Kiss Me, I'm Dead

by J. G. Sandom

  “The statutes,” said Plimpton, “are clear. You may link Van Schaick to the corporation, but the corporation itself . . . Well, it can hardly be accused of manslaughter.”

  “Why is that? I think Barnaby and the entire Board are libel under the Act of 1871 – CH 100, 56, 16. Statute 456.”

  Plimpton laughed. He placed a hand on his hip. Then he turned and smiled back at the crowd. “The corporation cannot be convicted of the substantive offense. It cannot ‘suffer the punishment of confinement at hard labor for a period of not more than ten years.’ It’s a corporation. Not a person.”

  “You’re arguing that the corporation can’t be liable – and, therefore, the officers of the board – simply because the corporate entity can’t go to jail?”

  “The statutes are clear.”

  “This is an inquest, not a trial. Let the courts try and figure out that one. But I believe a corporation can – and, in this case, should be indicted for manslaughter.” O’Gorman turned back toward Barnaby. “You, your board, and your company failed to provide, in violation of federal law, either proper lifesaving or firefighting equipment. And while the current statute may not prescribe punishment, it blessedly absolves me of proving intent. No,” he said, shaking his head. “I fear you hold your passengers in such contempt, such thoughtless derision, that intent would imply far too sullying an effort on your part. There was no killing by intent. It was murder by neglect, perhaps, or by incompetence. At worse, due to unthinking greed.”

  “I object,” Plimpton cried. “This panel has no jurisdiction on this issue. This is harassment, Coroner. And highly prejudicial.”

  “You object! Thankfully, counsel, I’m a coroner, not a judge. I spend my day surrounded by dead people. By the time they get to me, all the damage they’re ever likely to do has already been done. You object!” He laughed grimly, shook his head. “I object, counsel. I object to your client’s fractured memory, his facile evidence, and his well-rehearsed and condescending tone. I object to any man who does something wrong and then doesn’t face up to it, who can’t take his medicine.” He leaned over the dais. Then he pointed at Barnaby. “I object to you, sir,” he said. “And to all of your board.”

  “I will not be made your sacrificial lamb,” said Barnaby. His voice was cool, serene. “To say that I, in my office, am linked to this incident, belies the league upon league of anchor chain between us. Fault me for failing to pump up our stock, for eroding shareholder value, and I’ll gladly step down from my post, take my lumps. But will you make me culpable for Van Schaick’s decision to keep sailing north, for the cowardice of seamen I’ve never met, for the inattentiveness of federal officers directly responsible for ensuring that ships stay in tip-top condition? Indeed, will you hold me responsible for another man’s cigarette?”

  O’Gorman smiled unctuously. “I’d like you to do me a favor,” he said.

  “A favor?”

  “Yes, sir. If you would.”

  “This is highly improper . . . ” Plimpton started.

  O’Gorman held up his hand and Plimpton sat back in his seat. A pall settled over the chambers.

  For the first time during the inquest, Barnaby looked uncomfortable. He shifted almost imperceptibly. He coughed and said, “That depends.”

  O’Gorman smiled. “Picture your ledgers, Mr. Barnaby. You can do it. Close your eyes. Look real close. You see that comma? In the fifth volume, on the fourth page, in the third column? Mixed in with all of those numbers. All those digits. All of that wealth. Can you see it? I know it’s difficult. It’s so damned small and insignificant. Why, that’s no comma at all, although it looks like one. That’s no speck of ink, Mr. Barnaby. That’s nothing but a mother’s tear.”

  * * *

  It was a cloudy night. A front had swept in from the west, and raindrops spattered the skylight. It was humid and hot. Lightning clawed at the sky. It felt like it would never stop raining.

  Dustin was sleeping alone. Henrik was working a double, and Mrs. Silverstein snored on the sofa next door. I came in through the skylight this time. I reasoned that if I came in from above, the room might stay warm a bit longer. But it didn’t work. As soon as I descended, I saw the breath around his mouth start to whiten. Dustin curled inward. He nuzzled his blanket and turned. I saw his face then, lit up by lightning. It glimmered and shone. Lines of rain on the skylight cast shadows that mottled his cheekbones and brow. Like tears. Shadow tears.

  I knelt down beside him. His eyes rolled relentlessly under his lids. He was dreaming, but I couldn’t see it. He was somewhere at sea once again. I resisted the urge to climb back in his head. I wanted to be where I was, at his side. I leaned forward. I admired his delicate eyebrows. I admired his nose, and his cheekbones, and lips. I reached down, I leaned over and kissed him. There. It’s done. He flinched, reflexively. At the cold. I watched ice crystals form on his lips and then melt. He opened his mouth. I watched as a droplet fell in.

  His eyes opened, and he stared at me, right in the face. Right there! He was terrified, I could feel it, but he would not withdraw. He didn’t recoil or retreat. He stood fast. And he reached with his hand, trying to touch me, although there was nothing to see. He reached out and I felt him, his fingers, on my cheek. I could feel him.

  Find her. Miss Hall. Touch her hand. Even to me, the words seemed unearthly and alien. I didn’t know where they had come from.

  Dustin pulled back. He clutched at the blanket. He tried to sit up but his legs were not working.

  Touch her hand, I repeated, when she knocked.

  Even in the servant’s quarters, the banging was clear.

  Dustin leapt to his feet. He ran to the sitting room. Mrs. Silverstein was lighting a candle. He opened the door. The knocking was coming from someplace below. Dustin ran down the steps. Someone stirred in the captain’s apartments. He could hear people milling about. The pounding continued. Dustin made it downstairs. He opened the door, I slipped out and passed through her.

  “Mallory!”

  “No it’s me,” said Louisa. She collapsed in his arms. She was soaking with rain.

  Dustin jumped. For a moment, he thought. For the briefest of instants . . . But as old lady Silverstein descended the stairs with her candle, he could see who reclined in his arms. My sister, Louisa. Not me.

  “What’s the matter?” said Dustin. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your father,” she said, out of breath. “Your father – they’re holding him. They say if you don’t come, they’ll deliver him to the police.” Louisa pressed herself close. “They say that he’s guilty of murder, an accomplice. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dustin. I know it’s not true. I had to come find you. I just had to. I’m sorry.”

  Dustin turned toward old lady Silverstein. “It’s alright,” he began. “I know this girl.”

  Mrs. Silverstein muttered something under her breath and started back up the stairs.

  “Why are you sorry?” he said to Louisa as soon as she’d gone. He stroked her wet hair. He pushed it away from her face. She was crying. “Stop that, do you hear me? Everything’s going to be all right. I know what I have to do.”

  “You’re going to give yourself up?”

  “If I have to, but that’s not what I meant. No, something else.”

  “What?”

  “I have to see Miss Hall. Of the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company. I have to see her tonight.”

  “Why? What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t explain. It’s just something I have to do. Like a promise.”

  “A promise? A promise to whom?”

  Dustin looked up at the sky. The rain was finally tapering off. For a moment, the moon became visible, a bright flash between clouds, just a sliver. And then it was gone. He looked down at Louisa’s face. How strange, he thought, that he had never really seen her face before. This wasn’t Mallory’s sister. Or one of the Meer girls. This face belonged to somebody else. “It’s hard to explain,” he said.

  �
��A promise to Mallory?”

  Dustin nodded.

  “You’ve felt her?”

  “Have you?”

  She nodded and sighed. “Every night.” She looked back at Dustin. “She told me to find you. She said you’d be here.”

  Dustin smiled. “I want you to go to my father. Go to my father, Louisa, and tell him I’m coming. Tell him not to give up.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be there soon. Tell my father.”

  Louisa descended the steps. Then she stopped. She turned swiftly and said, “It’s because of your promise. Your promise to Mallory, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still love her, Dustin?”

  He smiled a little smile. He stood there and stared as I waited. As I waited and empires fell, and continents faded to nothing. I waited. “I’ll always love her,” he said. “Just as you do, Louisa. But she’s dead now.”

  “If she’s dead, why doesn’t she just go away?”

  Chapter 12

  June 22, 1904

  New York City

  Bingham lay on his bedroom floor, peering through a knothole at the revelers below. It was a rowdy crowd tonight. Ingrid, one of the prettier barmaids, was having a hard time fending off the advances of Hans Gutterman, a strapping young cooper from Düsseldorf. Each time that she slipped by his table, he’d reach out and pull at her dress. He fondled her hips. He squeezed her and called her his Säugamme, his wet nurse.

  Bingham liked Ingrid. He strained to get a better look at her cleavage when another face popped into view. At this hour of the night! His friend Lehman was up late.

  Bingham rolled to his knees. He popped the knot of wood into place. Once covered, his spy hole was practically invisible. He stepped on the plug for good measure. Then he flopped on his bed, picked up a book, flipped through some pages, and waited. Moments later, Karl Lehman knocked on the door.

  “Come in, Karl,” he answered.

  “How did you know?”

  Bingham put down the book on his chest. “I always know when it’s you, Karl. You have a very distinctive knock.”

  “I do?”

  “Everyone does. If you know how to listen.”

  Long ago, Bingham had discovered that he was most comfortable when surrounded by the discomfort of others. He seethed when others were settled. He worried and sulked when they laughed. But when they were troubled, nervous or frightened, when they quaked with anxiety, panic, a strange peace overcame him. He found balance in chaos. He found solace. It was this characteristic, as sure as the lumps on his head, that marked him for greatness. In battle, most likely, he thought, where less favored men usually faltered.

  “What are you leering at, Lehman?” said Bingham. His friend was suddenly beaming. “Why are you even here?”

  “It’s Dustin,” he said. “He’s been spotted. He was seen in Kleindeutchland this evening.”

  Bingham leapt to his feet. At last, here was his chance. Here was his moment to shine. And not merely in front of his father – before everyone. “Where?”

  “On Fourteenth Street and Sixth, heading south.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.”

  Bingham smacked his lips. He patted his friend on the back. “Well done, Karl,” he said. He was jubilant. He lunged for his jacket. Then he paused. “Wait a minute,” he added. He knelt by his toy chest. He opened the top. There! By his drum and his jack-in-a-box. By the bronze busts of Wilhelm I and the Empress Augusta, his wife. He rummaged about. By the sock with his bottle of schnapps lay his scabbard and knife.

  “What do you need that for?”

  Bingham grinned. He stuffed the knife in his belt. “Just in case.”

  * * *

  By the time Dustin got to the offices of the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company, the rain had stopped falling. Clouds scudded across the sky. But the storm had died down. The lightning had ceased. And the wind had tired of blowing.

  Dustin waited and waited and waited, in an alleyway just down the street. He knew that, at some point, she’d go by him. He’d already made sure. He’d inquired within. And besides, he could sense it. Miss Hall was still working upstairs.

  Dustin lit a cigarette. He tossed the match to the ground, looked up – across the carriages and cars that streamed along the street, across the crowded sidewalk – and counted off the windows on the seventh floor. Three, four, five, and there she was. The window still shimmered with rain.

  He couldn’t see Ms. Hall as she sat there, as she tidied her figures, bent over – like a seamstress, like a diamond cutter – transcribing columns of numbers, but I could. And he couldn’t see me as I floated, disembodied, in the sky above Broadway, just a flash on a backdrop of lightning. Clouds gathered like bulls in the night, butting horns. The wind gathered speed. The air was still heavy with rain.

  Ms. Hall stood, stretched and yawned all at once. She slipped off her work shoes – dark navy blue flats. She wiggled them into a bag. Then she slipped on her booties and jacket, the one with the piping and overcast stitches, and turned off the light on her desk. It was eleven o’clock. Well past teatime or supper. Well past bedtime. She made for the window, cracked it open, sniffed the air, and gaped at the traffic below.

  Who are all these people? she wondered. Where are they going, and what for? She shook her head. She closed the window, shuddered and looked back at her desk. The world was a fickle companion, a mislabeled plan, a lifetime spent pining for some married man. But here, in the world of her ledgers, she thought, numbers lined up in parallel columns, in predictable rows. Numbers tallied and matched. They subtracted politely, added up without pride, multiplied without hubris, and divided with grace. They never, ever lied to you first. They were as honest as you were.

  Ms. Hall picked up her umbrella. She shook it once, to be sure, and then made for the door. I watched her as she shuffled downstairs. I watched her as she crossed the foyer, spun through the brass revolving door, and stepped outside where Dustin waited.

  She looked up at the sky. It had stopped raining. For a moment she agonized over whether or not to open her umbrella. Then she thought, take a chance! Take a risk, just for once. And she smiled to herself as she curled the umbrella, snapped the band.

  Dustin stepped out. His pace was deliberate, slow, compared to the others who darted about on the sidewalk. It was quite dark now. Clouds massed overhead. It looked like it was going to rain once again. But Dustin didn’t care. He was gathering his thoughts. He was focused, directed. He was thinking of me.

  Miss Hall progressed down the street, then looked up and saw Dustin, and paused for the briefest of moments. She continued, undaunted. She passed right beside him, he turned, said her name. Just like that. “Miss Hall.” Not even a question – a relaying of facts. “Miss Hall,” Dustin said, and she turned. She stopped as he reached for her fingers. Her hand, she pulled back, but he swept in beside her. He touched her and she looked at his face. In that instant, Dustin saw everything – each terrible memory, each scene as it passed through the bridge of his fingers.

  Miss Hall turned and retreated. Dustin staggered away. He lifted his face to the night sky and screamed. Then Bingham hit him.

  It happened so quickly that I wasn’t prepared. I’d missed them all circling about. Bingham and Lehman and a few other friends, in a pack, in a phalanx around him. Dustin wheeled. Blood poured from his face. Bingham’s punch had split both of his lips. It was terribly red on his teeth. It was livid. Dustin spat, shook his head. Then he charged.

  He struck with such force, such velocity, that Bingham spun about like a puppet and fell. Dustin was on him in seconds. He punched at his face. Twice, three times. Bingham screamed like a girl. He kept screaming until Lehman pulled Dustin away. Then they held him. They all did. And Bingham got up. He approached with that knife in his hand. His face looked horrific. Blood dripped from his nose on his summer-weight coat. “Now it’s your turn,” he said. The blade danced in his hand. “F
or Kleindeutchland.”

  He thrust but the knife struck at me. It grew terribly cold. Bingham screeched. He opened his fingers, turned his hand. The blade was stuck fast to his palm. He shook it, he screamed, but it wouldn’t come free. He dropped to his knees. “Get it off me!” he pleaded. “Get it off.”

  The knife slipped to the street. Bingham rolled like a ball on his side.

  Dustin pulled free. The boys stood about. They were speechless. They looked down at young Goldstein, at his arm. It was frozen and blue. It was covered with ice. Dustin picked up the knife.

  The boys stepped to the side. They retreated.

  “Don’t worry,” said Dustin. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He tossed the knife down the street. “Get up, Bingham,” he added. He stretched out his hand. He dragged the boy to his feet. “You and I have an appointment to keep.”

  Chapter 13

  June 22, 1904

  New York City

  As soon as Miss Hall had been touched on the street, she began to see everything clearly. The memories struck her in waves. First the smell of the smoke, then that scream – the first of so many. And the flames sweeping out of the officers’ quarters. She remembered it just as I saw it. She was in me. I was in her. We were in there together.

  Miss Hall ran. She went back to her office. It was closer than home. And in some ways it was safer. She belonged there. It was the place where she suffered most plainly. Life jackets were already on order.

  The memories deluged her as she ascended the stairs, made her way down the hall, as she pressed her thin back to the wall. She closed her eyes – it was easier. The visions washed through her like a tropical fever, a fit. You can change a number in a column, she thought. But once you do, it’s never the same. One number alters others, until the whole thing comes undone. One dropped stitch and it’s ruined.