CARPE DIEM
Chapter Two
Thomas Andrews found me in the
early evening, under an umbrella on A Deck, facing northeast, away from the
sun. There were stars peeking out from the dark blue horizon. The air was
chilly. I was wearing a heavy wool, loose weave shawl. I had removed the hat,
unpinned my hair because I hadn’t seen anyone in hours. If Thomas Andrews
noticed, he said nothing, felt inclined to comment on the glasses instead.
"I’ve never seen you wear
glasses past three in the afternoon," he stated bluntly. Not even a hello,
how are you? He saved abrasiveness for me, it would seem.
"My eyesight has grown
considerably worse in the last two years," I answered softly, without
bitterness. It was a fact, after all. One can’t change these things. Oh, dear,
did I mean that? Or was I engaging in suppression again?
"Ismay never mentioned
it," he commented.
"I doubt Bruce notices a
change." I sighed. We were silent for a moment. What could he say? I’m
sorry that your brother is an arrogant son of a bitch who refused to believe
his teenage sister might have trachoma, a disease of the common people? The
common rabble he locked away in the farthest corner of his great ship, out of
sight, out of mind. For six years, I worked by low lamplight, straining in
darkness to put his corporate books together, read over plans he couldn’t
understand, answered his letters, managed his money. Even when I did defy him
and started treating my eyes, he refused to entertain the thought that there
might be something wrong. The small, dark glasses I wore offended him. He told
me to take them off, never wear them. I refused, and he spent the following
twelve or so years pretending nothing was wrong. He hadn’t once asked about my
eyes in the entire time. But Thomas Andrews knew this. He knew J. Bruce Ismay
as well as anyone. He leaned back against the deck railing, saying nothing. I
adjusted my skirt, then repositioned my shawl around my shoulders.
"This will be my first time
in America. Did you know that?" I asked, because I didn’t wish to ask about
his wife, and I no longer wanted to talk about my sight. He seemed genuinely
surprised.
"You are in earnest?"
he replied. I nodded. "Not once?" he mused.
"Not ever," I assured
him. I wished Julia had accompanied Bruce as she should have--dutiful wife and
all that--and that the pleasure had been indefinitely postponed. But I did not
say this. Thomas Andrews knew that I was impossibly backward thinking, I
suppose, enjoyed the Old World too much. If he didn’t, I misjudged his talents
of understanding.
"Mary Catherine…" He
sighed, my name falling off his tongue almost unconsciously. I met his gaze,
smiled sadly. Tipped my head, wondered briefly if he remembered the last time
we spoke like this, in quiet, contented tones about nothing at all, on a balcony
in London, two years before. He might have said more, but a steward came by,
struggling with the leashes of three small dogs.
"Oh, he means nothin’ by it,
sir," the boy said when one of the dogs, the ugly, pugnacious one, stopped
in front of Thomas and began growling incessantly. Thomas bent down, tried to
make friends with the creature, but brought his hand back fast when the
ungrateful thing reached for it with its teeth. I laughed.
"What’s that saying, Mr.
Andrews? A dog knows a good soul when he sees one…" I teased, implying the
converse. The boy started saying that was rubbish, and Mr. Andrews was the
finest man he ever had the pleasure of meeting, and on and on with flattery of
a predictable nature. Thomas Andrews was universally well-liked. Had always been
so. Had always been embarrassed by praise, as well, and held his hand up to
stop the boy from continuing his verbal tokens of admiration.
"Mary Catherine likes to
find fault with me." A small smile graced his features as his gaze drifted
toward me. I sensed a sudden joviality in his manner, and was glad for it.
"Just a young’s girl game. Don’t upset yourself by it."
"Young?" I demanded,
though not angrily. Laughed lightly again and removed the glasses. I met his
gaze directly, plaintively, and repeated, "Young, Mr. Andrews?"
"Well, you certainly aren’t
old, my dear."
"Not old, he says? When I’m
almost blind and can’t remember a person’s name even mere minutes after we’ve
been introduced?"
"You’ve never been good with
names…"
"I’ve been better than
this," I insisted. "Today at lunch, I was unable to recall Mrs.
DeWitt Bukater’s daughter’s name until it was spoken, and that man she’s
with…well, I think it’s Mr. Hockley. But I’m not sure…"
"Caledon Hockley. Yes,
you’ve got it right."
"Anyway, I’ll be thirty years
old this summer. Surely you can give me credit for that?"
"I don’t think so."
Thomas Andrews smiled once more. "You forget, Mary Catherine, that I’m ten
years your senior. I haven’t been thirty for quite some time."
The lightness of his tone
suddenly dissipated. Unwittingly, the reference brought memories into the
conversation that overwhelmed any present concerns. I neglected to answer, and
we slipped into silence.
On my twentieth birthday, this
same Irish shipbuilder from Harland and Wolff bought me a silver crucifix in
Belfast. It hung around my neck still, beneath the lace collar on my French day
dress. Ever present.
Looking between myself and Thomas
Andrews, perhaps wondering at the sudden change in our respective demeanors, or
perhaps not giving the matter any thought at all, the steward moved on, pulled
along by the three well-groomed, ill-tempered dogs.
Thomas remained at the railing,
not looking at me but elsewhere, out across the water, back towards England. I
set the glasses aside, brought the shawl tighter around my shoulders. We
remained this way, unspeaking, for much of the evening.