The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  Leslie’s hand was on the door to the locker room, but he’d paused, and now Dai saw why. On the opposite side of the gymnasium stood a woman in white tennis clothing. She was smiling at them—no, at Leslie. She was older than Les by a decade, maybe more, and not pretty, but anyone who could afford the clothing to play tennis was attractive enough for the moment.

  Don’t, Dai nearly said.

  But Les had already pivoted. He was making his way over to the woman in white, no doubt to offer her some tips on how to hold her racket, the towel draped over his shoulders like a cape. That smile. Dangerous.

  Chapter Six

  The most excellent thing about being a kid was that no one paid any attention. And no one paying any attention meant you could mostly do what you wanted, no matter your station, just so long as you didn’t get caught.

  And Teddy was most excellent at not getting caught.

  He’d been clenching his fists and making his muscles bulge up and down as he raced up the steep back stairs. Teddy had heard the Welsh boxers would most likely be up here on the big deck before the dinner hour, and he wanted to be the first to meet them. His mistress, Mrs. Astor, had been talking about nothing but the two boxers and their fight this afternoon in the gymnasium and Teddy sorely wished he’d seen it for himself, not least because he’d never been in any kind of gymnasium before and had only just learned the word.

  A gust of cold air hit him as he shoved open the door to the promenade, but he didn’t care if it was that cold and windy up here with no coat. Teddy was tough like that. No matter that he was supposed to be belowdecks taking care of Kitty, Mr. Astor’s Airedale (Kitty! What a silly name for a dog). Here was where the action was: first-class ladies and gents were coming up from their cabins, and in no time Teddy was surrounded by bright silk skirts and thick wool coats and the hearty laughter of rich folk. As it happened, Teddy was at just the right height to find himself face-first in a sea of thick-knuckled old ladies wearing glinting rings, sometimes two to a finger. Before his mama died she’d taught Teddy to be a good boy and that taking things that weren’t his wasn’t nice. But Teddy had always thought that shiny things seemed most excellent, and he got distracted from looking for the boxers when he saw just how many shiny things there were to see up here, and wondered if anyone would notice if just one or two of them went missing, just for a little, while he got to look at them himself.

  And then the most strange thing happened: he thought he heard a tsk, as if his dead mama had suddenly heard his naughty thoughts. He turned around, but of course his mama wasn’t there and Teddy didn’t believe in spirits no matter what his mistress said. His mama had taught him that, too: don’t believe what those rich folk say. God knows there’s only life and death and nothing in between.

  But then: a woman’s voice. It was thin, as though coming from a long way away.

  Teddy turned and scanned the milling crowd but couldn’t pinpoint where the sound had come from, thought maybe there was a performer out on the deck. He’d heard there was a famous singer on board and Teddy liked singers, though not near as much as boxers.

  The soft melody continued, but he couldn’t quite make out the words and yet the song reminded him of one his mama used to sing while shelling peas for their dinner mash, when he was real small. A real pretty song in the old tongue he’d never understood, but it always gave him chills.

  Teddy felt those chills again and it wasn’t just from the lack of coat.

  The wind ruffled his hair and Teddy started walking toward it—toward the wind or wherever the song was coming from because suddenly he had to know. Had to see this singer who was invisible and was his mama but wasn’t, of course, his mama.

  His legs felt heavy. Colored skirts brushed against his arms but he couldn’t feel them. He walked. There was a rail, and then, the sea: choppy and harsh. Waves like blue wolves. He could see their white fangs. Were the wolves singing? No, there was a woman who controlled the wolves, a witch of the depths, and it was her song. That’s what he thought, though he knew it seemed like a kid’s story and he was getting too big for kids’ stories. The rail was there and no one was looking and the metal felt cold in his hand when he began to climb. Teddy was never allowed to see anything good, but this time he would be the first to see what there was to see. He would find the woman who was singing the beautiful song. The cold didn’t bother him. He liked the cold now. He pulled himself up. The song became a roar of wind. Oh, he liked the sound of that roar.

  Hands were pulling him off the railing, and at first he felt numb, but then Teddy started to struggle and fight. Whoever had grabbed him was holding him tight and now the song was gone, but he could hear gasps all around him and people were staring and Teddy wasn’t used to being stared at.

  “Settle down, boy, you’re going to be fine,” a man shouted.

  Teddy’s eyes cleared and a joy rushed into him, replacing the anger.

  The boxer had found him! He recognized his likeness from the picture Mrs. Astor had been showing around.

  “What are you doing?” the man said, shaking Teddy by the shoulders.

  Teddy wanted to cry now because he was embarrassed, but he bit his lip instead. “Nothing,” he said. “Please don’t tell.” He didn’t want to be in trouble with the boxer, of all people.

  The boxer, who people called “Dai,” crouched so they were nearly eye to eye and he handed Teddy his handkerchief. “Look, I know. I heard it, too. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  He asked Teddy to tell him which of the people he belonged to—Who is your mistress?—and for a second Teddy felt confused and he almost answered her, pointing out to sea. But then he started thinking straight again and pointed toward an outdoor table where Mrs. Astor sat with a group of society ladies she’d only just met, all of them dressed in silk dresses under furs, bright blue and cream and gold, fingers crusted with more of those shiny jewels. Mrs. Astor was far younger than the other two, closer to Teddy’s age than those grown-up women. One was Caroline Fletcher and the other was Lady Duff-Gordon. Teddy knew who they were because all the servants had been made to learn all the names of the Astors’ new friends and Teddy was fast at learning things.

  The women were deep in conversation and Teddy got nervous, for he wasn’t used to getting caught and Mrs. Astor had gotten only testier as her belly had gotten bigger with that baby growing inside it. He tried to hide behind Dai’s legs, but the boxer pushed him forward so he could be seen.

  “Pardon the interruption, ladies,” said Dai, “but would this poor mite belong to any of you?”

  His mistress let out a shriek. “Teddy! He’s mine. Where’d he go off to?”

  “My goodness, what’s this all about?” one of her companions asked—that was the Lady Duff-Gordon. She was probably three times Mrs. Astor’s age, and she looked Dai up and down with the shrewdest eye Teddy’d ever seen, then turned her gaze to Teddy, then back to the boxer.

  “It’s nothing, ma’am. I’m afraid the boy had a fright at the railing. A bit scared of heights, I’d say.” Dai gave Teddy a wink and Teddy felt a rush of pride. He stood up a bit taller. He weren’t scared of these ladies.

  Mrs. Astor stood up with effort and as she did, her big belly poked out over the table. Had to be near ready to burst, is what the other servants were saying. She reached for Teddy and took his hand. “Teddy, what are you doing up here, anyway? You’re supposed to be down in the stateroom attending to Kitty while we’re at dinner. Did you forget?”

  “Madeleine, dear, don’t trouble yourself in your condition,” the woman named Caroline Fletcher said.

  But despite her “condition,” Mrs. Astor was capable of pulling Teddy’s arm hard. She gave him a little jerk to get him to stand by her side as she sat back down.

  “As for you,” said Lady Duff-Gordon to the boxer, “you’re quite the hero, saving that little boy.”

  Looking closely, Teddy
could see that this woman’s evening dress was dripping with beads and embroidery. A huge pink stone, ringed with shiny diamonds, glinted on one finger, looking most excellent, like it should be on display at the World’s Exposition, a line of people paying a penny apiece to gawk at it.

  “It’s nothing, ma’am,” said the boxer. “I really should be going.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not going to let you disappear, not before I’ve had a chance to get to know you.” She extended a hand. “You’re the boxing chap my husband told me about, aren’t you? He said you took quite the drubbing today.”

  Teddy’s mistress was still pulling on him. Though he wasn’t bold enough to tug away, he kept his eyes fixed on the boxer, as if by doing so, he could make the man return his glance. “Did it hurt? Simon Chadley got me full in the nose once, and I didn’t even cry.” His free hand traveled to his chest. “Got blood on my shirt and everything. Mama near about killed me for that.”

  His mistress laughed, high and nervous. Teddy knew at once that he had embarrassed her. “That’s enough, Teddy. You should know better than to speak out of turn.”

  Dai flicked his eyes to Teddy, a sympathetic smile on his face, then began speaking to the older lady again. “It was nothing, ma’am. Caught off guard is all.”

  “Cosmo was quite impressed by you, despite losing a few pounds, I believe. Now, you really must join us for dinner. My husband will be cross if he learns I’ve let you slip away before he has a chance to meet you.”

  “I should be going—”

  “I don’t see why.” Again, she fixed him with a crystal-clear, all-seeing eye. “You’re not a first-class passenger, are you? Are you really in such a hurry to go back to—wherever?” She paused, and Teddy, watching it all, saw a hardness in her eyes. “Stay, and join us. I guarantee you’ll have a marvelous time and an even better meal. And maybe I can make it worth your while . . . introduce you to an heiress or two. . . .”

  The boxer smiled politely. “I’m not looking to be introduced to any heiresses tonight, your ladyship. . . . I’m spoken for.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m not accustomed to men turning me down.” The boxer bit his lip and made a face like he knew better than to argue with her anymore, and she burst into a comfortable laugh. “It’s settled, then,” she said. “Would you escort me to our table? I believe my husband will be waiting for us there. He was told there were only two thousand bottles of wine on board and he wants to put in his order before the best ones are drunk.”

  “He may have a point,” Madeleine Astor said. “They told me there were thirteen hundred passengers on this sailing. That’s less than two bottles a head for a whole week!”

  “When you put it that way . . . you may be right. What an unconscionable oversight,” Lady Duff-Gordon said with a laugh. She stood, leading the way inside, toward the grand, first-class dining room.

  Madeleine Astor and Caroline Fletcher stood to follow, and Mrs. Astor tugged on Teddy to come along behind her. “Let’s find Mr. Haverford and get him to take you back to the cabin,” she said, adding in a whisper, “and I’ll give you a sweet if you’re good, just like I promised.”

  But as Teddy followed the ladies off the grand deck and into the warmth of the crowded corridor, he no longer cared to imagine the taste of sugar melting on his tongue. All he could think about was the way the water had sung to him. How it had called to him. How he’d felt, just in that moment, like he would do whatever the song had said, because the music had made him unafraid of everything. He shivered. He’d never had that feeling before—that feeling of wanting to fall.

  Chapter Seven

  10 April 1912 9:15 p.m.

  Entered into the record of Dr. Alice Leader

  Strict confidentiality

  Patient: Caroline Fletcher

  Age: 23

  I was approached by Mrs. Fletcher late in the evening the first day on board. She told me that she had been using laudanum since the birth of her daughter some five months earlier to treat headaches and malaise, which sometimes takes the form of acute agitation and can be severe. She asked if I might write a new prescription for her as she had inadvertently forgotten to order more in time for the trip. It seems she must have planned it in quite a hurry. She added that she had to take twice the amount of laudanum as normal to get half as much relief.

  I suggested that Mrs. Fletcher try cocaine as a preferable treatment to laudanum, and gave her a prescription for her husband to take to Dr. O’Loughlin’s office for fulfillment, for an ounce in cake form. Instructions are to take no more than a quarter teaspoon in a quarter- to half-cup of water every two hours or as needed. The other advantage to cocaine is that it is not thought to be addictive, as is laudanum. Better to err on the side of caution.

  I will follow up with Mrs. Fletcher in a day’s time to see if the prescription agrees with her. Too, I harbor some suspicion regarding Mrs. Fletcher’s excuse: Did she truly forget her medicine or had she exhausted it and was too embarrassed to ask her regular physician for more? I have seen many wives become addicted to laudanum. The stress and tedium of maintaining a household and answering a husband’s demands. We shall see if cocaine proves a gentler remedy for her.

  Chapter Eight

  Caroline sat at the dressing table in her cabin after dinner that night, keeping her gaze strictly focused on her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her soft, golden-brown hair. One hundred brush strokes, like her mother once taught her. Her hand hardly trembled at all.

  “I’ve never spent a less pleasant evening in my life.” Mark tamped his pipe tobacco in fierce, sharp jabs. “If this is the way your people behave”—Americans, he meant—“then I have sincere reservations about what to expect in New York.”

  When he wanted to be charming, Mark could fill a room with his voice, his ease. When he wanted to be sour, however, he could curdle the blood in her veins. It was as if the suggestion of the séance, the childishness of it, had made him childish and pouty. “It was suggested in fun. They didn’t mean to hurt the old man’s feelings or to tease him. Besides, these aren’t ‘my’ people at all.”

  The trouble had all begun with that old gossip Lady Duff-Gordon, showing off her new young hero, the boxer who’d apparently saved the boy from nearly going overboard. W. T. Stead had called the incident—What was it he’d said? “The call of the void.” The old man believed in ghosts—he practically said so himself over dinner, waxing on about the spirit world and how it had been beckoning the Astors’ little servant boy, raising the idea of a séance.

  “The way they mocked poor William Stead,” Mark huffed. “The man is practically an institution in England. They had no respect for him at all.”

  “Let it go, Mark,” she said with a sigh. “They all agreed to participate, anyway, after Madeleine Astor insisted. I’m sure she simply can’t think of any other form of postdinner entertainment. And you must admit you’re curious, aren’t you?”

  There was more she could say, wasn’t there? The weight and power of Lillian everywhere in their thoughts. He had to wonder, as she did. She tried not to admit how often she felt that woman’s presence, looking over her shoulder. Would she follow them until the bitter end?

  “It’s disrespectful. A sick indulgence. I beg you, Caroline: let the dead rest in peace.”

  Caroline’s hands shook as she smoothed her dress, and she refused to look Mark in the eye. Let the dead rest in peace. And yet he still carried Lillian’s diary like some kind of dirty secret, kept it in his breast pocket close to his heart. As if Caroline didn’t know. As if she didn’t know everything—the horrible, shaking breath and piercing cry of his nightmares, the same ones, she was sure, that wove stealthily into her own on the nights she slept at all.

  As for Stead, she heard he had spent time in prison for some ghastly offense, something to do with prostitution, though Caroline wasn’t sure she had the entire story. She’
d wanted to tell Mark that she had a bad feeling about Stead—it made her uncomfortable to travel with a newspaper man; they were always asking questions—but she held her tongue for now. You never knew anymore when a single word might spark a flame in Mark.

  She was at thirty-seven strokes when the loud knock at the door startled her. She stood immediately, concerned about waking the baby. Mark gave her a quizzical look but said nothing, instead moving ahead of her to the door, as if to protect her from whoever was on the other side. Sometimes it made her want to cry, this playacting. As if she could still be protected. As if the sickness and the horror hadn’t touched them both.

  But it was only the stewardess, that pretty Miss Hebbley. It took Caroline a minute to understand why she stood in the doorway with a tray: it was the warmed milk they had requested be delivered at this hour every evening.

  “Come in, please.” Mark stood aside to let her by. That exact moment, Ondine chose to wake, shattering the quiet with a razor-sharp cry.

  “The milk—would you like me to pour it straight into the bottle?” Miss Hebbley asked.

  “Would you?” As the stewardess busied herself with the pot of milk and slender glass bottle, Caroline couldn’t help but think that Miss Hebbley’s small hands seemed made for such fussy, careful work. With their constant tremble, she didn’t trust her own hands enough to pour—especially not in front of Mark.

  Meanwhile, Ondine continued to wail—the plaintive notes repetitive as a metronome. Demanding, accusatory.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” the stewardess asked. Her eyes went to the crying baby, as if she was wondering why Caroline hadn’t yet managed to soothe her.

  “No, thank you.” The words came out more curtly than Caroline intended, but her frustration with Mark was morphing into a cloud of greater annoyance—at her husband’s recalcitrance, at the baby, at the noise itself, inhabiting their small cabin like an additional presence.