Page 62 - Titanic: Forbidden Stories Hollywood Forgot

48 Jack Fritscher

“This is a charade,” I said. “None of us knows how to
take care of ourselves.”
Molly tossed me a look. “I oughta slap you,” she said.
She dragged me up the slanting A Deck to her suite,
rip ping open her closet, throwing gown upon gown on
the bed.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve never worn women’s clothes in
my life and I certainly won’t now.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I can’t.”
“Join the charade,” she said.
It was 1:48 AM by the clock on Molly’s escritoire. She
threw a red ballgown over me. “Why red?” I said.
“Because men always want to save a scarlet woman!”
She plopped a heavy fur coat across my shoul ders, turned
up the collar, but toned it at my throat, so recently oc-
cupied by Brice and Max, and plopped the broadest
brimmed hat she could find on my head.
“This is cowardly, you know,” I said.
“This,” she corrected me, “is survival. You and your
kind should understand that.”
Me and my kind. How often had I heard that. But my
kind had narrowed down to Edward, God knew where,
locked down in the hold of the ship. “I don’t care about
my kind.”
“I care about your kind,” Molly said. She kissed me
almost tenderly. “Come on, Queen Michael! Follow me!
As far as I can tell, it’s every man for himself, and hell
will take the hindmost!”
Truly, I didn’t want to die by drowning or freezing in
the dark cold waters of the North At lantic. I understood
the code of old-style manners followed gamely by the

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