TWO DAYS LATER I was back at the library. Mr. Kenyatta was looking especially fine, sporting a navy-blue suit and red paisley tie. “Hi, Mr. Kenyatta. You look really nice today.”
“Thank you, Miss Toni. I will be taking my Canadian citizenship test later this afternoon, and I feel that one should look as dignified as the occasion demands.”
“Which reminds me, I said hi to the professor for you and he says hi back. Well, he actually said to send you his kindest regards, which I figure is even better, right?” Mr. Kenyatta busied himself with a file folder, but if he could have blushed, I think he would have.
“I have significant news for you, Miss Toni. I have managed to unearth the mystery of the Noronic.” He slid the file folder over to me, but he looked pained as he did so. It was bursting with marked newspaper clippings. I went to flip it open, but he put his hand over the folder.
“Might I suggest that you go to one of the tables to peruse the clippings in private?”
“Why, what is it?”
“We could not find the Noronic as a fine-dining establishment because it never was one, Miss Toni. The Noronic was a vessel that sailed to various ports of call on the Great Lakes. It was considered the most beautiful passenger ship in all of Canada.”
“But that’s great! It all makes sense. The dinner menu would be from the Noronic’s dining room. You’re absolutely amazing, Mr. Kenyatta. What a breakthrough!”
But Mr. Kenyatta did not look amazed with himself.
“Was, Miss Toni. It was the most beautiful passenger ship in the country.” He finally met my eyes. “On September 14, 1949, when the Noronic docked in Toronto, hailing from Detroit, it caught fire. The vessel and the city were ill prepared. It remains, to this day, the greatest single tragedy in Toronto’s history. Over 150 souls lost their lives in the fire.”
Fire? A fire? Mr. Kenyatta continued to speak, but it was just like my last meeting with Mrs. Hazelton. I heard the music of his beautiful voice, but I couldn’t make out the actual words. Was that it? Were my parents on board? They had to have been, or why would I have the menu? Was that the fire of my nightmares? The shattering glass?
The words stopped after a time, and Mr. Kenyatta led me to a table with a reading lamp at the far corner of the library.
I wanted to throw up on it.
When I got a better grip on myself, I opened the folder. The clippings were yellowed and curling, orphaned from their newsprint homes. Each was tagged with the date and source. But the photographs…the photographs were depictions of hell. I picked up a clipping from the Toronto Daily Star, dated September 17, 1949.
160 DIE IN SHIP FIRE
IN TORONTO HARBOR
Fear Bay Hides Bodies of Many Who
Leaped Heroism and Horror Mingled
as
Flames Sweep S.S. Noronic
Firemen Comb Ruins for Dead
Nearly 200 persons perished in the fire which destroyed the S.S. Noronic, biggest pleasure ship on the Great Lakes, at the Canada Steamship Lines dock in Toronto early today. This was the estimate of firemen as they cut their way through the charred and twisted wreckage.
Fire Chief Peter Herd said there was “no telling” how high the death toll will go, and it might be two or three days before the fate of all the 550 passengers and 180 crew members is known.
Bodies were being taken off the blackened ship by the score…
I had to put the clipping down. Were my parents’ bodies among all those corpses? Those poor, poor people.
Went Up Like Paint Factory
“It went up like a paint factory,” said one witness. British United Press quoted survivors as saying fire extinguishers failed to work when they grabbed them from the walls to battle the flames sweeping through the hallway. “There was negligence on somebody’s part,” the news service quoted Don Church, Silverlake, Ontario, as saying. Another passenger said the extinguisher he seized had no fluid in it…
My mind swept to the panic and horror of the passengers on board. What a contrast to the fire at our orphanage. How orderly we were in comparison, a bunch of kids and a couple of adults. The Little Ones all did as they were told, just like we had practiced. And we Seven…me, Malou, Sara, Dot, Tess, Cady and dear Betty, my sisters…No one could have asked for more from us.
Burned beyond recognition.
Tarpaulins were used to carry the dead off the deck after they were carried there by firemen. Some were burned beyond recognition. In some cases only bones were found.
Police officers and firemen, who lifted the remains into the improvised stretchers, which took two and three bodies at a time, were visibly shaken. “I hope I never see that again,” said one officer, his face white…
Apparently, many of the dead remained unidentified. Even if I found and combed the death lists, I couldn’t be completely sure one way or the other. I closed the folder. I wanted to unsee what I had just seen; failing that, I wanted to run. But there was no riverbank for me to run to. I had to sit with the images, with the horror. Is that where my nightmares were born? On the Noronic? I didn’t know how long I was rooted there, wincing at flames that no one else could see.
“Miss Toni?” A gentle hand on my shoulder. Mr. Kenyatta’s hand. “It’s late. I have the citizenship exam to attend, and I believe you have your work.”
I got up slowly, happy to have Mr. Kenyatta lead me out of the stacks. We went our separate ways when we hit the street. I hope I wished him good luck. I hope my manners kicked in automatically. I don’t remember.
It was busier than usual at work, and there was no time to talk to anyone. A singer named Buffy Sainte-Marie was coming in for the evening set with the Ramblers. There was a lot of excitement around her tune “Universal Soldier,” a haunting and powerful song that she actually wrote in the Purple Onion. People started piling in really early in order to secure a table. Rachel was scurrying from table to table and only crying intermittently. Big Bob was meeting and greeting like his life depended on it. Mr. Goldman was understandably preoccupied with the evening’s sets and his guest artist. And Ethan still acted as if I had a contagious disease.
I needed Betty. I needed the others. They would make sense of the Noronic and what it meant or, at the very least, just hold me.
I needed a hug.
I did my work, made and hauled espressos and cappuccinos, cleaned tables, joked with customers, all with flames still licking the corners of my mind. I barely noticed how magnificent Buffy Sainte-Marie was onstage. Nobody once asked how I was or anything about me. Why would they? I was nobody to them. Why would anyone care?
Would there ever be anyone who cared?
The fist gripping my heart loosened as soon as I saw him. Cassidy. It was near closing. He was standing at the back wall, arms crossed, with a smile that was meant only for me. “Hey, you look like you need a friend and a jolt of happy. Come to the Minc with me.”
I didn’t hesitate. “You bet!” I cashed out in record time. When we got outside on the muffled, silent streets, Cassidy didn’t ask what was up or quiz me. He just put his arm around me. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. You’re with me now.”