by Jill Zeller
Holding onto the rail I let the breeze wash me. Like a hot moist towel it felt good, smelled like a conservatory of moss and water. My eyes were closed but I knew someone was standing next to me.
It was not Philip, as I hoped. Roland Levesque looked straight out to sea as he stood inches from my side.
He said nothing, just glanced at me, gave me a slight smile. A shy one, I thought.
“The crewmen are superstitious.” I brushed a tendril of hair from my eyes, felt the moistness on my cheek and wondered if it was from tears. “Mr. Picou told me. Witchcraft, it seems. An old religion in the islands.”
Mr. Levesque nodded. “There is talk that the Picous are being asked to leave the ship. It’s bad enough, I hear, for them to be sequestered for the rest of the voyage in their cabin.”
My mind spun at this revelation. “Can the captain do that?”
Shrugging, Mr. Levesque gazed over my shoulder, at my hands, anywhere but into my eyes. “I suppose he can. That, or the brig.”
“Just for holding a séance?” I whispered the word as a crew member passed by.
Mr. Levesque raised his eyebrows, stared down into the water.
“Why did you attend?” I knew it was bold of me to ask, but I had never been accused of tact.
I thought I saw a flush crawl up his neck. “I don’t know. I was asked.”
“You were asked? They asked you?”
“Miss Picou asked me.” Truly there was now a flush under his chin.
Another flash of thought niggled me. “Do you know where they are? I mean, where their cabins are? I need to get a message to them.”
This was a lie, but in a way only half-a-lie. I did need to speak with Philip, see him, anyway, as the thought that he would be confined to his cabin for more than two days filled me with a gray dread.
“Well, yes, I do. But I don’t think—”
“Surely they can have visitors.” I took his arm, and the shocked look on his face warmed me. “You’ll take me there, won’t you?”
Mr. Levesque seemed to have lost the power of speech as he guided me toward the saloon and down the stairs. In times of desperation I will act without thought, a flaw I knew well in myself.
We passed into the same hallway where I had stood reading the passenger names and not finding them. So, they were traveling under a different name, and I wondered about this—more perhaps, than just actors using one name on stage and another at home. Perhaps this was because of my work at the journal, watching Silas and the other reporters pick apart a story, relate sordid details, speculate about acts and ulterior motives, that made me conclude this. It made life more interesting to observe people and write their histories in my mind.
Stopping halfway along the passageway, Mr. Levesque nodded at one of the cabin doors. At our feet was a tray of dirty dishes and linens. At least the Captain wasn’t starving his prisoners.
“Miss Picou?” I whispered.
He nodded. And started as I knocked on the door.
Silence, followed by noises, swish, thump, and a murmured, “Who is it?”
Then I remembered I probably had woken her. They were, Philip insisted, as entertainers, denizens of the nighttime. I felt my face warm, but the damage was done.
“Miss Picou, it’s Miss Lynch. Nola Lynch. I, uh, came to see if you needed anything.”
More silence. If she ignored me for my rudeness, as she had every right to, I would leave, I told myself.
Then, the cabin door to our right opened, and Philip’s head appeared around it. Seeing us he smoothed his tousled hair and pulled close the lapels of his dressing gown.
He frowned, and a cold hand closed on my heart.
“Miss Lynch, and—” he hesitated, as if he had never met Mr. Levesque before, or had forgotten his name.
“Miss Lynch, I’ll leave you now, if you don’t mind.” He gave a quick nod to Philip, and started off down the passageway, leaving me and Philip.
“I asked him where your cabins were, as his is nearby.” And indeed, several doors down Roland Levesque slipped into his own.
“Nola, come in,” Philip whispered, another quick look up and down the hallway. Now he smiled, and the sight of this warmed me through.
Once inside, I saw these cabins were much smaller than my stateroom. Guilt pricked at me as I thought about my mother buying my First Class passage with her own money, a small inheritance from her family. A porthole, much closer to the surface, a small bunk, a sink, cupboard. A folding desk or table came down from the wall, and there was a small chair. And a door to the next cabin. At least they could connect these two small rooms.
I made for it but Philip caught my arm, pulled me to him, pressed his mouth on mine. The warmth built into a heat settling itself into my groin and my hips seemed to move forward on their own, pushing into his. His hand slid down my back. He tasted of salt and vaguely of whiskey, and smelled like a smoky night in the city.
“But your sister,” I whispered, breathless. “She’s right next door.”
“And back to sleep, I have no doubt.”
“But you—”
He hushed me with another kiss, and in moments we were on his bed, clothes dissolving with fumbles on laces and buttons. Giggling laughter cut short so we would not be heard. The fire and bliss of what happened next took my mind miles away from my own demons: Philip’s lashes on his cheeks as he pressed his eyes closed; his soft moans; pressure of his hands on my shoulders and breasts.
We lay side by side, crammed together like a pair of silver fish in ice.
“This is terrible,” I managed to say minutes later. “How can the Captain do this to you? Sequester two of his paying passengers?”
Philip got up on one elbow, leaned against the teak panels of his cabin. He shrugged, smiled, without humor. “A compromise. He was threatening to push us off at the next fishing village, but in exchange for not leaving our cabins for the rest of the voyage, he’s allowing us to continue to Port au Prince.”
“But why? Just because of the séance?”
Philip gave me a sharp look. “The crew is terribly superstitious. Sephira said she saw you talking to one of the West Indians. Most of the other passengers don’t even think of them as human.”
Shifting, I sat up, leaned against the wall to Philip’s left, facing him. “I like talking to people who are different from me. Like you.” I touched his cheek.
Smiling crookedly, he took my hand. “I’m not that different, but then again I am.”
I waited a few silent moments, listening to Philip breathe and the rumble of the ship around us, before I asked the question that burned its way through my heart.
“How did Sephira know those things? How did she know about—the death of my friend?”
Philip stiffened, put his finger to his mouth. He glanced toward the adjoining door. Pushing off the bed, he pulled on his dressing gown.
“You have to go.”
Bolting off the bed, I began to gather up my clothes, buttoning furiously. “Is it your sister? Is she awake?”
Of course you woke her, you silly goose.
Taking my shoulders, Philip pushed me toward the door. “Wait, I’m not dressed yet.”
I pulled away from him. His eyebrows lowered, and his mouth stiffened into an impatient-looking grin. Shock rolled through me at the sight of his face.
He whispered fiercely, “Please, go. Hurry.”
“It’s just your sister,” I snapped, resisting his pushing. My shoe dropped from my hand. “What could be so awful? Embarrassing, yes, but—”
Without another word he opened his cabin door and shoved me out.
“I’m sorry, Nola. So sorry.”
And there I was, half dressed, one shoe inside the cabin, the other in my hand. I’d had time to put on my blouse, but my skirt waist hung around my hips with my petticoat bunched over it.
A coal of anger burst into flame under my ribs. Lifting a fist, I reached to pound on the door, but stopped when I heard voices inside
.
The passageway remained empty. I stepped close, pressed my ear against the latticed door.
“. . . was asleep, darling . . .” from Philip.
And Sephira, voice whispery but high-pitched, “That New York girl woke me, asking if I needed anything.” She laughed, but it was not humorous, “As if she could give me what I want. As if anyone could.”
Philip now said something I couldn’t quite make out, something like, “. . . eat up the world, if you could.”
Down the hall, a cabin door opened. Before I could see who came out, I flew down the passage, away from Philip’s door, in my bare feet.
In my stateroom I pulled off all my clothes, donned my swimming costume, summoned the steward and sent everything to the laundry. I swept up all the papers, sketches, telegrams, and shoved them into my valise. Taking a teaspoon of cordial I lay on my bed and stared at the lacquered ceiling, swirled in wood and grain like caramel clouds.
Inside myself anger and guilt swirled, switching places like the masks of Janus. Fury at Philip for treating me so poorly. Biting remorse about the fact that I should care more about Arthur’s death, and didn’t. Shame for the disappointment in Mr. Farragut’s face.
What am I doing? My first sailing into the wild of independence and I left nothing but chaos in my wake. Mama had warned me, and so had Papa—perhaps that is why he made sure to supply me with a drug to curb my moods.
Curb. Now there was a word. One “curbs” a dog or a horse. To “curb” is to slow down, put edges around, control. Along New York sidewalks curbs carried away water and horse dung. Curbs ordered, controlled the chaos of waste and fluid.
Sometimes, when I considered a word from all sides, up and down, it became foreign, as if it were another language.
I wished for Papa in moments like these; when I pondered something in great detail, he would listen to me ramble. Thinking of him, his softly balding head with a rim of sandy hair, his gaunt cheeks and sharp blue gaze, I must have fallen asleep because the steward woke me with my fresh and dried clothes, and night had taken over the day.
To my great fortune, I found the library-boy where I had found him before, near the bow of the ship and the gangway to the crew quarters, beyond the covered holds of the foredeck.
He did not run from me, as I feared. I saw the firefly light of his cigarette as he pulled on it, gleaming in the doorway. I stayed several feet away, knowing I could be associated with the “curse of the witch-lady” laid on Armand.
“How is Armand? Is he recovering? I heard he was ill.”
“He good now. They’re gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
The boy’s shoulders raised and fell. He still wore his kitchen uniform, bright white in the shadows.
I wanted to know so much more about this boy and his ilk. This religion, so strong and deep, everywhere like an underground river in the Caribbean, was palpable. Even the Captain of the Leopardo held a deep respect for it.
“That was quite a storm last night.”
Etienne tapped his cigarette. “Gone now.”
I watched him blow smoke into the air from his young lungs. “What is your name?”
“Etienne.” He answered me frankly, gave me a smile. “Etienne Celestin.”
“Celestin. Like the stars.”
“Maybe. Gra-mere could read stars.”
I moved to the rail, still maintaining a distance from Etienne, but he came to join me. Sea foamed below us in blue-white streamers. The moon had not yet appeared.
We stood there a while as the soft evening touched our faces.
“People make mistakes, sometimes. And they can be awfully sorry for it.” I spoke to the sea and to myself.
“People get took by devils. They can’t help it.” The boy crushed his cigarette on the rail, wiped the ash away with the sleeve of his jacket. “New York lady eating supper? We have good perch tonight. Just caught.”
“Thank you, Etienne. I don’t feel very hungry.”
Dutifully, though, as if I couldn’t keep away, I headed for the saloon and found it crowded, portholes open to capture ship-breezes. Again, people were laughing, glasses struck in toasts, everyone in the room riding high on the pleasure of outriding last night’s storm.
Even the Farraguts were here at our usual table. It warmed me to see Harriet looking flushed and pretty, but I could see a hollowness to her cheeks. Mr. Farragut looked straight at me, then away, but too late. The steward brought me to them, and sat me next to Mr. Farragut.
Hesitating before sitting down, my throat tight and cold, I looked at Harriet, who noticed me for the first time, it seemed, smiled, and started to rise.
“Oh my dear Nola. How I’ve missed you.”
Mr. Farragut stopped her, a gentle hand on her arm. Rising himself, he said to the steward, “Please sir, we are expecting a different guest for this seat.”
As if he knew what was happening, gallant or not, Roland Levesque appeared at my elbow.
“Over here, please miss, we have a place for you.” Taking my elbow, he led me away.
I heard Harriet begin to argue with her husband in a hushed voice, and at least I had that. She didn’t blame me, even if Mr. Farragut did.
So I made new friends that night, Mr. Levesque and a pair of twins named Asher and Arnold Cavendish and their aunt, Mrs. Pantone, from Upstate New York. They were traveling all the way to San Francisco, as was I. The twins were going for a fresh start, they said, caught in the winds of change like myself. They spoke of another place, Los Angeles, where motion pictures were now being made and they both hoped to be employed there.
“I hear that’s a great place for sun and clear weather,” Asher said, stabbing at his perch. “D. W. Griffith is out there now, setting up shop in an old barn.”
I had heard of the place, and seen my share of “Flickers“ as some called these strange moving images cast onto a screen in a darkened vaudeville hall. It eased me to hear of something different from magic or spirits or devils. And I could for a little while stop thinking about how Philip pushed me so rudely into the hall and the pain of my betrayals.
After supper we walked the promenades in the silky evening. Everything was bathed in softness, and we swore together that we could smell the islands, moss and floral and even the tinge of fish, wafting through the dark night across the glassy sea.
Leaving my new friends, declining Roland’s offer to see me back to my stateroom—an offer, I feared, with a hidden motive—I stood at my cabin porthole, waiting for the moon to appear. When it did, I sketched it in charcoal, leaving the space of light between dark strokes to signify moonlight on the water. I promised myself I would do better, that I would be honest and true to myself and my friends and family—and swear off magicians and politicians forever.
Going to the radio room, I wrote a telegram to Arthur’s wife, thanking her and apologizing and sending condolence—sincere as it was—for herself and their children. Arthur had sent something to me to be picked up in Colon. I could not imagine what it was, but I would obtain it if for no reason than to honor his wife.
When I returned to my cabin Philip was waiting at the end of the passageway.
I turned on the electric light, and looked at Philip as he stood just inside my door holding his bowler in his hands.
“That was a rude and dishonorable thing to do.” A cold steel anger hung under my ribs, not even melting as I saw distress draw down his eyebrows. The humiliation still burned in my throat.
“How can I ever apologize? How can I ever explain?” His voice was mournful, soft. He spoke as if he wasn’t really speaking to me, but to himself.
“I’m not sure it’s explainable.” I hugged myself. And deep inside, I struggled. I wanted him to leave, but a glimmer of pleasure pushed at me, glad he had come. Glad he was suffering and could not stay away.
Sitting—uninvited—at my little table, Philip leaned forward on his knees. “Star and I, we’ve been together, taking care of each other, all our lives.”<
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I watched his long fingers tangle themselves together before him.
“She’s my older sister. We were the only children. Our father left us when we were small. Star remembers him, but I don’t.”
Pressing his lips together, he looked not at me but away, toward the porthole. “I guess he was a drunkard. Ma raised us best she could, but we ran wild on the streets of Montreal. It was Star who convinced me that I could perform magic, that we were a team, amazing our friends with feats of magic. Star would tell their fortunes and I learned tricks from a book. Later, she got to know theater people. Burlesque. Star, well, you’ve met her, seen her. She can walk into a room and freeze all speech.”
Getting up, he came to sit beside me. Something about his voice, the way he told his story as if it were a dark memory he had told no one else, thawed the icy place in my heart a little.
“We’re very close. Star is—she’s protective. I can’t imagine life without her.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m a sorry sort, I know. But I owe my life to her. She doesn’t like it when I—when women—”
“Are there a lot of women?” I wondered if I understood what he was trying to say, but I thought I did.
Raising an eyebrow at me, he said, “No, actually. They try, but, no. You’re different.” He reached up, fingered a strand of my hair. “You’re beautiful, sure, many beautiful women try to know me, but you have an aura about you. A confidence and intelligence, and something else. You’re a little tortured, I think.”
I got to my feet. His words drilled into me, and I wanted to believe them but I couldn’t. They were just words. He’s a magician, and a trickster, and a person of the theater.
“How did Sephira know about Arthur? How did she know?”
Philip was quiet for a moment, looking up at me. “I told you, we’re a team. We’re good at what we do.”
“Arthur’s voice. It came out of nowhere.” My hands closed into fists, as if they remembered the smooth wood of the table, fingers touching those of strangers. “She didn’t speak—it was a man. Was it you?”
Shaking his head, Philip smiled, pushed out his lips. “Remember who else was there, besides you and Mrs. Farragut and the steward?