On a Cold Dark Sea(49)
Esme had once heard something about confession being good for the soul. Dreary old Catholic nonsense, she’d thought at the time. Now it struck her as profound: she’d confessed to Charlotte and felt her sins wiped clean. This born-again version of Esme wanted to shower others with kindness. Sabine, to a certain set of New York society, embodied European elegance, but Esme had known her when she was a hotel maid with no style at all. It was Esme’s trust that had allowed Sabine to flourish.
Amid the honk of taxis and jumble of bodies, Esme felt a spark of joy that took her by surprise. For so long, she’d thought of happiness as her right. When it slipped from her hands, she looked for someone to blame. But what if she’d been wrong? What if true happiness came only in these small moments, whose very humility ensured they’d be overlooked? She’d looked to marriage to fulfill her, but it never would have, no matter what. If the Titanic hadn’t sunk, and Hiram and Esme had gone back to Philadelphia, she would have pined over Charlie the rest of her life. He’d always have been the perfect man, held up as an impossible ideal against Hiram. The funny part was that Charlie hadn’t lived up to that ideal, either. But Esme never would have known that if she hadn’t married him.
Esme clutched her handbag closer, hearing the clatter of the bottle inside. Ever since Charlie’s death, the nights had seemed endless. She’d toss and turn, or sink reluctantly into troubled dreams that left her shaken. Thinking of the pills gave her a marvelous sense of calm. Sleep was no longer something to fear, because it would bring a reunion with her most cherished memories. There were only about a dozen pills in the bottle, but Esme knew she could always get more. She had access to the very best doctors, didn’t she? She would take as many as she needed to banish the visions that haunted her on the very worst nights. The nights she saw Hiram bobbing in the water, staring at her in eternal anguish.
ANNA
Anna never read American magazines. But Mrs. Wickstrom at the Farmers Cooperative store did, and there was one open on the counter when Anna came in. Anna glanced at the pages while she was waiting for Mrs. Wickstrom to fetch more yeast from the storeroom. Upside down, the words were a jumble of black squiggles, but one of the pictures caught her attention: a close-up portrait of a man with dark hair and a jutting chin. There was a smaller photograph next to it, showing a couple in wedding clothes.
Anna reached out and turned the magazine to face her. The man seemed to be staring out from the page, directly at Anna. Older, but instantly recognizable. The caption underneath read “Charles Van Hausen, dead at 43.”
“Good-looking, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Wickstrom had a disconcerting way of appearing out of nowhere; Anna hadn’t heard her come back in.
“Mr. Wickstrom says I’m a fool to care what rich families get up to, but I can’t help myself. I love to look at the pictures of all the parties and clothes.” She pushed the magazine closer to Anna. “You can take it, if you like.” Then, briskly, “Five cents.”
Anna slipped the magazine into her basket and watched Mrs. Wickstrom add the amount in her ledger. The transaction made Anna feel sordid, and she rushed through her goodbyes, not bothering to double-check her shopping list as she usually would. She was sure she’d forgotten something, but it wasn’t worth the embarrassment of staying.
Anna had walked to the store; it was still warm enough, in late September, and she hadn’t needed many things. But as she made her way down the street, nodding to a few acquaintances but not slowing to talk, she wished she’d taken the cart. It would take her half an hour to get back to the house, and she wanted to be there already, in the quiet refuge where she could make sense of her rising distress. Charles Van Hausen was dead, and it shouldn’t matter. She hadn’t known him; she had no reason to be upset. Still, she could feel his eyes boring into her.
The caption under the wedding picture had confused her, for she’d thought he and the lady in the lifeboat were already married. They’d had a great affection for each other; that was certain, because Anna could remember her clinging to his side and clutching at his arm for reassurance. She was the most dazzling woman Anna had ever seen, with jewels that sparkled in her hair. Anna hadn’t known until today that her name was Esme.
Silently, Anna tried out possible pronunciations: Ehs-mee? Ess-may? The sounds were mysteriously exotic, like the woman herself. For a fleeting moment, Anna thought of sending a letter of condolence, but she rejected the idea almost as soon as it occurred to her. She rarely wrote letters in English, unsure as she was of proper grammar and spelling, and even if she did write, what good would it do? Esme probably didn’t even remember Anna, other than as an anonymous, weeping girl. If they passed on the street, Esme would never recognize the person Anna had become: a housewife and mother whose downcast eyes and simple clothing deflected attention. Despite her many blessings, Anna still shrank from notice. Her atonement for living a life she didn’t deserve.
Anna decided to put the magazine in the wood pile. She had no patience for self-indulgent melancholy, especially in herself, and there was nothing to be gained by mooning over what couldn’t be changed. Yet as soon as she returned home, Anna dropped the basket in the front hall and went upstairs. She pulled open the trunk at the foot of her bed and sorted through the quilts and embroidered blankets, all hand-sewn by the fireplace on winter evenings when the darkness set in quickly. At the very bottom was a black wool overcoat, wrinkled and reeking of mothballs but otherwise unchanged.