I take off my hat and wipe my brow. There could be a thousand reasons why Steward Latimer moved to a different floor. Still, I can’t help thinking I’m reason number one.
28
On the way to supper, while Wink and Olly argue over which service they should attend the next day—Catholic or Protestant—I share my worries over Steward Latimer with Jamie.
His face acquires the same pinched look as when he’s testing that a rope is secure. “Hard to know why he moved without more information. I can ask Charlotte to ask around. She’ll be discreet.”
I sigh, wishing I wasn’t so dependent on the young woman. “Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”
“Probably. But let’s keep our ears sharp.”
In front of us, Wink elbows Olly. “Mary was a Catholic, so that’s the one I want.”
Olly laughs right in Wink’s ear. “Ha! They didn’t have Catholics back then, cow dung.”
When we enter the Dining Saloon, faces follow us. Some of them wear guarded looks as usual, but I swear some actually smile. One man presses his palms together and nods at us.
“Do you see what I see?” I murmur to Jamie.
“Yeah. I see fresh bread in our future.”
The Johnnies and the Domenics hail us with a rousing cheer. Drummer drums the table, and Ming Lai’s baritone urges, “Speech! Speech! Speech!” Jamie acknowledges the applause with a low bow, and I do the same.
The headwaiter with the rose in his lapel approaches and presents a bottle of champagne. “Sirs, a lady in first class sent six bottles.”
I nearly trip over my chair. “A . . . lady? Do you know who?”
“I’m sorry, sir, no.”
It isn’t Mrs. Sloane. Charlotte? My eyes find Jamie’s, who must be thinking the same thing, because his neck reddens, and he begins waging a war with his smile.
Corks pop, and soon, each member of our table holds a flute of sparkling liquid. Even the lads get a splash. I was never tempted to try the stuff after seeing what gargle juice did to Ba. But this wine, elegantly tipped from a long-necked bottle so that it pours out like a ray of sunlight, seems worlds apart from the jugs Ba swilled.
Rising, Jamie lifts his glass. I can’t help thinking how much he resembles Ba on his good days—affable, happy, and up for standing where the pointer lands.
Ba could’ve been great if the beast hadn’t dragged him away. His own grin could feed a hundred people, that upside-down archway through which his personality leapt and dazzled. Somehow Ba is in this room, watching his twins with a gleam in his eyes.
“Here’s to a day we will always remember, with new friends”—Jamie steers his glass to the Domenics—“and old friends we will never forget.” He acknowledges each of the Johnnies in turn.
Wink and Olly are pretending to be fine gentlemen, holding their glasses with an arm behind their backs and haughtily pursing their mouths. Ming Lai wears a contented smile, fist around his flute. Tao elbows Fong, who’s already drinking his champagne. Fong grumbles at the spilled drops but lifts his glass.
Drummer swipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Thanks to you and your sister, my wife and I can see the dragon boat races this summer.”
When Jamie gets to me, he murmurs, “To you, Sis.”
We clink. As the fizzy liquid paints a warm stripe down my throat, I can’t help feeling that that’s the kind of speech you give before you say farewell. He’s preparing to say goodbye to his mates. Why else would he tell his “old friends” he will never forget them?
Though the thought of separating Jamie from the Johnnies rips a hole in my sails, maybe the two boots are at last treading the same path.
* * *
After dinner, the men take the lads to the General Room to hear music, while Jamie goes to find Charlotte. I make my way up to the poop deck, hoping to find Bo.
My heart floats in my chest, buoyed by the possibility that Jamie is coming around.
Folks, tightly wrapped, cluster at the rails, their laughter salting the air. The QM is not on shift, but another uniform stands as straight as a fin, watching the road of foam break from that staggering blue. With so much ocean around us, the commotion we cause seems insubstantial, a nick in the sand. The Titanic, for all her splendor, is really just a tiny fish swimming in a pond that won’t remember her from the next one that comes along.
On the rearmost bench, a familiar figure sketches a toddler squirming in his father’s arms while his mother watches. Though the toddy’s face is twisted in outrage, Bo draws him with a mischievous smile.
The mother takes the portrait with a grateful nod. “It’s perfect. Darling, look.” She shows the picture to the child, whose watery eyes grow big. Before leaving, the father gives Bo a penny, and Bo nods his thanks.
I slide in next to him. “Have you ever drawn a self-portrait?”
He stretches his fists over his head, and his back cracks. “Pictures cannot do justice.”
I grin. “Wagtail.”
Something out to sea catches his eye. “See that circle? The bigger fish create a whirlpool, helping to stir up the smaller fish. Makes them easier to catch. We call that a kiss from Tin Hau, the goddess of shipwrecks and sailors. It means good luck is on the way. Maybe for you.” He rubs his sooty fingers with a rag. “Tin Hau is generous, but quick to anger. Some believed she sent the monsoon to destroy our village because we had taken too much from the sea.”
“Was that why you left home?”
“Yes.” From his pocket Bo pulls a small carved wooden object, the size of a spool of thread, and holds the figurine to me. “I made this for you to remember your trip here.”
It’s a whale. I run my finger along the details of its underbelly, its eyes, its fins, and its wide mouth, all carved with an exacting hand, using even strokes and hashmarks. Just like with his shell ring, he transformed something ordinary into something beautiful—for me. Strange feelings press on my heart like cat paws on a windowpane.
I swallow down the tightness in my throat. “Why a whale?”
“A whale rules the sea. It goes where it wants without fear. And if troubled, it can become a bird”—he flaps his hands, his long fingers moving gracefully—“beating wings hard enough to stir up the sea. It means being in control of your destiny.”
Am I in control of my destiny? My grip on the whale tightens. Maybe I am like the Titanic, motoring along invincibly, when really, one push of the ocean could easily change my course. Mr. Stewart could say no. Jamie could say no. Mr. Ismay could sniff me out like a rat and throw me off his ship. But I’ve done all I can, haven’t I?