Page 44 of Haunting the Deep

My heart beats faster. Aren’t letters like these supposed to be in museums? Could this be real? I carefully pull out the folded paper.

Monday

TWO HUNDRED TEN RIVERSIDE DRIVE

NEW YORK, N.Y.

Dear Cousin Maria,

Aunty Myra and Uncle Harry are both home safe and fairly sound considering all they have been through, which means that they are nervously tired out, though otherwise well.

When their ship struck the iceberg Aunty Myra saw the great wall of ice scraping along past her porthole for the lights were turned on still, and she knew just what had happened, so she got Uncle Harry+valet up to dress him. He had been so ill with grippe he had to be helped up and almost carried onto the deck. They made their way to an upper deck where were very few people, and were the last to leave that deck. Both were warmly dressed so did not suffer from exposure but the boat was so crowded all the men could not sit down, and in that state they waited and watched for the first steamer.

It was so clear that all through the night they could see stars so near the horizon they thought must be ships,lights. When daylight broke they seemed to be completely hemmed in by a field of ice and yet that other little steamer made straight for them. The people on it did their utmost to make things comfortable for them, gave up their beds, took off their clothes for them almost and saw that every thing possible was done to relieve their suffering. But I do feel that we have a true miracle come our way this time in having our own people so wonderfully saved.

Mother knows everything now, and has stood it very well, but the rest of us are pretty well worn out. You see we didn,t get any real news from them until Thursday evening just before they got home and what a relief it was!

I,m sorry this is so short+sketchy. Perhaps I,ll have time to write more fully later, and hope it hasn,t been so long either as to make your poor bruised head feel any worse.

Mother says to tell you that she means someday to send you a picture of my father and will try to find one of herself to send too.

This letter is a disgraceful one to send to anyone who writes such lovely ones as you do, but I didn,t want to wait any longer to send you even a scribble if it was a good news one.

Lovingly Helen T. H.

A board creaks behind me, and I whip around to find a black cat staring at me. It’s pear-shaped and squints at my bright flashlight. Is this a joke? I head for the stairs, full speed, letter in hand.

I take the steep wooden steps so quickly my heel misses one, and I slide down three of them on my butt. I land unceremoniously with a clunk in the hallway, holding the letter away from my body so I don’t crease it. The pain sharpens everything into focus.

I latch the door behind me and instantly feel guilty for leaving the cat.

“Sam?” my dad calls from what sounds like the bottom of the main staircase. “What was that noise?”

“Nothing. I just tripped! Don’t worry!” I yell back, staring at the attic door.

Of all the ridiculous…I’ll just run up, scoop up the cat, and come right back down. I grab the latch, and something moves by my feet. The cat walks right through the door and into the hallway, its fat belly swinging between its legs.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Istand by the railing, watching the porthole lights reflect off the dark water. A salty breeze blows a couple of wisps of my hair free from their pins, and they tickle my cheek.

“I thought you might need this,” says a familiar voice, and I turn around.

Alexander holds my long white coat. I’m surprised to see him after I embarrassed myself in the dining room. But I’m happy he came looking for me.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I ran out on you during dinner like that.” Why did I run out on dinner? I open my mouth to ask him what he remembers, but the question disappears from my thoughts.

I slip my arms into the sleeves as he holds my coat up forme.

“It is of no concern. Lots of passengers are unused to the motion of the ship. I will admit that even I ran from the dining room on the first day.”

He watches me intently. I focus on fastening the small silk buttons on the bodice of my coat, but my lace gloves make it nearly impossible to hold on to the slippery things.

“I’m pretty sure the world would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to wear these confounded gloves.” I shake my hands in the air. Since when do I use words like “confounded”? I frown. Why don’t I sound like myself?

He laughs, breaking my train of thought, and my worry disperses like smoke.

“That is precisely why I make it a point never to wear lace gloves when I have buttons to do,” he says.