She lays the dress on the bed and picks off invisible lint. “It’s named after my aunt July. She and my mother were like this”—she crosses her fingers—“until they weren’t.” Her eyes seem to dull for a moment. “The argument was over whether Aunt July had returned Mother’s ivory brooch. Later, Mother found the brooch in her wardrobe, but before she could make things right, Aunt July died of a stroke.” She picks up the dress and slips a hanger into it. “Grudges are like heavy skirts—they’re just extra weight. I design my clothes to be fluid and easy to move in, so that when life takes unexpected turns, you won’t get stuck.”
Ba lies ina cage hanging from the tree, looking like a pile of bones. His head has become more like a skull painted with skin, and his eyes barely have the strength to blink.
Below him, keys of every size and shape litter the ground. Silver, brass, gold, wood, iron.
Jamie climbs to the highest branch of the tree, where he stands, gazing up at the sky.
I scoop up keys by the handful and listen as they clatter and clank back into the pile. Which one will unlock Ba?
25
April 13, 1912
While we wait for the drumming to start, I pace the General Room with Jamie, sharing the details of my dream. Yesterday’s intense practice left both of us sore, and we spent the morning limbering up. “I don’t remember how it ended, but Ba’s struggling in some higher plane, I know it.”
Jamie sighs. “You ever think maybe he’s not the one who’s struggling? Maybe you’re struggling.”
Yeah, I’m struggling with you, trying to make you see the light.
I bite back my retort. I cannot pick a fight now, with our future at hand. We’ll only get one shot, and after yesterday’s hit-and-miss practice in the cargo hold, we’ll both need our focus to be as tight as possible. Besides, if being overbearing caused Jamie to leave, I’ll need to stop pushing so hard and hope he comes upon the light himself.
Drumbeats punch the air, and my heartbeat rises to keep time. Summoned by the noise, folks migrate to the well deck, where Drummer has rigged up a pair of oil drums.
After his bath, he spent all night hammering their lids intoa concave shape, despite having worked a full day in Boiler Room 6. Mum always said God gave us two hands, one for helping ourselves and one for helping others. But as the marvelousboom-badda-boomshakes the walls, I can’t help thinking that Drummer is the rare sort born with a pair for helping others.
I roll out my shoulders. “I wish our parents could see this.”
“Mum never liked us doing the high stuff.”
“But she did like our shooting stars. They always made her smile.”
He shakes out his limbs, his jaw clenched. A wave of nerves washes over me. Jamie was always easy before performances, focused but relaxed. This Jamie is different. Older and more worried. I’m glad we simplified his part.
Just hold on, Jamie, and we will be okay.
Ming Lai’s ponderous conch-shell voice trumpets over the drums. “Hear ye, hear ye! A most magnificent show is about to begin. Two of England’s most faaa-mous aqua-bats”—Jamie and I share a smile—“are right here onTitanic, and they will perform for the enjoyment of all.”
The drums crescendo.Boom-badda-boom, boom boom boom BOOM! Boom-badda-boom, boom boom boom BOOM!
Ming Lai waits for the drumming to quiet, then repeats his words, sounding farther away than before. We follow the crowd out to the well deck and survey the scene. Wink and Olly stand at attention below the superstructure, where the upper classes have begun to collect. Spotting me,Wink grins, his bright new kerchief like a second smile on his neck.
At the center of A-Deck stand three men: Mr. Stewart with his eye-catching bowler, the White Star chairman Mr. Ismay, and Captain Smith, who surveys his ship with the sharpness of a roving hawk. His eyes stick on Charlotte, who looks both noble and tragic in the honeycomb dress and vanilla coat, topped with a black bowler and the bee-swarm veil. In her hands, she holds the cloisonné vase of “ashes” as I instructed her. The captain shudders.
I couldn’t have asked for a better stand-in for the role of Mrs. Sloane. Charlotte is a good egg, and I can see why Jamie likes her.
The eleven o’clock bell rings at last. Jamie meets my eyes and nods.
We thread our way through the crowd, which, realizing we’re the act they’ve come to see, parts to let us through.
Passengers fill every space on the poop deck, with some children straddling their parents’ shoulders. Ming Lai’s Russian friend, Dina Domenic, and her mother wave to us from their spot on one of the benches, and her burly father pumps one of his massive fists in support.
Eyes follow us as we climb to the docking bridge. When he sees me invading his turf, the QM’s cocky expression curdles. I try not to look too superior, which will only invite fate to stick a foot in my path. Tao and Fong stand on either end, each waving a purloined White Star flag.
Jamie takes his position in front of Tao at the starboardend while I cross to the port side, where Fong stands favoring his injured foot. He snorts, as if to make sure I still know he disapproves of me. Well, I disapprove of him, too.
At least six hundred people, the biggest crowd we’ve ever had, watch us from all angles, drawn by our enthusiastic merrymakers. I break into a sweat. My stomach feels like a troop of mini acrobats is rehearsing inside. I breathe in the salty air and try to relax into the present.
The sight of a familiar lean and muscled figure discreetly standing by a ventilation shaft places a strangely solid hand on my back. I touch my hair, which, thanks to him, lies as smooth as duck feathers.
