Chapter 11 - The People I Wanted to Remember
By the fourth day, I stopped asking passengers why they had chosen Titanic.
I started asking where they were going.
That produced better answers.
Destinations are more revealing than departures.
Eleanor was going to Philadelphia.
Henry to Ohio.
Anna and Eva to Pennsylvania.
Samuel, technically, was going to New York too, though for him New York meant work rather than arrival.
“What do you do when we reach port?” I asked.
“Work.”
“After that?”
“Work.”
“You lead an exciting life.”
“Someone must carry your towels.”
I found Eva again during my permitted visit below.
She had drawn a house.
It was yellow.
“Your bedroom?” I asked.
“No. The whole house.”
“Ambitious.”
Anna shook her head.
“She has already spent my brother’s money.”
Eva pointed at a square.
“That’s my window.”
“What’s this?”
“A tree.”
“What kind?”
She looked offended.
“A tree kind.”
I apologized.
Anna laughed.
I liked hearing her laugh.
The first time we met, tiredness seemed to occupy most of her face.
Now there was more life there.
Perhaps the crossing was giving her permission to believe the difficult part was behind her.
We talked about America.
I warned her that Pennsylvania winters could be unpleasant.
She looked around.
“Worse than ocean?”
“Different.”
“Everything is different.”
That sentence entered my notebook.
By afternoon, clouds broke and sunlight spread across the sea.
Titanic’s decks filled.
People came outside simply because they could.
Children played.
Men smoked.
Women walked in pairs.
A few passengers photographed one another.
I took several pictures myself.
Not enough.
No one ever takes enough photographs before losing something.
Henry and I spent almost an hour at the rail.
He told me he wanted to open a school someday.
“Not a grand one,” he said.
“What makes a school grand?”
“Children wanting to be there.”
“You are an optimist.”
“No. I’m a teacher. We pretend professionally.”
He wanted classrooms with large windows.
Books children could actually touch.
A library open after school.
A garden.
I listened.
The ship moved steadily beneath us.
“You should write that down,” I said.
“I thought that was your job.”
“So I can steal it later.”
That evening the temperature dropped noticeably.
Passengers began talking about cold weather.
Nothing unusual.
The North Atlantic in April was not expected to feel like summer.
Still, the change was sharp.
I pulled my coat collar higher.
The wind smelled cleaner.
Harder somehow.
If cold can have an edge, that wind did.
Samuel found me outside.
“You’ll freeze before America.”
“I’m conducting research.”
“Research indoors.”
He opened the door.
Warmth rushed toward us.
I obeyed.
That night, I sat in the lounge writing descriptions of people.
Not their names only.
Details.
Eleanor tapped one finger against her teacup when thinking.
Henry rubbed his nose when he lied during cards.
Samuel’s left eyebrow rose when he thought I had said something stupid.
Eva’s doll had mismatched button eyes.
Anna folded every piece of clothing twice before putting it away.
I wanted my article to contain people a reader could recognize.
I did not know why that suddenly felt important.
Perhaps Eleanor’s advice had taken root.
Do not only write about the expensive rooms.
Near midnight, I closed my notebook.
The lounge was nearly empty.
A steward adjusted chairs.
Lights remained warm.
Outside the windows there was nothing but darkness.
I walked past the Grand Staircase on my way back.
The great clock showed the hour.
Carved figures surrounded it.
Time.
Everything aboard Titanic seemed built to suggest permanence.
Heavy oak.
Steel.
Stone-like solidity.
Machines powerful enough to push the vessel across an ocean.
Human beings are easily impressed by large things.
Perhaps because we mistake size for security.
I certainly did.
May you like
That night I slept deeply.
April 14 waited on the other side of morning.
