Passage

The door to the second-class stairway was standing open, her red tennis shoe lying on its side on the threshold. Joanna leaped over it and pelted down the stairs, past the A La Carte Restaurant, down the next flight, around the landing. And stopped.

Two steps below the landing, tied to the railings on either side, stretched a strip of yellow tape. “Crime Scene,” it said. “Do Not Cross.” And below it, submerging the stairs, pale blue, shiny as paint, the water.

“It’s underwater,” Joanna said, and sat down, holding on to the railing for support. “The passage is underwater.”

Maybe it’s just the stairway, she thought, maybe it hasn’t reached the passage, but of course it had. The second-class stairway was all the way in the stern, and the ship was going down by the head. And below the tape water was pouring in everywhere, drowning the mail room and Scotland Road and the swimming pool, the squash court and the staterooms and the glass-enclosed deck. And the way out, the way back.

There has to be another way out, Joanna thought, staring blindly at the pale blue water. The Apaches cut the wires, but Carl was still able to get the mail through. There has to be another way out. The lifeboats! she thought, and scrambled to her feet, tore up the stairs and back along the Boat Deck.

The boats were gone, the deck deserted except for the band, which had finished “Goodnight, Irene.” They were searching through their music for the next piece, arranging the sheet music on their stands.

Joanna ran to the railing and leaned far over it, trying to see the lifeboat the sailor had been loading. It was miles below her, almost to the water. She couldn’t make out anything in the darkness but the pale gleam of the sailor’s white uniform. It was too far for her to jump, but maybe not too far for them to hear her. “Hello!” she called down, cupping her hand around her mouth. “Ahoy! Can you hear me?”

There was no movement of the white uniform, no sound. “I need you to deliver a message for me,” she shouted, but the band had struck up a waltz, and her voice was lost in the sound of the violin, of the piano.

They can’t hear me, she thought. She needed to drop a message down to them. She fumbled in her pockets for a pen and paper. She came up with the mustached man’s note, but no pen, not even a stub of pencil. “Just a minute!” she called down to the boat. “Hang on!” and ran down the deck to the aft staircase and down to the writing room on the Promenade Deck, praying, “Don’t let it be flooded, don’t let it be flooded.”

It wasn’t. The Reading and Writing Room sat empty, the yellow-shaded lamps still burning on the writing desks. Joanna grabbed a sheet of stationery out of the rack, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and scribbled, “Richard, the NDE is a distress signal the brain sends as it’s dying—”

“What’s going on?” a voice said. Joanna looked up. It was Greg Menotti. He was wearing jogging shorts and a Nike T-shirt. “Somebody told me the ship’s sinking,” he said, laughing.

“It is,” Joanna said, writing, ” — and you have to find out what neurotransmitter it’s trying to activate.” She scrawled her name at the bottom, snatched up the sheet of paper, and ran out onto the deck.

“What do you mean?” Greg said, jogging up beside her. “It’s unsinkable.”

She leaned over the railing into the darkness. “Ahoy!” she called, waving the sheet of paper. “Lifeboat!”

No answer. No gleam of white. Only the fathomless blackness.

She flung herself away from the railing and along the deck to the first-class lounge.

“But it can’t be sinking,” Greg said, sprinting after her.

She yanked open the stained-glass door of the lounge. “If it’s sinking,” Greg said, “we’d better get in one of the boats.”

She ran over to the mirrored mahogany bar. “The boats are all gone.”

“They can’t all be gone,” he said, panting, holding his arm. “There has to be a way off this ship.”

“There isn’t,” she said, grabbing a bottle of wine off the bar.

He snatched at the wrist of her hand holding the bottle. “I work out at the health club three times a week!”

“It doesn’t matter. The Titanic had sixteen watertight compartments, she had the latest safety features, and it didn’t matter. An iceberg gashed her side and — ” she said, and remembered her blouse and the little ooze of blood.

“It doesn’t look like a very bad cut,” Maisie had said, scrutinizing the diagram of the Titanic. And it wasn’t, but belowdecks, inside, water was pouring into the watertight compartments, spilling over into the engine room and the chest cavity and the lungs. “How bad is it?” Captain Smith asked, and the architect shook his head. “It’s nicked the aorta.”

“What is it?” Greg asked, letting go of her wrist. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, thinking, You have to get the message to Richard. “I need something to open the wine bottle with.”

“There isn’t time. We have to get up to the Boat Deck,” he said, and his face was furious, frantic, like the face of the boy in the Avalanche jacket, whirling toward her…