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  Praise for Kiss Me, I’m Dead

  Ranked one of the Top Ten Children's Books of the year by the Washington Post, Kiss Me, I’m Dead was named a Notable Book for Teens by the Association of Jewish Libraries Sydney Taylor Book Award Committee, a Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA) Teen's Top Ten, and nominated for a Cybils literary award, a Best Books for Young Adults (BBYA) by the American Library Association (ALA), and recently added to Horn Book’s list of Recommended American Historical Fiction. The Washington Post said, “(J.G. Sandom) writes with a precision and delicacy unusual for YA fiction,” and called Kiss Me, I’m Dead, “a subtle gem.” In its starred review, School Library Journal said, “Kiss Me, I’m Dead tells a remarkable story in a remarkable way." Horn Book Magazine called the work, “A decidedly unconventional ghost story . . . (and) a tightly wound novel.” Midwest Book Review termed it, “a wonderfully different kind of ghost story.” And Bookslut.com said, “Kiss Me, I’m Dead scores on several levels, most notably as a drama that blows apart all preconceived notions of how history can be retold.”

  Praise for Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher

  Previously named a Junior Library Guild selection, Publishers Weekly called Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher, “A haunting tour of London's underclass during the 1830s . . . Teens will likely be both captivated by Victor's harrowing story as well as his ability to prevail in the face of harsh injustices.” VOYA said, “Teen readers will thoroughly enjoy the hair-raising suspense in this historical thriller.” KLIATT said, “Like M.T. Anderson's The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, this look at sinister events in history makes the era come alive and lingers in the memory." And School Library Journal said, “Part historical fiction and part adventure story, the novel brings excitement to Victorian England . . . Readers will be on the edge of their seats.”

  Praise for The God Machine

  Caroline Thompson (author of Edward Scissorhands) said, “Move over, Dan Brown . . . All hail J.G. Sandom . . . (The God Machine) is a thrilling and breathless, rapturously-written and mind-blowing read. It’ll keep you up all night, turning pages as fast as your little fingers can manage.” BookPage said, “Sandom has a knack for combining legendary gospels, ancient secrets, star-crossed lovers and Masonic puzzles to create a simmering stew of conspiracy, intrigue and danger that keeps the plot pot boiling until the very end.” And the Historical Novels Review said, “History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story . . . A very impressive historical thriller!”

  Praise for Gospel Truths

  Library Journal said, “By turns contemplative, descriptive, and emotive, this mixture of mystery and intrigue reveals intense preparation and fine writing.” Booklist called Gospel Truths, “A splendid, tautly woven thriller . . . (and) an intelligent mystery of tremendous spiritual and literary depth.” And Mostly Murder called it, “A fascinating mystery . . . captivating and engrossing.”

  Praise for The Wall Street Murder Club

  Scott Turow (author of Presumed Innocent and Ordinary Heroes) called The Wall Street Murder Club, “A gripping story, well told . . . Not only a tale of murder and betrayal, but an intelligent exploration of issues of male identity.” Kirkus termed it, “Slickly entertaining, right down to the last, inevitable twist.” And Booklist said, “Sandom writes with stunning elegance and nearly poetic beauty . . . A sure hit with any suspense reader.”

  Praise for THE WAVE – A John Decker Thriller

  Kirkus said, “Sandom’s strength lies in the verve of his story, with writing that has both muscle . . . (and) brains . . . Races from improbable to crazywild, all in good fun, with Sandom always one step ahead . . . A story with enough manic energy to be worthy of a nuclear explosion.”

  Also by J.G. Sandom:

  The Seed of Icarus

  The Blue Men

  Gospel Truths

  The Wall Street Murder Club

  The Publicist

  Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher

  THE WAVE – A John Decker Thriller

  The God Machine

  Kiss Me, I’m Dead

  A Fangless Fables Ghost Story

  J. G. Sandom

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, especially dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006, 2010 by J. G. Sandom

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to [email protected].

  PUBLISHED BY FANGLESS FABLES PRESS

  “The real evil is us.”

  Philadelphia

  October 1, 2010

  FOURTH EDITION

  ISBN: 1453857028

  EAN-13: 978-1-453-85702-1

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  In memory of Ms. Renée Perrin, librarian and friend,

  taken too young,

  and for all who perished on The General Slocum –

  May they Rest in Peace

  J. G. Sandom

  October 2010

  Where there's money going,

  there's always someone to pick it up.

  Episode 10 – Wandering Rocks

  Ulysses

  by James Joyce

  Reference to the General Slocum tragedy

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  June 15, 1904

  The East River, New York City

  It was on June 15, 1904, a warm and sunny summer’s day, as the clock in City Hall struck nine, that the General Slocum cast off from her pier in lower Manhattan, with the blowing of a horn. I remember the busy decks, packed cheek to jowl with women and children, as we strained against the rail to get a better look, dressed in our Sunday best. Nearly all of Kleindeutchland was there. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. Tomorrow, they’ll call it the Lower East Side. At this time it was Little Germany. We were off to Locust Grove, Long Island Sound, on an outing for St. Mark’s Lutheran Church. There would be games and swimming and food – lots and lots of food. And boys. Sunday School was finally over. And ten feet distant, trapped in the crowd like a flea between hairs, stood Dustin, the most beautiful boy in the world.

  My name is Mallory Meer. I’d turned fifteen the week before, and in an hour – thanks to the only boy I’ve ever loved – I would be dead.

  I float around the white memorial in Middle Village, Queens, among the other insubstantial figures. We are the unidentified remembered – the unknown, unforgotten victims of the General Slocum who continue, unresolved, like Tantalus, to grasp at something slightly out of reach. Over thirteen hundred started that fateful journey on that balmy summer’s day. Fewer than three hundred survived. I see the spirits coalesce around the monument like fog. I know their longing and their pain. I’m one of them.

  The steamship chugged up the East River, skirting the busy streets and thoroughfares, the piers and docks of New York City. I remember we could actually feel the vessel tilt beneath our feet as we rushed collectively from port to starboard for a look across the river. There was a great shout as the ship’s horn faded and a band began to play – romantic German love songs that made my mother slide back into memory as she stared across the starboard beam, between the glistening waves, mesmerized by the river.

  She was dressed in a charcoal-colored cotton skirt, ankle-length, with an off-
white blouse and wide-brimmed hat, made of straw, with hand-sewn flowers budding from the narrow red-and-yellow band. Her cheeks were crimson from the pressing crowd, the unusually warm weather, the startling humidity. Her blue eyes seemed to take in everything: first, this couple; that man; a woman with a lime green blouse; and then, something unknown and indiscernible at her feet. In her right arm, she clutched my baby sister, Nixie. At two, Nixie still wore a cotton bonnet that covered most of her face, including her moody brown eyes and golden hair, each strand thin as a spider’s thread. She was dressed in the snow-white silk and lace of the family christening gown. Passed down by Grossvater Liebowitz, each of us had been forced to wear it, one by one, in turn, at every special and grave occasion, as long as it still fit.

  My younger brother, Helmuth, fidgeted nearby. He wore his summer Sunday shorts and a cinder-black wool jacket, an off-white cotton shirt – tight in the collar and cuffs – and a gray cap with a brim.

  My sister, the shy but beautiful Louisa, only one year and a half more junior than myself, still wore her confirmation dress. She shrank against the mob, fixed to my mother’s shadow.

  And I . . . I wore my brand-new sea blue skirt, my sister’s lavender silk blouse, and my most colorful Easter bonnet. It was the outfit my mother’s friends had tsk-tsked at only the week before, noisy as storks. My skirt was so full-bodied that I appeared to carry a train behind me, reminiscent of another age. My stockings were dark and thick. My shoes were corded with so many bindings that only the hundred-handed Briareus could have readily untied them. And it wasn’t my sister’s lavender silk blouse. Buttoned tightly at the neck and wrist, the smooth material revealed no wayward patch of skin. No. It was the way I looked within it that concerned them: the curve of my budding bustline underneath the soft material; more of a promise than a proof of femininity.

  I knew Dustin was coming. I can say it now, and it appeases, soothes the salt that lingers still within my joints and ligaments. We had planned it earlier that week. And he had never seen me in that blouse and fulsome sea blue skirt. Such were my thoughts then, the largest of my concerns, as we steamed north through butterscotch sunlight.

  The farther we sailed, the less crowded the deck. There were three decks in all – the hurricane, the promenade, and main – open to passengers and the summer elements. At first, nearly everyone had tried to climb the staircase to the topmost hurricane, the deck on which we stood. All hungered for that grand view of Manhattan . . . and the breeze. But now that the General Slocum was finally under way, they had begun to disappear below, fanning out in all directions. The band struck up another song. I whispered to my mother that I was feeling faint. “Some water,” I muttered vaguely, moving off.

  She nodded, tugging at Helmuth. “Please don’t be long,” she said in German, with a note of desperation in her voice. Louisa slipped beside her. She touched my mother gently on the upper arm, confirming her presence.

  I moved off toward the funnels and the pilothouse, making my way first down one staircase, then the next, aware the whole time of his presence in my wake, the way he glided down the steps, the movement of his muscles in his clothes on that hot summer day. By the time I had reached the main deck and ducked into another stairwell, Dustin was right behind me.

  Time does not matter after death. It seems like all this happened only yesterday, and to me, trapped in this atemporal space, it did. I remember turning at the stairwell that led down to the Lamp Room. I could see Manhattan gliding by, over the brightly painted lifeboats – they looked brand-new – beyond the bulwark and the rail. I descended into darkness, waiting for him, for his promise and my wish to be fulfilled.

  Dustin towered over me, though he was but sixteen. He took his cap off with a sweep of his right hand. He smiled almost apologetically and leaned down through the shadows, and as I felt his lips brush up against mine, everything stopped. The steamship. The waters of the river. The blood inside my veins and arteries. I could hear his heart pound next to me. I could feel his lips press down, so soft – smooth as the throat notch of a cat – and everything began again, recharged. I smelled his breath as he pulled back. My foot had turned. My heel had risen slightly outward. I felt a sharp stab in my stomach, as if I’d swallowed a stone. This is what it’s like, I thought. My first real kiss was less and so much more than anything I’d ever imagined.

  That’s when Bingham Goldstein first appeared, outside the Lamp Room, flanked by two friends. I pushed Dustin away as they drew near. They could see us clutching in the shadows. Bingham’s face grew dark. He stopped and stared, as if to be quite certain. He wore a smooth black bowler, pulled down in front, tilted sharply to one side. It seemed to cast an impossibly long shadow for such a small hat. His lips retreated from his teeth. His gums were glimmering. “This is a juicy pie,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Mallory Meer and Dustin Bauer. Caught in a kiss.” Then his face grew grim.

  “That’s Brauer,” Dustin said.

  Bingham turned towards his two friends – fat Abelard Warner and skinny Karl Lehman – and laughed. Brauer means brewer in German; Bauer means peasant. It was Bingham’s little inside joke. He’d been telling it for years. He reached into his hand-stitched, dark brown suit and took out his cigarettes. “Had I known what kind of girl you are,” he said, looking pointedly at me, “I would have made an effort.”

  “Be careful, Goldstein,” Dustin said.

  “You tried hard enough . . . hard enough for me to say no,” I tossed back at him. Dustin was standing up for me, for me! And against Bingham! Dustin’s father, Arvin, worked for Bingham’s father – the venerable Otto Goldstein, who owned the Golden Rose, the finest beer garden in Kleindeutchland.

  Bingham lit his cigarette. The match glowed briefly and was gone. “Tainted meat now,” he said. Then he turned and added, “We should leave them to their lovemaking. Kleindeutchland needs new workers, as my father always says. But be warned, Mallory. We’re on a St. Mark’s outing. And this one, if he hasn’t told you, is a Jew.”

  Dustin moved forward, muttering an oath, his hands balled up into fists, but I caught him by the jacket. It was difficult to hold him back. The old and frayed material began to tear. He was so strong that I almost couldn’t hold him. Bingham and his two friends – like mismatched bookends – scurried down the hall, and after a moment, Dustin relaxed. He settled his back against me, and as he turned, to my surprise, I could see his eyes were watering. I didn’t know what to say. The moment of that kiss had passed. It was behind me now, another monument along the path. And my mother would be worried about me. I patted Dustin awkwardly on the shoulder and hurried out the door.

  Dustin stood there for a moment longer without moving, tucked in the shadows, following me with his eyes. When I was no longer visible, he pulled out his tobacco pouch and carefully rolled a cigarette. He cocked it in a corner of his mouth. He struck a match. For a moment, in the halo of the light, his features were illuminated. The delicate eyebrows – those of a scholar, as I’d described them to my sister, two months earlier. The Gypsy black eyes. The strong nose and full mouth with the slightly feminine red lips. And then that jaw, where I imagined – later – he stored up all his anger and his pride. So firm and confrontational. So ultimately decisive. A tear appeared on Dustin’s cheek, the match fell from his hand, and he was gone.

  It was a while before we saw the smoke. We were sailing past Ward’s Island, beyond Hell Gate, when it began to billow from a forward hold. But it was only later that I witnessed how it happened. By then, I was already dead. And underwater. And, for the most part, upside down. But I could still see where the hull appeared most blackened by the now-extinguished flames. Through the waving arms and legs, like giant sea anemones, bloated, albino-skinned or black as tar, shiny and naked . . . although, if you looked carefully, you could still see tiny hairs on the dead skin, rippling like rabbit fur in a breeze. Through the open mouths, the incinerated arms and legs, I saw precisely how that careless spark first set ablaze that single
box of straw. It was alight in seconds. No, it wasn’t the ship’s stove cooking chowder, as many speculated at the inquest. The flames, fueled by the air blown down the stairwells, began to stretch and spread around the storage space. The Lamp Room, as the crew referred to it, ballooned with fire. The door began to bow. Wood squealed as water steamed. Smoke puffed and whinnied through the crack between the doorjamb and the door, slithering topside through the stairwells, gasping for air.

  A pair of seamen in the galley smelled the smoke before they saw it. They looked at each other and started down the hallway at a run. Without even thinking – and devoid of training, as it turned out – they opened the door to the Lamp Room. This was exactly what the fire craved. Nursed by a fresh inhale of oxygen, the fire scrambled up the stairs. The crewmen tried to put it out. They flailed at the flames with their clothes, but it was useless. The open passage of the stairwell served as a chimney. The fire shot across the main deck, paused for a moment, and then ran along the bulkheads to the ceiling. Passengers burned. They bolted in all directions, screaming, tearing at their clothes, some leaping overboard. Others tugged at lifeboats. But the Slocum was traveling too fast to lower them. Not safely, anyway. And besides, they were lashed to the deck, pinned down with metal clips. They wouldn’t budge.

  Ten minutes passed before the crew dared tell the Captain. He was in his fo’c’s’le, enjoying a cold glass of pale ale, compliments of the Golden Rose. It took him another three minutes to make it to the pilothouse. Then, instead of steaming shoreward – to Manhattan, Queens, to Ward’s or Randall’s Island – he headed north. “The shoreline was busy with oil tanks,” he affirmed later at the inquest, to everyone’s astonishment. “I feared a secondary blaze.” A secondary blaze! We steamed northward, toward North Brother Island, funneling the wind down the stairwells, fueling the flames.