Disclaimer/Author's Note: Any and all non-historical characters from James Cameron's film that appear in this fan fiction have been shamelessly borrowed. The personality traits exhibited by J. Bruce Ismay, Thomas Andrews, Molly Brown, etc. are likewise in the spirit of the movie. Mary Catherine Ismay is a character of my own creation. Thus, historical accuracy is obviously not something to be found here.
Carpe Diem
I had such a headache, and the light from the starboard side windows wasn't helping. I almost asked the young man across from me (Mr. Hockley, was it?) if he'd mind exchanging seats, but I restrained myself, was subdued for much of lunch. But when my brother started taking about the goddamn ship again, I couldn't help but bring my hand up to my left temple to vainly try and stop the throbbing. Thomas Andrews, seated on my right, noticed, leaned toward me.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, and I answered that I was fine, taking my hand away from my temple immediately, adjusting my small dark-colored glasses, forcing a smile to assure him that I was. The Irishman looked at me skeptically but said nothing more.
"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history and our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up," my brother continued from the opposite end of the table. Thomas Andrews looked up at his name but disliked the attention that Bruce had just cast upon him.
"Well," he looked down, muttered. "I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is…," he hit the table lightly with the palm of his hand, "willed into reality."
"Financed into reality," I corrected under my breath.
"Why're ships always bein' called "she"? Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighted in tonnage?" Molly Brown commented, eliciting hearty laughs from Mr. Hockley and the girl beside him. Oh God, I couldn't think of her name either. I was approaching senility and I had yet to turn thirty. The thought depressed me and I forgot to respond to the joke though Thomas Andrews smiled and both Mrs. Bukater and my brother laughed appropriately, placating the woman as she continued, "Just another example of men settin' the rules their way." I spoke then, compelled by a passing impulse and my inherent distaste for Molly Brown's very American worldview.
"To a sailor, more so than a shipbuilder"—I met the gaze of Thomas Andrews evenly—"or a shipowner"—my eyes broke their tryst with Thomas Andrews slowly and I looked at my brother over the rims of my dark glasses—"his ship is the only thing he has in a wide, unforgiving, icy sea, that beats him down and rips his face and hands apart with salt and water. The ship protects him, gives him strength." I was speaking up for the first time today, and all eyes were turned toward me, captivated by my tone. "The sea is a cruel mistress. Very fickle, Molly Brown. A sailor's ship is his sister, his mother, his wife. She is faithful through storm and tide. It's a compliment that woman's name should be as highly prized."
I sighed and regretted speaking so frankly as soon as I had finished. Mr. Hockley and his lady seemed to consent, Thomas Andrews looked at me thoughtfully, I could not see Molly Brown's expression, nor Mrs. Bukater's because I was anticipating my brother's sneer and turned towards it.
"What are you going on about, Mary Catherine?" he said without requiring a response. His dismissal of me was neither surprising nor unprecedented, and the expression on my face remained passive. Twenty-nine years of being Bruce Ismay's sister would turn even the most lively and happy soul sour. The waiter arrived to take orders and Kate?...that young girl across the table lit a cigarette. Mrs. Bukater looked over at her daughter.
"You know I don't like that, Rose."
Rose! Yes, that was it. Like a flower, a red, red rose, like her red, red lips, overdone with lipstick. No, I won't forget this time. Mr. Hockley responded with, "She knows," and then took the cigarette from Rose's fingers, put it out. Then he ordered for both of them, asking her approval with some patronizing remark that I only half listened to.
"So, you gonna cut her meat for her too there, Cal?" That woman's voice mixed with clattering silverware and the low hum of conversation in just such a way that I couldn't stand it. I clenched and unclenched my fist under the table. Molly Brown turned to my brother, changed subjects dramatically. "Hey, who came up with the name Titanic? You, Bruce?"
"Yes, actually," he answered briskly. What he meant to say was Yes, of course, you American half-wit, daughter of nobody knows who, I own the ship don't I? but my brother is too genteel for honesty. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury…and safety."
"Do you know of Dr. Freud?" Rose spoke up, lifted her chin with a perturbed look on her face. Where was she going with this? She continued addressing Bruce, "His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."
Beside me, Thomas Andrews almost choked on a breadstick as he suppressed laughter. I tipped my head slightly, I had underestimated the little American girl. Her mother was absolutely mortified saying, "My God, Rose, what's gotten into—"
But Rose had already thrown her napkin on the table, and the men half rose in their seats as she got up.
"Excuse me," she said shortly and stalked off. I watched her escape with mild envy as Mrs. Bukater apologized for her daughter.
"She's a pistol, Cal. You sure you can handle her?" Molly Brown mentioned from down the table. Mr. Hockley seemed tense but shook it off, feigned unconcern.
"Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on," he answered.
"Who is this Dr. Freud?" Bruce asked, still looking after Rose, not sure if she insulted him or not. Thomas Andrews was about to answer him but I placed my hand on his arm lightly, restraining him, and spoke up first.
"He's German, Bruce." This elicited the snort and subsequent rant about Germans generally, their inability to think outside tradition, their useless practicality, etc. His generalizations made him forget Dr. Freud and dominate the conversation with a topic he could ramble passionately about. I made my own excuses ten minutes after Rose had left and retreated to the shaded part of the decks for the rest of the afternoon.