Kiss Me, I'm Dead

by J. G. Sandom

  And we were standing on the hurricane deck once again. Children were burning in torrents of flame, in rivers of fire. They drowned. Their skin popped and sizzled. It bubbled and peeled. We could smell it. Or was that just the hair in our noses? We could feel it as the fire drew near.

  “Mallory,” someone said. It was Dustin behind me. He was holding a life vest. He had managed to save one for me.

  Miss Hall leaned against the office door. She fumbled with the lock and burst through. Her desk was framed by a shadow. She rushed into the room. She lunged for her chair. Her chair! Her ledgers! With her nails, she clawed at her desk.

  Just for me, yes, you told me. So I wore it. And it fit perfectly.

  The fire approached down the deck. It was almost upon us. I turned and you pushed me. I fell. When you pushed me, I fell. And I drowned.

  Miss Hall slumped on her desk. She was panting. Her mouth – it was dry. It was dry as a bone. And worse, it still tasted of smoke.

  Part III

  Chapter 14

  June 23, 1904

  New York City

  Miss Hall sat on the dais without speaking. She looked down at her shoes. Like her, they were showing their age.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question?” said O’Gorman. “Miss Hall? Miss Hall!”

  “No, Coroner, that won’t be necessary.” Miss Hall plucked a kerchief from out of her sleeve. She pressed it to her face. She wanted to eat it. She wanted to stuff it down her own throat. “About the life preservers,” she said.

  “That’s right. Here, let me refresh your memory.” He leaned forward. He handed a ledger to the official recorder, who carried it over to the witness.

  Miss Hall opened the book. She examined the pages with care. “Yes, these are the figures for the General Slocum.”

  “Is there a line there for life vests, Miss Hall?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You suppose! Aren’t these numbers your handiwork? Look at the page that I earmarked. Look at it closely. You see line fourteen?”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “What does it say in the legend?”

  “It says, ‘life preservers.’”

  “Life vests, life preservers, life jackets. What’s the difference?”

  “Life preservers do just that. They preserve life.”

  Upstairs, the gallery simmered.

  “Not if they crumble in your hands,” said O’Gorman.

  Miss Hall turned away. She pressed the kerchief to her face.

  “So, there is a line for life preservers, after all. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that right, my dear?” said O’Gorman.

  “My name is Miss Hall.”

  “Come now, Miss Hall. Don’t be churlish.”

  “Churlish?” Miss Hall laughed. It was high-pitched and nervous. Then she stopped, without warning. She looked at the crowd. “Ask you questions,” she said. Her smile was sublime. It was barely a wrinkle. She stared at O’Gorman and said, “Ask away.”

  “This number on the side.”

  “The date.”

  “Yes, the date. In your sworn affidavit you state, and I read, ‘Life jackets were already on order.’”

  “Life preservers.”

  O’Gorman looked over the table. “I’m quoting your testimony, Miss Hall, nothing more. I call them life vests. You call them life preservers. And life jackets . . .” O’Gorman’s hands danced about on his desk. He rifled through papers. “Who calls them life jackets? I forget now, remind me,” he said to the official recorder. “No, wait. I remember. Don’t tell me.” He paused. “Frank A. Barnaby.” He raised his right eyebrow. “The President of the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company. The man you report to, whose desk sits nearby, to whose needs you’ve attended for years.” He smiled stiffly. “The date, Miss Hall.”

  “I take umbrage at your gross insinuation.”

  “The date.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s been changed, it appears. Can’t you see? It was one date and now it’s another.”

  Miss Hall stared at her shoes. She tucked her chin to her chest. She glanced at the crowd and replied, “People assume I’m a spinster. After all, my name is Miss Hall. I don’t blame them, of course. It’s quite natural. I mean, look at me.” She poked at her hair. Then she smiled. “But it’s not really true. I was married once. It was a long time ago.”

  A hush purged the chambers.

  “I’m not fashionable. I try to dress well but my salary is small. And my husband . . . I make do. I scrimp and I save. Naturally,” she continued, “people assume that I’m vulnerable, weak. After all, I’m a woman. They assume such things because I’m frail to look at. Because I’ve been at the same job, doing the same work for almost twenty years.” She looked up at the audience and smiled. “But appearances can be deceiving. When one assumes about me, one does so at one’s peril.” She stared at Cornelius Plimpton. “The date looks like it’s been altered because it was.”

  “Excuse me,” said O’Gorman. “What did you say?”

  “The date. I changed it. No life preservers were on order. No life vests or life jackets. The date was the launch of the vessel.”

  “You changed it. Why? At whose urging?”

  “Mr. Barnaby’s.”

  The crowd roared, and Cornelius Plimpton leapt to his feet. “I object to this testimony. This is highly irregular. Why, it’s simply her word against his.”

  O’Gorman stood up and the audience grew still. “If you please, sir,” he shouted. Then he turned. “I’m so sorry, Miss Hall. Did I hear you correctly?” he said. “Mr. Barnaby, Frank A. Barnaby, the President of the Knickerbocker Steamboat Company, told you to alter the records?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “But your previous testimony, your sworn affidavit–”

  “I lied.”

  O’Gorman sat down. The crowd murmured and seethed.

  “Well, if she lied then . . . ” added Plimpton.

  “Be quiet, or I’ll have you removed,” said O’Gorman.

  Cornelius Plimpton retreated.

  “Yes, Miss Hall,” said O’Gorman. “Mr. Plimpton does have a point. How can we be sure that you’re telling the truth now? Why the sudden change of heart?”

  Miss Hall only shrugged. She stared at her shoes. “I didn’t know then,” she answered. Then she looked at the crowd. “I have my reasons,” she added quite simply.

  An object hit Plimpton square on the head. He turned and cursed under his breath. Then another, and another. They poured down from above. Small and silver and shiny and wiggling. Silversides – tiny fish used as bait. They were fresh from the sea. Almost transparent, with bright shiny scales, I could see their hearts pumping inside them.

  “Order,” said O’Gorman, though without much conviction. “I said order,” he added halfheartedly.

  Plimpton raised a fat book to his head. Fish kept showering down from above. They splattered and struck him. They wiggled and fell. “Murderer,” someone shouted. “Murderer.” Plimpton dashed from the chambers in a rainstorm of grunion. He was gone at a run and the crowd lost momentum. The pelting subsided. There was no one to pelt. He was gone, after all, and his client, Frank Barnaby, hadn’t bothered to show up at all.

  Chapter 15

  June 23, 1904

  New York City

  Dustin appeared at the back of the hall. A hush fell on the room like a dusting of snow. No one moved. No one fidgeted. They barely breathed as he stepped toward the dais.

  He looked terrible. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing for weeks – a tattered pair of wool pants, a white shirt and black jacket. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He’d spent the whole evening locked in the cellar with Arvin. They had talked all night long. They had talked about everything: the old country; about castles and farms, the marshes of Schlüsselburg; about brewing and beer; about God. They’d even talked of his mother, Tabea. Arvin had stared at the brew vats and wept.

>   Dustin sat on the witness chair. He brushed at his hair. His eyes looked puffy from crying. He stared at Abelard, Bingham, and Karl. They were sitting in front, but a few feet away, on a long wooden bench. They were dressed in immaculate suits. And Goldstein presided, surrounded by Munch, Max, and Bering.

  It was a frightening frieze, with my love pressed between them at the foot of the dais, like a flower within two panes of glass. The room smelled of grunion. Most of the spectators had come from the coroner’s inquest, and their hands were still covered in fish scales.

  “Please stand,” Goldstein said.

  Dustin struggled to his feet. He was exhausted.

  Goldstein motioned and a small man stepped forward. He was carrying a Bible.

  “Or, if you prefer,” Goldstein said, “we can look for a Torah.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Dustin gave up a smile. “I’m a Marxist,” he said. “God is dead.”

  A murmur ripped through the audience. Louisa stood off to the side, near the rear of the room. Her heart swelled with sorrow.

  “Perhaps to you, sir,” Goldstein said. “But to me, and to the people of Kleindeutchland, He still reigns supreme. Will you give me your word, then? Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “Free my father and I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  “Just the truth, please” said Goldstein.

  Dustin turned and looked up. His eyes were shiny and bright. “The truth, as I see it?” he said. “Are you sure? Even if it’s uncolored by some temperamental deity with Lutheran misgivings? Untainted by capitalist obsession? Unsullied by a hunger for revenge, an overriding drive to get the bastards who killed your sister or your mother or your . . . ” He took a breath. “I’ll tell you what I can remember. Nothing more.”

  “Very well, then,” said Goldstein. “Sit down.”

  Dustin dropped to the chair, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths. After a moment, he said, “You know, it’s funny, but while I’ll never ever forget that afternoon, it’s the things that happened that morning, before the fire, which I remember most clearly. Little things. Glimpses. Like those couples dancing their waltzes. And dresses ballooning. The parasols – all those colors in motion. The laughter . . . Our last moments of innocence, when everything was still normal. Like it used to be. But I guess you only want to hear about the fire.”

  “Tell us about the Lamp Room, Dustin. If you would. Tell us exactly what happened.”

  Dustin smiled. “Very well,” he said. “It was as your son and Karl and Abelard reported. Well, almost.” He looked at the bench where the boys sat. “Mallory and I were in the Lamp Room, just forward of the coal bin and boiler.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Why?” He looked up at the ceiling, as if he could sense me above him. “Because I was in love with her.”

  The dining hall echoed with whispers. Goldstein raised his hand. “With Mallory Meer?”

  Dustin nodded. I felt myself glow. Now, I thought, everyone in the whole neighborhood knows. Dustin Brauer is in love with me. With me! Or, at least, he was.

  “Go on.”

  “It had been too busy on the main deck. Men from the galley kept circling about. So we descended a level, and the Lamp Room was there, up ahead. It was empty.” He paused. “Before Bingham joined us. Anyway, he made some comment about my being at a St. Mark’s affair. He called us some names. Then he and Abelard and Karl went aloft. Mallory soon joined them. And, after a few minutes, I did too.”

  “Not so fast there, young Brauer. Let’s not gloss over the truth.”

  “Ah, yes, the truth,” said Dustin. “The truth is I stayed behind to collect my thoughts and have a cigarette. The truth is I’d never kissed a girl before, not until then. That’s what I wanted to think about. Not your son.”

  “What about the cigarette?”

  “I put it out. I dropped it to the floor, I stamped it out with my heel – as I always do. Then I left.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? Isn’t it possible that, after your altercation, after your first kiss, as you said, it might have just slipped from your mind?”

  “I suppose,” Dustin answered.

  “You suppose?”

  “What do you want me to say? That I’m guilty? That I started that fire? What does it matter?” He looked at Louisa. His face was twisted with pain. “I am guilty.”

  “What did you say?” Goldstein leaned forward.

  “You heard me. I said I’m guilty.” He shook his head. “I was standing there with that thing in my hand. I had wrestled it away from some cowardly man. And I came to her. I held it out. Like a gift.”

  “Held what out? What are you talking about?”

  Dustin swam on the memory. “The life vest. I’d found one. So I made her put it on. There was no time to lose. The fire was practically on us. But she was frightened of jumping, I think. The water looked a long way away from the hurricane deck. So I pushed her. And she fell. Mallory. She vanished into the river. I looked down at the spot. I marked it. I watched but she never came up. Not once.” He stared at Louisa. “I put her into that thing and she sank like a stone. I drowned her.”

  “Ula” said Goldstein.

  “Excuse me?”

  Goldstein shook his head. “My wife,” he replied. “She died on that steamship.” He focused on Dustin. “I dare say there isn’t a man in this dining hall who hasn’t lost someone he loved.”

  Dustin looked spent. His eyelashes glimmered with tears. He started to speak but the words didn’t come.

  “Abelard,” Goldstein said. His face betrayed no emotion. “Abelard, take the chair, please.”

  “Is that it?” Dustin said. “Are you finished?”

  “For now.”

  Abelard Warner got up from the bench. Bingham and Karl looked surprised. Dustin stood up to make room for him.

  “What is this?” Hans Bering cut in. “We’ve already heard from this boy.”

  “He has more to tell us.”

  “About what? Now, see here, Goldstein,” said Max. “Brauer’s admitted his guilt.”

  “We’re all guilty.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Goldstein stared out at the audience. Then he looked down at his son. “Is there something you want to say, Bingham?”

  “No, father.”

  Goldstein sighed. He motioned toward Abelard. The boy took the witness chair.

  “Remember. You’re still under oath,” Goldstein said.

  The boy nodded. His head sagged on his chest.

  “Tell us what happened,” said Goldstein. “Once again, if you please. You went down to the Lamp Room . . . ”

  “Me and Bingham and Karl. We went down to the Lamp Room, belowdecks. Bingham was looking for Mallory. He said that he wanted to see her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Bingham has . . . had a thing for her. He wouldn’t leave her alone. He went on and on about the blouse she was wearing.”

  “I see. And then what?”

  “Then we saw them together. They were kissing and Bingham went crazy.”

  “What do you mean, he went crazy? How? What did he do?”

  “He told Dustin he shouldn’t be there, on a Lutheran outing, being a Jew. He called him Bauer instead of Brauer, like he always does, and he called Mallory ‘tainted meat.’”

  “He called her that?”

  Abelard nodded. “Then we left. Moments later, so did Mallory. We hovered off to the side, near the coal bin. We could hear her climbing the stairs. Dustin stayed behind. That’s when he lit that cigarette. We could see it. We could see him smoking there, in the dark.”

  “And then?”

  “Then he tossed it to the deck.”

  “Did it roll?”

  Abelard stared at the bench. He glanced at the feet of his friends, but he was loath to look higher.

  “Did it roll, Abelard?”

  “No, it didn’t. He stamped it right out with
his heel. As he said.”

  The dining hall burst into chatter. Somebody whistled. Goldstein lifted his hand. “Then what?” he continued. “What happened next?”

  “Dustin left the Lamp Room. A few minutes later, Bingham and Karl and I followed him down the hall toward the stairs. But Bingham pulled off. He went back to the Lamp Room. So we followed. He was angry. You know how he gets. He was in one of his cold moods again.”

  “Father!” cried Bingham.

  “Be still, child. You had your chance to speak earlier.” He turned back to Abelard. “Continue,” he said.

  Abelard hesitated.

  “Go on, boy. Continue. What happened next?”

  “Bingham lit up a cigarette and smoked it without speaking. Karl and I wanted to go back upstairs, but we were scared to disturb him. Then he finished his cigarette and flicked it. But he flicked it too hard, and it went sailing into this box full of straw. He ran over to it – to snatch the butt out, I guess – but it started to burn. Then he laughed. He looked down at the fire and said, ‘Let the Jew take the blame. He deserves it.’ We thought it would be easy to douse, to control. We thought someone, a crewman, would quench it . . . and blame Dustin. How could we have know what would happen?”

  The crowd roared.

  “Indeed,” Goldstein said. “How could we?” He nodded and said, “That will be quite enough, thank you, Abelard.” He twisted toward Max to his left. “Don’t you think?” He looked at both Bering and Munch on his right.

  “Of course,” Max replied. “As you wish, Otto.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bering.

  Goldstein smiled tightly. He climbed to his feet. He looked down at his son on the bench. Bingham sat there, still perfectly still. Goldstein stepped down from the dais and approached him. “This inquest is over. The meeting’s adjourned.”

  “What about Bingham?” somebody shouted. “It was his cigarette,” another man said. “He’s the one started the fire.”

  Goldstein looked out at the people. They were milling about. They were jockeying for an optimum view. “This inquest is over, do you hear me? I lost a wife less than two weeks ago. I don’t plan on losing a son. If there is any man here,” he said, “anyone who thinks otherwise, let him step up to me now.”