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Authors: Francine Mathews
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napkin, and avoid the German for the rest of the crossing. He could hotly declare that he was Joe Jr.’s twin, thank you very much, and thought and acted as he did in everything. Christ knew he’d spent enough time pretending as much.
But he could not expose his brother, or the multitude of things that divided them—had always divided them. He could not talk about the punches he’d taken in the gut, the blame he’d shouldered, the scalding misery of being judged less admirable, less successful, less
valuable
than Joe.
Or his brother’s corrosive envy: That it was always Jack other people loved.
So instead he said softly, “Now who in the world would sell you a line of crap like that?”
“Our mutual friend.” Dobler gave his stillborn smile and rose from the table. “Franklin Roosevelt.”
EIGHT. TRAVELING TOURIST
THE CROSSING, as Robbie predicted, was filthy.
That first night out of New York the wind began to rise, and Jack, who’d had too much coffee and cigarette smoke and dark, wine-scented medallions of veal for his body to handle, curled in agony in his stateroom as the great ship heaved upward, a Coney Island ascent, then plunged ecstatically into the screaming trough of the next wave. He was a blue-water sailor by training and passion, but the
Queen Mary
was no trim little Wianno bucking whitecaps off the Cape; she was eighty thousand tons of heaving torture. Jack heaved with her. The groans of the riveted hull and the scream of the gale enfolded him in an iron fist. He tried once to stand, and cartwheeled in vertigo. At intervals, the steward Robbie’s face loomed over his, a spoon of hot bouillon in a wavering hand.
Jack had never crossed the Atlantic in winter before.
Seventy-five hours after he left New York, he opened his eyes, saw that his cabin had stopped reeling, and said,
“Fuck.”
“Yes, Mr. Jack,” Robbie replied from the service doorway, “it’s no wonder the Good Lord preferred to
walk
on water. Would you be wanting that deck chair, and a cup of tea?”
* * *
HE LAY UNDER HEAVY BLANKETS, feet propped on cushions, while the tea cooled beside him. The neighboring chair cooled, too, without the benefit of Diana Playfair.
It was early morning, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, with a weak ball of sun still low on the horizon. Jack’s breath blew in a crystalline cloud; he kept his arms under cover and stared at the sea. Presently he would drink the tea and ask for some toast with it, which might give him energy enough to work his pocket knife into the flesh of his leg; he hadn’t had a dose of DOCA in three days, and that was too long. But for now, the smell of salt and ice on the clean air was enough. Periodically a man or a woman he did not know would stroll past him on the First Class Promenade Deck, walking a terrier or pushing a child on a trike. They all looked cheerful and well-fed, as though the three-day gale had focused its rage on Jack’s cabin and skipped the rest of the ship.
“Hey, sailor,” said a languid voice off his starboard side. “Care to give a girl a light?”
He turned his head and met the green glare of June Minart’s eyes. She was tricked out, head to toe, in fox furs and suede boots; a Cossack hat with a tassel perched rakishly over one eye.
“Miss Minart,” he said. “Are you a sight for sore eyes! I heard a rumor you were on this tub.”
“You’ve been hiding in that nasty old stateroom.” She pretended to pout, and glided genteelly toward him. He saw, then, that part of her fur sleeve was in fact a tiny dog huddled close to her breast, ratlike and shivering. A pink bow was tied to its head. Jack was allergic to dogs.
June sank down on the deck chair beside him, a cigarette poised in her gloved hand. He fumbled beneath the blankets and managed to locate his lighter. Another time, he’d have loomed over June, captivated her with a wisecrack and his famous smile, left her with quivering knees and a desperation to see him again—but
But he could not expose his brother, or the multitude of things that divided them—had always divided them. He could not talk about the punches he’d taken in the gut, the blame he’d shouldered, the scalding misery of being judged less admirable, less successful, less
valuable
than Joe.
Or his brother’s corrosive envy: That it was always Jack other people loved.
So instead he said softly, “Now who in the world would sell you a line of crap like that?”
“Our mutual friend.” Dobler gave his stillborn smile and rose from the table. “Franklin Roosevelt.”
EIGHT. TRAVELING TOURIST
THE CROSSING, as Robbie predicted, was filthy.
That first night out of New York the wind began to rise, and Jack, who’d had too much coffee and cigarette smoke and dark, wine-scented medallions of veal for his body to handle, curled in agony in his stateroom as the great ship heaved upward, a Coney Island ascent, then plunged ecstatically into the screaming trough of the next wave. He was a blue-water sailor by training and passion, but the
Queen Mary
was no trim little Wianno bucking whitecaps off the Cape; she was eighty thousand tons of heaving torture. Jack heaved with her. The groans of the riveted hull and the scream of the gale enfolded him in an iron fist. He tried once to stand, and cartwheeled in vertigo. At intervals, the steward Robbie’s face loomed over his, a spoon of hot bouillon in a wavering hand.
Jack had never crossed the Atlantic in winter before.
Seventy-five hours after he left New York, he opened his eyes, saw that his cabin had stopped reeling, and said,
“Fuck.”
“Yes, Mr. Jack,” Robbie replied from the service doorway, “it’s no wonder the Good Lord preferred to
walk
on water. Would you be wanting that deck chair, and a cup of tea?”
* * *
HE LAY UNDER HEAVY BLANKETS, feet propped on cushions, while the tea cooled beside him. The neighboring chair cooled, too, without the benefit of Diana Playfair.
It was early morning, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, with a weak ball of sun still low on the horizon. Jack’s breath blew in a crystalline cloud; he kept his arms under cover and stared at the sea. Presently he would drink the tea and ask for some toast with it, which might give him energy enough to work his pocket knife into the flesh of his leg; he hadn’t had a dose of DOCA in three days, and that was too long. But for now, the smell of salt and ice on the clean air was enough. Periodically a man or a woman he did not know would stroll past him on the First Class Promenade Deck, walking a terrier or pushing a child on a trike. They all looked cheerful and well-fed, as though the three-day gale had focused its rage on Jack’s cabin and skipped the rest of the ship.
“Hey, sailor,” said a languid voice off his starboard side. “Care to give a girl a light?”
He turned his head and met the green glare of June Minart’s eyes. She was tricked out, head to toe, in fox furs and suede boots; a Cossack hat with a tassel perched rakishly over one eye.
“Miss Minart,” he said. “Are you a sight for sore eyes! I heard a rumor you were on this tub.”
“You’ve been hiding in that nasty old stateroom.” She pretended to pout, and glided genteelly toward him. He saw, then, that part of her fur sleeve was in fact a tiny dog huddled close to her breast, ratlike and shivering. A pink bow was tied to its head. Jack was allergic to dogs.
June sank down on the deck chair beside him, a cigarette poised in her gloved hand. He fumbled beneath the blankets and managed to locate his lighter. Another time, he’d have loomed over June, captivated her with a wisecrack and his famous smile, left her with quivering knees and a desperation to see him again—but
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