Remembering the Titanic Part 10

"All these months you've been saying how hard you were working, and you never once even hinted that you were painting something like this. You didn't tell me because you knew I couldn't bear it," she accused. "And you're right. I can't. It's cruel, Max, it's so cruel. People are trying to recover, to get on with their lives, to put that terrible night behind them. And then," she waved a hand to include the paintings, "you bring it all back."

His lean, handsome face twisted in pain. "Oh, G.o.d," he breathed, "is that what you think? That I was trying to bring it all back? I wasn't, Elizabeth, that's not what I was doing." Looking ill himself, he sank into the wicker chair, putting his head in his hands.

Elizabeth fought a desperate desire to rush over and put her arms around him. This was Max, whom she loved. There had to be a reason why he had done this. It was cruel, and Max was not cruel. Never cruel. "Then what were you trying to do?"

He didn't answer for a few minutes. When he lifted his head, his face looked so tortured, so torn, Elizabeth nearly wept for him. "What, Max?" she persisted quietly. "What were you trying to do?"

"Get rid of it," he said, his voice anguished. He put his head in his hands again. "I was trying to get rid of it. All of it. So I put it on canvas. I didn't know how else to do it."

"Get rid of it?" Hadn't he already done that, months ago? He'd seemed to. And he'd told her to stop thinking about it. As if that were possible.

Maybe it hadn't been possible for him, either. Maybe she'd been wrong....

Max nodded. "Yes. Get rid of it." He shook his head, and when he lifted his face to her again, she saw tears in his eyes. "I shouldn't have done it. The minute I saw the look on your face, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. They are as ugly as that night was, I can see that now. But when I was painting them, I wasn't thinking that way. I was just trying to get it all out, away from me. So that I could sleep at night again. So the attacks would stop."

She did move toward him then, sinking to the floor beside his chair to look up at him. "Attacks?"

He described then, in agonizing detail, the nightmares he suffered from, terrible, black dreams of drowning in a deep, dark pit whose walls were as slippery as silk. But worse, he told her, were the episodes when he was fully awake. They came upon him without warning, and they came often. "It's as if I'm suffocating. It's the same way I felt when I was under the water, before my drunken rescuer came along to s.n.a.t.c.h me up to the surface and drag me to a lifeboat. I can't breathe, any more than I could then. My chest feels like the t.i.tanic itself is sitting on top of it. Most often, it happens at dusk, just as the sky begins to darken. I'm not sure why. It wasn't dusk when I was tossed into the ocean. But when it happens, I can't breathe, or swallow, or talk. Sometimes it hits me when I'm painting, or eating, or talking on the telephone. It's as if every last breath of air has been stolen from all around me and my lungs are filled with cotton ... or, more likely, salt.w.a.ter. Dark, frigid, salt.w.a.ter."

Elizabeth reached up to touch his hand. "Max, why didn't you say anything? You never told me."

"It has even happened," he continued, "when I've been with you. I would have to stop talking in the middle of a sentence, trying to get my breath back. You never noticed."

"I'm sorry. You should have said something. I had no idea. You hid it well."

He shrugged, seeming a bit calmer. "You couldn't have helped. I guess that's why I never told anyone, not even you, because I knew it was something I had to handle on my own. When nothing I tried worked, that's when I came up with the idea of the paintings. I figured, other artists paint reality, why not me? I knew I could do it. The pictures were so clear in my head." He shuddered. "Very clear. Anything that I hadn't seen with my own eyes, I just pictured from what I'd heard and read afterward."

Elizabeth thought for a moment, wanting desperately to say the right thing, words that would make Max feel better. "The paintings are very ... accurate. I don't think photographs could be any clearer than the images you put on canvas. You are very, very talented, Max. They're very good. It's just..."

He nodded. "I know. The subject matter. Not fit for human eyes. But people should know. I never meant to hurt you. The look on your face..."

"It's all right, Max." She held his hand tightly, fixing her eyes on his. "I know you never meant to hurt me. You wouldn't ever do that, not on purpose." She paused, then asked, "Did it work?" She waved her free hand to encompa.s.s the paintings. "Did painting these scenes do what you'd hoped? Are the nightmares gone? Have you had any attacks since you finished the last scene? When did you finish?"

"This morning. I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the last one this morning. So I don't know if it worked or not, not yet. But..." He leaned forward to touch Elizabeth's cheek. "Just telling you helped. That's pretty strange. I never expected that. I thought talking about it would make it worse. I was sure that bringing it out into the open would somehow make it bigger, more real, something ... give it life, I guess. Not that it didn't already have a life of its own."

"I just wish you'd said something sooner," said Elizabeth. "What's the point of having someone to love if important things aren't shared? I don't expect you to tell me everything, Max. You have a right to your private feelings, just as I do. But we were both suffering. It might have been easier if we'd shared that."

"I couldn't."

"I know. But it still makes me feel bad. Knowing you were going through all that and not being able to help you." Elizabeth smiled. "I was mad because I thought you weren't feeling anything. You kept telling me to forget about that night, put it behind me. And the whole time you were doing this." She waved at the paintings again. "I should be really mad at you now, just for making me think you were getting over it and I wasn't. You know that wasn't fair."

"No, it wasn't. And it was stupid. I should have been more honest."

They sat in silence for a while, heads together, Max's arm around Elizabeth. "So, you forgive me?" he asked finally, sitting up straight but maintaining his hold on her hand. "You don't hate me?"

"No, Max, I love you. Just don't keep things from me, all right? Not big things, anyway." Elizabeth paused, then asked, "What are you going to do with these?"

"I don't know yet. I'll have to think about it."

Elizabeth hesitated, then said, "Don't destroy the one of my father. I don't want it just now. I'm not ready. But could you please keep it? Maybe later, when it doesn't hurt so much, I might want it."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. But I think maybe ... it's a wonderful likeness of him, Max. He looks so ... brave."

"He was brave. Right up until the very last minute. I'll keep the painting for you, Elizabeth. You just let me know when you're ready to own it, and it's yours."

"Thank you. I'll be careful not to hang it where my mother can see it. I don't think she could stand it. But then," Elizabeth added with a wry smile, "that won't be difficult, since I won't be living in her house."

Then she told Max everything that had happened before she arrived at his apartment.

Chapter 19.

"THEY SEEMED LIKE NICE enough people," Flo commented on the drive back to Brooklyn after the Farr Christmas party. The snow had ceased to fall, but a suck, light coating of it covered the road, forcing Flo to drive slower than usual. "And a fine house it was. Shame about the father. t.i.tanic, it was. Terrible thing."

"I was on that s.h.i.+p," Katie said without meaning to. The words slipped out easily, surprising her. She never talked about it anymore. She had learned not to, from Paddy. And then, although John was a good enough listener, he hadn't been there that night, so what was the point in speaking to him of it?

Flo was so shocked, the car swerved on the road. "Go on, you weren't! On that s.h.i.+p! And never mentioned it before?"

"You never brought it up before. And anyways, it's not such a good thing to talk about. 'Twas a terrible night, not somethin' people take any joy in remembering."

"But you survived. One of the lucky ones, sitting right here in my car. That's a wonder."

"Yes, I was lucky. And Paddy, too."

Flo glanced over at her sharply. "I thought it was John you were keeping company with now. Thought you were all over Paddy."

"I am. I was just sayin', he survived, too. His brother didn't. And his body wasn't recovered, like some of them. But Paddy survived."

"That must be a hurt," Flo commented. "Losing his brother in such a way. Wouldn't that give you nightmares, though? Thinking of your own brother, down there in the deep, dark sea." She shuddered. "Wouldn't imagine your Paddy ever gets a good night's sleep."

"I wouldn't know. He never said. And he's not my Paddy." It was upsetting ... how saying that still pained her so. She hadn't seen or talked to Paddy in months. That girl, Elizabeth Farr, had said she had "great stage presence." Maybe that just meant pride was keeping her head up. What she really wanted to do was bury it in a pillow and bawl her eyes out, she still missed Paddy so.

Not that bawling would do any good.

They were still nearly ten blocks away when they saw smoke in the distance. It was thick and dark, spiraling steadily upward to bruise the night sky, turning it a deep, ugly purple.

Noticing the smoke, Katie sat up straight on the seat. "That smoke there, see it? It looks to be near my aunt's house. Maybe you could go a bit faster?"

But other drivers returning from a night out in the city had noticed the smoke, too, and had slowed their pace, sensing excitement and fearful of missing it. Flo had no choice but to proceed cautiously. Katie, anxious for her aunt and uncle's safety, began fidgeting, sitting very far forward on the seat and peering through the winds.h.i.+eld.

By the time they had less than three blocks to go, the smoke had intensified, a high wall of gray wool so thick, it was impossible to discern which roominghouse might be the victim. Katie couldn't even be sure on which side of the street a fire might be raging. She knew only that it was raging, knew that what she was seeing from a distance was no boiling pot overturned on the stove, no ashes from a coal burner setting a small throw rug ablaze, no heated iron burning a hole the size of a silver dollar into a wooden ironing board. It took more than a small fire to spew forth such giant clouds of evil black smoke.

With two blocks still to cover, Flo's car, held captive in a long line of curious drivers, was moving at a snail's pace. Katie could stand it no longer. Taking advantage of the lack of speed, she shoved the door open and jumped out. As late as it was, almost eleven o'clock, she could see just fine. There were streetlights, and lights from houses. Besides, she'd walked this avenue many times with John or with Mary and Tom. She knew the way.

Flo shouted after her, "You stay away from that smoke! It'll be the ruin of your voice!"

Katie was already racing up the street, slipping and sliding on the suck sidewalk. Heart pounding, holding up the hem of her green dress to keep from tripping, she ran toward the smoke. She saw no flames, but perhaps she was still too far away. Another block, and now she could see the source was a house on this side of the street, not on her aunt's side. Her knees would have gone watery with relief then except that just as quickly she realized that the house directly across the street from her aunt's was Agnes Murphy's. Where Mary and Tom lived. And Bridget.

Katie ran faster.

When she was close enough to realize that it was indeed Agnes Murphy's house spewing smoke, her eyes quickly scanned the scene for some sign of a skinny little girl with bright red hair. There were no small children present. It was late. They were safely in bed, asleep. Most of the neighborhood men worked the night s.h.i.+ft at a nearby factory. They wouldn't be working on Christmas Eve, but that was tomorrow night. Not tonight. That left only elderly neighbors, some with nightwear poking out from beneath their winter coats, to gather on the lawn.

Katie saw no sign of Bridget.

But her eyes did locate Mary, sobbing in the arms of her landlady. Tom was away at work, and wouldn't be home until seven in the morning. Katie pushed her way through the crowd. The wind had changed, now blowing the smoke toward the rear of the house. Though there was plenty of the thick, dirty gray stuff pouring from the open front door and first floor windows, she saw no flames. Perhaps there was no real fire, only smoke, though Katie couldn't imagine how that could be so.

She ran to Mary and Agnes. "Where is the baby?" she called, tapping Mary on the shoulder. "Where is Bridget?"

Incapable of speech, her face still hidden in Agnes Murphy's ample bosom, Mary could only point. She pointed straight at the house.

"She's in there?" Katie cried, horrified. "Has no one gone in after her, then?" She whirled, her eyes flying accusingly from one face to another. She saw no one who looked hale and hearty enough to enter a smoke-filled house. They were all too old.

Katie turned back to Mary. "Are you certain sure she's inside?"

Silent nodding from Bridget's mother.

"She was sleepin', Mary was," Mrs. Murphy said over the top of Mary's head. Her tone was not unsympathetic, even though it was her house that might be burning. "Had herself a bad day, so she went to bed early. I was next door, havin' a cuppa tea with Mrs. O'Donnell, when we seen the smoke. Come right over here and woke up Mary, but the smoke was so thick we couldn't stay in there. 'Twas grabbin' us by the throat and yankin' all the breath out of us. When we tried to call for Bridget, we swallowed smoke so bad, nothin' came out. I don't..."

But Katie was already gone, pus.h.i.+ng open the gate and das.h.i.+ng up the cobblestone path toward the smoke-filled house.

She paid no attention to the warnings shouted after her.

Chapter 20.

HAD IT NOT BEEN for the image of Bridget's small, pale face firmly lodged in Katie's mind, she would have turned and fled instantly from the thick clouds of smoke billowing through the open front door. There were no flames, but the smoke itself engulfed her, tearing at her throat. She was coughing even before she stepped over the threshhold.

But Bridget was inside....

As Katie hesitated for a second in the doorway, her hands over her nose and mouth to protect them, she heard the faint wail of a siren. Too distant, much too far away to be of any help quickly. And how, then, would a fire engine make its way through that long line of autos crawling along the avenue hoping to see something exciting? What if the siren she was hearing wasn't even headed her way? Could be going somewheres else, to a different fire, maybe, or to a car wreck because of the slippery roads.

She dared not wait. Bridget couldn't wait.

Katie plunged headlong into the thick wall of dirty gray.

Once inside, she felt as if she had been swallowed up by a giant steel-gray monster. She could see nothing. There was not the tiniest shred of light to help her find her bearings. The smoke was so acrid it sent tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands left her face to yank her skirt and petticoat up to cover her nose and mouth. This helped only a little. She couldn't be sure exactly where the staircase was. In all that gray wool, there seemed to be no left, no right, no stairs....

She dropped to her hands and knees, thinking to get her bearings by crawling along the floor and using touch to locate various pieces of Mary's furniture ... the couch along the front wall, the parlor piano, the telephone stand decorated with seash.e.l.ls positioned along the wall just below the stairs ... if she could find that stand, she could find the stairs. If it was the piano she found first, she would know she had moved in the wrong direction.

She found the seash.e.l.l stand. She was already coughing so hard, the crawl from doorway to stairs took ten times longer than it should have. And crawling with one hand holding the skirt and petticoat over her mouth was very difficult. But she had no choice. She had intended to call for Bridget as she went, but the first time she opened her mouth to do so, the only sound that emerged was a harsh croak. Smoke rushed in, gagging her, and she shut her mouth quickly, only to have it forced open again by a wracking cough.

The realization that Flo had been right, that the smoke had already damaged her voice, making it impossible to call for Bridget, was frightening. Finding the child would take so much more precious time now that she couldn't summon her by voice. Katie almost turned around then and went back outside. But she had heard no sirens arriving at the house, no sound that help was at hand. She couldn't desert the child. That would be too cruel.

Brian hadn't deserted the steerage pa.s.sengers on the t.i.tanic, even when he knew there was no hope of rescue, knew he would not be saved. Still he had stayed.

I'll stay, too, Katie vowed, until I find Bridget.

She still saw no flames. That was a blessing. Perhaps there was no real fire, perhaps something in the house ... the old coal stove in the bas.e.m.e.nt, maybe, was spitting out the smoke. Katie had no idea if that was even possible, but the thought was comforting so she clung to it as she slowly, painfully, made her way up the stairs, crawling on her stomach, tears pouring from her red and swollen eyes.

Why, Katie thought in a flash of anger as, exhausted, she reached the top step, had Mary gone outside without her small daughter?

If anything terrible happened to their only child, Tom would never forgive his wife.

A small orange flame, like a curious kitten peeking around a corner to see who was there, darted straight at Katie from the corridor. It shocked her. It wrecked her notion that the house held only smoke. She heard, then, a new sound. Like feet tramping on small, dry twigs, snapping them in two, or on dry autumn leaves. She and Paddy made sounds like that when they walked in Central Park in the fall.

But no one needed to tell her these were not the sounds of feet in the park. This snapping and crackling was the sound of furniture and framed photographs and the pages of books and the soles of shoes and the gla.s.s of mirrors being consumed by flames. She pictured the very walls themselves being devoured by the fire, leaving nothing behind of Agnes Murphy's house but smoke and ashes.

Katie didn't care about the house or anything in it. All she cared about was finding Bridget, toting her safely from the house to give her back to her mother.

Her eyes burned so furiously, she had to keep them closed. It made no difference, since she could see nothing. She was surrounded by a thick, gray wool cape. And it wasn't her eyes that worried her, it was the constant coughing. How long before the thick, cloying smoke pulled every last breath out of her and stopped her heart forever?

Only once in her life had Katie Hanrahan been as frightened. In the belly of the great t.i.tanic, wandering panic-stricken along its silent, narrow corridors, desperate to find a way up, to light and air and safety, she had been terrified that she and the two children left in her care would die down there. Paddy had saved her then. But Paddy was far away now, in the city, probably somewhere with Belle, not knowing Katie needed him again.

I was mean to him, she thought dazedly as, gasping and choking, she pulled herself up into the hall. A second shoot of flame reared its nasty head, darting around the corner to tease, I dare you, I dare you to keep coming! Katie ignored it, and began sliding along the corridor floor on her stomach. I should have told Paddy why I was being so sour with him, it wasn't fair of me to turn him a cold shoulder without sayin' why. 'Twas cowardly, if nothin' else. If I could just see him again, for a minute....

The agonizing climb up the staircase had left her drained, her chest aflame like the building itself, and there was an ominous roaring sound in her ears. Comin' from my brain, she told herself. It's mad it's not gettin' enough oxygen and it's roarin' in anger.

Dizzy, so dizzy ... sleep would be just the thing. If she just took a tiny little nap, just the smallest forty winks, maybe when she woke up the nasty old fire would be gone, the smoke cleared. Then she would find Bridget and they would go outside together into the clean, fresh air.

That seemed to Katie's oxygen-deprived brain a fine idea. She might have followed it had she not, as she stretched an arm out over her head in preparation to lay her head on it, encountered with her fingers a small, human hand. The hand was limp, lifeless, but...

Gasping in shock, she clutched at the hand. She tried to call out Bridget's name. Impossible. Her vocal cords, seared by heat and smoke, no longer functioned. Flo would be so angry.

Katie's head cleared suddenly. She had found Bridget. She had done half of what she came to do. Now she had to get the other half done. She had to get both of them out of this deathtrap of a house and into fresh air and safety if they were to live.

She had no idea how she was going to do that.

Chapter 21.