Titanic Embers

Ring True

Carl’s past few days had been marked by unrelenting frustration; the confidence and high spirits with which he had boarded the Titanic had long since evaporated. Ruth was growing ever more willful and capricious, repeatedly placing him in awkward situations. Rarely did Carl meddle in her affairs, yet now he found himself determined to intervene—if only to question his fiancée’s choice of reading.

Discussing Freud with a man during afternoon tea, in full view of the crowd?

And now—look at her—Ruth had once again taken leave of her senses, abandoning decorum at the very start of the gathering to run off.

Carl, distracted, smoothed over the waves of tension she had stirred, working to restore calm. After several minutes, unease gnawed at him; he decided to seek out his troublesome fiancée.

The cool night breeze, rolling in from the Gulf of Mexico, carried a briny freshness that eased his chest. In its breath lay the mingled scents of water, fish, salt, and seaweed. He glanced back at the brilliantly lit hall—it seemed like a world away.

Later, when speaking with Jack about the incident, Jack told him Freud had once said that the history of mankind was nothing more than the history of its repression.

From afar, a piercing scream ripped through the air—Ruth’s voice, raw with terror.

Carl started, striding swiftly toward the stern.

In the distance he saw Ruth and a man tumble together onto the deck, her sash fluttering loose, the man’s attire disheveled.

Three crewmen cordoned off the “scene of the crime.” The man stepped back, hands in his pockets, utterly unconcerned. One dutiful sailor cuffed him roughly, yet he offered no resistance.

Carl lunged forward, seizing the man by the collar.

That tousled blond hair—unmistakable, even in the dark.

Him again… that damned…

Carl’s fury surged skyward.

“How dare you lay hands on my fiancée?” He tightened his grip on Jack’s collar, not even pausing to consider the indignity of soiling his own hands. “Look at me! You rat from the gutter!”

Only when Ruth explained that she had slipped while looking at the propellers, and Jack had saved her, did he relent.

“As I’ve always said—women and machinery do not mix,” quipped Colonel Gracie behind him, trying to ease the tension.

Carl’s long, dark brows unknotted, as clouds part to reveal a shaft of light. He slipped an arm around Ruth, ready to leave.

“Won’t you reward the young man?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Carl said, enunciating each word. “Lovejoy, I think twenty dollars will suffice.” He was eager to be gone—to be away from this irksome boy who had so persistently soured his mood.

“Oh? Is the woman you love worth only twenty dollars?” Ruth murmured, her tone caught between a smile and a sneer.

Carl understood at once, and humored her with a coaxing lilt. “Ruth is displeased. What shall I do?” Then, with a sudden, foxlike grin lighting his handsome face: “Ah—I have it. Why not join us for dinner tomorrow evening and recount your heroic deed?”

Jack caught the mocking glint in his eyes, yet replied easily, “Sure. Count me in.”

“There will be a fine show tomorrow,” Carl murmured as he turned away.

He wished to leave quickly; some instinct told him that if he lingered, something unforeseen might unfold.

Jack whistled softly.

Carl glanced back, unsure what swirled within him.

Discontent? Agitation? Irritation?

“Mind if I have a cigarette?”

Reluctantly, Carl crossed over, drawing from his pocket a finely wrought silver cigarette case. He flipped it open. Jack studied the delicate relief etched into the lid, plucked one cigarette and tucked it behind his ear, then lit another.

Carl nearly laughed aloud. A cigarette behind the ear—so absurd… so boyishly charming… as if hoarding against a world without tobacco.

Jack narrowed his eyes, savoring the smoke before exhaling in a slow, languid stream. Like a schoolboy sneaking a puff behind his parents’ backs—yet his movements were practiced, graceful.

It was an expression of pure contentment.

Carl turned his gaze away.

“Ah—your shoelace is untied,” he said, with a touch of schadenfreude.

On his high-topped suede boots, the long laces hung in a tangled mess.

In Ruth’s cabin—

“Listen, Carl. Tomorrow you will go to Mr. Dawson to thank him—and to apologize. If you refuse, I shall go myself.”

“I’ll go.”

“I was terribly rude, wasn’t I?” The old man smiled faintly. “Like a rutting beast, strutting and spoiling for a fight.”