“Charlie died in a car crash, as you’ve probably heard. I had to identify his body.”
Esme paused, remembering the splotch of blood on the coroner’s otherwise pristine white coat. It had been all she could look at as the man explained what had happened to Charlie’s face. He had taken pains to be thorough, telling Esme which part of the car hit which part of the tree, and how that particular angle and force tossed Charlie’s body through the windshield. It was quick, he reassured her; Charlie didn’t suffer. Or was that what he told every grieving family member who visited his dismal workroom? He told Esme about the whiskey stains on Charlie’s shirt and the bottle in the car, thinking she’d be relieved to know how it happened: Had a few too many, lost control, an unfortunate accident.
But there were a few relevant facts the coroner hadn’t known. Charlie had the constitution of an ox and never got stumbling drunk, no matter how many whiskey and sodas he downed. Esme had driven that same stretch of road with him countless times to the country house they rented each summer, and she’d never seen him so much as skid. He knew every curve, every hill, every potential danger. If his car careened into a tree hard enough to crush his cheekbones and shatter his skull, it was because he’d wanted it to. He’d wanted to die.
No point in being coy, Esme decided. “Charlie killed himself,” she told Charlotte.
Charlotte’s lips parted, just a bit. “Are you sure?”
“Sure enough. It’s so silly, but I’m madder at him for not leaving a note than for doing it. I could forgive him if he’d only explained.”
But what could she expect from a man like Charlie? Once he’d made the decision to end his life, he’d want to get on with it. Still, he’d owed Esme a goodbye. She’d have managed to write something, if it had been her.
I loved you. I’m sorry.
“I don’t think he ever forgave me for saving him,” Esme said. “He wouldn’t have made it into the lifeboat if it weren’t for me. I pulled him in. And he carried that guilt ever since.”
Esme, sheltered in her widow’s mourning in Philadelphia, hadn’t seen the looks Charlie endured those first weeks in Boston, when he was sneeringly referred to as the “luckiest man alive.” Charlie had joked about the rumors, which made her think he didn’t care. But every glare added to the weight that eventually crushed him. Never again was he the eager boy who’d kissed Esme in that leaky shed. Her happy ending had dissolved into a fog of disappointment and liquor, her emotions permanently dulled.
But maybe Esme’s heart hadn’t stopped working altogether, because it twisted in her chest as her face crumpled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She was dimly aware of Charlotte rising from the table and pressing her arm around Esme’s shoulders. Eyes closed, Esme slumped against Charlotte, the sobs shaking them both. There were voices, crisp and quick, but Esme couldn’t understand what they said. She didn’t try to. She stood, obedient as a rag doll, when Charlotte pulled her up and walked her out of the room, through the lobby, to the elevator. The operator, little more than a boy, gave Esme a chagrined stare under his jaunty red cap, so Esme turned into the corner to cry. She cried as the elevator rumbled to the tenth floor, and she cried as they entered Charlotte’s room. When Charlotte gently lowered Esme onto the bed, Esme wrapped her arms around her chest, shoring up her ruined self. Charlotte sat silently beside her, wise enough to know there was nothing to be said.
Later, when Esme’s cries had softened to hiccupping breaths, there was a doctor, who talked to Charlotte, not Esme. He gave Esme something to sleep, and it was glorious: an elixir that eased down her throat and knit together the broken pieces. The medicine transported her from the dingy hotel room into memories that were more vivid than the moments they recaptured. Charlie was there, carrying baby Rosie, singing a song about an owl and a pussycat. Esme could feel the downy tenderness of Rosie’s head and the confident strength of Charlie’s hands. She saw Charlie on their wedding day, looking at her with a nervous half grin, and elation swept through her like a fever: At last, he’s mine. She was with Charlie in the Titanic library, when a single furtive touch could drive her half crazy with longing.
The library. There was something Esme needed to remember about the library. She tried to envision the chairs and the bookshelves, but the more she tried to summon them, the more the images faded. A voice was calling her name, pulling her away.
Esme opened her eyes and saw Charlotte sitting on the edge of the bed. Though the curtains were open, only a sickly hint of daylight brightened the window. It must be one of the cheaper rooms overlooking an air shaft.
“What time is it?” Esme asked. Her tongue felt puffy and dry.
“Ten o’clock,” Charlotte said. “I sent a note to your house, saying you were ill.”
Esme sat up. She was still in her cocktail dress from the night before; only her shoes had been removed. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asked.
“Much better, thank you.” Esme shifted her feet from the bed and smoothed her skirt. She could see a toilet through a narrow door in the corner—the room had a private bath, thank God. “May I freshen up?”
“Of course.” Charlotte seemed to find the whole situation as uncomfortable as Esme. “I’ll ring for some coffee, shall I?”
Esme retreated to the bathroom and warily approached the mirror. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared: her hair had for the most part kept its waves, and her face was pale but resolute. At least she’d gotten a good night’s sleep. More than a good night; she’d been out for more than twelve hours. She couldn’t remember ever having slept that long.
After gulping three glasses of water and washing her face, Esme felt anxious to leave. She remembered, with a sense of unease, how honest she’d been at dinner. What had made her talk that way? And then to break down completely, in the middle of a restaurant . . . she’d put herself in a very awkward position. Best to do what she always did when she woke up with vague but discomforting flashbacks of the night before: pretend it never happened.
When Esme stepped back into the bedroom, Charlotte was fiddling with two china cups on a silver tray, looking exhausted. Anyone would think she was the one who’d needed a doctor the night before. Esme saw a bottle of pills on the nightstand and slipped it into her handbag.
“Sugar? Cream?” Charlotte asked.
“I really should be going.”
There was nothing on Esme’s social schedule, but she felt a growing distaste for Charlotte’s company. Last night, Charlotte had come across as sincere and sympathetic; Esme had thought of her as a friend. But she wasn’t, was she? Charlotte was a journalist, for God’s sake. Even now, she might be planning her next story: “Titanic Widow Spills All!” If so, her paper would soon receive a visit from the Van Hausen family lawyers.
“Oh, I thought . . . ,” Charlotte began.
“Enjoy the rest of your visit,” Esme said. Best make it clear that she had no intention of seeing Charlotte again. “Are you staying in town long?”
“I’m leaving for California soon,” Charlotte said.
“Surprising another old friend?”
Charlotte gave Esme a nod of acknowledgment: Point made. “You could say so.”
She was being deliberately coy, daring Esme to ask. Who from the lifeboat might be living in California? One of those Trelawny children, maybe? Esme picked up her bag and hat, the familiar motions boosting her confidence. Last night’s breakdown was only a temporary lapse.
Esme faced Charlotte head-on. “Everything I told you was said in the strictest confidence.”
“I know.”
“You can’t tell anyone. Or write about it.”
“I already promised I wouldn’t. You have my word.”
Esme pulled on her hat in an emphatic gesture of dismissal and walked out. She felt surprisingly hopeful as she stepped into the elevator. Telling the truth might not have been such a mistake. It left her feeling lighter, less beholden to the pas
t. Invigorated by the bustle of Park Avenue, Esme decided to walk home. She wanted to recapture the lovely feeling she’d had when she first woke up, when she’d still been basking in Charlie’s adoring smile.
Esme paused at the front window of a stationery shop, bright with an array of pastel-hued paper flowers. She’d come here many times, to order invitations for New Year’s Eve dinners and charity teas. This was where she’d picked up a box of notecards a few weeks after her wedding and smiled gleefully when she saw “Mrs. Charles Van Hausen” engraved in gold. Charlie’s name had become Esme’s, and it would always be. Charlie was her greatest love and her greatest disappointment, the person she’d revolved around for half her life.
The truth hit Esme like an errant wave: I’ll never see him again.
The hours stretched out before her, a bleak expanse of empty days leading to empty years. Yet for the first time since Charlie died, she didn’t feel drawn to the cushioned shelter of her bed. She wanted to be swept up in the flurry of the city: the nannies and their charges, the businessmen and the newspaper sellers, the wealthy housewives flaunting new hats, the delivery boys scurrying in jagged trails around anyone who dawdled. She wanted to move through them without speaking or touching, like a ghost, experiencing their humanity from a slight remove. New York wasn’t always the easiest place to live, even when you had money. But it was her home. She belonged here.
Esme considered a detour through Central Park. Walking through the zoo would remind her of the many times she’d taken Rosie and Robbie there when they were little. She glanced at her watch and realized it was nearly eleven o’clock. Sabine would be opening her shop, only a few blocks away. Esme had a sudden urge to see her. Unlike so many other of Esme’s so-called friends, Sabine didn’t wear her out. She was quiet and deferential, never interrupting, always happy to listen. You could tell Esme’s kindness meant a great deal to her, given their gap in social status. Esme quickened her pace. Wouldn’t Sabine be surprised to hear about Charlotte! Esme wouldn’t tell Sabine everything, of course; there was no reason to get into Esme’s suspicions about Charlie’s death. Her job, as Charlie’s widow, was to protect his memory, for the sake of their children. Besides, she didn’t know what really happened. For all she knew, it was an accident after all.
Esme had once heard something about confession being good for the soul. Dreary old Catholic nonsense, she’d thought at the time. Now it struck her as profound: she’d confessed to Charlotte and felt her sins wiped clean. This born-again version of Esme wanted to shower others with kindness. Sabine, to a certain set of New York society, embodied European elegance, but Esme had known her when she was a hotel maid with no style at all. It was Esme’s trust that had allowed Sabine to flourish.
Amid the honk of taxis and jumble of bodies, Esme felt a spark of joy that took her by surprise. For so long, she’d thought of happiness as her right. When it slipped from her hands, she looked for someone to blame. But what if she’d been wrong? What if true happiness came only in these small moments, whose very humility ensured they’d be overlooked? She’d looked to marriage to fulfill her, but it never would have, no matter what. If the Titanic hadn’t sunk, and Hiram and Esme had gone back to Philadelphia, she would have pined over Charlie the rest of her life. He’d always have been the perfect man, held up as an impossible ideal against Hiram. The funny part was that Charlie hadn’t lived up to that ideal, either. But Esme never would have known that if she hadn’t married him.
Esme clutched her handbag closer, hearing the clatter of the bottle inside. Ever since Charlie’s death, the nights had seemed endless. She’d toss and turn, or sink reluctantly into troubled dreams that left her shaken. Thinking of the pills gave her a marvelous sense of calm. Sleep was no longer something to fear, because it would bring a reunion with her most cherished memories. There were only about a dozen pills in the bottle, but Esme knew she could always get more. She had access to the very best doctors, didn’t she? She would take as many as she needed to banish the visions that haunted her on the very worst nights. The nights she saw Hiram bobbing in the water, staring at her in eternal anguish.
ANNA
Anna never read American magazines. But Mrs. Wickstrom at the Farmers Cooperative store did, and there was one open on the counter when Anna came in. Anna glanced at the pages while she was waiting for Mrs. Wickstrom to fetch more yeast from the storeroom. Upside down, the words were a jumble of black squiggles, but one of the pictures caught her attention: a close-up portrait of a man with dark hair and a jutting chin. There was a smaller photograph next to it, showing a couple in wedding clothes.
Anna reached out and turned the magazine to face her. The man seemed to be staring out from the page, directly at Anna. Older, but instantly recognizable. The caption underneath read “Charles Van Hausen, dead at 43.”
“Good-looking, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Wickstrom had a disconcerting way of appearing out of nowhere; Anna hadn’t heard her come back in.
“Mr. Wickstrom says I’m a fool to care what rich families get up to, but I can’t help myself. I love to look at the pictures of all the parties and clothes.” She pushed the magazine closer to Anna. “You can take it, if you like.” Then, briskly, “Five cents.”
Anna slipped the magazine into her basket and watched Mrs. Wickstrom add the amount in her ledger. The transaction made Anna feel sordid, and she rushed through her goodbyes, not bothering to double-check her shopping list as she usually would. She was sure she’d forgotten something, but it wasn’t worth the embarrassment of staying.
Anna had walked to the store; it was still warm enough, in late September, and she hadn’t needed many things. But as she made her way down the street, nodding to a few acquaintances but not slowing to talk, she wished she’d taken the cart. It would take her half an hour to get back to the house, and she wanted to be there already, in the quiet refuge where she could make sense of her rising distress. Charles Van Hausen was dead, and it shouldn’t matter. She hadn’t known him; she had no reason to be upset. Still, she could feel his eyes boring into her.
The caption under the wedding picture had confused her, for she’d thought he and the lady in the lifeboat were already married. They’d had a great affection for each other; that was certain, because Anna could remember her clinging to his side and clutching at his arm for reassurance. She was the most dazzling woman Anna had ever seen, with jewels that sparkled in her hair. Anna hadn’t known until today that her name was Esme.
Silently, Anna tried out possible pronunciations: Ehs-mee? Ess-may? The sounds were mysteriously exotic, like the woman herself. For a fleeting moment, Anna thought of sending a letter of condolence, but she rejected the idea almost as soon as it occurred to her. She rarely wrote letters in English, unsure as she was of proper grammar and spelling, and even if she did write, what good would it do? Esme probably didn’t even remember Anna, other than as an anonymous, weeping girl. If they passed on the street, Esme would never recognize the person Anna had become: a housewife and mother whose downcast eyes and simple clothing deflected attention. Despite her many blessings, Anna still shrank from notice. Her atonement for living a life she didn’t deserve.
Anna decided to put the magazine in the wood pile. She had no patience for self-indulgent melancholy, especially in herself, and there was nothing to be gained by mooning over what couldn’t be changed. Yet as soon as she returned home, Anna dropped the basket in the front hall and went upstairs. She pulled open the trunk at the foot of her bed and sorted through the quilts and embroidered blankets, all hand-sewn by the fireplace on winter evenings when the darkness set in quickly. At the very bottom was a black wool overcoat, wrinkled and reeking of mothballs but otherwise unchanged.
Impulsively, Anna put it on, feeling the shoulders’ weight settle over her own. Its size overwhelmed her slight figure, and the sleeves hung past her fingers. It felt like an extension of herself, in a way she couldn’t explain but went deeper than reason. It would always be a reminde
r of that night and the sinful choice she had made later. But she knew that given the chance to go back, she would do everything exactly the same.
The coat belonged to the English woman, the one who’d taken charge of Anna when she was pulled into the lifeboat. The woman was strikingly pretty—like an angel, Anna thought—and talked in a steady, reassuring voice, though Anna couldn’t understand most of what she was saying. As the others around them chattered in a confusing mumble of barks and hisses, the woman wrapped her coat around Anna with motherly briskness. It was a man’s coat, far too big for Anna, and she burrowed into the wool, her hands and feet throbbing from the cold. Her relief had been so overpowering, and her mind so scattered by the disaster she’d escaped, that it was some time before she remembered Sonja and Emil were still in the water. The English woman was the only person who was kind to Anna when she cried.
The woman had introduced herself as Charlotte, a name that sounded to Anna as delicate as fine lace. Years later, Anna had wanted to name her first daughter Charlotte, but Josef had talked her out of it; he thought their children should have simple American names. Anna never told Josef why she had suggested it. She didn’t talk to him about the lifeboat.
Anna had made a half-hearted attempt to return the coat to Charlotte after they were rescued. Aboard the Carpathia, the Titanic survivors were sorted as efficiently as products on a factory line, with each passenger shunted off to the appropriate class, and Anna tried to catch Charlotte’s attention as they were led in different directions. Charlotte, shaking her head, waved off Anna’s attempts to pass her the coat as they were sent their separate ways. Anna joined a line of bedraggled immigrants in the third-class dining hall, a procession of the near-dead, shuffling toward their own nautical version of Saint Peter’s pearly gates. Anna was given a blanket and a pillow and directed to the third-class lounge. She was relieved to find Bridget and Mary there, weepy but unharmed. With tears more than words, they told Anna the Brians were lost, but when they asked after Sonja, Anna could only shake her head. Opening her mouth would allow the sorrow to escape, and Papa had always said wailing and carrying on was no way to honor the dead. Like the Titanic itself, her grief must be buried at sea.
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