Drummer, suddenly shy, waves him off. But then Brandish begins to stomp the floor and clap. Stomp-clap, stomp-clap-clap. Stomp-clap, stomp-clap-clap. Others follow, not just with their feet, but with shovels and whatever else they have free to bang.
Drummer’s head begins to bob, and his fringe falls into his eyes. He rolls up his sleeves. All the blackened faces seem to watch him, even those still turned toward the furnaces.
With a grin like a slice of melon, he hands me his whirling drum. “It would be my pleasure if you helped me.”
I give the instrument a tentative whirl. Tat-tat. Tat-tat.
“Faster.”
I match the stomp-clap of the men. Ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat.
Intertwining his fingers, Drummer bends them outward, cracking his knuckles. Then he brings his clasped hands to his lips, blowing through the opening created by his thumbs. The notes of the shanty “Drunken Sailor” whistle from his hand flute, and after a few measures, the fellows join in singing.
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Early in the morning!
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Early in the morning!
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Early in the morning!
Put him in the back of a paddy wagon
Put him in the back of a paddy wagon
Put him in the back of a paddy wagon
Early in the morning!
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Early in the morning!
With every new verse, the stomping and clapping grow faster, and the shovels work more quickly, becoming metal blurs before my eyes. My own heart begins to loosen. I keep up my pace, feeling a strange elation at being part of this symphony.
Drummer begins jigging, hopping from one foot to the other. Then he is off like a windup soldier, threading past the boilers and emerging out the other side, where there are more furnaces and even more cheering men. By the time they hang that drunken sailor up to dry, water is pouring down Drummer’s ears, and I swear the Titanic hums along a few knots faster than when we arrived.
Is it possible that Jamie has found peace here, a place that is anything but peaceful, especially with Drummer stirring the place up? Perhaps so much activity on the outside frees the inside to relax. It’s work of the grimiest nature, for sure, but I have to admit there’s friendship here, and family of a sort.
Somehow, descending to the bottom deck has given me a view from the top—like the lookouts in the crow’s nest. For the first time, I can truly see Jamie and the life he has built from ashes. It’s not how I’d expected it to be—dark, grim, and indifferent—but rather it’s warm, even thriving. If he were to leave, he would never see his new family again. Though I still don’t understand why he had to leave his first one behind.
Brandish, his face as shiny as a light bulb, brings a mug of water for Drummer’s thirst. Drummer drinks, but his laughing eyes flatten when he sees my grimace. He offers his cup.
Propping up a smile, I push the whirling drum back to him and say in Cantonese, “The grain sheds its husk and comes forth.”
He waves off the expression, which means a talent has been exposed.
Brandish scratches at the stocking cap restraining his yellow locks. “It’s a grand thing you came down and woke the boys when you did. Captain’s been pushin’ us since six this morn. Wants us in New York a day early. Tomorrow, I bet he’ll push us for two.”
He wipes his face with his sleeve, and it’s hard to tell if he’s serious. But if he is, that’s two fewer days for me to find and perform for Mr. Stewart.
Drummer’s face bunches. “Why push?”
“He’s lookin’ to break some records. Wants to go out with a bang for his last voyage, methinks, which means puttin’ her on the boil.”
“I like to help, but . . .” Drummer glances at me.
“Please stay,” I tell him. “I need to talk to Jamie.”
He smiles. “Ginger and garlic. Good.”
18
Instead of going to Room 14, I climb to the General Room at the bow for the soda water they keep there for the seasick. The thought that Jamie and I are on separate paths pinches my heart between two stingy fingers. I’m not ready. Maybe I’ll never be.
A familiar cheerful voice reaches my ear. “There she is.” Olly threads his way through the roomful of passengers, followed by an exasperated Jamie. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”
Jamie takes in my greasy face. “Why are you wearing Drummer’s cap?”
“He took me to see the boilers.”
Olly’s jaw unhinges, showing me a mouthful of sharp-looking chompers. “But how? They don’t just let people in. How many boilers they got? Double-ended?”
Jamie nudges Olly and ticks his head toward the staircase, meaning, take a powder.
“Er, right. I’ll see if I can find Wink and Bo.”
We watch him return to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he is out of sight.
My brother turns a contrite gaze to me. Puffy half-moons—which Ba called silkworms—underline his eyes, probably from a late night of watching Bo gamble. He passes me a bundle. “No heels. Heard about that.”
I open the bundle and squeeze a chunk of bread, which is as soft as rolled-up socks. “How’d you manage this?”
“Dina Domenic, Ming Lai’s Russian friend, asked for us.”
One of the small tables opens up, and he scoots out a chair for me, then, with an awkward cough, takes the seat himself. I plop onto the bench opposite and remember not to cross my legs. At the table next to us, a couple of knee-biters stop pulling their mother’s braids and stare at us, their brown eyes like juicy currants in cream scones.
Jamie smiles at me. “We used to pull Mum’s braids, too.”
“She’d never wear a single braid. Otherwise we’d fight over it.”
Gesturing for me to eat, his gaze crawls back to the mother beside us, and a sadness shrouds his face. He rubs at a dark knot in the wood of the table, as if he can possibly scour it out. “She could’ve had a better life, maybe even a longer life, if she hadn’t married Ba.”