Passage

“Yes. When you find out from her, you can have me paged.” And not before, she added silently. She started for the door.

“Wait, you can’t go yet,” Maisie said. “You just got here. I’ve got a whole bunch of stuff to tell you.”

“Two minutes,” Joanna said, “and then I have to go.”

“Are you going out on a date?”

“No, I’m going to Dish Night.”

“Dish Night? What’s that?”

Joanna explained how she and Vielle got together to eat popcorn and watch movies. “So I’ve really got to go,” she said, patting Maisie’s feet through the covers. “Bye, kiddo. I’ll come see you tomorrow, and you can tell me all about the Hindenburg.”

“Not the Hindenburg,” Maisie said. “I don’t like it anymore.”

Joanna looked at her, surprised. “How come?” Was it possible a disaster had gotten too grisly even for her?

“It was boring.”

“So what are you reading now?” Joanna asked, leaning over to pick up Maisie’s discarded book. “Peter Pan. Good book, huh?”

Maisie shrugged. “I think the part where Tinkerbell almost dies and they save her just by everybody believing in fairies is stupid.”

I can imagine, Joanna thought.

“I like the part where Peter Pan says to die would be an awfully big adventure, though,” she said. “Did you know there were a whole bunch of babies on the Lusitania?”

“The Lusitania? You mean the ship that got torpedoed by the Germans in World War I?”

“Yes,” Maisie said happily. She reached under the covers and pulled out an enormous book with a tornado on the cover. Which explained the sensation of abruptly checked movement Joanna had felt when she walked in. “There were all these babies on the ship,” Maisie said, opening the book. “They tied lifejackets to their bassinets, but it didn’t do any good. The babies still all drowned.”

Well, so much for the “too grisly” theory. “This is Dean and Willie,” Maisie said, showing Joanna a picture of two little boys in white sailor suits. “They drowned, too. And here’s the funerals.” Joanna looked dutifully at the photo of a phalanx of priests in white surplices officiating over rows of coffins.

“One of the Lusitania stewards kept saying everything was all right, that they weren’t sinking, and there was nothing to worry about,” Maisie said. “He shouldn’t have done that, should he?”

“No, not if the ship was sinking.”

“I hate when people lie. You know that dog named Ulla on the Hindenburg?”

“The German shepherd?”

Maisie nodded. “He didn’t get saved. The mom and dad just said he did. He got burned up, and the mom and dad got another German shepherd and told their kids it was Ulla. So they wouldn’t feel bad.” She looked belligerently at Joanna. “I don’t think parents should lie to their kids about dying, do you?”

“No,” Joanna said, afraid of where this was going, of what Maisie would ask next. “I don’t.”

“There was a poodle on the Lusitania,” Maisie said, and showed her a picture of it and of bodies washed onto the shore, of the Lusitania foundering helplessly in the water, smoke and fire all around.

“I’ve really got to go, Maisie,” Joanna said. “I told my friend I’d bring some cream cheese, and I’ve got to stop at the store on the way.”

“Cream cheese?” Maisie said. “I thought you said you ate popcorn.”

“We usually do,” Joanna said, wondering again what Vielle was up to and what she wanted to talk about that made it necessary for her to come early. “But this time we’re eating cream cheese, and I’ve got to go pick it up.” She started out.

“Wait!” Maisie yelped. “I have to tell you about Helen first.”

“Helen?”

“This little girl on the Lusitania,” Maisie said, and hurried on before Joanna could stop her, “she looked all over for her mom, but she couldn’t find her anywhere, so she ran up to this man, and said, ‘Please, mister, will you take me with you?’ and he said, ‘Stay right there, Helen,’ and ran to get her a lifejacket.”

And he never saw her again, Joanna thought, knowing the type of story Maisie usually told. But, surprisingly, Maisie was saying, “…and he ran back and tied the lifejacket on her and then he picked her up and took her to look for a lifeboat, but it was already going down the side.” Maisie paused dramatically. “So what do you think he did?”

He tried to save her, but he couldn’t, Joanna thought, looking at Maisie. And she drowned. “I don’t know,” Joanna said.

“He threw Helen into the boat,” Maisie said triumphantly, “and then he jumped in, too, and they both got saved.”

“I like that story,” Joanna said.

“Me, too,” Maisie said, ” ’cause he saved her. And he didn’t tell her everything would be all right.”

“Sometimes people do that because they hope things will be all right,” Joanna said, “or because they’re afraid the person will be frightened or sad if they know the truth. I think that’s probably why the parents lied to their children about Ulla, because they wanted to protect them.”

“They still shouldn’t’ve,” Maisie said, her jaw set. “People should tell you the truth, even if it’s bad. Shouldn’t they?”