By Jim Doran
A stranger in a wool overcoat retreats from the panicked crowd and stops next to me. I was surveying the starry horizon when he drew near. He seems calm.
I stick out my hand. “It seems we’re in the same situation. My name is Daniel Bradford.”
The man tears his gaze away and accepts my greeting. “Nathaniel Allen. Everyone calls me Nate.”
Near us, gunshots cut across the clamor.
I ask, “First time for you?”
Nate snorts. “I guess there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” He notices my wedding band. “Married? Yours there, too?”
“Indeed. I made sure she was safely—”
Screams interrupt me. I don’t know how shouting will help, but I wait until the uproar dies down. We should be people of resolve as we were brought up to be. I ponder repeating my sentence, but Nate gets the gist. I have nothing to add.
Nate removes his handkerchief, and wipes his face. “Do you know how much I wish this were an ordinary day?”
“An ordinary day?”
“Yes. You know. A person awakens, grumbles about work, but goes anyway. He comes home tired. Perhaps he’s in the middle of a book, so he reads it after dinner. Exhausted, he falls asleep in his chair, and then drags himself to bed. An ordinary day.”
While I reflect on his statement, a family to my left lowers to their knees and prays. They recite a rote prayer, and its rhythm is consoling.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat refuses to shrink. “I’m not much of a reader. I owned a bike, though. I would often take a ride after work.”
“A bicycle?” Nate removes his cap, scratching at his straw-blond hair. “You’re a lucky fellow.”
I stroke my mustache. “I had the good fortune to drive one of those motorcars. They’re the future. I was going to…”
I cannot finish. Nate wipes his face again, and I notice the handkerchief is wet with his tears. “At least you own a bicycle.”
“Owned,” I correct.
Someone yells something unintelligible, and then I hear a splash. My heart sinks as low as the jumper’s final resting place, the bottom of the ocean. I nod at Nate’s ring. “How long?”
“Perhaps an hour.”
I shake my head. “Not what I mean. How long have you been married?”
Nate brightens. “Seventeen years on June fifth. So, sixteen.”
“Twenty-two glorious years.” I drop my eyes to the deck. “We were on our way to celebrate it in New York.”
I’m grateful Nate doesn’t say he is sorry. No more stiff upper lip if he had. Instead, he points at the musicians. “Do you suppose they would play a song from my wedding if I requested it?”
Capital idea. “I don’t see why not.”
But Nate doesn’t move. Instead, he stares me in the eyes, tears filling his. “Do you think they’ll remember us?”
“Our wives? I hope so.”
“Me, too. But also those people having ordinary days. Tomorrow, I’m sure this will be the headline. However, in a month, or a year, or a hundred years, do you believe, during their ordinary day, they’ll remember us?”
I put my hand on Nate’s shoulder and turn him to face the ocean. In an hour, he and I will float in its frigid depths, free of the nightmare surrounding us. I wish I could spot my wife, safely aboard one of the Titanic’s lifeboats, but the vessels are only tiny points of light. Their lights encourage me.
“They will.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Some people celebrate All Souls Day today, remembering (or, if so inclined, praying for) the dead. I’m honored that my short fiction piece debuted today as it pays its respects to the many men and women who gave their lives on one tragic, not ordinary, night.