The Errant Ricochet–Text

As I look back over many years to that hot summer, I recall that, as a sixteen-year-old teenager, my personal values were largely defined and intact. I must say, however, that I had no concept of personal sacrifice or how that virtue intertwined with integrity.

But my resolution of the mystery that presented itself that summer made me understand how deep human love can reach, as well as the true meaning of selflessness. To this day, I marvel at the sacrifice accepted and endured by the man I had the privilege to know ever so briefly.

Whitehorse Mountain, Pennsylvania

June 15, 1955

“Hello. My name’s Max Raeburn. Call me Max. What’s yours?” Those were the first words from the stranger whose legacy I painstakingly unraveled over the next eleven months.

Minutes earlier, I had been spending the morning upstairs in my room, tinkering with the crystal radio I had built from a kit my dad had given me. He hoped to keep me busy while I spent the summer on the farm with my grandfather’s sister, Jean.

Looking out my window, I saw a stranger approach the house, likely a hobo in search of a meal. The man looked a little rough, so I headed downstairs to make sure our visitor knew there was a man in the house. Well, almost a man—I’d be a senior when I returned to high school in the fall.

I arrived just as my aunt was showing our guest to the table. In contrast to the mistrust that prevails in today’s world, it was not uncommon in those days to provide a meal to a stranger walking the roads. A close look confirmed my suspicions. The man’s clothes, although not particularly dirty or unkempt, were definitely showing their age, with a few threadbare areas in the elbows and pants. He was an older man, somewhere in his sixties, I assumed, and he moved slowly. He was of average build, with hair that, although graying, had a considerable red tone. Pronounced wrinkles surrounded a turned-up nose that dominated his face.

He acknowledged my presence with a pleasant smile. “Hello. My name’s Max Raeburn. Call me Max. What’s yours?”

We shook hands. I liked him immediately.

There was a telltale accent in his voice, which I later surmised to be English but at the time just sounded different. He asked about me, but I felt embarrassed to ask questions in return.

Aunt Jean soon produced an overflowing plate of eggs, bacon, ham, and toast, with plenty of hot coffee to wash it all down. Our visitor attacked his meal with a vengeance, and I realized, with sadness, that he was half-starved. He ate everything on his plate and accepted more ham and toast when it was offered. He had nearly finished his coffee when all hell broke loose.

 * * *

 We heard someone screaming, followed by a loud knock at the door. Aunt Jean rushed over to let in a frantic teenager, Jimmy Miller. The son of a neighbor who farmed the fields behind my aunt’s property, Jimmy was several years younger than I.

Jimmy was breathless and nearly incoherent. “Dad’s fallen … come help! Please …”

We all followed Jimmy. From the yard behind Aunt Jean’s house, I could see Mr. Miller’s Allis Chalmers tractor and tilling disc a ways down the hill, in the middle of a field soon to be planted with buckwheat. Jimmy started running, with me on his heels.

Jimmy and I arrived at the tractor, and I could see the reason for his alarm. Mr. Miller lay on the ground, immobile, with blood streaming from his right leg.

Jimmy, now crying, said that while he was driving the tractor, his father, sitting on the fender, had fallen backward to the ground in front of the disc. Before Jimmy could stop the tractor, one of the discs had run up the side of Mr. Miller’s leg, cutting it severely. I bent over Mr. Miller and saw that he was barely conscious. He was pale and sweating and, as I was to learn later, probably in shock from loss of blood. By then, Aunt Jean and Max had arrived.

Max sized up the situation and was the first to speak. “Does anyone have a car?”

Unfortunately, Aunt Jean neither drove nor had a car. Jimmy, still crying, said that his brother Ben had a truck and was just over the hill.

Max spoke quickly. “Run as fast as you can and get your brother and his truck.”

As Jimmy ran off, Max yelled for him to bring something they could use as a stretcher. Jimmy turned, nodded, and continued up the field as Max moved to Mr. Miller’s side.

Max then asked Aunt Jean if she could go back to the house and bring clean bed sheets and alcohol. With Aunt Jean moving as fast as she was able back to the house and Jimmy past the house and running down Route 31, I wondered what I could do to help. Max turned Mr. Miller onto his back. From what I could see, the tiller had cut through the thigh above the knee, maybe as deep as the bone.

Blood was everywhere. Max motioned to me to come sit opposite him, on the other side of Mr. Miller. “Here’s what I want you to do. Apply pressure with the palms of your hands to the area between the upper thigh and the pelvis. Like this.” Max demonstrated. “There’s a major artery there and if you press hard, it will be like applying a tourniquet. Do you think you can do that?”

I did as he said while Max took his penknife and cut the blue denim around the area of the wound.

Mr. Miller stirred and now appeared to be aware of what was happening. Max edged up to his head. “My name’s Max. I want you to remain calm. I have had training in this sort of injury, and I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ve had a serious cut to your leg, but we’re controlling the bleeding. Your son went to get his brother and a truck to take you to a doctor.”

Mr. Miller seemed to understand. Max rolled up his jacket and placed it under Mr. Miller’s head.

As I continued to apply pressure, which seemed to be having the desired effect, I looked up and saw Aunt Jean rushing down the field with sheets and alcohol in hand. Max took one of the sheets, folded it in fourths, and slid it underneath the length of the leg. After he removed the remaining denim, the full extent of the wound was apparent: a wide gash nearly a foot long.

Max tore off a section of sheet, drenched it in alcohol, and scooted up to Mr. Miller’s face. “It’s important that I disinfect the wound. This is going to hurt.”

Max swabbed the wound with alcohol, and Mr. Miller screamed from the pain. Max then fashioned a compress from the remainder of the sheet and placed it over the wound. Using his knife once more, he cut strips into the underlying sheet that he used to tie the compress firmly to the leg. As I continued to apply pressure, I was amazed at the efficiency and speed with which Max had accomplished all this.

It wasn’t long before we saw dust from the pickup truck racing down the dirt road adjacent to the field. Jimmy and his brother Ben ran over with what appeared to be an actual stretcher. I later learned that Ben, who had been an infantryman in World War II, had appropriated the stretcher as one of his souvenirs.

Under Max’s instruction, Ben and Jimmy carried Mr. Miller to the bed of the truck. Max gave final instructions to Jimmy about how to apply pressure, but to release it every so often. They sped off up the dirt road for the twenty-minute drive to Berlin, the closest town where there’d be a doctor.

With the excitement over, Max, Aunt Jean, and I walked slowly back to the house. “How did you know to do all that?” I asked.

“I served in World War I as a corpsman, a medic. I handled many severe wounds.”

Max did not elaborate further, and I decided not to ask any more questions because it was obvious from the way Max walked that he was worn out from all the excitement.

By the time we reached the house, and having been speechless during the entire incident, Aunt Jean regained her composure. “I think we’ve all earned our keep today. I insist you have dinner with us and spend the night.”

Max was hesitant, but Aunt Jean politely reminded him that he would surely want to hear the news from the doctor regarding his patient. It was now about three in the afternoon.

After washing up at the outdoor hand pump, we retired to the cool, screened-in porch of Aunt Jean’s house to drink lemonade. Because the porch spanned the front of the house, it would be easy to see Jimmy and Ben on their return. Max was soon dozing in Aunt Jean’s hickory rocking chair. I quietly left the porch to help Aunt Jean in the kitchen.

She was busy preparing dinner. “You were very brave. I’m proud of you. We’re going to have quite a story to tell your parents.”

It was around six o’clock when Ben and Jimmy pulled up the driveway. They said that Dr. Berloz, in Berlin, used forty stitches to close the wound. He’d also given Mr. Miller a shot of penicillin to fight off any infection. Ben explained that although his father seemed alert, Dr. Berloz insisted he be taken to the Somerset Hospital, about a nine-mile drive, to stay the night. Because of the extreme loss of blood, the doctor thought a transfusion might be necessary. Afterward, confident that the worst was over, Ben and Jimmy decided to return home, eager to inform Mrs. Miller of the good news.

As he left the porch, Ben spoke directly to Max. “Thank you for what you did. Dr. Berloz said that if someone hadn’t done some quick thinking, Dad would have bled to death.”

Ben shook Max’s hand and ran to the pickup truck where Jimmy was waiting.

I have to tell you, I felt pretty darn good about myself. I had assisted in a life-saving operation, had remained cool and calm during the whole affair, and would now have at least one story to tell my grandchildren. I decided then that I really should know more about the stranger who had descended into our lives.

Aunt Jean presented us with a fabulous dinner that evening: fried pork chops with canned green beans from last year’s garden, mashed potatoes and gravy, and fresh-baked warm bread, along with homemade applesauce and iced tea. Of course, let’s not forget the homemade apple pie, baked with just the right amount of cinnamon, and served with vanilla ice cream.

Although Max obviously enjoyed the feast, to my disappointment, he didn’t say much at the table. Aunt Jean asked about his family. Max said he was alone now but had been married in his youth. My efforts at further conversation didn’t lead far. Max seemed tired and hot.

Aunt Jean, sensing that Max was exhausted from the day’s activities, suggested that he sleep in the guest room upstairs. “The bed linens and towels are all fresh, just waiting for you.”

Max seemed genuinely appreciative. “Thank you so much. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had such a fine supper.”

Max rose from the table, walked toward the steps, slumped slowly to his knees, and fell to the floor.

Aunt Jean and I ran over to him. He seemed barely conscious. While Aunt Jean rushed to get a pillow, I straightened out Max’s legs and cradled his head. His breathing seemed weak. Because I didn’t know what to do, I simply held his head and reassured him he would be all right. I had learned at least that much from watching Max attend to Mr. Miller that afternoon.

And then, for only seconds, Max opened his eyes. I could tell he could hear me, and I started to repeat the same words of encouragement. I stopped when I realized he was trying to say something.

Max’s two words were faint, but clear: “Tell Violet …”

But that was all! Max’s head fell limply into my arms.

 * * *

 Aunt Jean belonged to a small country church in the nearby hamlet of Glen Savage. Mr. Miller and his family attended the same congregation. Everyone agreed this was the first time an outsider, and a nonmember of the church, to boot, was to be buried in the church graveyard, which lay to the rear of the small white, wood-framed structure. The church elders and Mr. Miller concluded that it was the right thing to do. The church had made a respectable attempt to find relatives, but with no success. There were no Raeburns in our area.

Even though I had known Max for scarcely six hours, it seemed like much longer. I felt sad that we—Aunt Jean, Mr. Miller, Ben, Jimmy, and I, total strangers to him—had been the only ones to share his last hours of life. I knew that at least one other person would want to know of his passing. But that’s all I knew!

 * * *

 Even the excitement of the remnants of two hurricanes, Connie and Diane, that struck Pennsylvania that summer, couldn’t distract me from what had happened in June, nor the fact that I had incurred what I considered a personal obligation. While listening to the weather reports on my crystal radio (a self-powered device available long before the common use of batteries) during power outages, I came up with a plan to go beyond the efforts of the church, to conduct my own investigation.

I decided that the Social Security Administration might be a good place to start. Aunt Jean, who received a check from them every month, explained the origins of the program and agreed that Max could also have been receiving checks. Using the address from the envelope of her check, I sent a handwritten letter explaining what had happened and asked if they could possibly help me locate Max’s next of kin. I put my home in Berlin as the return address.

I left Aunt Jean to return home at the end of August, a week before my senior school year began. I had about given up hope when my mother handed me an envelope in mid-October.

My plan had worked! Inside was a typed letter, giving me the last address to which Max’s checks had been sent. It was in Cleveland, Ohio.

 * * *

 I wondered what to do and rattled off questions to my parents. “Should I assume Violet lives in Cleveland? Should I send her a letter and explain that Max has died and is buried here?” The idea of a letter didn’t seem right to me. Too cold. Plus, as young and naive as I was, I still understood that Max’s living as a hobo implied something out of the ordinary. It didn’t matter. No doubt, Violet still cared about Max, and the news would be difficult for her.

Mom and Dad agreed with my assessment. They also wisely explained that I had no idea of Max’s relationship to Violet. She might be a wife, a friend, or even an ex-wife who had since remarried.

Dad’s response was the last thing I expected. “Why don’t you go to Cleveland and tell Violet firsthand what happened?” He suggested we use part of the upcoming Thanksgiving break to make the trip. Although we stood the chance that Violet would not be home, we decided the risk was worth taking. As a bonus, Dad said I could do as much of the driving as I wanted—at least until he could no longer endure the tension.

 * * *

 We arrived in Cleveland without incident. Finally, five months after watching Max walk up the sidewalk, I was sitting outside the house where he probably had lived. It felt spooky. Dad gave me some final encouragement and said he would wait in the car.

I knocked on the door and sensed movement inside. I thought to myself that at the very least, we hadn’t driven four hours to find an empty house.

An older gentleman came to the door—older, I’d say, than Max was. He was short, much shorter than I, with a mustache and brown, curly hair.

“Is Violet at home, please?” I asked politely.

Just as courteously came back the reply. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong address. There’s no Violet here.”

I had anticipated this unfortunate possibility. “Do you happen to be a friend or acquaintance of Max Raeburn?”

The man’s eyes squared with mine. “Do you know where Max is?”

I said I did and had some very important information to relay. At this point, the man introduced himself as Jay Palmer, shook my hand, and invited me inside.

I was nervous. “My name is Tom Davis. My father and I have driven here from Berlin, in western Pennsylvania.”

Then, while we sat at opposite ends of a sofa, I related Max’s story with all of the empathy I could muster. When I got to the point where I told of Max’s passing, Mr. Palmer rubbed his eyes. I tried to reassure him. “Max is surely on his way to heaven. He was a real hero that afternoon.”

Mr. Palmer left the room, only to return with photographs of Max and him together, one of which he offered to me as a gift.

“Are you sure Max never referred to someone called Violet?” I insisted that was the name Max had mentioned as he lay dying.

Mr. Palmer expressed surprise. “I’ve known Max for more than thirty years, and that name never came up. I’m sorry.”

So much for my ex-wife theory. At least, I thought, I’d completed the task I had set out to do. I had told someone close to Max what had happened. Mr. Palmer could now pass the word on to others who had known him.

I stood to leave when Mr. Palmer, still quietly reflecting to himself, looked up. “Did Max tell you anything about himself? Did he tell you he had a most unusual experience as a young man?” Mr. Palmer waved me back to the sofa.

“What do you mean?”

For the next ten minutes I listened, spellbound, to a story that would normally have come out of Hollywood. Mr. Palmer swore it was true and said Max gave him the details not long after they had met in 1922.

About this time, Dad was knocking on the front door. I introduced Dad, and Mr. Palmer thanked us for having driven so far to give him the news personally.

We had driven several blocks before Dad broke the silence. “So, are you going to keep everything to yourself?”

Dad’s words snapped me back to reality. “I’m sorry. Dad, you will not believe what happened to Max when he was only a few years older than I am now. Max was on the Titanic when it sank and barely escaped with his life.”

After hearing the entire tale Mr. Palmer had told me, Dad was as amazed as I.

Simultaneously, we said the words together: “But who’s Violet?”

 * * *

 The rest of 1955 came and went. The unusually hot summer of that year was followed by a massive February ice storm that broke tree limbs and caused havoc across western Pennsylvania. My crystal radio kept me on top of these minor disasters during the long power outages.

During this time, I still couldn’t get Max out of my mind. The name Violet had to have some significance for him to have mentioned it in his dying breath. Equally confusing was why the name meant nothing to his good friend, Mr. Palmer.

By April, I had an idea. The new information, that Max had been on the Titanic, was key. It was a long shot at best. But my parents, having listened to my theories for months, were as curious as I was. They agreed that it was worth a try. I solicited the help of Mr. Palmer, who placed an ad for me in the Cleveland newspaper. The ad, asking for information from anyone who had been on the Titanic, concluded with my name and address, together with the announcement that I was a journalism student conducting a research project. Two pieces of information gave me hope that my approach might work. First, because Mr. Palmer knew nothing about Violet and had known Max since 1922, perhaps she was somehow connected to Max’s Titanic experience. Second, if Violet was so important to Max, he might have chosen to live near her.

Weeks passed. After school one day, during the first week of May, Mom greeted me at the door. “There’s a piece of mail here that I think you’ve been expecting.”

She handed me a letter with a Cleveland postmark. I ripped open the envelope to learn that the writer could help me, and I could interview her in Cleveland. The handwritten letter was signed, “Mrs. Morris.”

I was ecstatic, although Mom gave me pause. “Don’t get your hopes up! She might have nothing to do with your mystery.”

I wrote back immediately, suggesting an upcoming weekend for a meeting. Although high school graduation was coming up soon, I had to strike while the iron was hot. Since I had suitably impressed my father with my driving during the Thanksgiving trip, Mom and Dad agreed that I could make the trip on my own using the family automobile, their almost-new ’54 Chevrolet.

(I must note—now, as I am about the same age as my parents were then, and with a teen-age son about to get his driver’s permit—that it would take a great (should I say extraordinary?) leap of faith for me to allow my son, by himself, to take our family car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to a large city, in a neighboring state, four hours distant. I was blessed indeed!)

On May 19, a Saturday, I was on the road by six. Because Mr. Palmer insisted I stay at his house, I didn’t have to worry about finding a motel and could concentrate on my meeting Mrs. Morris. Luckily, my drive to Cleveland went well, and I found Mrs. Morris’s address.

I knocked on the door of the two-story house. An older lady answered and said, “Are you Tom Davis?”

“Yes. You must be Mrs. Morris.”

She smiled pleasantly and held out her hand. “Yes, I’m Cynthia Morris. Please come in.”

So much for my hope that I would be standing face-to-face with Violet. I became very discouraged, at once realizing that my trip might be nothing more than one big wild-goose chase.

Mrs. Morris was friendly and had a regal air about her that made her slight accent appear more noticeable than it actually was. She was a tall woman with graying hair and smooth skin. We walked through the house and entered a sunroom bathed in bright, indirect light. Mrs. Morris had a teapot waiting and asked me about my high school research project. I had rehearsed appropriate answers.

Anxious to change the topic, I reached into my school bag and took out a notebook and pencil. “Is it true you were on the Titanic when it sank in 1912?”

Mrs. Morris turned serious. “Yes, it is true. I was one of the survivors. Based upon your newspaper ad, I assume you would like details of why I happened to be on that ship, what happened on that horrible night, and what I did afterward.”

I maintained my ruse as the sympathetic journalist. “Yes. I understand how hard it must be for you to relive those memories, but I would appreciate all you could tell me.” I took notes as Mrs. Morris relived growing up in England and the decision to move to the United States.

“I was a teenager, nineteen years of age. I had fallen in love with and married a young man just two years my senior. I was madly in love, which is probably why I agreed to go with him to the new country, as we called America back then.

“Actually, it made quite a bit of sense at the time. Neither of us had family ties in England because, you see, we were both orphans. In fact, we had grown up in the same orphanage in London. We were young and felt a start in a new world, away from the loneliness we associated ourselves with as children, would be the best medicine for our lives. My husband, who spent three years in the service, had become friends with a gentleman of some wealth who had moved to the United States the previous year. He agreed to be our sponsor and provide us with housing and a job here in Cleveland. That is how we came to book passage on the Titanic.”

The mention of a husband caught my attention. Also, the fact that he had been in the service, possibly a precursor to his involvement in World War I.

Mrs. Morris continued. “You realize, of course, that neither of us had any money to speak of. You’ve probably seen photographs of the elegant interiors of that ship. I can assure you we were not part of that.” She smiled sweetly. “We were third-class passengers, what is commonly called steerage. Nonetheless, we were deliriously happy, very much in love, proud to be part of the hoopla associated with one of the grandest ships ever built, and anxious to move to a country that held so much promise.”

As if the next part of her story required special effort, Mrs. Morris paused to sip her tea. She turned in her seat toward the light, and her voice grew soft.

“All of that promise left our lives on the night of April 14, 1912. It was Sunday. We felt and heard the ship hitting the iceberg. That was about twenty minutes before midnight, when we were already asleep. Because our third-class berths were in the forward part of the ship, we were aware of the seriousness of the incident long before the first- and second-class passengers. There was considerable commotion, and our section soon had several inches of water on the floor.

“It wasn’t long after midnight when word spread that the crew was lowering lifeboats and that women and children should move up and leave the ship. I was terrified but assumed this measure was only preventive, that once the damage was brought under control, we would come back. Most of the lifeboats were wooden. After considerable confusion and delay, I was put on one of the few remaining collapsible, canvas lifeboats a little after two o’clock. I kissed my husband, told him I loved him dearly, and said good-bye.”

Again, Mrs. Morris paused. Her eyes seemed to reflect the horrible images flashing through her mind.

“To this day, I ask myself if I would have gotten on that lifeboat had I known the Titanic would be completely gone within the next half hour. I never saw Max again.”

I had been taking notes all during this testimony. As I heard her next to last word, I could feel the blood drain from my face. I became faint, and it took all my conscious willpower to remain in control.

Mrs. Morris couldn’t help but notice that something was wrong. “Are you feeling all right?”

I coughed, struggling to regain my composure. “Yes, ma’am. Please go on.”

“Fortunately, for us in the lifeboats, the ocean liner Carpathia came to our rescue and took us aboard the next morning. Of the 2,207 Titanic passengers, there were only about 700 of us on the lifeboats. Max was one of more than fifteen hundred souls lost to the sea. I had hoped he might get on one of the final lifeboats, but I learned later that morning that our boat, Collapsible D, was the last one put into the water. I was heartbroken and literally in shock. Once aboard the Carpathia, I was treated and allowed to share a passenger’s cabin, a space I did not leave until we reached New York City.

“Once there, I proceeded to Cleveland as Max and I had planned and started a new life—again completely alone, just as in the orphanage before I met Max. To my good fortune, our sponsor was indeed there waiting, just as he promised. He made sure I was well cared for, at least until my daughter was born.”

“Daughter?” The words flew from my mouth before I could think.

“Oh! I guess I didn’t mention I was pregnant when we began our journey.” A brief smile passed Mrs. Morris’s lips. “Max was so happy. He couldn’t wait for our child to arrive. Sadly, he never saw his daughter. Two years later, I met a wonderful man here in Cleveland and married. I wish you could meet my husband, but he is away.”

I sat there, having taken it all in, with my mind racing, and it was all I could do not to blurt out my secret. Obviously, Max had been Cynthia’s husband, but why did she think he had died? Why didn’t Max go to her afterwards? And still, Max had not mentioned the name Cynthia as he lay dying. I had to think very quickly.

“As the child of a Titanic survivor, do you think your daughter might add something to my research project? Do you think she’d mind talking to me?”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Morris replied. “Violet—her last name is Wilson now—lives only a couple of miles from here. I’ll give her a call.”

Finally, there it was, the name I had been searching for! I was thankful Mrs. Morris left the room because, once again, I became lightheaded, and my heart hammered. I was within a phone call of completing my obligation to Max.

 * * *

 To my relief, Violet agreed to see me. I thanked Mrs. Morris for her generosity and was on my way. As I drove away, I pondered the two isolated and different stories about Max, one from Mr. Palmer and the other from Mrs. Morris. Their stories didn’t mesh at all! Yes, Mr. Palmer knew that Max had been on the Titanic and had survived, but he knew nothing of a woman named Violet—or a Cynthia, since he would have mentioned her. Mrs. Morris did not know that Max had survived the sinking. So why did Max not find his wife on the Carpathia afterward, or follow her to Cleveland? Nothing made sense.

I pulled myself together and was soon parked in front of Mrs. Wilson’s house. I was really becoming nervous! I had been ever so careful in my discussions with Mrs. Morris to hide my true purpose. But now that I had found Violet, what should I do? I said a prayer asking God to give me wisdom and the right words to say.

What I didn’t know was whether Violet knew Max or not. If she did, I would be relaying sad news indeed. If she did not, however, I would be revealing much more than sad news. The question remained whether Violet Wilson knew not only both sides of the story Max had kept to himself all of those years, but also the reason for his secrecy.

As I had already assumed, Mrs. Wilson appeared to be a woman in her forties. Beyond that, when the door opened, I immediately recognized Max’s red hair and turned-up nose.

Mrs. Wilson smiled, invited me in, and said she understood I was doing a project on the Titanic and its survivors. I said I was and felt grateful for the opportunity to interview her mother.

After some pleasantries, Mrs. Wilson repeated, mostly, the details Mrs. Morris had already covered. I was getting nowhere.

Finally, after listening to Mrs. Wilson tell more stories from another Titanic survivor acquaintance of Mrs. Morris, I decided to make my move. It was a dangerous one, but it was now or never. Max’s final request haunted me from the depths of my mind.

“Did you ever receive proof that your father actually died in the sinking?”

I knew I was making progress when Mrs. Wilson turned and asked harshly, “Why would you ask such an insensitive question?” And just as quickly, she added, “You didn’t ask my mother that question, did you?”

I said I had not. Now what should I say? She had used the old trick of answering a question with a question. I sat and said nothing.

Recognizing that I knew she was trying to avoid my questioning, Mrs. Wilson stood, politely said she had given me enough material and appreciated my coming by.

I remained on the sofa, held my ground, and decided it was time. “Mrs. Wilson, I had the pleasure of knowing your father before he died last summer.”

Mrs. Wilson grew pale and fell backward into her chair. As she strained to hear every word, I related the entire story: Max’s heroic deed the day he died; his dying words; my tracking down Mr. Palmer and his story of how Max had survived the Titanic’s sinking; and, finally, the newspaper ad to which her mother had responded.

I concluded, “I have come to give you this news, Mrs. Wilson. I have no idea whether you knew your father was alive, but I am doing what Max asked me to do. Please forgive me if I have brought you news you were not prepared for.”

By now, Mrs. Wilson’s eyes were red, and tears were flowing. She excused herself, much the way Mr. Palmer had done months before, and ran from the room.

I sat quietly, pleased in knowing that I had fulfilled my obligation to Max, but not knowing the effect of the news. Minutes passed, and Mrs. Wilson returned. I stood, prepared to leave at her wish. Gesturing for me to sit down, Mrs. Wilson smiled appreciatively and returned to her seat.

“Based upon your story and detective work, you have been most persistent and indeed clever for a boy of your age. I will be forever grateful to you. If you had not come, I would never have known my father’s fate. You deserve to know the entire story, and I will tell you.

“Yes, I have known that my father survived the Titanic’s sinking, but my mother does not know—and never will! I must trust you on this!”

I nodded.

“Mother explained to me that my biological father had died in the sinking, and so I thought I knew everything. But you can imagine my surprise when he introduced himself to me when I was twenty-five years of age and explained all that had happened and why he never returned to his wife. Max told me I was to be only the second person to know his secret and made me promise never to tell Mother.”

I sat hypnotized, knowing I was about to learn a secret nearly a half century old.

“You see, it is true Mom was on the final lifeboat, Collapsible D, that left the ship before it sank. But there were two other collapsible boats, A and B, which were stored on top of the officer’s quarters. Did Mr. Palmer explain that to you?

“The ship’s crew had been trying desperately to loosen those boats and, as fate would have it, they floated free as the ship went down. Collapsible A floated away right side up, but Collapsible B was upside down. Max, who by now decided to jump into the water and swim for it, unfortunately was nearly crushed when the forward stack of the ship collapsed into the water. Although he was still conscious, the tremendous force of the crashing funnel must have given him a concussion. He remembered getting hit, swimming toward and getting onto Collapsible B, but from that point on, he was unaware of anything that had happened previously.

“Max and the other men spent the night keeping the overturned canvas lifeboat balanced so that it would not throw them into the freezing water. About six the next morning, another of the wooden lifeboats rescued them. And later that morning, of course, the Carpathia rescued all of the passengers from the lifeboats. Max, who had other injuries from his terrible experience in the twenty-eight-degree water, was tended to by the Carpathia’s doctor and confined to bed until the ship reached New York.”

I sat transfixed, hearing a story similar to the one from Mr. Palmer, but now from a perspective altogether different.

“Can you imagine this situation? Mother is aboard and overcome with grief, believing her husband has drowned. Max is also aboard and is injured, but worse, can’t remember his own name, let alone that he has a wife.

“Mother then traveled to Cleveland and remarried two years later. Max ended up staying in New York City and working at various odd jobs to support himself. Just as quickly as his memory was lost, it came back to him three years later, along with his last memory before the funnel had nearly killed him: that he had a pregnant wife who had boarded a lifeboat before the ship went down.

“Overjoyed at the recollection of his former life, Max raced to Cleveland with all of one hundred dollars he had saved. He couldn’t locate Mother because she had remarried and had a new last name. Finally, he found their original sponsor, a Mr. Winslow who, Max said, became white as a sheet when Max walked through the door. Mr. Winslow explained to Max that his wife was fine, had borne a healthy baby girl, but had also remarried one year previously.

“Mr. Winslow, whom I knew slightly as a child, later confirmed everything I had just learned from a complete stranger. He also told me that my father’s heartbreak in the room that day was so great he would remember it until the day he died. He said my father paced the room for some time, sat down, and then made Mr. Winslow swear he would never reveal to anyone that Max Raeburn was alive. Mr. Winslow agreed, and it wasn’t until twenty-two years later that my biological father came to me. That was eighteen years ago.”

By this time, I sat dumbfounded, finally knowing the complete story, one with an ending I could never have imagined. We sat quietly for some moments before Mrs. Wilson asked me further questions regarding Max’s final day and where he was buried.

Mrs. Wilson asked if I had any more questions. I explained that my deception for her mother was just that, that I had no intention of writing a report, and was only trying to complete Max’s final wish.

I concluded there was nothing left to say or do, and we said our good-byes.

I drove around the block before the entire weight of Max’s tragic story descended upon me. I pulled over and must have sobbed for ten minutes, the last time I have cried to this day.

I realized that Max, the man who performed so heroically during the last six hours of his life, had performed even more valiantly some forty years earlier. He could have thrust himself back into his wife’s life, causing considerable disruption, with who knows what outcome. Instead, he did the only honorable thing he could think of: he loved his wife so much he let her go. And for the rest of his life, Max forced himself to be content with only a memory of what might have been.

 * * *

 The enormity of Max’s sacrifice consumed me on that day many years ago and affects me to this day. I have no idea what happened to Max in the in-between years, nor had I asked Mrs. Wilson during my visit. It didn’t seem to matter at all. Max had proven himself twice—and that was more than enough for me.