Passage

  “Why didn’t you tell us that night?” Joanna said. “I mean, Runaway Bride!”

  “Rule Number One of Dish Night,” Kit said. “No discussion of work. It was all right. One of the things that was so terrible was the way everybody tiptoed around me. Still tiptoes around me.” She smiled wryly. “My cousin got married last summer, and nobody told me. I found out by accident. Which, I suppose, is how you found out.”

  Joanna nodded. “Betty Peterson told me. The one who found out the title of the book. Her little sister told her.”

  “And I should have told you,” Kit said. “It was just so nice having somebody treat me like a person instead of a . . . ”

  Disaster victim, Joanna thought, and realized why Kit had reminded her so much of Maisie.

  “You have no idea the things people do to you trying to comfort you,” Kit said. “They say, ‘You’ll fall in love again,’ and, ‘At least he didn’t suffer.’ How do you know? I wanted to ask them. How do you know he didn’t suffer?”

  I told her I saw the Titanic, Joanna thought, feeling sick. I introduced the possibility that Kevin didn’t die instantly, that he experienced something terrible, something terrifying.

  “My aunt Julia kept saying, ‘God never sends us more than we can bear,’ ” Kit was saying, “and, ‘You need to be thankful it was quick.’ Well, it was. So quick I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”

  And so you get to say good-bye to Mr. Briarley instead, Joanna thought. An endless, agonizing good-bye.

  “The only one who didn’t say any of those things was Uncle Pat. He was wonderful. He didn’t try to tell me it was going to be all right or that Kevin was in a better place or that I’d get over it. He didn’t tell me any lies at all. He took me in, talked to me about Coleridge and Kevin and Shakespeare, made me tea, made me finish college. He saved my life,” she said, staring blindly toward the library, “and then when he got sick . . . My mother thinks I’m in denial, that I believe I can save him, or that I’m punishing myself somehow . . . He doesn’t say those things on purpose, you know. He . . . I think he has a fragmented memory of Kevin and something bad happening and a wedding, and he keeps trying to put it together in his mind, even though most of the pieces are missing.”

  Like me, Joanna thought, trying to remember what Mr. Briarley said, trying to piece together the connection.

  “I know I can’t save him,” Kit said. “I know he’ll have to go into a nursing facility eventually, but—”

  “You have to try,” Joanna said, and Kit smiled suddenly at her.

  “I have to try. He saved my life. I want to stay with him as long as I can.” And keep the lights on, Joanna thought, so the passengers don’t panic.

  “And I want to help you,” Kit said. “I still haven’t been able to find anything about a post office, but—”

  “No,” Joanna said. “Absolutely not. I’ve already made you watch Runaway Bride. I’m not going to force you to do research on a disaster.”

  “I want to,” Kit said. “I love the idea of actually being able to help someone for a change. And it’s an appropriate disaster.”

  “Appropriate?”

  She nodded. “There were eight honeymoon couples on the Titanic. Most of them didn’t get a chance to say good-bye either.” She smiled sadly. “They didn’t realize they were never going to see each other again. Some of the men even made jokes as the boats were lowered. They laughed and said, ‘Put the brides and grooms in first,’ and, ‘We won’t let you back on the ship without a pass.’ ”

  “And did they? Let the brides and grooms get in the boats first?”

  “Two of them,” Kit said. She stood up abruptly, got several typed sheets out of a drawer, and handed them to Joanna. “Here’s everything I could find on the engines stopping and what various passengers and crew heard when the iceberg hit.”

  Joanna paged through it. “It sounded like a wave striking the ship.”

  “ . . . a little jar . . . ”

  “It was as if the ship had rolled over a thousand marbles.” That sounded familiar. Had Mr. Briarley mentioned it?

  “I thought, We’re landing. How funny!”

  “Now, about this post office,” Kit said, all business. “I haven’t been able to find anything except the mail room down on G Deck. Are you sure there was a post office? Any letters the passengers wrote wouldn’t have been delivered till the ship reached New York, anyway, so wouldn’t they just have waited till they docked to mail them? Did you see a post office?”

  “No,” Joanna said and started to add, “Mr. Briarley said he was going there,” but stopped herself. She’d inflicted enough pain on Kit without telling her she’d seen her uncle just like he used to be.

  “Well, I’ll keep looking. Anything else?” Kit asked, and her expression made it a plea.

  “Yes,” Joanna said, and Kit flashed her that sudden smile again. So much like Maisie. “I need . . . ” What? “I need to know if there was anyone on board named Edith.”

  “Edith Evans,” Kit said. “I remember Uncle Pat talking about her. She gave up her place in the boat to the mother of two children.”

  And died, Joanna said silently, and thought of the young woman saying anxiously, “Shouldn’t we go up to the Boat Deck?” I know why I saw her, Joanna thought. She died just like W. S. Gilbert. But when Kit said she’d see if there were any other Ediths on board, Joanna didn’t stop her. She seemed so eager to, as she said, actually help someone.

  She’s right, Joanna thought, going out to her car, it’s terrible standing there watching Mr. Briarley, watching Coma Carl, watching Maisie, unable to help, unable to stop their slow declines. That’s why I have to find Mr. Briarley and ask him what he said in class.

  She glanced at her watch. Oh, God, her session was in less than twenty minutes. She dashed back to the hospital and ran up to her office. Tish was waiting at the door. “You’re late,” she said, “and I want to be out of here on time, so try to have another of those eight-second sessions, okay?”

  “You’ve got a hot date with the obstetrician?” Joanna asked, walking her up to the lab.

  “No, I’m working. Half the hospital’s out with the flu, and I might as well get some overtime. It’s not as if I have anything else to do.”

  “The obstetrician didn’t work out?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Richard wasn’t in the lab. “He’s upstairs with Dr. Jamison,” Tish said. “He said for me to go ahead and get you prepped, and he’ll be right down.”

  Joanna put on her hospital gown and got up on the table. “What is it with all these guys who are obsessed with their work?” Tish asked, fitting the foam pads under her. “The obstetrician’s just as bad as Dr. Wright. He spends all his time looking at ultrasounds. I don’t think it’s healthy. Someday they’re liable to just snap.”

  She started the IV and hooked up the electrodes, chattering on as she did so. Joanna tried to ignore her. She needed to focus on finding Mr. Briarley. Locate the steward as soon as you go through, she told herself, and stick close to him. Don’t let him out of your sight.

  Richard came in. “Sorry,” he said, “I was talking to Dr. Jamison. All set?” he asked Tish. She nodded. “How about you?” he asked Joanna.

  “All set.” He put her sleep mask on. Don’t look back at the passage, Joanna thought. Look straight ahead. Find the steward.

  “Okay, Tish,” Richard said, “start the sedative.” He began fitting the headphones over her ears.

  See where the steward goes, Joanna said silently, follow him up the stairs, and thought suddenly of the mail clerk hauling the wet canvas sack up the stairs, of the dark, wet stain on the carpet, the listing deck—

  “Wait!” she said, and felt the headphones being lifted off. “Richard—”

  “What is it?” she heard Richard say. “You’re shivering. Do you want a blanket? Tish, go get Joanna a blanket.”

  She could hear Tish moving away. “Richard,” she said, groping bli
ndly for his hand, “if it starts to sink, promise me you’ll come and get me.”

  “I shall hear in heaven.”

  —BEETHOVEN’S LAST WORDS

  ISHOULDN’T HAVE SAID THAT, Joanna thought before it was even out of her mouth. Now he’ll never send me under. Maybe I just thought it and didn’t say it, she thought, but he’d already pulled her sleep mask down and was asking her if she was okay.

  “Sorry,” she said and smiled up at him. She wondered if she could pretend she had been making a joke. No, not the way she’d gripped his arm. “I guess I got a little disoriented there. Did Tish start the sedative?” she asked, knowing full well she hadn’t.

  “No,” Richard said, frowning.

  “I must have dozed off on my own then. I haven’t gotten much sleep the last couple of nights, what with worrying about Vielle—” No, don’t say that either. “You know that state of near-sleep where you feel like you’re falling and then you jerk awake? That’s what it felt like. Sorry,” she said again and flashed him a smile that rivaled Maisie’s mother’s. “I didn’t mean to make you think I’d turned into a nutcase.”

  Tish was back, spreading the blanket over Joanna’s legs, her shoulders. “Thanks, Tish,” Joanna said, looking at Richard. “That’s much better. I’m all set now. Shall we get this show on the road?”

  Richard was still frowning. He went over to the console and typed busily for a few minutes, but whatever he saw must have reassured him, because he said, “Okay, Tish, start the sedative.”

  Joanna pulled the sleep mask up over her eyes before he could change his mind, thinking, Don’t say anything, don’t do anything stupid, and was in the passage.

  The door was open, and beyond it she could see the people milling about on deck. She hurried down the passage and out onto the deck, looking for the steward. She couldn’t see him for the crowd. There were a lot more people than there had been, and several of them were wearing lifejackets.

  It’s later than it was, Joanna thought anxiously, and the steward’s already gone. She looked down at the deck to see if it had a list, and it seemed like it did, but only a slight one, and when she looked up again, she saw the young woman. She was still in her nightgown, and the stout man in tweeds was still there, standing on the far side of the crowd and talking to his friend.

  Joanna craned her neck to see over their heads and down the deck, looking for a glimpse of the steward’s white coat moving in and out of the deck lights, but the length of the deck was empty. “Go and find Mr. Briarley,” a man’s voice said, and there was the bearded man, talking to the steward. Joanna squeezed through the crowd, toward them.

  “He’ll know what’s happening,” the bearded man said.

  “Yes, sir,” the steward said and turned to go.

  Joanna squeezed between the young woman and the young man in the sweater and started to edge past the stout man. “What’s happened?” he said.

  “Iceberg,” his friend said. And there’s your proof that it’s the Titanic, Richard, Joanna thought, sidling past him.

  “Icebergs,” the stout man said, nodding. “Well, I don’t suppose it’s anything much,” and Joanna turned and stared at him, thinking, It’s W. T. Stead, the spiritualist.

  “Aren’t you going up to the Boat Deck?” his friend asked.

  “No. I believe I’ll read a bit,” W. T. Stead said and walked over to one of the deck chairs. He sat down on it and opened his book.

  “You ladies should go back inside where it’s warmer,” the bearded man said, and Joanna whirled, but the steward had already disappeared.

  He couldn’t have. Only a few seconds had passed. He hadn’t had time to walk the length of the deck, or even to the aft staircase. Where had he gone? She ran down the deck, trying doors. The second one opened on a narrow stairwell with latticed metal steps. One of the crew stairways. She started up it, but the stairs only went up one deck and then stopped, and the door at the top was locked. She ran back down and on to the next door.

  It looked just like the door to the crew stairway, but when she opened it, she was in a wide space with a carpeted floor and marble stairs. The Grand Staircase. Which led to the Promenade Deck and the library, and if Mr. Briarley wasn’t there, the Palm Court was on the same deck. But what if he wasn’t either place? He had said he was going to the post office, and she had no idea where that was.

  But you do know where the library is, she thought, so check that first and then the Palm Court. She ran up the slightly tilting stairs, past the cherub, past Honour and Glory, up to the Promenade Deck and along the deck to the frosted glass doors of the library.

  Mr. Briarley was there, sitting not at the desk under the window, but at a small table near the glassed-in bookcases. He was writing earnestly, the yellow-shaded lamp making a circle of golden light on the white paper of the postcard, the white cuffs of his formal shirt.

  “Mr. Briar—” she called, and saw it wasn’t him. It was the mustached man she had seen carefully dealing out cards in the lounge. She threaded her way through the gold tapestry chairs to him.

  He didn’t look up as she approached. He continued to write, dipping his pen into the ink bottle, lifting it out, scrawling a word, dipping it again. Joanna looked down at his letter. It wasn’t written on a sheet of Titanic stationery. The paper was a torn sheet from an appointment book, the edge ragged along one side. He had scrawled across the middle of the page: “If saved, inform my sister Mrs. F. J. Adams of Findlay, Ohio. Lost. J. H. Rogers.”

  “Mr. Rogers,” Joanna said, “there was a man in here at that desk.” She pointed at the desk. “He was writing a note to his niece. Did you see where he went?”

  The man blotted the letter carefully.

  “Please. It’s important. He was in here before, writing a postcard to his niece.”

  He folded the note neatly in quarters and scrawled something on the outside. “Mr. Rogers,” Joanna said desperately and reached for his arm.

  He shook his head. “Not Mr. Rogers,” he said, as though that was who she’d said she was looking for. “Sorry.” He slid the note in his inside coat pocket and stood up. “I’m needed on the Boat Deck,” he said. “You should get into one of the boats, miss,” and strode across the room and through the door to the Grand Staircase.

  “Then can you tell me where the Palm Court is?” Joanna asked, pursuing him through the door and up the stairs, but he had already disappeared out onto the Boat Deck, and she couldn’t see which way he had gone in the darkness. The only light was from the open door of the gymnasium. Joanna looked in, but he wasn’t there, and neither was Greg Menotti. The bicycles and the rowing machine and the gullotine-like weight-lifting apparatus stood motionless on the red-and-white tile floor.

  She would have to find the Palm Court herself. It would have to have been on the Promenade Deck or the Bridge Deck, and all the way aft, which meant she should take the second-class stairway, and she started toward it, but as she passed the aft stairway, she thought she heard voices. She went inside and leaned over the railing, listening. She couldn’t hear them, but above her, coming down the steps, was a thumping sound. The mail clerk, Joanna thought, and looked up the stairs.

  It was Greg Menotti, dressed in swim trunks and backless beach sandals that flapped loudly against his heels at every step. He had a towel draped over his shoulders. “Just heading for the swimming pool,” he said. “Care to join me? The water’s rather cold, but that’s good for the circulation.”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Briarley,” Joanna said. “He’s tall, and he’s wearing a gray tweed vest. Have you seen him?”

  “No.” He started down the stairs.

  Joanna ran down the steps in front of him to block his way. “There’s no time for swimming. You have to help me find Mr. Briarley. It’s important.”

  “I want to get down there early,” he said, sidestepping her. “I’m scheduled to play squash at two-fifteen—”

  “No,” she said, stepping in front of him again. “You have to
help me. It’s important. Mr. Briarley knows why it’s the Titanic.”

  “The Titanic?” Greg said, and there was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

  “Yes. The Titanic. And it’s going down. You have to help me find him.” A man passed them, heading rapidly down the stairs. Joanna glanced at him, wondering if it was the steward, but it was an older man in a gray tweed vest and—“Mr. Briarley!” Joanna cried.

  “It can’t be the Titanic,” Greg said. “I work out three times a week.”

  Mr. Briarley was already a flight and a half below her. She ran down after him, counting the decks as she went. B Deck. C. D. “There’s water coming in on D Deck,” the officer on the Boat Deck had said. She looked anxiously down at the carpet for the dark red stain of water.

  E Deck. Below her, a door opened. She rounded the landing just in time to see it close. F Deck. She opened the door. Mr. Briarley was already halfway down the passage. “Mr. Briarley!” she called.

  She started after him. And ran straight into the steward. “I’m sorry, miss. This area is restricted.”

  “But I need to speak to Mr. Briarley,” she said, looking anxiously past him.

  The steward turned and looked, but Mr. Briarley was already out of sight. “Mr. Briarley?” he said, frowning, and she saw that it was a different steward from the one the bearded man had sent to find Mr. Briarley.

  “He’s my—” she said, and stopped. He’s my—what? My high school English teacher? Did they even have high schools in 1912?

  “I’ll escort you back to your cabin, miss,” he said.

  “Wait,” she said. “Where does that passage lead?”

  “To the boiler rooms, miss, but passengers aren’t allowed in—”

  “Captain Smith told me I had permission to go see—” What was in the boiler room? “—the ship’s telegraph,” she said at random. “I’m terribly interested in modern communications.”

  “Only crew are allowed in the boiler rooms,” the steward said, and put a firm hand on her arm. “I’ll escort you back up to your stateroom.”

  “Please,” Joanna said. “You don’t understand. It’s important—”