Promise Me This (17 page)

“Oh, about two miles, I’d say, down the road what passes the front of this store,” the postmaster replied to his questions. “But I doubt as they’ll be home just yet. They’re down to the church for the funeral. I ’spect you know that. I ’spect that’s why you’ve come. You might just be in time for the burying.”

Michael did not ask or offer more. He didn’t wonder how it was that they had learned so quickly of Owen’s death. It must be some strange American ritual, to hold a funeral even though there was no body. He shuddered and shook his head at such a notion. It was just as well he’d missed it. Michael had no heart for more services, and the family would not want him anyway, once he told them all there was to tell.

The two miles had nearly come and gone when Michael stopped beside Asbury Meeting House. The doors were closed and the churchyard empty. But over in the cemetery, beneath the limbs of an old tree, two gravediggers shoveled heaps of sandy soil into a pit. A path littered with bits of flowers and worn by feet led to the road. Michael did not stop. His mind and feet no longer connected.

He meant to get things over with quickly. He would deliver Owen’s coats and journal and pocketbook. He would urge them, as Owen had, to get the seeds and roots in the ground as quickly as possible. He would tell them all they wanted to know about . . . about everything.

I’ll beg them to write to Annie, to send for her. I’ll tell them that is the most important thing. I’ll tell them I will find a job—somewhere. I’ll save every penny for Annie—to bring her to America. I vow it on my life.

And then he would go. He did not know where.

The sign was plain enough: Allen’s Run Gardens. The door and windows of the paint-peeled, two-story frame house stood shrouded, draped in black.

A tall gentlewoman dressed in drab mourning opened the door. Her green eyes widened, standing bright against her black collar and the grayed auburn hair that strayed from her loose bun.

“Mrs. Allen?” He’d barely spoken, barely lifted his eyes to her, before she reached out to take him in her arms.

“Owen? Is it you, my darling boy?” she asked, looking bewildered but smiling the saddest, dearest smile Michael had ever seen. “We feared we’d lost you.”

Katie burst into the dormitory Friday morning. “What do you think, Annie? My dad is saved! I don’t know how, for he’s one of the firemen, and they all said the firemen and trimmers were surely doomed. But he’s saved!”

Annie tried to speak, tried to be glad for her, but the words would not come.

“We waited ever so long. The docks were packed with men and mothers with babies, and those White Star men just kept shaking their heads and saying, ‘No news yet, nothing further.’ They even sent out coffee to everybody waiting—Dolly Curry, the manager’s own daughter, with trays and trays of coffee with cream!”

Annie did not want to listen.

“But finally they posted the crew lists. Mum says it’s not right they made us wait so long, when those first-class passenger lists were posted in the papers right off. But I don’t care now. I don’t care now because Dad’s saved!” Katie crowed.

Annie flung an arm over her eyes, wishing Katie would leave her alone.

“And do you know what else?” The girl shook Annie by the arm, pulled her from her bed. “Sit up, Annie! Do you know what else, I say?”

Annie had no choice but to shake her head.

“I saw your brother’s name—your Owen Allen. He was on the third-class passenger list!”

“Which list?” Annie whispered.

“The saved list—he was on the saved list, Annie! Do you hear me?”

Annie heard, and the miracle of it washed over her, first in little lapping breaths and then in torrential waves. She wept aloud in joy and relief and threw her arms around Katie.

Annie dressed but did not bother to comb her hair. She grabbed her wrap. The girls, hand in hand, snuck down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and to the White Star Line offices, where Annie could see Owen’s name written in giant blue letters for herself. The joy and the ache of seeing his name in print was nearly more than her heart could bear. She could not understand the miracle, but she loved it just the same.

Every blind and every drape was drawn in the streets surrounding the school. Not a street was spared of loss and scarcely a household. A memorial service was held at St. Mary’s Church on Saturday, 20 April, and Annie watched with hundreds of others from Southampton as the men and uniformed officers of the White Star company filed in long rows through the streets and into the church.
A polished, bleak parade,
she thought,
for the dead.

Most of seafaring Southampton’s men earned their living either on the docks or on the ships that sailed regularly from her port. Because the long coal strike had laid so many ships idle, a greater number than usual of fathers, husbands, uncles, brothers, and cousins had signed on with
Titanic
. Family members knew that those who labored in the bowels of a ship would not likely find seats in the too-few lifeboats of a luxury liner.

Pay for crew members stopped immediately with the sinking of the ship. Widows with families of three or six or eleven children and aged parents with no other support than their hardworking, missing sons were left destitute. Relief funds and collections began soon after.

Annie had no money to contribute to the widows and orphans, but she longed to help, and she knew who did have money—more than one person would ever need. She wrote her aunt Eleanor, sharing her joy of Owen’s survival with one who loved him too, albeit strangely, and entreated her help for those who’d lost everything.

After Annie posted the letter, she wondered if writing her aunt was a mistake, but she couldn’t see how. She was so very thankful and eager to express her thankfulness by helping and urging others to help in some way.

It felt disloyal to Annie to rejoice aloud, even to sing in her heart, when so many around her grieved openly. But sing she must, so she poured out her heart to Owen. She wrote three letters within the next week, using her allotment of writing paper and postage intended to last the month. She waited day by day for a letter from her brother. She was certain he would write as soon as he stepped ashore in America, telling her of the tragedy, telling her that he was safe, telling her not to worry.

She rationalized the delay by assuring herself that Owen was worn and weary, that he had lost his writing paper and pen and ink in the sinking, that he needed to get to New Jersey as soon as possible. Surely then he would write.

Another week passed, and the town flooded with the homecoming of
Titanic
’s surviving crew, fresh from the port of Plymouth. The joyful hurrahs, the glad tears, the thankful and open-armed welcome of all those beloved heroes who’d fought the sea and won were raised by hundreds at Southampton’s train station and carried through the streets of the town.

Annie was glad for those who returned to their families and cheered for her friend as Katie’s father whisked his daughter into his arms. But she felt keenly the lack of arms about her and viewed her sorrow as one standing outside herself. She’d not been able to grieve openly while waiting for news of Owen’s fate. She’d not felt free to rejoice openly when she saw his name among the saved. And now, with many services past and services yet to come, she felt oddly incomplete.

If only Owen would write, then all would be well. I promise I’ll not ask for more.
Annie must have written the lines in her diary six times each day.

When at last a letter came from America, it was not from Owen.

My darling Annie,

By now you have heard all about the terrible tragedy and surely know for yourself that our dear Owen was among those saved, thank the Lord Jesus. He arrived on my doorstep at the end of that black week of worry. Never was a sight better to behold. That is the best of my news, dear Annie.

I am sorry to share my burden with you, child. My dear Sean, your good uncle, God rest his soul, suffers no more, and suffer he did these five years past. His great, loving heart simply gave out. We buried him the very day Owen crossed our threshold.

Your uncle’s fondest wish was to bring you and Owen here, to give you all the love of home and family, to give Owen our landscaping business to secure its future and his own. And your presence would have given us children—a gift we craved but were denied, only God knows why.

And now I do not know what will come, darling Annie, only that I do not have the home to offer you that I once did, and I may not have any before long. We held such hopes for Owen’s help and the new roots and seeds he promised to bring. He’d sewn those treasures inside his coat to keep them safe and dry, clever boy.

But we did not understand that Owen is still quite a boy and not the strapping young man we expected. How such a lad could have done the things he and even his father, God rest his soul, wrote us about is beyond my ken. And so, though I am relying on our hired man, Daniel, to continue to work the gardens, I do not know how we shall manage even with Owen’s help, if we shall be able to keep the land, or what the future holds.

Owen will surely write you as soon as he is able, but I did not want you to worry for him. He fell upon our doorstep, exhausted and nearly delirious in his fever—no doubt from the bitter cold and soaking of the shipwreck—and with a throat so swollen he could not speak or swallow had he been conscious. Two days have passed. Just this morning his fever broke, thank the Lord. Dr. McGreavy said that though he is still sleeping and needs more rest, Owen will surely waken and fully recover before so very long.

Your brother has been ill-used. I don’t know by whom. I fear for and pray that is not also true for you, dear Annie. If there is any means by which I can send for you, I will, just as soon as I’m able. Trust that.

God bless and keep you, my niece. Owen and I will write again soon.

Lovingly,

Your aunt Maggie