I twist to my left, glancing across the well deck toward the top of the superstructure and the lifeboats that ring the perimeter of the Boat Deck. If all else fails, I could sleep in one of those. Of course, I would need to grow a layer of blubber to protect me from the freezing nights. The Atlantic will be as cold as snowmelt, maybe even colder, once we reach the ice fields off Newfoundland.
My shoulders have pulled toward my ears, and I roll them back.
Below the Boat Deck on A-Deck, women in the latest seashell pastels and men in suits as slick and oiled as seals collect around a quartet of musicians. The view is less grand one level down on B-Deck, where the second class mingles. My mind skims to the bottom levels where the “black” gangs work, so called because of the color the coal turns them.
Ten decks in all, home to two thousand passengers.
Jamie, will I ever find you?
I sniff, on the verge of falling into the pity pit.
“This time, no cheating, Wink,” says a voice with an accent like Ba’s.
My breath catches. On the bench behind me, two Chinese lads and a young man with a deep scowl have replaced the couple and are playing a card game. The speaker sits in the middle with his cards held close to his nose. I guess he’s around eleven or twelve years old. He has the shape of a matchstick, which is how Jamie looked at that age, with a big head and narrow everything else.
“I never cheat,” the lad closest to me growls in the highly offended manner of someone who does cheat. He glances back at me. I put him at around nine or ten, and in danger of drowning in his clothes. A too-big cap droops to one side of his head, and his kerchief is so tattered, it’s more like a tag around his neck. His delicate cheeks twitch in a way that makes his eye wink, probably the source of his name.
The scowling man, who looks about the same age as Jamie and me, stretches an arm taut as a bridge cable along the back of the bench. His ring catches my eye. It seems to be made from thick shell and etched with a circular design. I’ve seen the scrimshaw sailors scratch on whale teeth and bones, but never on a shell.
“We could get jobs showing people how to play Winds of Change,” says the matchstick lad, his voice not quite that of a man but no longer that of a boy either.
My spine stiffens. Jamie made up that game. He loved cards, though after he’d lost our grocery allowance on High Card, he swore off gambling for money forever.
The scowling man snorts. “Your only job here is to stay out of trouble.” Now, that is a man’s voice. It’s not heavy on the bass notes, but it exudes a quiet authority. Unlike the lads with their easy tongues, he speaks his English carefully, like a cat choosing where to put his paws on a slippery rail.
“But why do you and Jamie get to find jobs?” asks the matchstick lad.
I bolt up in my seat at the mention of Jamie’s name.
“We are older, and White Star does not hire children.”
“No, it’s because you and Jamie bet the washing over who can make more money, and you don’t want us to get in the way,” says Wink in his growly voice, which is so at odds with his petite self.
“That, too.”
A bet. That sounds just like Jamie, who was always challenging me. We did it all: contests to see who could hold their breath the longest, who could balance an egg on their forehead the longest, who could fit the most biscuits in their mouth.
Wink plucks a card from his hand. “Winds of Change.”
“You can’t call Winds of Change until an eight has been played,” the matchstick lad objects.
The scowling man’s gaze wanders to me and loiters, probably trying to see through my veil. The noble angle of his jaw challenges me to run a finger across it, like one might test the edge of a knife for quality. But then his eyes drift away, as if deciding I am not that interesting.
“Bo, Olly’s making up rules,” Wink complains.
“If you kumquats do not stop arguing, we play Old Maid.”
“I’m afraid he’s right. An eight must be played first,” I hear myself say. If these are Jamie’s mates, surely he is close by, though I don’t see any other Chinese around.
“See?” says Olly, before joining Wink and the scowling man, Bo, in staring at me. I scoot back to the armrest so all three are in view and no one is tempted to peek behind my veil.
“How does she know Winds of Change?” asks Wink, switching to Cantonese, which they naturally assume I cannot understand. His delicate cheek begins to twitch.
“Maybe Jamie lied about making it up,” says Olly.
“Jamie wouldn’t lie, you cow’s butt.”
Olly ignores the insult. “Why do you think she’s wearing a veil?”
Wink’s eyes grow large. “Maybe she has warts.”
“Or maybe she doesn’t have a face.”
Bo turns forward with a snort, the ridges of his back flexing visibly even under his peacoat. “Maybe you should both shut up. She’s first class. Too good for you to speak to.”
“If she’s first class, why is she on this deck?”
“Because first class can walk where they want. Stop looking at her.”
The two lads continued gaping.
“I don’t have warts, and if I didn’t have a face, then how could I be looking at your funny mugs?” I say evenly in Cantonese.
Olly’s jaw drops, exposing rows of crooked teeth. Wink slaps a hand over his mouth, as if to hide the state of his cutters. Bo quirks an eyebrow, and I revel in the small triumph of getting a reaction from him.
“I’m looking for James Luck. Know where I can find him?”
They hesitate, and I’m reminded of the two men like water and smoke, Tao and Fong. I’ve heard that sailors are superstitious, but I had no idea they were so distrustful.
Bo’s eyes drift to the well deck, where a crowd has gathered. He stretches up as if to see something, then nods toward the people. “Start there.”
I cover the two paces to the railing and crane my neck. The crowd parts to reveal the back of a young man dressed in sea slops, kneeling as he pets a dog. Is it . . . Jamie?
He removes his cap and smooths his hair, a gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. It is Jamie, though he’s broader in the back than I remember. My heart squeezes, and all the nerves kinked up inside me seem to shake loose. At last.
Olly blows out a thin whistle from where he, Wink, and Bo have joined me at the rail. “That’s a poodle, the kind of dog you have to pay for.”
“Jamie’s always been good with dogs,” I say, remembering how the neighborhood mutts would follow him around.