Titanic Embers

“A Real Man”

Unwittingly, Carl and Jack had lingered on the deck for the better part of a day.

The sun, burnished gold and crimson, hung in the sky like a great circular brazier, radiating warmth and light between them.

The western heavens, washed in pale violet, fiery orange, and tender rose, cast a dreamlike glow.

“Truly? Carl, you graduated from Harvard? Harvard—my word! That’s remarkable.”

“Indeed,” Carl replied smoothly. “After I graduated, my father made a generous donation to Harvard—there’s even a statue of him on campus.” His lips curved in a faint, ambiguous smile. “And you, Jack?”

“I lost both my parents early, left school at fifteen. Life on the road is hardly as pleasant as life under a parent’s shelter, but it matures a boy swiftly. In that sense, society is the finest school. Of course, I’m not suggesting you lack maturity.” Jack brushed back the unruly gold strands dancing about his temple, tucking them neatly behind his ear.

The small, casual gesture caught Carl’s gaze. He came back to himself after a pause. “So young—and you’ve done what work to keep yourself alive?”

“I’ve mended shoes, worked the forge, peddled goods, stoked boilers. Most importantly, I can play a fine hand of cards—which is why I’m on the Titanic. I’ve learned to dance, to play ball, to swim—though perhaps not in the way your people do. Life is a grand gamble, and so far, fortune’s been kind.”

Seeing Carl’s astonished expression, Jack grinned. “Well? Didn’t expect that, did you?”

“Your life is… certainly colorful,” Carl replied, half sincere, half mocking.

“Of course. I go where I wish—freer than a bird in a gilded cage.”

A gilded cage. Apt, Carl thought. Painfully apt.

Jack’s sapphire eyes gleamed. “Ever wanted to taste the life of a real man?”

“For example?”

“We could drink cheap beer, ride the roller coaster and Ferris wheel until you’re sick, gallop down a beach like cowboys of the West…”

Carl narrowed his eyes. Tasteless, yes—but strangely alluring.

“I’ll show you myself. Don’t worry,” Jack promised, as though the outing were set for tomorrow.

“Show me what?” Carl’s interest was piqued.

“How to ride like a man.”

“I hardly consider myself a woman, Jack.”

“No saddle. And not one of those sleek, pampered purebreds you favor, or ponies a child could ride.”

“… My spine will be in pieces.”

“I’ll teach you how to chew tobacco like a man.”

“Cigarettes and cigars aren’t enough? Barbaric! What else? Spitting?”

“Good grief, Carl—didn’t they teach you at university? You can’t even spit? Come here, I’ll demonstrate.”

“What on earth are you doing?” Carl asked, unwittingly uttering a line worthy of the stage.

“Don’t flinch like some maiden under duress—watch.”

“No! People are everywhere—it’s disgraceful!” Carl tried to pull away, but Jack’s grip was firm.

“So if no one’s watching, it’s suddenly refined? Look here!” Jack bounded to the rail, cleared his throat theatrically, and spat toward the sea.

A silver arc glittered in the sunlight before vanishing into the waves.

“Revolting,” Carl muttered, folding his arms, his face a silent declaration: I don’t know this man.

“Your turn.” Jack gave him a firm shove.

Carl made a perfunctory attempt, as if he’d sooner swallow an ounce of flies than spit once more.

“No, no,” Jack said with the gravity of a seasoned coach. “Deep breath, clear the throat, let it gather in your mouth. Ready stance—arms, neck—there, now! Spit!”

Amused by Jack’s absurd earnestness, Carl couldn’t bring himself to refuse. Braving the death of all dignity, he complied.

“Better. You just—” Jack broke off when Carl suddenly pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, smiling as he offered it.

Jack examined the fine linen embroidered with a damask pattern and Carl’s initials, momentarily baffled. Fool.

Carl stepped closer and dabbed lightly at the corner of Jack’s mouth, his touch as delicate as if brushing fine porcelain.

“What—?”

“Saliva,” Carl said, pointing, suppressing a smile.

Jack shook his head, unconcerned. “Give me the handkerchief, I’ll wash it.”

“No need—I have maids for that.” He folded the dampened cloth in on itself, hiding the soiled side, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Then my thanks.” Jack’s blue eyes narrowed in amusement, nearly translucent in the sunset glow. His gaze drifted to Carl’s right hand. “Your hands are exquisite—only that ring is too large, it throws off the balance. Now, your left pinky’s signet—perfect, a true stroke of genius.”

Carl fingered the silver ring, its smooth black stone reflecting like a mirror. “Professional advice?”

“Carl, Jack!” The call rang out behind them, bright as a nightingale’s song.

“Rose—the wind is sharp here. You should wear more!” Carl draped the coat in his hands over her shoulders before she could refuse. Seeing it was Jack’s coat, she let it remain.

“Getting along well, I trust?” she asked lightly.

“Splendidly,” Jack replied at once.

Rose’s shoulders eased, and she exchanged a knowing glance with him.

“Mr. Dawson’s an artist—he was just…”

“Truly?!” Rose’s eyes lit with a brightness Carl had never seen—

Eyes the green-brown of early spring fields, warmed by the first breath of the season, alive with a thousand tiny lights.

She seized the portfolio and studied it with care.

“Marvelous! Exquisite work—vivid, meticulous, brimming with feeling!” Rose exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. “Ah, is this a nude study?”

Jack nodded with quiet pride.

A sudden, irrational irritation rose in Carl. Why could Rose so effortlessly articulate what he himself could only feel inchoately?

Watching her lean toward Jack, conversing with an easy intimacy, he felt his chest tighten.

“You have a gift, Jack—you see into people’s hearts,” Rose said, earnest and aglow.

Carl’s own praise had been dry and paltry by comparison—yet his had been honest, the truest words he could summon.

Jack spoke with sweeping gestures, his voice animated; Rose drank in every word, her fascination unfeigned.

“Jack, I’ve heard more today than in my seventeen years combined.”

So have I, Carl thought—more than in my twenty-three years.

They moved from art to Paris, from sights to life itself. Rose listened, spellbound by his storied adventures. Jack, for his part, humored her curiosity, answering even her most naive questions with patience and warmth.

It was less curiosity, Carl thought sourly, than envy.

Filling the emptiness of one’s life with another’s stories—typical of a woman.

He found himself suddenly unwilling to have Jack at dinner.

The man possessed a natural magnetism—an effortless pull.

Everyone was drawn to him.

Women.

And men.