Eleanor Brown
A series of graceful cursing flows out of room 1031. Passerby pause and look around—wondering what they’ve possibly done wrong to deserve this verbal abuse—and go away like scolded children, with heads bowed and a newfound sense of pudoration.
“Dammit! There goes another one.” Molly Brown sucks off another bead of blood from her finger. “Lawrence, hon, get another bandage.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asks Jack, straining to look down without moving his neck. Lawrence’s suit is a little long on him. Jack looks like a mannequin, up on the chair, still and stiff as death as Molly stitches up his pant leg.
Well, almost like a mannequin, Eleanor thinks, as she lounges back on the couch. Mannequins don’t sweat like that.
“Hush now. I’ve got a left hand that still works.” Molly patches up her enormous swathe of bandages and brandishes the needle like a sword. “Hold still so I don’t stick you.”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ll just… walk on my toes!”
“Nonsense! Have you seen those ol’ vultures? I won’t have any one of those cows goin’ around saying my stitching is shoddy—hold it right there young man, don’t you dare step off that chair!”
“Oh, stop it, you’re scarin’ him!” Eleanor, unable to take it anymore, bolts up and elbows her aunt out of the way. She wrestles the needle from Molly’s vice-like, one-handed grip. “He’s gonna think we’re weird!”
Jack relaxes a bit more as Molly backs off, grumbling and defeated. Eleanor shakes her head as she kneels down on the carpet, knees sinking into its plush fibers, and takes over with her amateur stitches. “Sorry, hon. I’m not as good, but I think you’re a mite bit safer. Quite the character, ain’t she?”
He gives an apologetic laugh. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You’re sure all this is okay? The suit? You didn’t have to…”
“Don’t mention it! Ol’ Lawrence doesn’t mind.”
Eleanor licks the frayed end of her black thread, and maneuvers it carefully into the eye of the needle. When Jack shifts nervously, she moves with him, as if she’s expected this. Like I’ve known him my whole life, she thinks suddenly, without warning. This familiar, strange boy, from another world right down my street. This boy I’ve know, whom I’ve never seen before.
But no. That’s impossible. Déjà vu, that’s all, she assures herself.
“So, stranger, tell me your story.”
“My what?”
“You know.” The needle darts in and out of the black fabric with ease, a silver fish in a sea of ink. “Who you are, who you were, why you are, where you been and where you’re goin’. Everyone has a story.”
He laughs again, a low, friendly sound. Unlike many people she’s met, he smiles like they are old friends—no dirty leer, or apologetic wincing, or condescending grin—and she appreciates this. It’s almost like she’s known him for five years and not five seconds. He’s just one of those people. Just one of those people with that kinda face. That’s why I think I remember him from somewhere.
“I’m afraid mine is a story well repeated,” he says with a shrug. “A washed-up dreamer. An artist without a penny in his pocket. I left to see the world, but you know, there’s nothing quite like the land of the free.” He turns at her gesture, and she starts on the other pant leg. “What about you? The infamous Browns, huh? What’s like, that big oil thingy? Having Molly as a mom must be—”
“My aunt. But she treats me like her own daughter.” She glances up and catches his surprised expression. She offers a weak smile. “It’s true. My poppa’s sister. Me and her and my big cuz, we’re all headin’ to America.”
“Your parents are there?”
Eleanor drops her needle and gives an annoyed little sigh. “You could say that. My momma is buried there. And my poppa owns part of the ‘big oil thingy’, down in Georgia.” She crawls around on the floor, searching for a little silver gleam.
I need to say more, she thinks. I need to tell him something. Something important. I can’t remember what… But I need to let him know. I need to let him know who I am.
But what did that mean? She’s Eleanor Brown, born and raised. Why would anyone need to know more about her?
“But he’s sick,” she continues, in a slightly stronger voice. “Real sick. It’s in his spine, they say, those doctors.” No, that’s not it, she knows. That’s not what I’m supposed to tell him…
Jack’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “God, I’m sorry. My own parents, you know, they’re gone, too. Hang in there. He’ll get better.”
“Of course!” Eleanor blurts cheerfully, automatically. Why did she say that? Because that’s what is always said. And that’s what they said about her momma, sixteen years ago, as the breath ebbed from her frail, pregnant body.
It’s a lie, she thinks, as she glances around at all the gold, all the ebony and ivory. All of it. An apple can be beautiful on the outside, but it contains worms. It’s a lie and those ol’ vultures know it, but they choose to pretend those worms don’t exist.They make the rules, and we follow, us children, girls like me and boys like Jack. And Fabrizio. Even him.
But there will be a revolution. The worm turns, so to speak. Titanic means something, something important. Here is a boy with nothing in the apartment of a family with everything. And what is the difference between him and them?
We’ve broken the rules. Here begins the revolution.
Eleanor checks to make sure her aunt is well out of earshot. In a hush, she spills out the truth. Rule Number One, never tell the truth.
“Actually, no. He won’t. I love him to death, God knows, but he’s not long of this world and I don’t care if it’s rude to say so. I know he won’t because he’s bringin’ me back to the States. It’s the big, dirty secret of the Browns, you could say. Titanic is not quite the happy occasion for us as it is to others…”
Other people are here to meet family and friends and laugh and relax. Other people are here for adventure and romance. Why am I here? Because soon everyone I care about will be gone. Molly and Lawrence will go home and I’ll be all alone in that horrible empty old house.
But no! That’s not the only reason why she’s here. She’s missing something. Something she needs to tell Jack. The frustration of it is killing her. Absolutely killing her.
“Do y’know what a last will and testament is?”
“Oh, no… I’m sorry. So that means Lawrence is—”
“No, I am.” She’s interrupted him. Rule Number Two. “Imagine that, huh? It was originally Lawrence, of course. First boy in the family, you know. But then I was born, right out of nowhere, and after momma died, I guess… I guess he wanted to give everything he had to me.”
It was his disease. I was born and he couldn’t take care of me so he sent me to live with Aunt Molly. He couldn’t give me an upbringing, so he’s giving me everything else. He’s giving me everything because he loves me but…
What am I supposed to remember?
“That’s… that’s something…” says Jack. Eleanor pretends not to hear him. Rule number three.
There’s something I’m missing, something I’m forgetting to say! What more is there? What more is there about my life?…But what if I don’t want everything? What if I want to create, not inherit? Why? Why am I so selfish! I’m so sorry, poppa…I’m so sorry…
Eleanor finally locates the needle when she stabs herself. The hot pinpoint of pain brings her back down to earth. She presumes stitching, in even, measured strokes. “Well, hon, if you get anything out of anything I say tonight, you just remember this.” Eleanor bites off the end of her thread and pulls the fabric straight. “Wealth is like the weather, always changing. Even the ocean never stays the same shape. When you get right down to it, all that’s certain in this world is the people you care about. You be sure you take good care of her.”
“I will.”