“What question?”
“You yelled ‘hey, Dad’ before.”
I completely forgot. “Yeah… there’s a grave over there for a guy named Freeman.”
He nodded. “You remember Mr. Ismay from the movie?”
“Yeah. The head honcho of White Star Line, right?”
“Exactly. Freeman was Ismay’s secretary. He went down with the ship.”
“Why would he go down and Ismay survive?”
“Lot of controversy over that, son, lot of controversy. Some say Ismay took the coward’s way out and pushed his way onto a lifeboat. Maybe erecting that stone to his secretary was a way to ease some guilt.”
We strolled together for a while with him telling me everything he knew about the people who were named. I couldn’t believe it. I’d always thought Dad was just a Titanic nut, but he was actually a Titanic scholar. He knew more about all this than some of my history teachers have known about anything they’ve tried to teach me.
He started in on another private communion, so I wandered off again. I went over to the grave he’d pointed out that belonged to the mother—or at least the one they thought was the mother—of the unknown child. Her name was Alma Paulson. It said she had four children that were lost. My heart skipped.
My memory leaped back to the day Dad moved to Philly and how lost I felt. How these kids must have felt drowning in the icy Arctic waters, never to see their mom again.
Dad slowly moved up the middle row.
I walked back to toward him. “Did you know that Mrs. Paulson had four kids on the Titanic?”
“Yeah. It’s a really sad story. Her husband had already immigrated to Chicago. He sent her the money for the tickets.”
“He lost his whole family?”
“Sure did.” He came over to me. “I can’t say for sure, but it must have killed him. I know I couldn’t stand to lose you. Just imagine if I’d had three more just like you.”
Dad saying “I love you” in his way. He said it to me all the time. That day he left Houston, though, he may have said it, but I didn’t hear it. I could not stay mad at him.
I quickly moved down the row. “This is wild, Dad. Here’s Jack Dawson.” Jack Dawson is Le-ho’s character in that movie.
He laughed. “No, Jake-O, but you’d be surprised at how many people come here and think that.”
“But it says it right here, Dad.” I pointed. “J. Dawson.”
“That’s James Dawson, a crew member. Maybe the filmmakers just appropriated his last name and initial for Leo’s character. If there is an afterlife, I’d bet old James here is laughing. He’s more famous than he otherwise could have become.”
He slowed down once more, so I strolled over to the first row to see the graves I missed. I looked at each number and name, if there was one.
Then at number 237 I froze—237… Jacob Elias Hardy… 1899-1915.
There I was. Planted in the middle of 121 victims of the most horrific sea disaster ever experienced. My name. My age. I felt like I was dancing on my own grave.
“Dad,” I shouted. “Come here!”
“Not so loud. This is a sacred place.” He walked toward me.
“But, Dad, this is mind-blowing.”
Before he even reached me, he said, “So you found it. I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t.”
“You knew about this? You knew I was buried here?”
By that time he was next to me. He put his arm around my shoulder. “It’s not you, son. You know that.”
“But it’s my name!”
“Yes, that it is. I gave you that name sixteen years ago. Your mother made me promise to wait—a long, long time—before I explained where I got it. She was dead set against it at first, but I wanted to honor one of the dead. And this young man, well, they identified him, but over the years, I’ve never been able to find out much about him. I thought I had unlocked the mystery once, but it didn’t pan out.” He paused, staring down at the headstone. “It just seemed fitting to name my precious son after a boy who was someone else’s precious son. His dad—who knows? He and Jacob here may have been our ancestors—probably never got to grieve at his grave.”
“But you must have known I would see this today.” I was shaking. Finding this grave was earth-shattering. Dad—and Mom, for that matter—had kept such a monumental secret. It was like I wasn’t me at all. I was just a stand-in for one of his Titanic characters. The old feelings, the divorce feelings, the feelings I struggled with and thought I’d put away, flooded my being. I stood still, fighting to keep from running—or screaming—or punching him. It was totally irrational, but deep inside me, I was feeling like I had never been me, that I was just an extension of some guy who died on the Titanic.
“I knew that today was the day,” Dad said. “But after what happened earlier, I didn’t know if you could stand to hear another one of my secrets revealed. Frankly, son, I was hoping you’d just skip right over this stone.”
He hugged me tighter, and together we just stood there, his arms embracing me, his hand on my cheek—I, totally numb. Finally he pulled me away from the grave and led me to the car.
His speech at that grave flooded my mind as we drove, like it was on a continuous loop. It swam in my brain until its message finally hit home. If my dad could grieve over people who kicked it so long ago, and even name his only son after one of them, not as some sort of twisted Titanic groupie thing but as a genuine tribute to a young guy who lost his life on a doomed ship, then my dad was some sort of great guy.
If he loved his job enough (and let’s face it, the Titanic enough) to move all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia, who was I stop him?
Chapter 7
LUNCH AT the hotel was a blast. The food was great—Halifax has some of the best seafood I’ve ever put in my mouth, and yes, I ate shrimp, once again ignoring Leviticus, which Dad jokingly pointed out. Yes, he was joking and laughing and carrying on. I’d never seen him happier. He was more at ease, and that, I admit, made my heart lighter.
It was time for dessert, and he ordered himself a second glass of wine and asked that the waitress bring me some Coke in a wine glass.
Then he raised his wine glass and said, “To the two Jacob Hardys.”
I lifted my glass and clinked it with his, repeating his toast.
It was time to cut him some of that slack I’d been withholding.
“You know, Dad, it bugs me that you and Mom kept such a big secret all these years, but I can kinda understand why. What kid wants to grow up knowing he’s named after a dead stranger?”
“And a stranger he is. I told you I’ve tried for years to find out something about him. All I ever found is he was a waiter on the Titanic. And his last name was Hardy—that of course, was what decided me.”
“Kinda like fate, huh? That there was a guy with our name on the ship?”
“Yes, Jake-O. I saw that name, long ago, and it called out to me. Especially when I saw how young he was when he died. It got to me. And I knew I wanted to honor him by giving my son his name.”
All the bad feelings I had in the cemetery were gone. I had forgiven him for this secret, and I was feeling honored by what he’d done for me.
“You don’t suppose we could find out more, being here in Halifax and all?” I’d gulped the wine glass of Coke, and got down to dessert. I forked some of my chocolate cake into my mouth and washed it down with a gulp of milk. Chocolate cake and milk always bring out the little boy in me. Dad knew that, and he’d ordered my dessert without even asking me. The grin on his face as he wiped chocolate from my lip told me he was enjoying every bite as much as I was. I started to jerk away, but suddenly, I realized something. I was enjoying this. I was his little boy again, and I didn’t mind it whatsoever.
“Well, now that you mention it, there is a place I want to go to do some research. While we’re there, you could look up Jacob Hardy.”
I looked at Dad’s idiotic grin and knew that I wanted to do this research as much for him as
for me and Jacob Hardy. “Where is this place?”
And that’s what led us to the Public Archives of Nova Scotia, a big redbrick building that would have been totally nondescript if it hadn’t been for the huge, colorful coat of arms next to the door.
Dad pulled the SUV into a parking spot on University Street. We checked in at the front desk. The clerk was friendly as she explained how everything worked. Then she asked for our IDs, sent us to the second floor, and there we headed for the nearest librarian. She directed Dad to what he wanted to see, and then she began working with me.
First up, she pulled the identification record for Jacob Hardy’s body. The info was on a yellowed file card. It read:
No. 237—Male—Estimated Age 18—Reddish Curly Hair
Waiter
Clothing—white waiter’s coat; black pants; black leather shoes; black overcoat
Effects—round, steel-rim spectacles; book inscribed by author Jacques Futrelle
Name—Jacob Elias Hardy, 11 Gorton Street, Portsmouth, England
I thought, They must have found out his real age after they contacted his family. I wonder why they didn’t claim Jake’s body? Then I smiled. I was already calling him Jake, as if he were a friend of mine—or a long lost twin brother.
I looked up at the librarian. I’d seen it before, but just then it hit me—her name tag read Rose McGill. I didn’t know if that was a good omen or some sort of cosmic joke. She bore Red’s name from that movie.
She told me the only other information about Jacob Hardy in the archives was on a list of crew on the Titanic. And she quickly explained that was only a listing of his name, his job, and the fact that he was from Portsmouth.
I guess I projected disappointment because the next thing she said was sort of motherly. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep looking. There’s bound to be more around here. In the meantime, you look over this crew list.”
I’m not sure what I thought I could find out by looking at a bunch of names, but I eagerly took the list from her. Anything to bring me closer to Jacob Hardy.
I sat at a nearby table to go through the lengthy catalog of who did what on the Titanic. I carefully scanned each name, the corresponding job, age, and where they were from. Page after page, nothing caught my eye.
Then—something. It might have been nothing; it might have been a major breakthrough. Charley Robinson, lift operator, 16, Portsmouth, England.
Portsmouth? The same age as my Jake? There had to be a connection.
I leaped up and ran to the librarian. “Rose, did a Charley Robinson die on the Titanic?”
“You called me Rose.”
“I’m sorry, I was just excited.”
“No, it’s okay—Jacob, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. But call me Jake.”
“Jake it is. And you just keep calling me Rose. I have a son your age, and that’s all he’s ever called me. He picked it up when he was a wee babe.”
“Thanks, Rose. We make a good team. Now, about Charley Robinson.”
“Oh yes. You see, I told you something else might crop up. Let me check the records.”
Rose worked at her computer a moment, then she turned. “No, there doesn’t seem to be a Charley Robinson listed.”
“That means he must have survived. But there’s no way he’d be alive today, I guess.”
“You’re right. That’s not even a remote possibility, I would think. But we might find something else out about him, anyway.”
“Is there any way to find out if Charley Robinson ever settled in Halifax, Rose?” It was a long shot, but I thought, why not ask that question since I was in the Public Archives. Poor Charley, if he survived, might have just wanted to go back home to England, but you never know what can happen.
“I’m way ahead of you, Jake.” And she went off to the stacks to check.
At that moment, Dad came back. “Jake-O, you find anything?”
“Not much. I know our Jake had red hair and wore glasses. And apparently he liked some author named Futrelle.”
“Jacques Futrelle. He went down with the ship. Created a detective character called ‘The Thinking Machine.’”
“Well, Jacob Hardy died with a copy of that guy’s book, inscribed to him. Amazing that the book had to have gotten wet, yet the inscription remained.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah. But I think I’m onto something else. There was another crew member the same age.”
“Charley Robinson.”
“You knew about him?”
“Vaguely.”
“Why didn’t you mention him?”
“Because the fun is in the quest, Jake-O.” Spoken like a true Titanic nut.
“They were both from Portsmouth, England. I’m thinking they may have been friends, may have wanted to sail to New York together. At the very least, they may have known each other.” He flashed a strange smile. At the time, I thought he was amused at my enthusiasm. “I’ve got Rose checking out the other guy right now.”
“Rose? Kate’s here? Where? Where?”
“Stop it, Dad. Rose is the librarian. She’s helping me.”
He laughed. “You’re becoming quite The Thinking Machine yourself.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, buddy. Digging into this means you’re your old man’s son—Titanic forever.”
He’s never been not proud of me, but it felt good to hear it, after all the bad blood between us the day before. But he’d have to think again if he thought I would turn into a Titanic-crazed nut—scholar—like him. I just wanted to find out about Jacob Hardy. That was all.
“So you found you a girlfriend in this quiet scholarly haven?”
I laughed. “Rose is just the librarian. Old, like you.” He frowned, then smiled. “She’s helping me a lot. Weird, isn’t? First we find Jack Dawson’s grave, now Rose works at the archives.” Dad and I both chuckled at that.
“You see, finding out about a sunken ship can be fun. But just remember, Jake-O, don’t confuse Jack and Rose with real people. They were just characters in the movie. There were plenty of real people with authentic stories who died and who survived. Keep focused.”
As much as he loved that movie, his real passion was all-too evident. He’d said that with a reverent tone. He really cared about the folks who died on that ship.
Dad looked at his watch. “Look, I want to go to the other two cemeteries. You wanna tag along?”
I thought about how he’d been at Fairview, all prayerful and stuff. I’d had enough of cold graves. I really wanted to stay at the archives and follow up my lead. “Why don’t you go by yourself? I’ll stay here and find out what I can about Charley Robinson.”
“What do you know so far?”
“He was an elevator operator on the ship. That’s about it.” I pushed Dad away gently. “You go on and visit your graves. I’ll meet you back here in, say, two hours? If I finish sooner, I’ll just sit on a bench outside and wait. No problem.”
I watched him get on the elevator, and he gave me a little wave. It was just a tiny gesture, but it said a lot. It said, “I love you.” It said, “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.” It said, “I will always be there for you.” Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. I hoped not.
I waved back, and then Rose came back carrying two huge books.
“I found a couple things on a Charley Robinson of Portsmouth, England. The age matches. It may be the man you’re looking for.”
Fan-fuckin’-tastic!
“Rose, you are a genius.” I wanted to hug her, but I’m not exactly the hugging type, and it would have just knocked the books out of her arms. So I settled for adding, “You’re the greatest,” and flashing a huge smile.
“Sit, sit,” she commanded, placing the books on the table. Over my shoulder, she pointed to an entry in the first book.
“These are immigration records for 1916. It shows that a Charley Robinson, age twenty, entered the country from Portsmouth. Says he was a
third-class passenger and intended to find farm work in the province.”
I peered at the entry. “Can I get a copy of this, Rose?”
“Of course. Copies are fifty cents per page. Is that agreeable? I’d do ’em for you for free, but my boss wouldn’t like it one little bit.”
“No problem, Rose.”
“Okeydokey. I’ll get your copy for you. But first, let me show you the other thing I found.”
She moved the immigration record book off the other one. “Once I found that your Mr. Robinson had immigrated, I thought, ‘I wonder if he ever bought property?’ So, I combed the land title records and came up with this entry.”
There I saw a title that read 4422 Comeau Street, Halifax…1/2 acre with wood frame house, Charley Robinson, 15 April 1918. There was other data that I didn’t quite understand, but finding this was major.
“Wow. I need a copy of this, also.”
“I thought you would.” She carried the books away, and I sat, all sorts of things floating through my head. Charley Robinson was surely dead after all these years, but maybe he had kids or grandkids. They maybe still lived in that house. They could tell me all about their father/grandfather and his connection to Jacob Hardy. All I needed to do was go there and talk to them. We could do that this afternoon. There was still time in the day. This quest was heating up fast.
Rose returned with my copies, I gave her a dollar, thanked her, and this time I boldly went where I never had gone before. I gave her a hug.
“Rose, you have absolutely made my day.”
“And you mine. Now you take care of yourself, and if you need anything else, come back.”
I headed for the elevator. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad what I had found.
The doors opened onto the first floor, and it hit me—Dad wasn’t here anymore. I looked at my watch. I had time to kill.
I left the archives and took a stroll through Dalhousie University—the archives were on the corner of the campus. I liked what I saw. There were lots of trees and flowers, making it a very beautiful school. Students scurried about, sipping coffee from paper cups, carrying on conversations. They looked really happy to be there.
Titanic Summer Page 7