Luck of the Titanic

by Stacey Lee

But what if he’s different now? Too old for my clowning around. What if the years have given him a vulture neck and a map’s worth of lines on his face, and he rants at the world and spits when he talks?

“Hot and cold water.” He thumps a finger on one of the taps. “Let us know if you’d like us to draw you a bath.”

Steward Latimer pulls apart the lace curtains. “This room hasn’t been aired yet. I’ll crack the window.” A gentle sea breeze filters in. Probably even the breezes here are more refined than in third class.

Tonight, we have oysters, consommé Olga, salmon mousseline, chicken lyonnaise, roast duckling, chateau potatoes, foie gras and celery, Waldorf pudding, and vanilla eclairs. You’ll hear the ship’s bugler wandering the decks, calling out mealtime.”

Baxter returns with a silver platter. On it, candied fruit glitters like the queen’s jewels. There’s also a dish of buttery cheese and a basket of bread rolls so airy looking you could probably toss them up and not worry about catching them again until the next day. Baxter sets the tray on a table, then slips out of the room again.

I’m getting a little tired of this woman who goes anywhere and touches anything she wants.

The afterlife certainly features prominently in the decorating here.

“Also, in case you’re interested, tonight there’s a lecture on whales in the library.” He bows and glides away.

“I’ve no interest in the Blue Riband, and I don’t know where the rumor started,” the captain’s voice carries across the room. “We are built for pleasure and luxury, not speed. People would riot if we pushed our guests out of the castle early.” His audience murmurs in approval.

With so much ocean around us, the commotion we cause seems insubstantial, a nick in the sand. The Titanic, for all her splendor, is really just a tiny fish swimming in a pond that won’t remember her from the next one that comes along.