea. Nothing you need to be concerned with. Let’s go." Cal grabbed her hand and led her towards the front door, glaring at her when she pulled her hand away.
"Stop being such an ass, Cal. Jack’s my foster brother. You have nothing to worry about."
"What makes you think I’m worried?"
Rose gave him a disdainful look as she opened the door. "It’s a good thing Tom isn’t around, or you’d be even more bothered."
"That’s disgusting! He’s your brother!"
"So is Jack." Rose waited until Cal was out the door, then followed him. "Come on. I want some time to bowl before I have to come home again."
Jack watched the bickering pair walk out the door. His eyes narrowed as he thought of Rose’s arrogant boyfriend, wondering what she saw in him. He had only just met him, but he already didn’t like him.