Galveston Page 33

  “And you—where have you been?”

  “None of your business,” I told him, and pulled his ear. “Get to bed now. We’ll talk about this séance matter tomorrow.”

  “Gee, Serena, you know, you’re really swell.”

  Later, in bed and unable to sleep, I looked out at the big benevolent moon which had led my way to and from the beach, and thought of the almost uncanny coincidence that I should meet up with James that night … how much he was like me really, reaching out to people in his loneliness.

  I’d known from the beginning his hopes for the séance were no more than a pipe dream, and I only prayed that night my hopes for something lasting with Roman would not, in the end, amount to the same.

  In the morning mail was a brief letter from Marybeth.

  “… and how are things in quaint little old Galveston?” she wrote. “We’re back in Paris for a few days, as you can tell from the envelope. I’ve met a new man, named Peppi (the last name I would not even attempt to pronounce, much less to spell—he’s Austrian, I think). Last night we had dinner at a cute little sidewalk cafe, then took a stroll down the Champs Elysees.…

  “To tell you the truth, the food was no better than at the Ladies’ dining room at the Bon Ton at home, but Peppi was a delight—very handsome, with thick moustache and curly black hair. It rained (it always rains in Paris when we’re here) and absolutely ruined a new pair of shoes I got in Marseilles.…

  “Is anything exciting happening there? Hope your little friend hasn’t had any more man-of-war stings. I told Dad, and he was furious a thing such as that could happen right off our property. The nerve of the little rascals!!!

  “We’re coming home in September, don’t know which day yet. I considered staying here to go to school, but changed my mind. Europe is fine for visiting but every place becomes boring sooner or later. I’d as soon go to school in the States, or maybe not go at all. Life is wonderful, so full of options.…

  “I’ve bought you the most darling music box, can’t wait to give it to you. It plays ‘The Blue Danube Waltz,’ and the little dancer on top looks almost as graceful as you. Certainly she looks nothing at all like me!

  “Well, darling, do write if you have time. Just send the letter to the usual address in London, and Dad’s agent there will have it forwarded. Love and kisses to you … see you in the fall.”

  The letter was typical Marybeth: breezy and light, reflecting her personality so vividly she might have been standing two feet away, telling me the news. The first line of this one, though, prompted my immediate reply. I would tell her a few things that would show her Galveston was perhaps not quite so quaint as she thought.

  Yet, when I sat down to write, there was so little to say, without betraying more than I wanted to. I decided to tell her straightforwardly about Roman, with none of the coquettish little phrases I’d tried to insert the first time I wrote to her, earlier in the summer. I could not resist, however, mentioning that Roman was going on thirty years old, had a rather doubtful background, and that I was seeing him without knowledge of anyone except James. I told her I knew she would never betray my secret to anyone, although I must admit I recognized all too fully she was hardly in the position to anyway.

  I wanted to tell her how far things had gone, yet when I tried to write it, it seemed too much like parroting things she’d done many times. Our love was meaningful, not like the times she’d given favors to men just for the excitement of it. Yet it was difficult to put this into words. Perhaps the subtle approach, telling her only that we met on the sly, would be just as effective … let her guess the rest, if she chose.

  In the afternoon as I was practicing ballet on the porch, James came out the back of Claire’s house, slamming the door behind him, and walked around toward the front yard.

  “Hey there, you look awfully busy, what’s up?” I called to him.

  “I’ve got problems with the Bakers,” he said hurriedly, and walked on. His manner made me uneasy and I went to the porch edge and called him back. “You’re not going over there to start a fight about last night, are you?”

  “They did just what I expected,” he said. “Today they pretend they never heard of any séance, and Delta’s got my picture. I’m going to get it now, or else.”

  “James, wait! Look, at least let me change and go with you. If those hooligans tie into you, you’ll wish you had stayed home. Perhaps I can help.”

  “No. It’s my problem and I’ll work it out for myself. Besides, I know better than to pick a fistfight with them. I’ve something else in mind, and I think it’ll work very effectively. See ’ya.”

  It was an uncommonly hot day for practicing. I wiped the perspiration from my neck and face, took a sip of lemonade, and continued. Practicing had taken on new importance these days because, though I still knew of no outlet for my dancing in the end, now that Roman had been so encouraging, I had a feeling it would be wise to be ready at all times, in case opportunity ever presented itself. I was afraid to dwell on the possibilities very much, however; just practiced, knowing it certainly could do no harm …

  It was some fifteen minutes before James ambled back, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. I went to the porch edge. “Did you get the picture?”

  “Right here,” he said, patting his shirt pocket. “I knew Delta Baker wouldn’t be able to turn down my offer.”

  “What, pray, did you offer?”

  “Five dollars. I told her if she could somehow manage to locate that picture I had lost around her place, there would be five dollars in it for her.”

  “You’re pretty smart,” I said, laughing. “But I do think you might have gotten off a good bit cheaper than that.”

  “It’s my only picture. I’d have given my last penny if necessary.”

  “Of course, I understand. I’m sorry … James, how would you like to have the portrait of your mother that we have? I’m sure it would be all right with Dad, and I can’t think of a better place for it to be than with you.”

  “That would be swell. But could you just keep it at your house until I leave Galveston? I mean, I don’t want to take it to Claire’s house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, when Mrs. Reinschmidt was cleaning the other day, she took down every painting your mother had done for Claire, and she and Claire stored them in the attic. Claire’s gone right now to buy some new ones.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “I told you those two were rather queer. Did I tell you, Mrs. Reinschmidt’s trip is all set? She leaves at the end of August. She’s gonna stay a couple of days in Houston with friends, before going on to San Antonio. While she’s gone, Claire says we get to go out for dinner twice a week.”

  “That’s nice. Funny about the pictures, though.”

  “Yes, and the walls are faded behind. All over the place it looks like someone painted squares on the walls.”

  “Well, maybe she just wanted some new paintings to look at.”

  “Yes, maybe so. I don’t know, I never ask questions. I’m just a visitor, after all.”

  “But, James, don’t you think you might consider staying in Galveston for good?”

  “I couldn’t do that. Only till my grandfather can send for me. Besides, Cousin Claire doesn’t really want me here. She’s gone all the time—even at night—and when she is at home she and Mrs. Reinschmidt share secrets from me.”

  “Oh, James, your imagination again—”

  “It is not,” he swore. “They never talk to me.”

  “But you just said Claire promised you two could eat out twice a week together while Helga’s away.”

  “Yes, but she’ll probably back out on that because of some meeting or other, downtown.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, she has them all the time at night, and comes home very late. That night of the séance I had to wait till she came in and had time to go to sleep before I could get away. She almost made me late … not that it mattered.”

  “Well, C
laire has always had her circle of friends, and if she wants to go out at night, it’s certainly her business,” I said, but in truth wondered myself just where she went at night.

  Was there some connection between her nights out and Dad’s? Surely not, because, although she had often displayed more than a neighborly interest in my father, especially over the past few years since Charles’s death, I’d always felt certain he didn’t take it seriously. Yet there was that day not so long ago when James spotted them together in her rig …

  Chapter 10

  August approaching. I awoke to a dull, dreary excuse for a day, and looked at the calendar. It was easy enough to fool myself that summer might last forever as long as the pages of the calendar were headed up “June” or “July,” but in just two days, I’d have to turn the page and face the finality of the word “August.” The thought cast a shroud over my spirits.

  Worse still, today was Sunday, and I had to spend it with Nick and Dad over roast beef for Sunday lunch, and probably dull parlor games in the afternoon. It was the usual routine. How long had it gone on? Only about a year, yet it seemed an eternal game of appearances we must play in which Nick, the eager suitor, played up to Dad rather than to me.…

  Yet Sundays had never depressed me as badly as this one. I felt unusually tired as I left the bed and dressed for church, and after fixing my hair, sat down again on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. Only one more month, and it would all be over, and what then? No matter how hard I’d tried not to, I had begun to count on Roman to pull some magical trick that would solve everything and bring us lasting happiness together. More frightening than that, I could never be sure whether he wanted me always with him. He had that maddening evasive way, and he’d never said, “I love you,” in those words, though I’d longed to hear them from the beginning of summer.

  Often I’d thought he might say them, thereby sealing the pact between us, yet he hadn’t seen fit to do so, so how could I be sure he felt them? Perhaps I was to him, just as I surely would be to any other man who knew about this summer, nothing more than a cheap pick-up, good only for a summer fling.

  I was thinking of this later in the day, when Nick spoke up at the lunch table.

  “Serena, come down to earth,” he said jovially. “You look a thousand miles away.”

  “Do I? Sorry … have another helping of corn?”

  “No thanks,” he said, then directed his attention to Dad. “Father Garret, you really have a prize here. A beautiful little woman who can cook and sew. If she ever decides to settle down and marry, the man who gets her will be one lucky fellow, yes, sir.” He sat there waiting, picking his teeth with a match.

  Dad lit his pipe and pushed back from the table, then asked in mock surprise, “Oh? You know someone with designs in that direction?”

  “I sure do. Not that any young eligible man wouldn’t, who got to know her just a little. But one has to consider background in these things. Serena, here, has a whole lifetime of experience in Church affairs. She’d be a great asset to any man who worked in the Church, don’t you think?”

  “I surely do … a great asset to any man, no matter what he did for a living.”

  Strangely, I believe Dad really thought he was pleasing me by giving his blessing to Nick’s proposal of marriage in this subtle way. He simply could not believe it possible I didn’t want to marry Nick. In truth, the conversation sickened me. My head was throbbing.

  I stood up from the table and said, “I have work to do, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t sit here and be bartered like a sack of flour. If you’ll excuse me, please.”

  Nick looked up at me, the picture of innocence. Dad’s mouth gaped open. “Of course, Nan, I didn’t mean to imply any such thing,” he said.

  “Certainly not,” Nick added, looking at him. “Uh, well, I’ve got some practicing to do this afternoon for confirmation services tonight. I’d better be getting back to the church now.”

  “I’ll see you out,” said Dad, and followed him from the dining room and into the hall. I have no idea what they said to each other then, although I imagine they spoke in tones of bewilderment at my unorthodox behavior. I didn’t care. I cleared the table and carried the dishes into the kitchen.

  Dad soon followed me through the swinging door, and I knew this was to be a confrontation about Nick that had long been brewing. He leaned against the counter. “Serena, please forgive what just happened. I didn’t intend to be such a boor.”

  I looked at him. He was obviously pained by what had occurred, and seeing it in his face softened my anger toward him. He was so like a little boy, innocent in truth as Nick only pretended to be.

  “It’s all right. Forget it. Maybe I’m just touchy.”

  “No, it was unforgivable, talking that way, only, you can understand how a father feels about his daughter when she reaches your age. More than anything, he hopes and prays she’ll marry someone who is kind and will provide well for her, give her a good life. Because once her father is gone, she’ll have no one else to lean on for support.”

  “But you’re not leaving us any time soon …”

  “Even so, I was thankful when you and Nick began courting. He’s a good fellow, Nan, and would always take care of you. He can have the organist’s post at St. Christopher’s for as long as I’m around, and if he should ever aspire to a higher post—well, nothing would please me more.”

  I didn’t say anything. Dad continued.

  “You’ve seen so much of each other, I couldn’t help believing you had some feeling for him, and I was afraid you might be reluctant to accept his hand in marriage because of Mother’s condition. I know it’s been rough on you, kept you from having as many friends and as many good times as you would, had she been well. I felt it would be a good future for you, were you to marry Nick, and when he first approached me about it, I—”

  “He’s spoken to you about it?”

  “Well, yes. That young man is very fond of you, darling, and, of course, anxious to proceed as a gentleman would.”

  “Well, I’m not very fond of him. I don’t know how many different ways I can tell you that. I thought you understood at the first of the summer.”

  “First of the summer?”

  “Yes, when we discussed that man from the band.”

  “Oh yes, I’d quite forgotten about that. What was his name—Cruz, something? Well, of course, I knew that was just a passing fancy. Surely you could have had little in common with a person like him. I thought you truly cared for Nick.”

  “Now you know.”

  “But, Serena, let me tell you one thing more. You may not believe this, but when I married your mother, I had no idea what love really was. Of course I thought I loved her, but as the years went by I could feel that love deepening, could realize all we had for each other at the beginning was a kind of fondness. Through marriage and all the good and bad times that go along with it, one builds true love that is lasting. It has gotten me through all these years since her accident, that, and nothing else.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’m sorry. But you both at least had something to build on, did you not? How do you begin if there is nothing? Nick can never be anything more for me than a good friend. You wouldn’t want me to lie, would you?”

  “No, no, of course not.” He sighed. “All right. But don’t do anything hasty. After all, you’ve plenty of time for deciding where your heart lies. Perhaps one day your feelings for him will awaken …”

  I stared at him. Why couldn’t I make him understand?

  “Please believe me, Nan, a woman alone is at the mercy of society. I have only your interest at heart when I attempt to persuade you toward marriage. Be it Nick Weaver or some other fine man, no matter. It’s your happiness that concerns me.”

  I went into his arms then, the first time I had for a long while. Somehow even with this ever widening gap between us, it was comforting to lay my head on his shoulder and be held by him. Despite his mistakes on my behalf, I shall never doubt
he loves me, and as we stood there, two afternoon shadows against the kitchen wall, I wanted nothing more than to tell him everything about this summer.

  How thankful I am I did not.

  In those first few days of August, and even more so as the month wore on, there seemed to be a kind of impatience growing all round. It hadn’t rained since the night Mother was ill in early July. The grass was a dirty yellow color; the dust in the street seemed to kick higher than usual when a carriage passed down or a group of children gamboled toward the beach. The water pressure was low, and people up and down the street complained to one another they couldn’t get enough from their hoses to water the gardens properly. Good vegetable crops were growing dry; flowers drooped their heads like dancers after a tiring routine.

  Claire, who often left in her buggy nowadays a little earlier than I left for the beach, would stop regularly at the barometer on her back stoop, narrow her eyes, and tap it a couple of times to see if it was dropping. Helga seemed more irritable than usual, and I would often overhear her tersely instructing James about something or other, when Claire was away from home.

  I would awaken mornings, the bedclothes clinging to my back, perspiration all over my face and neck and arms, and I couldn’t be sure whether I felt worn out because of the heat, or because of something else. By the time I was up and dressed, I was in an angry mood, and sick and tired of keeping secrets. The uncertainty of what was to come welled up inside me like a festering sore.…

  “You haven’t said anything about the contract,” I told Roman one day as we sat on the beach eating apples.

  He finished paring a piece of fruit and took a loud bite before answering. “It’s still not decided,” he said.

  “Are you just saying that, to put me off?”

  “Of course not. Why should I?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as King gives the word. He’s negotiating it this morning, I think.”

  “Well, that sounds like a good sign, anyway. No hurry, you understand, August has just begun. It’s only that—”