~@~
April 15, 1912
Cal stood on the deck of the Carpathia and gazed levelly at the woman sitting several feet away from him. Her back was to him, and she had a plaid blanket draped over her, but he knew it was Rose. Some force had drawn him to the steerage passengers; he had hoped he was simply paranoid about Jack. "Jack," he muttered to himself, scowling. He laughed bitterly. That gutter rat had made him look a fool in front of everyone, and stolen the woman he loved from him. Rose stiffened at the sound of his laugh; he could almost hear her thinking, "Oh God, he's going to take me away from Jack now." He turned to look at her once more before turning his back on her and walking away. If she wanted to spend the rest of her life wandering around with a poor artist, it was no concern of his. At least, that was what he told himself, trying to soothe his hurt feelings. Once he was far enough away from Rose and had some space of privacy, he slammed his hand against the wall and sat down to sulk. She left him for.. for a *gutter rat*. It was obvious that Jack didn't care about her; after all, he hadn't respected her modesty. Cal groaned inwardly, trying to force away the thoughts of what Jack and Rose must have done, if that drawing was any indication. "I should have torn it to shreds when I had the chance," he mused. Not that it would have made any difference, really... He sighed and glared out to sea. It was so unfair. When they had come aboard Titanic, he thought he knew Rose. He knew she was something special; that was the only reason he ever considered marrying her. He smiled a bitter smile. Ruth thought he was doing it for the money; likely Rose did as well. Cal knew better than anyone how little money Rose would bring to him. The Dewitt-Bukaters had nothing but a name. She had been a beautiful, refined, intelligent woman with an exciting mystery about her. Something wild, lurking beneath the surface. His wild Rose had pricked him with her thorns. He buried his head in his hands and tried to regain some form of composure.
A woman's voice cut through his thoughts. "Mr. Hockley? Is that you?" His breath caught. Could it be..? He released it almost immediately when he saw who it was.
Gritting his teeth and forcing a smile, he replied, "Why, Mrs. Dewitt-Bukater! How delightful to see you again. I trust your evening on the sea wasn't too unpleasant?" Ruth paled and shivered.
"Not at all, Mr. Hockley. I had to spend the entire night with that vulgar Brown woman..." her voice trailed off, and Cal knew that Mrs. Brown hadn't been what was troubling her. "Have you seen Rose?" she asked abruptly.
He shook his head sadly, "No, I'm afraid my fiancee is not aboard the Carpathia." He took Ruth's arm and led her quietly away, doing his best to keep her from hysteria. Ruth had lost everything, and Cal felt obligated to take care of her. It might have been wrong to tell her that Rose had died... but then, he hadn't told her that Rose had *died*, exactly... and it was less painful this way than letting her know that her daughter was going to marry a peasant. He took one last look through the scenes emblazoned on his memory : Rose insulting Mr. Ismay at lunch (that actually *had* been rather funny, if improper), Rose and those ridiculous finger-paintings, the haughty look on Rose's face as she vocally dismissed the Titanic's grandeur, while inside she must have been just as awed as he was, Rose after Jack had "rescued" her from the propellers (she had been ravishing then, despite her windblown hair and frightened eyes), Rose staring in disbelief at the Heart of the Ocean, Rose asking Mr. Andrews about the lifeboat capacity, Rose coming into their staterooms, holding hands with Jack, to tell them about the iceberg, Rose jumping out of the lifeboat to come back to Jack, and finally, that last glimpse he had of her sitting on the deck of Carpathia. He closed the door on those memories forever.
~@~
1929
Cal looked over the top of the newspaper in veiled disgust at the woman sitting across the table from him. Iris Alexandra was the same woman he had married 15 years ago. Beautiful, wealthy, refined. Nothing had changed. It had been two years since he turned his back on Rose; two years in which he did everything he could to put her out of his mind. Two years in which nothing he tried seemed to work. He had nearly lost himself one night when he saw her name in lights. Only.. it hadn't been "Rose Dewitt-Bukater", it had been "Rose Dawson". He knew it had been her, nevertheless. His sweet, wild Rose... Her thorns still pricked him when he looked back on that time in his life. But in 1914, he was introduced to Iris. She was nearly ten years younger than him, but that made little difference in society. She had taken his mind almost completely off of Rose. Iris was everything a well-brought up girl should be. He hadn't noticed it at the time, but something was missing. That something was the wildness, he realized now. But he had married Iris... married her money, really, and she had married his. Now, 13 years later, he felt more like her father than her husband. They had no children; they slept in separate rooms, which he was sure scandalized the entire city of New York. But it was practical, because after all, he had to work late most of the time, and she... (he smiled a bitter smile)... she had her lovers. He would hate to intrude upon that. He had no mistresses. In the early years of their marriage, he had, but now... he had grown out of the phase and come to realize there was only one woman who could fulfill him, and she was married to an artist who made so little money that she was forced to become an actress.
"I was quite scandalized," Iris's sing-song voice drifted into his thoughts, "to hear that Mr. Albertson is going to *stop* drinking tea! Can you imagine? And I understand that Mrs. Albertson has threatened to throw him out of their room if he doesn't start making sense..."
Cal stared at Iris in amazement. How this woman managed to prattle on about being scandalized by such frivolous things was beyond him. He was certain that if Rose were in Iris's place, they wouldn't be talking about abstaining from tea. He smiled quietly to himself. Likely, they wouldn't be *talking* at all... He cut his own thoughts off before they could go far in that direction. He rose from the table, folded the paper, and regarded Iris a moment before saying, "I'll be back tonight, sweetpea. I hope, for your sake, that Mr. Albertson decides tea is perfectly fine to drink." Rose would have laughed, he was sure, but Iris simply accepted his comments with a smile.
He walked outside to masses of people wandering in confusion. He stopped one man and asked what was going on. The man simply looked at him with dull, lifeless eyes, and walked on. What was happening? He tried stopping several other people, and got a similar, response, until he finally heard one woman yelling, "You invested *everything* in them? Everything? How could you? You didn't even ask me!" Cal looked for the source of the commotion and saw the woman, yelling at a man. He directed a sour glare at them, and walked on. It was most uncivil to yell in the streets. This sort of thing should not be allowed. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God.." he breathed. The stock market had crashed. He knew it. He himself had invested everything he could in stocks. He turned and walked briskly back to Iris. She was not there, but a note was. He picked it up and read silently.
Cal looked in disbelief at the letter. He chuckled softly to himself when he realized he didn't care. Freedom washed over him, along with half-forgotten love for Rose. His smile faded, however, when he realized that he couldn't go on living. A divorce would not only soil Iris's honor, but his as well. He couldn't take the publicity, and neither could Iris. He fingered the gun he had salvaged from the Titanic. Caledon Hockley would have to die. There was no getting around it. He crumpled Iris's note and disposed of it so there would be no trace of her intentions. Then he walked out again, wandering aimlessly in the streets. He had to kill himself; there had to be a body for the reporters to find, or else everyone would think they had separated. Could he really go through with this? Lost in his thoughts, he almost tripped over a body in front of him. A dead man lay it his feet... this man had put a gun in his mouth... Cal froze. That was it! He hurriedly fished through his pocket, pulled out all the contents, and stuffed them into the dead man's pocket. When the reporters found the body, they would assume it was Cal! "Caledon Hockley is dead," he announced to anyone who cared to listen, and he melted into the night.
~@~
1932
Cal stopped in his tracks at the edge of the park in Santa Monica. A woman with long red curls sat on the green grass, intently reading "Les Miserables". She wore a simple gray dress. Her hair caressed her face, but she seemed not to notice the stray strands. She lowered the book for a moment, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled. She was enchanting. Her eyes opened and she caught sight of him staring at her. His mouth was open--he closed it hurriedly. She smiled a mischevious smile and said, "You're not from around here, are you?"
He swallowed. "No, I'm not. I just came in from Cedar Rapids," he replied. "I'm from there."
She giggled and said, "Well you'll be glad to know how relieved I am to hear that. I used to know someone who looked a lot like you, but he wouldn't have been staring quite as openly as you were." Her eyes twinkled, and Cal laughed in delight.
"I am Cal.." her eyes widened, but he cut himself off with a loud cough before he could finish and continued, "Calvert. Dawson Calvert."
She nearly choked when he gave his first name, but she regained her composure and rose smoothly. "Rose Dawson," she announced. He did not flinch, knowing it would give himself away. She held her left hand out to him, and he bent to kiss it. He smiled to himself : there was no wedding band.
~@~
Months had gone by; Dawson, as Cal now thought of himself, stood beside Rose now, by the moonlit sea. They were both staring out into the sea silently, doubtless reliving that cold April night which had changed their lives forever. Neither spoke of it. The silence between them was warm and comfortable. Rose quietly laid her head on his shoulder. He looked down in surprise. He let her lay there for a while before turning to face her.
"Rose," he began, "I've never felt this way about anyone before. You are so beautiful, so passionate, so graceful... so exciting. I don't think I want to know life without you." She was looking at him intently. "Rose.. will you marry me?"
Her eyes closed for a moment as she struggled with her emotions. Dawson knew she must be thinking of Jack. Was Rose worth being compared to Jack every day for the rest of his life? Jack... what had happened to that artist, anyway? Rose never spoke of it, and he obviously never asked. He was jarred out of his thoughts when Rose threw herself into his arms, sobbing. After his initial surprise, he tightened his arms around her and stroked her hair gently, murmuring soothing endearments. So she would not marry him; it was too much to ask of her. He had thought as much... She stopped sobbing, and looked up into his eyes. Hers were gentle blue pools laced with confusion.
"I never thought I'd love again..." she trailed off. Dawson swallowed. She was so beautiful... "But I do... I love you, Dawson Calvert. And I will marry you." He had no doubt that she was sincere. He leaned toward her and gently touched her lips with his own. She was, after all, a lady by breeding, and she might break if he kissed her too hard... but her lips were so soft... He kissed her again, longer this time, but gently, tenderly, and passionately. He never wanted to let go.
~@~
1980
Dawson lay on the hospital bed. Rose was at his side; the children had already been in to see them. He looked at her quietly, and said, "Rose... I'm going to die." She nodded slowly. There was pain in her eyes, but he knew she could endure it. Rose was always strong. She had survived the loss of one of their children already; she had been his support then.
"I know, Dawson," she said quietly. She stroked his cheek gently with one of her cool hands. "I will miss you..." her lips quivered with pent-up emotion, but her voice was serene. He reached up with one finger to touch her lips.
"Rose... there's something I must tell you. I couldn't before, because I was so afraid..."
"I know who you are," she cut him off. "I've always known. From the moment I saw you. But you have changed."
"Caledon Hockley is dead," he said forcefully.
"As is Rose Dewitt Bukater," she replied.
"I love you, my sweet, wild Rose... even your thorns..." His voice trailed off, and Rose was alone.
