Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By Coralie Olivier

The chicken scratches of the borrowed fountain pen made Charlie’s hair stand on end.

I am well, he wrote, but I lost sight of Walt after we jumped into the water. I have not seen him since. Today, I will go to the morgue and look for his body.

Once he was done writing, nausea washed over him. Still, he ordered breakfast and the waiter crossed the quiet dining room, zigzagging between other bereaved guests to get him a cup of coffee.

Charlie and Walt had always been inseparable. They were the only two boys stuck between an old sister and two younger ones. Though born two years apart, their mother called them her twins. Charlie had delayed his entrance to Cambridge so he and Walter could start attending together. After graduation, they’d taken a trip to the North American continent together. It had been a nice trip, and so after six months, they had been satisfied with their journey and ready to go home. If only their ocean liner hadn’t been struck by another one.

Charlie’s hand shook as he brought the coffee cup to his lips. A few drops of the hot, dark liquid slipped over the rim and dripped onto his letter. He let out a shaky sigh. Setting the cup back in its saucer, he crumpled the letter and asked for another piece of paper. His fingers drummed on the table as he waited. His gaze bore into the scone in front of him. The blank paper, with the hotel’s crest at the top, was gently placed in front of him, and he grabbed the fountain pen once more. His hand was shaking. He took a deep, steadying breath, and his father’s words echoed in his mind. A gentleman must remain composed under pressure.

He scribbled the same short letter without thinking, his hand moving as if the words had been engraved under his skin. It was only as he signed that he realized he was done, though his penmanship was barely legible. As he was eager to be done with the task, he folded the paper, pressing his finger over every fold to secure it. Then, he put the letter in the envelope, and wrote his home address. The RMS London had sunk off the Irish coast. If he posted the letter this morning, the news would arrive before he did, especially if he had to make arrangements for Walt’s body.

Though he stared at the scone in front of him, Charlie found that he had no appetite. He looked at the grandfather clock in the dining room. The makeshift morgue didn’t open for another hour, but he had nothing better to do. He picked up his letter and left the dining room.

All in all, their return trip had been a pleasant journey, up until the crash. Barely a day before, Charlie and Walt had been in the smoking lounge when they’d felt the crash. Like many, they’d rushed to the promenade deck to see what had happened. Through the thick fog, they could only make out lights and screams. The ship had listed to starboard so abruptly that Charlie had lost his footing. He might have hurt himself if Walt hadn’t held him back.

The brothers hadn’t tried to get into a lifeboat. As gentlemen, they respected the rule; they had to give their chance to the women and children first. They were strong swimmers, especially Walt. Charlie had faith that they would stay afloat until rescue arrived. They hadn’t even had to jump. Once the ship’s bow had been fully immersed into the water, the stern had followed. All the brothers had to do was step into the cold water. But the moment the ship had been submerged, it’d sucked them down with it. Charlie had thrashed senselessly, his life jacket useless. His lungs had tightened like fists, begging for air.

Somehow, he’d emerged. Though the fog had been lifting, he’d been unable to spot Walt beside him. He’d called his name. His voice had been drowned in the ruckus of cries screaming for help, for loved ones’ names, in agony and terrified. The current had tussled him; the cold waves had crashed over him. He couldn’t spot Walt. As soon as he’d spotted a folding chair which had fallen off the promenade deck, he’d swam to it and held on for dear life. 

It was only later, as he’d floated in the water, that he’d realized the other ship had gone down too. A couple of lifeboats with a red hull had been huddled nearby, not black like the ones on the London. As soon as the fog had lifted, he’d seen the graying edge of Ireland beyond the choppy waves. It had become a bright, beautiful, cloudless day. Surely rescue would come swiftly.

It had taken them three painful, frigid hours.

The hotel clerk had taken his letter, to be posted with all the other ones. Charlie caught a glimpse of the bag and saw it was close to full. With nothing better to do, Charlie walked to the morgue. It wasn’t a morgue, but the town’s brick and metal-framed covered market. There should have been fruits and fresh fish for sale that day, but the only things pulled out of the water that morning had been bodies and debris.

Charlie wasn’t alone outside the market. Though the morgue wasn’t yet open, the front door was crowded with survivors, waiting to be let within. Charlie stepped in line. In front of him was a man holding a toddler, the child’s face hidden in the collar of their father’s jacket. Not a minute had passed before someone stepped in line behind him, a young woman who reminded him of his youngest sister. She’d made an effort to appear put together by pinning up her hair but the red rimming her eyes betrayed her.

Charlie hadn’t cried. It would be unbecoming of him. The tightness in his throat wasn’t tears, but hours of calling Walt’s name had given him a sore. If his brother had been alive, he would have heard him. Maybe it hadn’t quite sunk in yet that his brother was gone. Perhaps it wouldn’t until he saw body laid out on the ground, still wearing his wire-framed glasses and cardigan. Perhaps then, Charlie would stop holding out on hope that maybe, just maybe, Walt had made it out.

One by one, the survivors were let inside. The market stank of brine. The smell had been so strong as he floated for rescue that Charlie had stopped smelling it long before he had spotted the first fishing ships sent to their aid. Now it slapped him across the cheek like a cold wave. A board had been set against the wall near the entrance, with the lists of all the passengers from both ships. Charlie stood at the back of the small crowd gathered there, his eyes lost on the hundreds of lines over dozens of sheets of paper, all pinned a little askew on the wood panel. His eyes stopped on one paper. Half of the names on the list had already been crossed out, indicating survivors.

Charlie decided not to waste another second on the lists. He proceeded to the viewing room. All the lights above burned to their fullest. Five rows had been made with the dead bodies. They seemed an enormous display of sleeping people. There was no order to where each body had been placed, aside from the order in which they had been fished out.

In the first alley, a couple was embracing as the woman choked on sobs in the man’s arm. At their feet was the body of a girl. Head jerking up, Charlie brushed past them, took two steps forward, then stopped. He suddenly remembered that he was supposed to look down. If he didn’t look down, he wouldn’t be able to see whether it was his brother or not. The earth seemed to slip from under his feet, unsettling him. He had to look. That was why he’d come. He looked at the body beside him. It was the body of an old, whiskered man. He exhaled. Another step, and he was in front of a woman, half of her hair still secured by ivory pins.

By the end of the first line, Charlie had grown numb. His eyes felt disconnected from his brain. He saw without seeing, walked past men, women, and children until they didn’t look real anymore. There was no sign of Walter. 

Charlie was torn between hope and despair. Only the firmest grip on his emotions allowed him to push through. Still, doubt swirled in his mind. What if Walt’s body had been sucked into the ship’s trail, and sank, and would never resurface?

He walked past a nurse who interrupted his search. His ears were ringing. A confused fog had settled over his mind. After staring at her long enough, he understood that she’d asked him if he needed help. He told her no, as politely as he could, not now, and kept walking.

His gaze stopped on another body. A young man. Cold terror gripped his heart. The man didn’t have glasses on. What did Walter look like without his glasses? Charlie saw him every evening and every morning without them. Why couldn’t he remember? What did Walt look like?

A familiar voice cut through the fog of Charlie’s mind:

“Can you help me? I’m looking for my brother. I couldn’t see his name on any of your lists. He has black hair like mine and… er… a little scar over his temple from when he ran into a table.”

He stepped away from the stranger’s body, and turned back toward the nurse. Another young man was talking to her, leaning over the clipboard in her hand.

“Can you search for his name? Charles Burns.”

“Walt?”

The young man looked up upon hearing his name. This was what Walter looked like. He still had his glasses, though one of the lenses was snapped in half and would need fixing. His eyes grew wide when he spotted Charlie. They ran toward each other and crashed into a hug.

Charlie cried. He couldn’t hold back his tears as relief, warm like an angel’s kiss, washed over him. Walt held him fiercely.

“How?” he asked. “I couldn’t see you after we got sucked in, I thought…”

“Me too.”

Though they parted to look into each other’s face, they held firmly onto one another still. Walt’s grasp on his brother’s arm would leave a bruise, but it was a bruise Charlie was happy to mend.

“I called your name for so long…”

“Me too,” Walt replied.

“What happened?”

“I swam to one of the lifeboats and they helped me in. You?”

Charlie sniffed and brushed the tears out of his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Walt had to remove his glasses to do the same.

“I grabbed onto a chair. I don’t understand. Why didn’t I see you when they brought us back to shore?”

“Our boat drifted away. It took a while before they caught up to us. They must have gotten you out of the water first, and thank God they did.”

Charlie pulled his brother into another hug. He welcomed the awe and disbelief he felt. When they parted, he told him:

“Come on, we don’t need to stay here.”

They left behind the sorrow and anguish of the makeshift morgue. Charlie kept one arm wrapped around his brother and promised himself that, for as long as he lived, he wouldn’t let him out of his sight again.

“I’m at the hotel by the harbor, up that way,” Walt indicated.

“They set me up at the Astoria.”

“Of course,” his brother chuckled. “You’d get the fancy hotel. In that case, I am changing rooms. I hope you have a second bed or we’ll have to share.”

“I don’t know if we’ll spend the night here,” Charlie pondered. “I figured we would see about getting home as soon as possible.”

Charlie let out a gasp when he remembered the letter he’d just to his father.

“Oh no… I wrote to father this morning. I told him that I would be looking for your body today.”

To Charlie’s surprise, Walt burst out laughing.

“Brother, I wrote him the exact same thing.”

Charlie laughed too. Their laughter could be heard up and down the street, like the song of two summer birds.

“Hopefully he receives the letters together.”