My 1912 (Titanic)

Short Story

Some dates just stick with you. All you have to do is hear a certain year, no matter how that year is mentioned, and thoughts will always return to an unforgettable event that is forever linked to it. A year by which all other happenings are measured.

For me such a year was not only before my lifetime but prior to my grandparents as well, their parents, who had left this world long before I had entered it being the only ones in our family who could’ve possibly remembered hearing the biggest news of 1912 by either word-of-mouth or seeing it splashed across a newspaper. Of how the grandest ship ever to set sail would never complete its maiden voyage, its grand staircase, opulent chandeliers, fine China and silver utensils, all the luxury in the world unable to save it from the human condition of pride and ego.

Sure I had heard of Titanic here or there in a textbook or two while growing up, just as I had caught occasional glimpses of the old lady who lived down the street from my family and me, but it wasn’t until my senior year of high school when one led me to the other.

I was seventeen and summer was fast approaching, ready to put pen to paper for the last time in the form of a history report for Mrs. Stewart’s history class, a subject I had mostly slept through and therefore needed the credit of this last assignment in order to get a passing grade. The famous ocean disaster had been on a short list of options to choose from, the others of which I don’t even remember. Maybe I had chosen randomly, but what follows leads me to believe it was anything but.

Back in those days research involved going to an actual library and using a card catalog, not sitting in the comforts of your own home and stroking a few keys to have the world at your fingertips. There were microfilm readers however, which in a way was like a primitive version, and it was by this means that I came across an old newspaper article about Titanic that was not only from my hometown, but my home street.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that old, but for someone my age something that had been printed three decades before I was born was thought of as pretty ancient. Anyway, the headline read, “Titanic’s Oldest Living Survivor Recalls Harrowing Event Half-Century Later.” That’s not what sent the lightning bolt of shock from my eyes to my gut. It was the picture of the survivor, Rose Calvert, who looked a lot like the old lady down my street, only younger.

The teenage brain can be like a tangled mess of Christmas lights, still needing a number of years before it’s all straightened out and able to shine bright and beautiful. So instead of just going up and knocking on her front door to confirm it was her, nerves had me wasting a couple of days spying on her from afar with a pair of binoculars.  But I needed to get that report done if I were to graduate, so I inconspicuously walked past the old lady’s house one afternoon at four-thirty, a half hour before her timely routine of checking her mail, darting my hand inside her mailbox and quickly fumbling through the advertisements hoping to find an actual piece of mail with her name on it. 

Just as I spotted her name on an electric bill a soft but sturdy whack came crashing down on my head, the shock of it rattling me more than anything else. Thankfully it had been the bristle side of a broom, the old lady wielding it seeming to have come out of nowhere and ready to strike again if I didn’t talk fast.

“Mrs.- Ms. Calvert, I’m sorry, I just-“

“Who are you? Why you trying to steal my mail?” she demanded to know with such a stern but controlled voice.

“I- I’m sorry. I’m not trying to still your mail. I’m just- I wanted to make sure it was you. The last survivor of Titanic. I’m doing a school report.”

After taking two seconds to look at my face as if scanning it for honesty she pulled back the broom as if uncocking a pistol. “Why didn’t you just come to the door then? That’s what doors are for.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just-”