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  “No, I didn’t mean that. Look, Serena, you’re lucky to live on a shady street in a small town, with good people who love you—”

  “And you? You must have been loved too, at least at one time. What about your father, is he alive? Is he with your mother in St. Louis? And I’ve been dying to know about your sister. Imagine, a professional ballet dancer—your family must be overflowing with talent—”

  He leaned against the newel-post and looked into my eyes for a moment, as though I’d probed some secret, unlocked something deep inside him that longed to escape but could not. “Talent? Yes, indeed,” he said finally. “My father was a talented man of sorts—a riverboat gambler, I understand, though I couldn’t say for sure, of course. He left my mother when I was four and I’ve never seen him since.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry.” I looked away, regretting my nosiness.

  “My sister is a great source of pride to my mother, just as you guessed.”

  I wanted to ask, “But what of you?” but did not, my own inquisitive tongue having tied itself into a knot.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back. Thanks for the lemonade.”

  “Thank you, for rescuing James.”

  He walked to the front gate, opened it, then looked back around. “We don’t practice early in the morning, only begin around eleven or so. I’m always on the beach early.”

  I nodded, not sure what he expected me to say. As he started down the fence, walking away from me forever as far as I knew, I suddenly thought there might be a chance. Throwing all semblance of propriety to the winds, I ran down the stairs and called to him from the gate. “I have to dance in the morning. But Wednesday I’ll be back at the Fischer place, like today.”

  I still have no idea whether he heard me, because he didn’t slow down or turn around. He just kept walking with his usual confident gait, off in the direction of the water.

  Alone again, yet more so than before, I went back up to the verandah to drink my untouched lemonade. It was fast growing warm from the heat of the day, and as I turned toward Roman’s empty glass, I saw the fly again, stepping gingerly around its rim. “Damn fly,” I said, swatting at him, then looked up quickly, covering my mouth with my hands, fearing someone might have heard me utter the oath.

  I sat there for a long time, comparing Roman Cruz with Nick Weaver.

  I had used Nick from the beginning, and wouldn’t deny it. He wore the stamp of approval of everyone at St. Christopher’s, including my father, so why shouldn’t I let him take me to church affairs or anywhere else I wanted to go? He was willing enough to court me without demanding a commitment.

  We’d gone out together a full three months before he asked to kiss me, and even then I almost had to prod him into it. We sat out on the porch one night after attending a lecture at the church on the importance of young people accepting Christ, and he kept pacing up and down by the railing, as though there were something important he must say. I remembered, then, his hands had been more than usually clammy that evening, a sure sign he was nervous. Finally he heaved a sigh, leaned against the rail, and said, “I guess you don’t like me very much.”

  Nick Weaver is tall, taller even than Roman, and thinner, with light hair and freckles. He always smells of lavender pomade, and that night his perspiration had heightened the fragrance so that it came in gentle wafts over me as I sat below him on the steps.

  “What do you mean? I see you often, don’t I?”

  “Yes. But I’ll admit I haven’t very many interesting things to talk about. I’ve spent most of my life concentrating on my music, and I’ve had little time left for girls.”

  “Well, I can certainly understand. Maybe you’d like to see less of me, to save more time for music?”

  “Oh, no,” he said quickly. “That wasn’t what I meant. I always knew when the right girl would come along, then I’d make time.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Serena, I’m three years older than you, you know.”

  “Yes. Do you think that’s too much of a gap?”

  “No, no. It’s just right,” he said, failing to realize he was being teased. “I’ve a good future in liturgical music, if you can understand that. I might someday even get a position at Trinity. You know, I’m good friends with the choirmaster there. Should he ever decide to leave, he’d be certain to recommend me to replace him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were thinking of leaving St. Christopher’s. Dad will be so disappointed.”

  “No, no. I’m only projecting the future. Trinity pays quite a lot more money for its staff, being a much larger church than St. Christopher’s, and when one knows he may someday have a family to look after, he thinks of things like that.”

  Poor Nick. He always thought his ambitions so lofty. I didn’t try and cut him down when it came to his organ playing, however, for this was the one subject about which he was touchy.

  “I can understand your reasoning, Nick.”

  “Well, Serena … it’s just that … well, I’ve never even—uh—kissed you properly.”

  He’d been looking down at me as he talked, but now turned his face away and gazed out over the yard. I was in a playful mood that night, and behaved shamelessly. “Do you want to kiss me now?”

  “Now? Yes, if you … yes.”

  “Then, why don’t you?”

  I closed my eyes and puckered my lips, stifling a smile. He sat down beside me, then leaned over and pecked my cheek. I felt we might just as well get the whole business over with as soon as possible, so I kept my eyes closed.

  He soon took the hint, and began kissing me on the mouth, more and more forcefully, until he’d pushed me down flat on the porch and was kissing me all over the face, panting like a puppy dog. “Serena, Serena, I love you, I love you. Please say you’ll marry me!”

  “Nick, for goodness sake, control yourself. What if someone should walk by?”

  “Oh, I never thought.” He looked carefully up and down the street, then turned around to face our house, to be sure Dad had not heard anything. I sat up straight and smoothed my hair in back.

  “It’s all right. I don’t think anyone saw,” he said seriously. “It’s just that I’ve held it in for so long.…”

  “Nick, I’m sorry, but I can’t promise to marry you.”

  “Why not? I know there’s no one else. Why can’t you say yes?”

  It angered me he should take me so for granted, and I had my first suspicion he discussed me quite openly with my father.

  “I’m just not ready to marry, that’s all.”

  “But you’re eighteen, going on nineteen. Almost every girl is married by the time she’s—”

  “I realize that. Still, I’m not ready. You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?”

  “Of course not. I know what it is. You can’t see much future, marrying a church organist. But remember, I also teach music on the side, have more students this year than ever. I could always take even more pupils. You wouldn’t need to worry about me providing well for you. Not that we’d be rich, but we’d get along as well as anyone else, I can assure you.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I just don’t want to be pressed right now.”

  “Does that mean you might change your mind someday?”

  “How can I know? Let’s not discuss it any more tonight. I’m tired and want to go in. I’ve got to say good night to Mother.”

  “Very well, but you haven’t said no, so I won’t give up. Serena, I do hate to say it, but you could do worse than me, you know. When can I see you again?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be in church Sunday, if I don’t see you before.”

  “Oh, no. Let me come Friday night. We’ll have some oysters at Henry and Joe’s place, or even go to the Pickwick if you want.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please.”

  “All right.”

  After he’d disappeared down the street, I went inside and yielded to an overpowering urge to scrub my face with soap and wa
ter, and that night while lying in bed, I began to think seriously about Marybeth’s warnings of being married to a man I did not love and could hardly bear to be touched by.

  Yet the importance of her statement still escaped me then, and continued to until I thought of it again, sitting on the steps which had been occupied minutes earlier by Roman Cruz.

  I knew, come Wednesday morning, I would be walking down that part of the beach where the band members have their morning ball games, praying as hard as I have ever prayed for anything that Roman Cruz would follow me to the gate of the Fischer place because he could no more forget me than I could him.

  Chapter 5

  Mrs. McCambridge and I learned long ago how to join our arms and make a chair for Mother, so that we can carry her down the stairs and put her into a spare wheelchair that stays, when not in use, on the back porch. There is a special ramp at the edge of the porch, and we wheel her chair down into the yard sometimes, and sit with her. Her body is always rigid as we carry her, and still rigid as we lower her into the chair and roll her down the ramp. She relaxes only once we have her chair stopped and its wheels locked, down in the yard.

  On that Tuesday afternoon, just before she left for the day, Mrs. McCambridge said, “Let’s take your mother down to sit for a while, and when Father Garret gets home he can carry her back.”

  “Yes, well, I was going to wash my hair.…”

  “Looks t’me like ye might have stayed home and done that this mornin’. After all, Mrs. Garret’s stuck in that room day after day. Seems she deserves—”

  “All right, all right. Have you time to wait, though? It would only take a few minutes and could be drying while—”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m late now, and got my own family to look after.”

  Mrs. McCambridge is a stout woman, with dark wiry hair and large features. Her breasts are so broad and heavy as to look more like an extension of her formidable stomach, and that day her arms were folded indignantly under them.

  She often implied I spent less time than I should with Mother, and usually it angered me. But that day I was already feeling a bit wicked about hoping to see Roman on Wednesday, so I nodded like an obedient child, and brought paper and pen for Mother and me so that I could write to Marybeth—I was long overdue answering her last letter—and Mother could write her poetry, should she be in the mood.

  No one can assess Mother’s moods, really, of course, for her eyes hold nothing except, occasionally, a tear, which spills out and trickles down her cheek, or a flash of what could be fear. I don’t believe Dad has ever given up trying to reach her, and it’s sad to watch him sit in a chair opposite her bed at times, holding her hands, looking into those eyes as though, should he search long enough, he will penetrate the barriers lodged there by the accident.

  She seemed eager to write that Tuesday afternoon and, always relieved when she’s pleasantly occupied, I sat down below her chair to write my letter. What to write Marybeth … I was always tardy answering her letters, for they were so interesting and full of unusual things. She’d gotten a glimpse of a foreign prince on the Riviera, or been to the Ascot races in London, her pick of the horses winning, or she’d been to a party somewhere in Paris where champagne flowed from the mouth of a huge fish made of glass.

  Marybeth had done everything, it seemed, and I sat year after year in Galveston, my only piece of news being that I’d finished a pillowcase I was embroidering, or made a new outfit to wear to church.

  As I began to write that day, I thought I’d have paragraph after paragraph of exciting news—after all, I’d met and spent a morning with Roman Cruz. Surely there was much I could say that would please her, and convince her I wasn’t the prude she always accused me of being.

  Yet what could I say to show her how Roman really was? Taken piece by piece, none of what had happened so far was glamorous. He was a member of a traveling band from New York, had traveled for three years and been all over the place … exactly where, I had no idea. His sister was in a ballet corps, and on and on … I knew it was impossible, then, to capture Roman Cruz on paper.

  I wrote on anyway … “I’ve met an interesting man from New York. He’s a musician and handsome enough, I suppose. I may be seeing more of him this summer, but haven’t yet decided whether I like him enough.…”

  I read it over, pen poised in the air. The words looked like me trying to imitate Marybeth, which they were, and in disgust I pulled up the sheet of paper and wadded it into a ball. It was then that James appeared at the fence. “Good afternoon. Your leg’s all right, then? I’m so relieved.”

  Porky had been stationed at Mother’s feet, but upon seeing James had rushed to the fence, tail wagging. I looked up at Mother. She’d noticed him and was staring. I did, as I have many times, attempt a one-sided introduction, for James hadn’t yet been into our house to meet her. He’d seen her staring, and was spellbound by her vacant gaze.

  “James, please meet my mother, Mrs. Garret. Mother, this is James Byron, who lives next door with Claire. His mother was Ruth Miller, you know, that nice girl who visited Claire one summer a long time ago.”

  At first she seemed unable to comprehend, but then, surprisingly, tore off the paper she’d been writing on, and held it out. “You want to give it to James? All right, Mother. I’ll take it over to him.

  “I think she likes you,” I told James softly. “Perhaps she even understands who you are. Will you let me look at what she’s written, later?”

  “Of course. I was going to bring the Mythology this afternoon anyway, after I walk Porky.”

  “Good. I’ll get his leash. Come over later, after Mother is back in her room. I don’t know if she’d mind our looking at the poem together, but just in case, I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “I understand,” he said, and slipped the piece of paper into his shirt pocket.

  He and Porky soon disappeared down the block, and Mother and I sat together for another hour before Dad came home. She seemed to have written all she wanted that day, and wouldn’t pick up the pen again. Instead, she stared toward Claire’s house for a long time. I watched for a while, trying to figure what she might be thinking. Yet it was a fruitless effort, as usual, and I gave up and wrote a short letter to Marybeth in which I wound up mentioning James and his man-of-war sting, yet leaving Roman Cruz out of the story.

  At sundown, James came over again and we sat on the verandah together, poring over the poem.

  Come in; you look so tired.

  The dark is hiding here with me,

  Running from the truth of light.

  He will wait here until the lying stops.

  Do come in; I assure you we’ve room for

  another guest.

  “It’s very strange,” he said. “I’ve read it several times, but can’t figure out its meaning. But then, I’m not very good at poetry, anyway. What do you think?”

  “I wish I knew. All her poems make me think she has something to hide, but heaven only knows what. Probably something mixed up in her mind, something she did once that took on greater magnitude than it was worth, after the accident. I doubt she ever knowingly killed a bug, though. Anyway, I’m saving all her poems. Would you let me have this one?”

  “Sure. And here’s the Greek. The part about Apollo begins on page 321.”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in Apollo?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that guy Roman is so perfect for him. See if you don’t agree.”

  “All right. You’d better go now. I have to cook dinner, and Helga will be calling you for yours.”

  “Before I go, could I look at the picture of my mother you have?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  “Is your father home?”

  “No, he’s been here and gone again,” I said.

  Dad had carried Mother up the stairs and fed her her dinner, visited a few minutes, then come down again.

  “Who brought the cake?” he’d asked.

 
“Same as usual, Claire.”

  “It looked good, but she wouldn’t touch it.”

  “She never eats anything Claire brings.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t care for it.”

  “Looks more as though she doesn’t care for Claire,” I said.

  “Ah, Nan, there’s no reason she shouldn’t, is there?” he asked.

  “How should I know?”

  It was an oft repeated conversation between us. Dad knew as well as I did that Mother’s eyes often held fear when Claire was around, but he attributed it to the fact she was with Mother just before the accident, and felt Mother might somehow connect her fall with Claire, although Claire was not at fault. She’d gone upstairs that morning to fetch something Mother had forgotten, and by the time she returned, Mother and Donnie were at the bottom of the stairs. Of course it has occurred to me over the years that Claire might have actually had something to do with Mother’s fall, but she would have had no reason to want Mother hurt then, as far as I know, and anyway, the way she carried on after it happened, the way she cried at Donnie’s funeral, she must have been as heartbroken as anyone else, or at least she seemed to be.…

  Dad was gone soon after the conversation that Tuesday evening, staying only long enough for two shots of whisky, and to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be late.”

  As James and I viewed the portrait together in silence, I thought perhaps he’d reached some milestone in forgetting, if he could bear to look at his mother’s picture.

  “It’s a little fuzzy, isn’t it?” he asked finally.

  “That’s just the style, I guess, kind of dreamy, elusive, you might say.”

  “I suppose. She didn’t look exactly like that, though.”

  “I know, I know. She was much prettier …”

  “No, I only meant, she just looked different, although this portrait does favor her a lot, of course. It’s very nice.”

  “An artist’s rendering isn’t supposed to be like a photograph. It’s more an impression of what the artist sees in her subject. Perhaps Mother looked deeply into her personality and painted what she saw.”

  “Maybe. Well, I’d better get home. Helga’s fixing chicken tonight.”