Chapter 16
VIVIAN JEAN
The SS Talamanca at Sea, Day One
Tully and I spend the first few hours aboard the SS Talamanca unpacking, sending telegrams, and strolling from deck to deck as the ship sails into the ocean. When we run into Captain O’Flanagan, Tully keeps his promise to Othella by inquiring about her mysterious stranger.
The captain informs us that I was the one to make the final reservations—Tully, Othella, Robbie, and I were the last names added to the manifest. “No one on board is unaccounted for, Othella,” I explain when we meet her and Robbie on the Saloon Deck.
“Are you sure? Maybe, I imagined seeing him.” Her eyes seem less fearful than when I saw her in Brooklyn on Pier 3.
“Good girl. We can’t have you feeling out of sorts just as we sail for Jamaica.” Katherine wraps her arm around Othella’s shoulders. “This may be the easiest part of the journey, so let’s enjoy it.”
“Katherine’s correct,” I add. “We have much to get ready for. We’ll be in Jamaica in four days.”
“Five at most,” Katherine says with a smile.
Tully is eager to play shuffleboard and backgammon so he enlists Robbie Barnes as his partner.
I don’t argue. He’s still not ready to talk and I want to enjoy my first hours at sea by taking in the sights and exploring the ship.
If he makes it to the dining room, I ask him to bring me a sandwich because I’m skipping today’s meal.
Besides, it would be much worse if we were in the dining hall, sitting at a table with strangers, and he had nothing to say to me.
What better way to show everyone our marriage is on the rocks?
After leaving the deck, I go back to the cabin and decide to spend part of the afternoon sitting in the sunshine.
I call a steward and send Katherine a note, inviting her to join me on the Promenade Deck.
Then, I change into appropriate cruise attire.
Earlier, Katherine suggested that for our first afternoon at sea, we should look fashionably smart.
I put on a pleated navy skirt, a white blouse, stockings, and T-strap pumps.
I feel overdressed, but Katherine had insisted.
When I reach the deck, my dream of watching a breathtaking sunset has to wait.
The sky is overcast with dark clouds and has turned the sea black, with rolling waves crashing against the ship’s hull.
I’m grateful I didn’t wear a cute hat to match my outfit.
I would have lost it to the howling wind.
Though I am disappointed, I find the weather fascinating.
Chicago’s frigid winters and sweltering summers are notorious.
The city’s spring and fall often bring a fair number of sunny days and pleasant temperatures, but a storm at sea stirs my soul.
Katherine arrives. “I don’t see many people out here,” she says. “Could it be because of the choppy sea?”
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” I ignore her sarcasm and grip the railing.
“It’s the beginning of the adventure,” she says into the wind. “I must admit, I’m a bit frightened. I want to accomplish so much.”
“Oh, Katherine, you’re the most prepared and talented person I know. You have nothing to fear.”
She chuckles. “Maybe. Technically, Maroon communities like Accompong have historically used dance, music, and rituals to maintain their fight against colonial oppression. But I’m not on this journey just to collect information. African dance will help me create unique choreography.”
The ship rocks. Katherine clutches the railing firmly, her tone unwavering. “Anthropologists contribute to encyclopedias, textbooks, and museum archival materials. Where is African culture honored?”
A sailor approaches and tips his hat. “Ladies, excuse my interruption. There’s a storm on the horizon, and we’re heading straight for it.
The captain has asked us to inform our passengers.
You will hear an alarm when being on deck is no longer safe.
” He tips his hat again and walks to another group, gazing at the sea.
“We’d better get inside, then,” Katherine says as she steps back from the railing.
“Yes, I guess we should,” I respond.
“Sorry for burdening you with my nervousness.”
“Please, you don’t think I’m not just as nervous? I am, but I’m only beginning my expedition. You’ve been working toward this for years.”
“That’s true.” She crosses her arms, rubbing her shoulders as if warding off a chill.
The ship suddenly lurches, and we both grab the railing. The alarm sounds.
“We’d better get below,” Katherine says.
We head back to our staterooms, struggling for balance with every step.
When I open the door, Tully sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by photographs, camera lenses, and rolls of film, holding his Leica II.
With two twin beds, a writing table, and a chair, the cabin feels small.
I’m as long-limbed as he is, but much thinner.
Tully takes up more than half the remaining space, leaving little room for me.
“The passengers aren’t allowed on deck.” The edge in my voice is unmistakable. I slam the door, cross the short distance to the writing table, and drop into the chair. “Katherine and I were on deck having a conversation when they ordered us to our staterooms.”
“What choice did they have? We’re sailing into a tropical storm.” Tully sets down his camera, folds his arms, and rests his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin in his hands. “Well, that means we’ll be stuck with each other’s company until after the storm.”
“So, you’re talking to me now? By the way, that was a harsh thing to say.”
“I figured I’d say it before you did.” He touches his stomach, grimacing as the ship’s hull tilts and sways.
My heart sinks. “Are you seasick?”
“Is that a hint of satisfaction I hear in your tone?”
“Never. Your discomfort brings me no pleasure.”
“Unlike you, dear, I don’t find a rocking ship thrilling. I’m trying my best not to lie flat on the floor and weep.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So join me on the floor.” Tully pats the space opposite him as he gathers his lenses and camera parts, clearing a spot for me.
“Stop debating and sit with me.”
“Okay, okay.” I rise from the chair to my knees, then angle my hips toward the floor, tucking my legs to the side.
“Now, isn’t that better?”
“If you say so,” I reply sourly, even though I relish his attention.
“What are you doing with these photos?” I notice that most of them are of me: Vivian Jean sitting on the edge of their bed, Vivian Jean in the kitchen with Maxi drinking tea, Vivian Jean in the garden pruning flowers, and Vivian Jean at 31st Street Beach with Katherine in the summer of 1933 alongside Clifford.
There’s also a photo of the three of us from nearly fifteen years ago: Clifford, me, and Tully—lined up from tallest to shortest, with Clifford on the left, me in the middle, and Tully on the right.
“Do you remember who took this photo?” I hold it up for Tully to see.
“It was Maxi, with your father’s old Kodak camera.” Tully takes the picture from my hands. “He still has that camera.”
“Why do you have these?” I gesture to the photos scattered across the cabin floor.
“They were in my camera bag. I didn’t know they were there,” Tully replies defensively.
Suddenly, the hull dips sharply, tossing us sideways.
“What kind of godawful storm is this?” Tully exclaims.
“Calm down. It’s just a storm.” I look at him with concern. Tully has never acted this way about anything. I can’t remember ever seeing him scared, except around spiders or the day he found Clifford’s note. “What’s bothering you?”
“Drowning,” he replies flatly.
“Stop joking. What’s on your mind?”
“Did you know the SS Princess capsized in Kingston Harbour two months ago?” Tully places the old photos into his camera bag. “Several passengers and some crew members died.”
“We’ll be through this storm before we reach Kingston Harbour.” I lean forward and gaze intently into his eyes. “That won’t happen to us. We’ve had enough bad luck.”
“Strong winds and turbulent waters.” Tully inspects his camera lenses with fingers that tremble slightly. “There’s no telling what might happen next.”
What’s going on with him? The way he’s speaking suggests something more than just seasickness. “Did you take something? I have some scopolamine tablets.”
“I brought a bag of candied ginger, but it’s not helping.”
“Let’s talk about something other than the storm or the photos. Concentrate on something beyond how you feel,” I suggest.
He frowns. “That won’t work.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s all I’ve been doing lately—feeling things. Besides, I can’t think of anything else.”
“I can,” I say. “I telegrammed Maxi yesterday about Clifford’s note.”
“Oh, you did?”
“I told you I would. That note is why you can’t think of anything else and can hardly talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Not with affection. Not with love. There’s nothing but tension between us. I expected you at least to be civil while we’re on this trip.”
“You’re still upset about the train ride,” he says. “I was hungover. I didn’t have the energy to discuss the note, your father, or any of it.”
The ship tilts to one side. We brace ourselves, palms flat on the floor, our arm muscles tightening to avoid being flung across the stateroom. Tully turns an unpleasant shade of gray.
“Are you going to be sick?” I reach for him.
“No.” He chews his lower lip. “Maybe.” He swallows nervously. “What would Maxi know about a note from Clifford?”
“Maxi has known all three of us for decades.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell her about the day we found it.”
I didn’t want to bring that up. If it’s true, Maxi would know, and I’d be able to see it in her eyes. “I just didn’t.”
He scratches the stubble on his chin. “I have something to tell you. I wanted to say it the other night, but you wouldn’t let me.”
I remember that moment and want to stop him again. “Go on.”
“Clifford and I argued the night before he died.”
That was just hours before he changed the trust fund—a coincidence, nothing more. How many times do I have to remind myself of that? “And this argument was about what?”
“You.”
“Why would you and Clifford argue about me?”
“We went to a nightclub on State Street and had dinner and a few glasses of whiskey. We probably had a few more than we should have, but the disagreement started when he asked me to look after you if anything happened to him.” Tully rubs his fingers over his mouth.
“I told him that’s a brother’s job, and added that nothing would happen to him. ”
“You disagreed about that?”
“Could you let me finish?” Tully glares at his camera bag as if he can peer through the leather to the photos inside. “He claimed to know my deepest secret and, out of the blue, told me I had been in love with you—his wife—since I was fourteen.”
“What did you say?”
“He was right.” Tully stares into my eyes. “But it was just a boy’s crush.”
His bright eyes and flushed cheeks compel me to look away. How long has it been since we shared a moment of tenderness? “You had feelings for me?”
“Be serious, Vivian Jean. Please.”
For the first time in ages, our eyes meet, free from malice or fear. “I am. I didn’t know.”
He chuckles. “Anyway, he made a big deal about my not having had a serious relationship, but I reminded him I wasn’t the marrying kind.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t sound like an argument.
You said you two were drinking and lost track of common sense, which is what it sounds like.
Clifford and I barely saw you after we got married.
You were on the road, traveling back and forth across the country, playing baseball for two years straight.
” I pretend to laugh. “When did this great love affair happen? When you only showed up for Christmas dinner and my birthday?”
“I never missed your birthday,” Tully says quietly.
“A coincidence.”
“Now, what did I say about coincidences?”
“Tully, please.”
“Clifford kept pounding on me. He wouldn’t drop it. He called me a liar. And with so many whiskeys in me, I confessed. I told him I loved you and couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Not as husband and wife.”
Words escape me. How could this have happened? How could I have missed his feelings? He was a friend before becoming my brother-in-law or my husband. All I can do is slowly and methodically shake my head, pressing a finger to my temple to ease the throbbing pain in my head.
“Two weeks after the funeral, you found out you were pregnant, and the major insisted that a Hartfield man had to raise a Hartfield child.” Tully uncrosses his legs and stands up. “We were married, and it was so easy to be with you. It felt like coming home to the heart I thought I didn’t have.”
“Oh, Tully. I loved Clifford, but I fell in love with you, too, and it didn’t happen overnight. Don’t you remember the first months we spent together after my miscarriage?”
He was the reason I survived after I lost the baby. He saved my life. His kindness, his attentiveness, and his understanding. His unwavering support helped me through the bleakest hours and guided me toward rediscovering myself and, ultimately, my heart.
I extend my hand. “Help me up.”
He does.
Standing before him, I gently cup his chin. “I know you feel guilty about how much we care for each other, and I do, too. But I refuse to think that Clifford thought you and I were having an affair. He never said that to you, did he?”
Tully closes his eyes. “He didn’t have to. He wrote it in the note.”
“Your guilt for no reason will ruin us. That argument was your brother telling you to move on with your life. He cared about your happiness and didn’t want you to suffer. I’ll prove that he didn’t write that note about us. Just wait and see.”
“You believe Jamaica will fix us,” he says.
“I know Maxi’s stories of the silk cotton tree as well as you do—the legends, the duppies, the whole rigamarole.
But it’s just a myth. It’s magic, and I don’t believe in magic, superstition, or spirits.
I don’t think you do either. You’re looking for a way to save a marriage that was never meant to be.
Jamaica, with its Obeah or silk cotton tree, won’t change anything between us. Not a goddamned thing.”