“Miss Hart. How nice to see you.” Officer Merry affects an air of pleasant surprise, which is as effective as trying to spruce up a plate of spoiled meat with a sprig of parsley.
Miss Hart begins pacing, moving as regally as the queen’s cat. “I must say, the layout of this ship is quite confusing. It’s a wonder you don’t have more people falling into the hatch. Obviously, you didn’t get a woman’s opinion on the design.”
Officer Merry stares, caught in the fluttering trap of herglamorous eyelashes. He clears his throat. “It was designed this way so that honored passengers such as yourself could enjoy their luxurious facilities without being disturbed.” He glances up at the navigating bridge and, noticing Captain Smith, throws him a quick salute. The captain nods and turns away. “We would not want people to get confused about where they should be.”
“So your answer is to confuse them further if they stray,” she says brightly. “Interesting.”
“You should be relaxing on the Promenade Deck, not down here with the third class. They are serving champagne. It’s a good time to meet your fellow passengers. We have several notable guests traveling with us.”
My ears get bigger. I learned from Mrs. Sloane’s list of “distinguished passengers” that Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart, part owner of the Ringling Brothers Circus, would be among those guests. When I received Jamie’s letter announcing that his crew was being transferred via theTitanic, I knew it was a sign that it was time for me to finally get our family back together. We’d dreamed of going “big-time” in a real circus ever since Ba showed us a poster of P. T. Barnum and Co.’s Greatest Show on Earth. We’d even choreographed an audition routine that we called the Jumbo, after the great circus elephant. Somehow, I aim to show Mr. Stewart that routine.
“Mother doesn’t care for my smoking.” Miss Hart taps her finger against her cigarette holder, and ashes drop. “But I am ready to return to my luxurious facilities. I trust you know a more direct route back to B-Deck.” She takes hisarm, nodding toward a small staircase that leads to the superstructure. I can’t help wondering if she actually does know her way around.
“Pull the gangway,” barks a voice from somewhere in the distance, lighting a fire in me. I make a hasty exit toward the forecastle.
At last, it’s anchors aweigh.
Officer Merry’s gaze follows me, heavy as a boot on my back.
3
Descending a wide staircase under the forecastle, I find myself in the large room I passed while in the cargo shaft. Bright light from the open staircase gives the space an airy feel.
By the grace of God, I’ve landed on this stepping-stone, bringing me one step closer to America’s shores. But before I search for Jamie, I need the grace of the lavatory. My bladder feels like a dozen butchers are whacking it with meat pounders.
I remove my ridiculous jacket and glance about for somewhere to do my business.
The words “General Room” are marked in gold letters on the wall. Seems they could’ve come up with a more interesting name.Obviously, you didn’t get a woman’s opinion,I hear Miss Hart say in her mocking tone.
I try to recall the ship’s layout from the diagrams Mrs. Sloane requested so that she would be comfortable enough to make the journey. We reviewed them extensively, but it’s hard to think when parts of you are under pressure.
Below the Boat Deck—the uppermost deck, where they keep the lifeboats—the decks descend from A to G and, forthe most part, correlate to class, like how wool is rated for quality. This General Room, a gathering spot for the third class, lies in the forward part of the ship, on D-Deck.
No lavatory presents itself, so I hobble down another floor to E-Deck.
The stairway spills onto a wide corridor that runs from port to starboard, such that if theTitanicwas a fish, this corridor would be the collar, the choicest piece to eat. I dub it the Collar, and I imagine Miss Hart would approve of the moniker, which is both memorable and practical.
Stewards in high-necked white jackets with gold buttons mill about the area, directing passengers to their destinations.
The sign for the lavatory is like a port in a storm, and I gladly take refuge within it.
Sinks face off against seven water closets, each with a dial near the handle, all marked “vacant.” I throw my jacket onto the nearest hook and quickly smite my hands of any rat chiggers with a cake of soap imprinted with the White Star logo.
When I swing shut the door of the first water closet, an electric light flickers on. Even the third-class bathrooms here have class. Once I am blissfully empty, I lift a back lever, and the toilet neatly accepts my deposit. I wash up again, this time enjoying the cedar scent of the soap.
Now to find Jamie. If I ask one of the stewards for help, will they ask to see my papers? I’ve already made an unfavorable impression on those who needed impressing.
My ruined jacket hangs like a dead badger. I unpin the bee-swarm lace and hold it to my face. The black dots that give thelace its name certainly obscure my Chinese features. I could be anyone under this veil—the queen, even. Perhaps it will give me easier passage here.
I remove my hat and pin the lace to the band so that it overhangs my face to my shoulders. It’s a fashionable curtain, of the sort wealthy women in mourning might wear. As for the rip in my skirt, I twist the garment around so that the tear hangs to one side and won’t vent when I walk.
Back in the Collar, I case the area for a steward. Folks—mostly men—bustle around, carrying suitcases, looking for rooms.
From the ship diagrams, I recall that third-class cabins run along the port side on this level, with first- and second-class rooms on the starboard side. Mrs. Sloane didn’t want to stay on this deck, or D-Deck above it, because of how the classes cohabit, even though the ship is designed so that upper and lower class will never meet. If she was going to ride an elephant, it would be at the highest end, not the rump.
“Only men here at this end for your protection,” a steward tells a young woman with a straw hat. No wonder the lavatory was empty. “It’s against the rules for men and women to visit each other’s rooms. But you’ll like your cabin at the stern. It’s steadier back there, and closer to the poop deck, where the third class can take fresh air. Just follow Scotland Road.” He points down a corridor that runs the length of the ship like the backbone of a fish. “Smartest way to get from bow to stern. You’ll pass a slew of crew cabins, but keep going to the end.”
If the single men are in the bow, I am close. “Excuse me, sir?”
