Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  The feeling was of peace and security and safety. They could be thankful for all their blessings.

  Right now, there was peace in their families, in that little boat, with nothing to fear.

  But they wore their life vests.

  63

  Occasionally, Lydia thought of the late summer evening when Craven had posed a surprising question. Being only a few months old, Beau was in bed for the night. They were sharing how their days had gone. Since Lydia insisted upon the full care of Beau then and in the future, he was her main topic of discussion.

  "Do you want more children?"

  What surprised her most was that the thought had never entered her mind. Her life was filled, complete with Beau. "Do you?"

  "No, I have my heir."

  She had never thought of Beau in that way. But of course, he was.

  "If you do, that's fine. I can handle it."

  Did she want more children? Lydia doubted she could give the love and attention another child would require. Beau had all of it. "I don't think so."

  "Give it some thought," he said. "There are operations."

  She gasped and almost came out of her chair. "I will not."

  "I'm not talking about you, Lydia. I'm referring to myself."

  "Oh. You?"

  "I've looked into it. Like I said, I have my heir. But you're quite young. If anything should happen to me or Beau—"

  She put her hand on his arm to stop his words. The thought was unbearable. There was no way she could ever replace Beau.

  Craven took her hand and held it a moment. She could not make this decision for him. "I don't want more children, Craven. But whether or not you have the operation is entirely your decision."

  He squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

  The operation was successful.

  As the days and years passed, seemingly all too quickly, Lydia was mesmerized with how Beau would see the most minute flower close to the ground that would have been trampled on by adults. He'd say, "Ooooh" and touch it ever so gently. She spread her hands and explained that buds would blossom out into flowers. When she opened her umbrella, he said it blossomed out. They would laugh and laugh and laugh.

  Even when he was very young, she had read poetry to him when Craven wasn't home. She'd loved it when John had quoted or read poetry to her. She wished she had the poem he had written about her. The only words she recalled were "golden loveliness." She often thought about it when looking at her son.

  He had inherited the typical Beaumont golden hair, his a little darker than hers except when highlighted by the sun. But John's son had his loveliness.

  "There's no holding that boy back," Craven said one evening, watching Beau and his antics. He was a little performer, and they encouraged his active mind and inquisitive nature.

  He ran off to the sunflowers at the far end of the garden. To keep him in sight, they followed. Craven thought the flowers unseemly, having grown so tall. But Beau loved them. He looked up and spied a huge bee on the brown center and reached for it. She and Craven gasped, ready to shout for him not to do it, but the bee simply flew to another sunflower and he was never able to catch it.

  Oh, he laughed. He was happy.

  Beau turned with his little hands on his hips and his lower lip stuck out, playing his pretend annoyed part. "What's wrong?" Craven said. "Beau couldn't catch a bee?"

  Beau punished the sunflower stem with a little slap and was off to something else.

  Although they liked visiting with Caroline and Armand, none of them felt it wise to travel. Soldiers seemed to be on every street corner, and they needed the trains. She and Caroline communicated often, writing long letters about their precious boys.

  Then Lydia did not hear from Caroline for a long time, but she read about the Halifax explosion. She and Craven feared for their friends. Just as it had with the sinking of the Titanic, people throughout the world were shocked, but not in disbelief, because they already knew how quickly and unexpectedly devastation could occur.

  64

  On December 6, 1917, the French munitions ship Mont Blanc collided with a Belgian ship, the Imo, in Halifax Harbor. The Mont Blanc carried a deadly cargo of explosives: 35 tons of benzol, 300 rounds of ammunition, 10 tons of gun cotton, 2,300 tons of an acid used in explosives and 400,000 pounds of TNT.

  The facts were slow in coming, as they had been about the Titanic. The what, however, was diminished when compared to the who, for eventually it was known that over 2,000 people died and 9,000 were injured. Many others were devastated by the emotional and physical impact of the tragedy.

  The faces of people, and the landscape, changed considerably. Armand had been in his office building when it shook and the windows shattered. He and his co-workers rushed out and saw the menacing gray cloud rising into the sky.

  While they were still trying to comprehend what had happened, a huge tidal wave sucked up water from the harbor, swept over the devastated area, and carried back anything in its path, including people. Then a second tidal wave struck. The north end was flattened. Fires broke out.

  Armand had experienced personal disaster, witnessed his loved ones' anguish, but this was different, affecting his own city, towns, families, friends, and neighbors.

  Their having dealt with the Titanic disaster was like preparation for their current response. Temporary hospitals were set up. Everyone who had space offered it. Armand nailed boards over his office windows to keep out the cold and weather.

  They'd been affected by the world war, but this was another kind of war. Soldiers and rescue workers rushed to dig through the rubble, hoping to find survivors. They welcomed the U. S. and British military who were in port and joined in the efforts.

  The day following the explosion, a blizzard covered the eastern seaboard, and rescue work ceased, as did electric and telephone service. Armand was thankful that at least some would be warmed by the stoves and fireplaces in his office building and would have a place to sleep.

  Some asked why God had let it happen and why didn't God do something, as they had about the Titanic sinking, and the war.

  Armand said, "God didn't tell me that, but he seems to be saying that's why he left me here. To do something."

  When he was able to get home, he and Caroline found solace in the arms of each other. Slowly, life returned to a semblance of normalcy. Caroline returned to the office. She recorded museum items brought in from the explosion, to join those from the Titanic.

  By 1918, peace came, to a certain extent. Caroline received the traditional Christmas card from Phoebe, now sixteen. Bobby Freeman had died in the war. Everyone was sad. Phoebe did not describe Henry as a brat.

  "He's a holy terror," she wrote.

  Caroline hoped that was an exaggeration. Phoebe still played the piano and looked forward to graduating from high school next year. Maybe she could visit some time.

  That thrilled Caroline. She wrote back and told her about David.

  A card and letter came from Lydia. She wrote that they could visit in the spring after Beau's school term ended. David's would end three days later, but they'd work around that.

  When Lydia arrived, the two friends picked right up where they'd left off.

  Lydia told Caroline all about a new craze. There seemed to be plenty of those nowadays, but Caroline considered herself and Armand homebodies, although they socialized some.

  Lydia had a friend who had returned from South Carolina, where she'd learned a dance called the Charleston. Lydia taught it to Caroline. "The world has discovered we have legs," Lydia said. "We might as well show ours."

  They went shopping, bought short dresses and long necklaces, and later took their husbands to a club. They talked to the bandleader and danced the Charleston while onlookers stood around the sides cheering. The spectacle they made of themselves thrilled their husbands to pieces.

  David was nearing six years old that summer. He'd already walked to the front of the church to give his heart to Jesus. Baptism was set for
that Sunday, so they all went. Lydia had never seen a baptism. Neither had Beau. Craven didn't say.

  In the baptistery, David stood in front of the pastor on a box so the congregation could see him. He looked adorable, his dark curls spilling over his forehead. He didn't need anyone else with him. When the pastor brought him out of the water, David swam out, to laughter and applause.

  Afterward, David asked why they had laughed.

  "Because you swam out of the water. Most people walk."

  "My feet don't touch the bottom," he said.

  "That's the thing to do, Son," Armand said. "Whenever you can't touch bottom, start swimming."

  Because Beau wanted to see David's classroom, they all went to school the following morning. The last days were for show and tell. Parents were invited. David wouldn't say what his item would be. They suspected it was his friends from New York, or whatever was in the paper bag he held.

  He stood before the class and said, "Some of you won't understand this, but . . ." Then, with all sincerity and confidence, he proceeded to tell them that Jesus had come into his heart. He told them how Jesus could come into their hearts too.

  "That's my tell," he said. "Now I have to show it in my life."

  He opened the paper bag and went around giving each child a piece of hard candy. Beau looked at his dad for permission, and Craven nodded. Candy normally wouldn't be allowed in the classroom, and Beau likely could not have it except at special times. Neither could David. But of course, he would have asked Bess for help, and she likely got the teacher's permission for David to show he wasn't all talk and no action.

  Beau wanted to stay until the school day ended. Armand took Craven out on the lake in the boat. Caroline and Lydia saw that Craven held a fishing rod and Armand was demonstrating with his.

  Lydia mentioned that Caroline and Armand's church was quaint, and had quaint ways.

  "It's not high church," Caroline said, and they smiled.

  "Time flies," Lydia said. "I can't believe Beau will be seven this year."

  "This year?" Caroline had assumed Beau was born in January. That was when she heard about the birth from Lydia. However, a date hadn't been mentioned. But so what? It was just that everything that happened was often remembered and spoken of as before or after the sinking, and later, before and after the explosion.

  "December 16," Lydia said.

  Caroline did not welcome the pictures flashing in her mind. "David's is November 5. Would you like tea?"

  "I'd love it."

  "We're so blessed." Caroline busied herself with the tea, hoping they would move on to something else. Neither seemed to think of anything.

  But that was fine. Friends don't have to fill every moment with talk.

  And soon, the teakettle whistled.

  65

  Lydia remembered when Craven had laughed and said Beau couldn't catch a bee. But he didn't laugh as the years passed and Beau couldn't catch a ball. Not often. Not well. And the confidence of the child began to fade as he felt Craven's disfavor.

  Lydia instructed the nanny and the tutors to praise him. They assured her he had no problem learning, he simply didn't want to waste his time on things that didn't matter to him. He liked history. That was encouraging. He loved flowers and helped the gardener.

  Mickey Mouse and The Adventures of Felix cartoon hypnotized him. He devoured every comic book they could find, and he read the comics in the newspapers the way Craven read the Wall Street Journal.

  Even the adults were fascinated by the first color cartoon, The Debut of Thomas Cat. Their friends tried to convince Craven that a child would naturally be more interested in an animated cat than a railroad company.

  Craven had to agree. It would pass. But still, as Beau continued to age and grow, he had the build and stamina for sports and liked squash, playing tennis, swimming, running, and bicycling, but could never outdo Craven, who tried to teach him to compete. Beau would rather do those things for enjoyment. Craven wanted him to excel.

  She couldn't say Craven didn't try. Wanting to expose him to the arts, they took him to the opera when he was sixteen. He loved it. He discussed the music, the story, the setting, the costumes, the makeup, and even a scene that could have been done better.

  "That's encouraging," Craven said later, "he's thinking."

  "He's just a boy," she reminded him. "And a teenager."

  "He's a young man. After high school graduation he will work in the office and learn about the business."

  Craven looked forward to it. Beau dreaded it and scoffed, "I can't imagine spending my life in an office."

  Craven was taken aback. "We live a pretty good life because of that office, Beau. Are you aware of your advantages and opportunities? You have a company ready to be handed to you. And it's nothing to sneeze at."

  "I'm sorry, sir." Beau backed down immediately. He didn't like disappointing Craven. "I do know all that. I do." He was nodding. Craven breathed easier.

  That was settled. Beau would work in the office after graduation. He would start college in the fall.

  Lydia had feared that her earlier years of reading poetry to him might influence him to try his hand at poetry. But she didn't know that he ever had.

  At times she thought she saw John in him. He was handsome, as the Beaumonts were known to be. But she saw John in his manner. A certain gleam in his eyes, a light that came into them as if he had thought of something for the first time, his delight in everything about him, the good he saw in people and in life. He didn't need things and money to make him happy.

  Craven couldn't understand that. Beau was his heir. He wanted him to work with him. So, though he wasn't competitive, he could at least be business conscious.

  But he wasn't.

  He dearly loved movies. He and his friends saw shows over and over, and he'd always share something new he had learned or heard.

  That irritated Craven to no end.

  One evening after she and Craven attended a formal dinner party, they returned late and went immediately to the master bedroom. Myrna came with a note and then was dismissed for the night.

  Craven removed his dinner jacket and hung it in the closet.

  She read the note, "Beau is off to the movies with his friends."

  "Again?" Craven scoffed. He shook his head, then lifted his chin as his hands moved to his bow tie. He said in an offhand way, "Sometimes I think that boy is no part of me."

  Lydia knew she should say something like or me either and laugh, but something about the way Craven looked even as the words left his mouth turned her to stone.

  And him.

  He stared.

  She stared.

  Their eyes locked in the mirror's reflection.

  She saw it happening in that eternal second. There wasn't time to make a joke or make a sound or get busy with something else. He spoke it. And it became fact.

  She saw the accumulation of years become a single truth.

  Not jumbled. But clear. Obvious.

  Her insistence upon sailing to America for business reasons but never showing an interest in the business afterward.

  The mild seasickness.

  The association with John although he was not of their class.

  The hurried marriage just to walk down a grand staircase.

  The nausea at Long Island like that she'd had on the ship.

  The baby born early.

  Beau being nothing like him.

  He had no heir.

  He did not blink. He did not move. "Holy God," he breathed, and it sounded like a whispered scream.

  She knew it was not profanity.

  Of course, he never needed to use unseemly words. He was like a Roman emperor. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. It's done.

  Nor was it the misuse of God's name. Craven made it clear he wouldn't tolerate ignorant, uncouth expressions from anyone with whom he did business or socialized.

  Many times she had dreamed, had thought about those who went down in that freezing water, breathin
g for the last time, taking one last breath, choking with pain.

  That was happening now. On dry land. Her life. Her marriage. Her son. Her husband. Going . . . sliding down . . . gone . . . never to have life again.

  The Titanic had taken two and a half hours to sink.

  The life they'd built together was taking a fraction of a second.

  He looked as if his lifelong motto of "I can handle it" had been violated and confiscated.

  Since he was immobile, she managed to tear her eyes from his, turn, and leave the room.

  66

  Lydia sat in the library below the staircase, with the door open to see if he came down the stairs. Suppose he didn't. Suppose he went to bed. Then what would she do? Go into another bedroom. Or, suppose this was the one thing he couldn't handle. Would he do something drastic?

  Just when her fear rose to the point she thought of returning upstairs, he descended the staircase. He carried a suitcase. He did not look her way. His heavy footsteps crossed the foyer. The front door opened. It closed.

  What now? What was he going to do?

  Would he have a one-night fling to punish her? Stay with her and take a mistress?

  He'd know that would lead to divorce. Never would she live with a man, him in another bedroom, and have a mistress somewhere. And divorce would involve money. Oh, he had his own, to be sure. He controlled the purse. But she, being owner of Beaumont Railroad Company, had the purse strings. She could pull them at any time, leaving him only a small fortune.

  And the great Craven Dowd ask for alimony?

  Never. That would be below his dignity.

  If he decided on divorce, what would he tell his friends? What would the headlines, not just on the society page, tell the world? That he couldn't hold on to a woman, acclaimed by others to be very beautiful, and that he was so obtuse as to lose the lifestyle bought him by the Beaumont fortune?