IMAGES OF ONESELF
Chapter Two

In the rosy glow of twilight Jack led the boy up the road to his house. It was a quiet time in the country and even though he had a guest, Jack had no desire right now to speak. He took a deep sigh of satisfaction as he looked with pride around his farm. As often as he walked this path, he never failed to be impressed with the beauty of his farm. The white two story house stood like a sentinel in the center of the property. While not as ornate with gingerbread as the house he had grown up in, this house was warm and secure, providing a solid roof over his head. Tall oak trees graced the front yard and scattered here and there were old, gnarled lilac bushes that had been growing there long before he had been born. In the spring, their delicate fragrance wafted gently into the house.

Behind the house was the traditionally red barn and silo. Next to it stood the machine shed, chicken house, and corn crib. On the other side of the house was a small garden. When he had been growing up, his mother had slaved over her dahlias and lilies. Now he was lucky if he could manage to plant a few tomato and cucumber plants.

He glanced over at the young man walking next to him. Jack still could not get over the uncanny resemblance to himself. It had to be just a coincidence. Of that he was sure. But still Jack found it somewhat unnerving nonetheless.

“So, what’s you name?” asked Jack, as he led the boy around to the back steps of the house.

The boy who could have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty cast his eyes downward and did not answer right away. He was not sure what to say. This man seemed kindly enough, offering him a meal and a bed. He was very disturbed by the letters in the mailbox and his physical appearance. Just why was there mail for Jack Dawson? And could he be his father?

For a few seconds he avoided answering the questions. He knew that he would have to give some name. It wouldn’t do to just blurt out that he was Jack Dawson. But what? As they turned the corner around the side of the house, they walked past a John Deere tracker parked a few feet away. On the back was a sticker that read “Dalton Implements, Chippewa Falls. Suddenly he was inspired.

“John,” the boy said, without looking up. “John Dalton,” he added nervously.

“Well,” replied Jack, noticing the boy’s reticence, “we have the name initials. My name is Jack. Jack Dawson.”

The young man who now called himself John felt his heart start to pound. Jack Dawson! This was the man the mail was addressed to all right. The man who had the same name as his. He stared at the ground and finally mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” Even under these circumstances he tried to remember the manners his mother had taught him. But his mind was full of questions. Questions that he would have the answers to before he left this place.

Jack watched John carefully. He was almost sure that John Dalton was not his real name. He had hesitated too much when asked the question. And it was too much of a coincidence that those names were on the back of the tractor. He had picked up on that trick right away. But Jack didn’t find it all that unusual. During these hard times, lots of folks were on the road and preferred to keep their anonymity.

The boy was about his height, maybe a little taller. There was something about him that reminded Jack of himself, when he had first left here in 1907, after his parents died. He remembered how lonely and confused he had had been then. Trying to live in two worlds, keeping up the standards of his parents, while attempting to show the world he was a man. John Dalton also seemed forlorn, but oddly well mannered for a boy of his age. Someone had given him a very proper upbringing. Jack sensed in him the feeling that he desperately wanted to be treated as an adult.

Jack motioned for John to follow him up the back steps of the house. He had rebuilt the place when he returned here in 1912. After Jack’s parents had died in the fire and he had headed away from here, some neighbors rented the land from the bank which had held the title to the property. When Jack came back, they had all pitched in and helped him rebuild, even donating a few head of livestock. Eventually, he had bought back the farm from the bank and built up a nice herd of dairy cows. He also had the right kind of fertile soil where he raised a good crop of feed corn. Just before the stock market crashed and things went bad, he’d repaid his loans and just by chance withdrew his money from the bank.

He wasn’t really superstitious, but he’d just had a feeling that something was going to happen. So during the middle of October in 1929, he’d taken his money from the First State Bank of Chippewa Falls and put it in the safe box in the barn foundation. With that amount and the little legacy he had found from his parents, Jack was in fairly good shape. In addition to that, he received a small, but steady income from Meadowlark Dairy for the sweetest milk in Chippewa County. He even had a few hundred dollars from his sketches he’d done for people at the county fair last summer. When Jack looked around at the dire straits of some of his less fortunate neighbors, he counted his blessings everyday. He was always there though to lend a hand to a friend, with eggs, milk or the use of one of his animals. No, things were good for him. He couldn’t ask for much more and what he would have wanted was an impossibility. She was dead.

Coming back to Chippewa Falls and settling here had been the last thing on his mind when he walked off the Carpathia, dazed and battered that April day, eighteen years ago. He felt that he somehow owed it to his dead parents to come back and pay his respects and finally come to terms with their deaths, having come so close to dying himself. One thing had led to another, meeting old friends, loyalty to the land, whatever, and he had found that he had been unable to tear himself away.

The two men entered the house, with Pepper leading the way. She pranced over to her dish, giving it a good nudge with her nose. The dog’s actions made the boy chuckle. “Your dog is nice, ah Mr. Dawson,” he said, the name Dawson sticking in his throat like a wad of gum.

Jack filled Pepper’s dish with food from a feed bag and put fresh water in her bowl. “Yeah, she is good company. I don’t know what I would do without her. Gets kind of lonely around here at night.” He affectionately scratched her ears as he spoke.

John nodded, taking in the fact that Jack Dawson had no apparent family. That was kind of strange on a farm where lots of children were the norm. Maybe something had happened to them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the boy struggling with the pack on his back. “Just leave that by the back door, over there. We can get it on our way out to the barn. I’m sorry, I don’t have a place for you to stay in here. I only have one bed since there is just me. I’ve got a little room fixed up in the barn for when I have to stay with a sick animal. I think you will be comfortable there.”

The young man shook his head understandingly. “Sure, that’s okay. I don’t mind.” He was not about to quarrel about a bed. “But I sure would like to wash up. Been on the road a few days now without a bath.”

Jack laughed. “Well, even the animals will throw you out of the barn if you haven’t had a bath.”

Even this serious boy could not help but grin at Jack’s lighthearted remark. The man seemed nice enough. Just why did they have to look so much like each other and have the same name? There had to be some mistake.

“For right now, go upstairs to the bathroom and have a quick wash. You can take a bath later,” said Jack. He led John out to a hallway and pointed to the bathroom at the top of the stairs.

Jack watched as the boy tiredly climbed the straight flight of stairs. He turned back to the kitchen listening to the sounds of splashing water and humming, thinking about how empty this house was all of the time and how good the sounds of a young person were. He went into the kitchen and started putting utensils on the table. A big pot of vegetable soup had been cooking on the stove all day, while he had been out in the field. He had a nice loaf of bread and a pie from Alice Miller, Ed’s wife. This would make a pretty decent meal. He wagered it was more than the kid had eaten in weeks. Jack would have to be sure and get some extra bread from Alice for his guest. He gave them free eggs in return for some of her baking each week. Cooking he could manage, baking was something else.

John rubbed the scratchy towel across his face and tried to groom his hair by raking his fingers through his blond mop. He peeked in the mirror satisfied that he was clean enough to sit down for supper. His mother had always instilled the concept of being scrupulously clean. It was hard on the road, but he tried.

He walked out into the upstairs hall. Glancing quickly around he could see there were three open doorways. He looked into one and saw there was a bed that was neatly made, with a blanket and several pillows. A dresser, a bedside table with a lamp and a chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. This must be Dawson’s room. Across the hall was an empty bedroom. The last room in the hallway had an easel, a drawing board and a lamp. Tacked to the walls were paintings and charcoal drawings of people. All kinds of people. One picture of a woman caught his attention. He was just about to sneak a closer look, when he heard Mr. Dawson calling from below.

“So, this Mr. Dawson is an artist, a good artist by the looks of it. My father was supposed to have been an artist. I’m good at art.” the young man mumbled to himself, feeling a tight knot in his throat.

“Hey, up there. Dinner is ready.”

John popped his head around the top of the stairs, looking down into Jack’s friendly face.

“Coming. Right now. Nice place you got here,” he said as he scurried down the stairs. Now that he knew that dinner was seconds away, he could hardly control his growling stomach.

“It’s alright. I’m outside most of the time. But in the winter it’s nice,” agreed Jack.

He motioned for his guest to take the chair nearest the doorway. They sat down at the table and Jack began ladling the soup into the bowls. He saw John start pushing spoonfuls of soup into his mouth, as if he hadn’t seen food in weeks. He had been right to think that the boy was hungry. He hadn’t even got the bread cut before John had almost finished the first bowl.

“Say, son,” asked Jack, “when was the last time you ate a square meal?”

“Couple of days ago. This sure is good.” John smeared butter on a thick slice of the crusty bread. His eyes were beginning to take on a satisfied look. Already life was better than it had been an hour ago. All he wanted tonight was a full stomach, a clean body and a soft bed.

“Yeah, well you better eat a little slower. I’ve got plenty. Just enjoy it a little,” chuckled Jack.

The young man did take a deep breath and stopped eating for a minute. He held out his bowl and politely asked, “Just a little more soup, please.”

“Where are you from?” Jack took the boys bowl and poured the last remaining liquid from the pot.

“Out west,” was the vague answer he received. The boy had made up his mind to be rather unspecific until he could find out more. Perhaps he would discover this whole thing was a fluke. But in the meantime, he would keep his business to himself. Besides, talking about home made him even more homesick than he already was.

“Out west,” mused Jack. West was where Santa Monica was. Where he and Rose had talked about going. The last thing he needed tonight was to be reminded of her.

Jack looked at the boy who now had his head down finishing his soup. Over and over he thought about the strange feelings he had when he looked at this young drifter. One side of his mind said that it was not possible for them to have any connection. The other side asked how could it be that they looked so uncannily alike. Maybe he could find out a little more from him. Something that would give a hint to his past. Just to make conversation he’d ask a few more questions. Somehow though he felt he was not going to get any real answers. The boy seemed to be hiding something. “How long have you been on the road?”

John put his napkin on the table and took a swig of the icy cold milk. He was starting to feel drowsy from all the food. “About six months,” he yawned. “I’ve worked all over. Mostly I hitchhike or walk. Rode the rails a little. Don’t like that too much though. Those railroad police are really getting tough. I don’t want to embarrass my mom, by getting arrested,” he admitted honestly.

Jack had to admit that the boy had integrity. Well, he’d rest a little easier, knowing that. Jack could not resist trying to find out a bit more about the young man. “Do you have a big family?” Jack asked. He had always envied people with big families.

John gave Jack a strange look. “No, it’s just me and my mom. I never knew my dad. He died before I was born.”

He watched Jack’s face for any signs that might indicate his feelings. A shadow crossed the man’s face briefly. John wondered if he thinking of a child of his own being born? Himself perhaps? His answer though brought forth other information instead.

“I lost my parents in 1907. When I was fifteen. Still though not knowing your dad at all, must be hard,” said Jack sincerely, feeling the pain of his losses over all these years. At least he had grown up knowing his father.

Jack could feel that suddenly the mood in the room was very heavy. He had sensed a change when the topic of the boy’s father came up. Maybe that was a key to what was bothering him. Eager to clean up the kitchen and knowing that bedtime would be coming soon, Jack changed the subject. “Listen, would you like to go out and see where you’ll be sleeping? Then we can come in and have some pie and coffee a little later. And you can have that bath,” he said winking at the boy.

“Sure, sounds good to me,” answered John. He had to stay around here and see if he could get more information about Mr. Dawson. The only excuse he could think of was offering to do some work. That had been his original intent anyway. “Maybe I could do something around here to pay for my room and board?” he asked hopefully.

Jack recalled that some of his workers had not shown up today. He doubted that the boy was experienced enough to work on a harvesting crew, but maybe he could put him to work doing some extra things around the barn. Jack put his hand over his mouth and rubbed his face. He realized suddenly how tired he was. “Don’t worry about it now. We’ll think of something tomorrow. How long are you staying around here?” Jack was hoping that he would stay for a few days. Even a stranger had been good company for dinner.

“Until I get my answers,” the boy thought to himself. “Maybe a couple of days,” he told Jack. “You’re a good cook. Might entice me to stick around a little longer,” he said, finally with a smile.

Jack nodded, feeling real compassion for John. Having spent years on the road himself, he knew how important acceptance was. He’d like to let John know that he’d be accepted here for awhile.

They got up from the table and went out to the back porch. Jack grabbed a flashlight from off a shelf next to the door and they headed across the dimly lit yard. The boy pulled his backpack over his shoulders and followed Jack and Pepper.

As they walked across to the barn, Jack’s guest had a couple of questions of his own. “Say, mister, you live here all alone all the time? Isn’t that kind of unusual on a farm?” John glanced about as they walked. A strange ruffling sound came from what must be the chicken coop. The air was permeated with the combination smells of wood smoke, moldy hay, chicken feed and the slight scent of manure. “If I am going to be around here for a few days, I guess I better get used to it,” he thought, wrinkling his nose.

Jack shrugged his shoulders. What could he say? The family he had always hoped for would never be. “It’s just me,” he told the boy. He had stopped torturing himself long ago wondering what the children of Rose and himself would have looked like and how many they would have had. “I grew up here, so I’ve got some good memories.” Immediately he was sorry that he had offered that information. He knew what the next question would be.

“So doesn’t the rest of your family live around here? Your brothers and sisters or cousins,” John Dalton asked innocently.

“I’ve got some good neighbors. I‘ve got them and Pepper,” Jack answered evasively.

John fell a few steps behind Jack. He no longer felt guilty about not telling Mr. Dawson his whole story. It appeared that he too had some painful secrets, considering his tentative replies.

When they reached the barn, Jack flipped a switch and a few bulbs lit up the interior. The animals stirred briefly and then settled when they saw it was Jack. “This is where you’ll stay,” Jack explained as he pushed open the door to a small cubicle.

“This looks okay to me,” said John, looking over the simple room. The rough walls had been painted white. A small iron bed stood against one wall. There was a tiny table that held several books and an oil lamp. The one window was covered with a feed sack. Pepper had jumped up on the bed and she sat there wagging her tail.

“The bed is pretty comfortable. You can see that Pepper agrees. There is that little lamp there, in case you want to read or something,” said Jack.

“That’ll be fine,” the boy answered. “I’ve got a book of my own to read. Before I go to sleep at night, I try to do something worthwhile. So that I know I’ve made each day count.”

A numbness came over Jack as he heard those words “make each day count.” He’d said those to Rose that night at dinner. She’d even made a toast using that phrase. How was it that this boy knew about it? Who had taught him about making each day count? He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, feeling the chilly night air. But deep inside, he knew that the cold feeling was not caused by the temperature. He stood stunned staring at the boy.

John began rummaging through his pack looking for clean clothes. He pulled out some long johns and a pair of socks. A piece of cardboard fluttered to the floor. It was a postcard. Jack reached down to pick it up and had only a second to look at it before the boy grabbed it away. He recognized it immediately. It was the pier at Santa Monica! “Hey, easy,” commented Jack. “I wasn’t going to keep it.”

Embarrassed at his hasty action, John took the card and placed it gently back in his pack. He closed his eyes briefly and he could almost hear the rushing sound of the surf and the cry of the gulls. He could taste the salt on his lips and see his mother’s hair blowing in the wind. Now he would give anything thing to be back there with her. All along the way of his travels, he had safeguarded this small piece of paper. His mother had given it to him the day he left home, as a reminder to come back to the place they both loved.

Jack said nothing about the boy’s nervous behavior. He just looked at him again, this time really studying him. He had blue eyes like his, the same color hair. He noticed too that he even had a pattern of speech similar to his. If he didn’t know better, this drifter who called himself John could have passed for his son. But that was impossible. The few times in the past years, when he’d gotten involved even briefly with a woman, he’d always taken precautions so that something like this would not happen. And the one woman it could have happened with was dead.

“Why don’t you finish unpacking your things, and I’ll go start the coffee,” suggested Jack, still shocked by the boy’s words and reactions. “Come on Pepper.” The dog leaped off the bed and followed Jack out the door.

“Sure,” said the boy, almost sullenly. “I’ll be right there.” He turned his back to Jack, mindlessly folding and refolding a shirt. “Why did he have to see that postcard? That special place that belongs to Mom and me?” he thought with tears in his eyes. “Why does he upset me so much? Maybe I should not even have come here.”

Jack left him and walked slowly back to the house. He was thinking again about the blue eyes and the blond hair. The fact that he knew about making it count, and carried with him a picture of the Santa Monica pier sent Jack’s mind spinning with total confusion. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Rose and the strange ways of John Dalton. It all made him feel on edge and uncertain. He had feelings about this kid that he could not explain. But before the boy left, he would get to the bottom of it all.

Chapter Three
Stories