Galveston Page 39

  “Don’t you dare. He is somebody special, who’s counting on you. I don’t want anything to do with a girl who ditches people when somebody better comes along. I heard too many Dear John letters being read during the war.”

  “Ever get one?”

  “No. My situation was … well … different.”

  “Then I suppose you don’t want anything further to do with me, since I do break dates now and then when something better comes along. I’m not going to apologize to anyone for being me.”

  “Let me tell you something, Willa,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “that isn’t you, at least not all you could be if you wanted to. You love for people to think you’re tough, that nothing matters to you, but you’re not like that at all.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “I don’t think I’m tough or anything. Just the same, I prefer that people keep their distance.”

  “Anyone could see that. One day someone will come along who’ll change your mind.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “All right, but you go ahead with your date Friday night. I’ll see you on Saturday. No, I can’t Saturday, for I’m busy. Sunday. Sunday afternoon I’ll pick you up and we’ll go out to the Heights house. What do you think?”

  “Fine.”

  “By the way, I hope you won’t be offended, but I haven’t a Stutz to my name, not even a Duesenberg. Only an old beat-up 1916 Ford with a Stewart Starter and no heater.”

  “How fast will it go?”

  “It has been known—once or twice—to make fifty.”

  “How daring.”

  It was galling, the fact my lie had fouled me up again.

  I had no date for Friday night. I only wanted him to think I did, or rather I had told him that without even thinking. I never expected him to insist that I not break it, and as a result to be left sitting at home alone. Even when Maybelle Crosthwaite, Velma’s daughter and something akin to a friend, called and asked me to go see The Gamblers at the Crown, I had to tell her no, for what if we should run into Rodney there? He might never speak to me again.

  At times I wasn’t certain whether Rodney took a paternal attitude toward me, or considered himself a serious suitor. It might have been different without the ten-year gap between our ages, or if neither of us had known about the gap. But he always expected a lot from me, as a father would from his daughter.

  Not my father, of course, who thought giving money and gifts was the way to be a good father. I can see now it was his way of showing love, but then I resented the lack of attention … his Sundays spent working instead of taking me to the park when I was a child; all the school programs and plays attended only by Mother. The gifts didn’t go far in making up for his absence, and didn’t help convince me I was really loved like “blood kin.”

  Perhaps, then, I did look upon Rodney as a father type. He made me behave, whereas no other man had forced that upon me, and this unusual aspect of the relationship sustained my interest during the first few weeks, before things got involved in other ways.

  That Sunday he drove up promptly on time and we set out for the house he was so enthused about. It was a lovely fall day, with just a chill in the air and plumes of white clouds, soft as underfur, thrust across the blue sky. I had suggested we have a picnic, and even went so far as to offer to bring the lunch.

  I was like a high school girl awaiting the hour of her first date. I’d picked a special dress of soft jersey with a large, lacy collar and long tapered sleeves to wear, and pulled my hair back into a twist, with curls left around my face, in an effort to look alluring and feminine. I’d packed sandwiches and fruit, and hot chocolate, and was ready when he knocked at the door.

  The fact I was ready on time didn’t seem to surprise him, yet he did comment on the dress while he took the picnic basket from my arms and threw the quilt over his shoulder. “It isn’t like you,” he said, “or at least what I’ve seen of you so far.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I do like it. I’m just used to your looking businesslike.”

  “Well, I’m going to try not to be too businesslike today, because it doesn’t fit my mood.”

  “Nor mine. I can’t wait to show you the house.”

  It was as he had said, large with rambling lawn, dwarfing the other houses around it. A paint job was sorely needed, but I agreed with him as we emerged from the Ford the house had unlimited possibilities.

  “Wouldn’t the seller have been better off if he’d painted before moving away?”

  “Yes, but there wasn’t time before he left town. If we can’t sell it as it is, we’re going to hire a paint contractor and bill him for it.”

  “This porch is bigger than ours, nice and breezy, but there’s too much foliage hanging around it. It ought to be more open, don’t you think? To show off the cut glass doors better.”

  “The house itself is nothing to compare with the one you live in, Willa, but I can see your point.”

  We bantered back and forth like a couple interested in buying the house for ourselves. Wouldn’t a highboy be perfect against a wall here, or two Queen Anne chairs across from each other in front of this fireplace or that, a jardiniere either side of this door, a whatnot shelf in that corner, an étagère here?

  “You convince me more all the time real estate ought to be your field,” he said finally. “You’ve a knack for imagining things, and your enthusiasm could be contagious to customers. Next time I have an interested client, I may impose upon you to come out with me.”

  “I can’t see myself trudging around all the time trying to please picky buyers, or putting up with people who back out of contracts. If I made suggestions to your customers, I would expect them to be carried out.”

  He smiled. “What a lot you have to learn about the public.”

  “I know all I want to about the public, thank you. Let’s look at the undercroft. Through this door?”

  “Yes, hold on a minute. I’ve got the key.”

  He fiddled with the latch for a moment, then opened the door and turned on a wall switch, yielding only a taper of light. I felt fright clutch at me as I looked down below, but didn’t want him to know. He’d think I was silly. I took in a breath. It was stone cold and musty as we descended the shallow stairs and suddenly a feeling of queasiness came over me. I stopped and put a hand to my stomach.

  Rodney turned around. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no, of course not. I just felt a little dizzy, that’s all.”

  “Okay now?”

  “Sure. Go on.”

  He turned around again and started down. The further we got the more nauseated I became and once we reached the bottom of the stairs I knew I had to get out of there, and quickly. “Look, it’s nasty down here. Why don’t we go back up?” I asked.

  “Sure, if you like. There isn’t anything down here anyway but empty shelves, and maybe a hungry rat or two. But with proper lighting and heat, it could be—”

  “Please, let’s just get out of here, okay?”

  He said nothing more and we ascended to the first floor again, but he saw right through me and teased me about my fears back in the kitchen. “Well, you’ve ruined my chances, I guess. I was all set to keep you down there in chains as a special attraction for clients.”

  “Look, you don’t have to make fun of me. Is it a crime for a person to feel trapped? I don’t even like riding in an elevator—it’s why I take the stairs most of the time. I don’t know why I’m that way, I just am. Let’s get out of here and have our picnic.”

  On the back lawn at 1204 Heights Boulevard we spread our quilt under the moss-hung trees. My mood was now as damp as the undercroft, and I was silent as we pulled the picnic things from the basket.

  “Hot chocolate?” I asked finally.

  “Sounds great. Here, let me open that jug for you.”

  “No, I can get it,” I said, but as I closed my hand around the cap I had a stabbing pain. I let go.r />
  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking at my hand. “I must have hurt it doing something else, and didn’t realize. It feels like I’d banged it against a wall,” I told him, holding it down on my lap and trying not to let him know it ached as much as it did. In a moment he’d begin to think I was daffy.

  Later, after we’d eaten the sandwiches and drunk the jug dry, he leaned against a tree and considered me. “You’re strange, Willa.”

  “I know, but I won’t apologize.”

  “You put on show as a self-confident, sometimes even pushy person, but you’re not really like that. I think you’re a little afraid all the time.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What have I got to be afraid of? I’ve probably done things you’ve never dreamed of doing. Besides, if my personality bothers you so much, why do you keep seeing me?”

  “I didn’t say that. You always jump to conclusions. I was thinking the other day, now there’s a girl who is friendly, yet cautious. She’s nice in a way, but don’t ever cross her.”

  “Oh, so you’re afraid of me?”

  “On the contrary. I wouldn’t be afraid of displeasing you at the price of making you mad. I don’t owe anybody that. I just meant … well, if I were going to try and remain on your good side, I should remember how you are.”

  “And are you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not in my line. But you do need somebody, I can tell that. You need somebody more than anyone I’ve ever known, Willa Frazier.”

  “I just love the way you’re always sizing me up. Well, I don’t need anybody. I’m perfectly fine as I am, and was getting along great before you dropped into my life.”

  “What’s eating you, Willa?”

  “Nothing, nothing! Why must you pry so? Can’t we just try and have a good day without your analyzing me?”

  “Of course, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s only that you interest me.”

  “Yeah, like a monkey in the zoo. Now, I’ve a splitting headache. Let’s go home.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m responsible for ruining this go-round. Oh well, at least you did finally see the house.”

  “Yes, and I did like it, really. I can understand your enthusiasm about it.”

  “Even the undercroft?”

  “I could get used to it. I’m not all that afraid. What I mean is, I’m sure any client would like it, with proper lighting and so forth. Anyway, if it were my house and the room bothered me I would either have it sealed off or send a servant down whenever anything was needed from it.”

  “It may surprise you to learn not all my clients have servants at beck and call. Some are just plain folks like me.”

  I was going to say the obvious—anyone who would buy a house that large would surely have help—but I dropped it, and wondered why it was so often we wound up insulting each other. Why couldn’t I just get bored with the whole thing and drop Rodney as I had just about everyone else?

  He decided to try again the next week, and asked me over to his house for dinner on Friday night. It had been two days since the Sunday picnic, and I’d told myself many times it was foolish to carry on this friendship any longer. Still, I said yes, without hesitating.

  The Sidney Younger home, off Caroline, was just as I expected—pleasant and unpretentious. We were met at the door by Rodney’s father and a waft of garlic coming from the kitchen. Mr. Younger didn’t favor Rodney very much except he was tall and lean, with a trace of freckles that seemed to have faded with age. He parted his thinning gray hair down the center and wore multicolored armbands with bright orange mingled through like fudge in a marble cake.

  His skin had a certain pallor, although I attached no significance to this at the time. His eyes were bright, lively, almost laughing as he said, “Well, come on in, children,” as though we were tardy for dinner and had come in together a hundred times before. There was no getting to know Sidney Younger. You just met him and knew him right away.

  Agatha Younger was straitlaced and far less friendly than her husband. It was from her that Rodney took his red hair, although the years have mellowed hers to almost a light brown. Mr. Younger called her Red that evening. Red is what he almost always called her. A small stout woman, she served us tomato juice cocktails as Sidney apologized, “Red’s very strict about upholding prohibition around here, even if it’s foolish.”

  The parlor was homey, full of framed snapshots of Rodney in his military uniform and cheap ceramics, with crocheted doilies on the backs and arms of the furniture. A Packard piano stood in one corner, lit by a lamp with heavy fringed shade that gave the keys a spotlight effect. A huge portrait of Christ, complete with Sacred Heart and faint glimmer of halo, hung above the fireplace. Pinned to another wall was a small crucifix. I stared at it, only then realizing the Youngers were Roman Catholic.

  As though reading my thoughts, Agatha began, “And what faith do you profess, dear?”

  “Mother, really—”

  “Just curious. I’m sure Miss Frazier won’t mind telling me a little about herself.”

  “I was christened Episcopalian, but I don’t go to church anymore.”

  Rodney was scowling at me from the corner, but I could see no point in trying to impress anyone. It was my business if I didn’t believe in that ceremonial frivolity. I wasn’t even sure God existed.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I suppose there comes a time for many when they stray. Of course, I can’t recall experiencing … Oh well, Sidney, come along and help me finish dinner.”

  When they were out of earshot I said, “I’ve insulted her, haven’t I?”

  “It’s all right. Mother goes a bit overboard on religion.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’ve broken from Catholicism, to her disappointment.”

  “So you’re like me, then?”

  “I don’t know your feelings. Before the war I thought a person needn’t believe in anything, for it had no bearing one way or the other, but after I saw a few guys get shot up within feet of me and spent three years fighting for something I knew deep down was senseless at best, I got to thinking we all need someone or something to believe in. It’s the faithless people who’ve messed up the world—or else those with misguided faith. I guess you could say I’m a former Catholic, converted to religion in general.”

  I turned and gazed into the dying log fire beneath the portrait of Christ and wished, for a moment, that I could have Rodney’s convictions. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so desolate inside.…

  After dinner we had a sing-song, which, I soon learned, was a Friday night tradition in the Younger household. Sidney’s favorite was, “Hello, My Baby,” and this we sang three or four times. He had a buoyant voice, which wasn’t too loud although he seemed to be putting much effort behind it, and Rodney’s sisters Amanda and Jane, twelve- and thirteen-year old look alikes with long brunet plaits and mischievous brown eyes, flipped the songbook pages back and forth between songs, arguing over what we’d sing next.

  It was the first of many evenings I spent at Rodney’s house, and when I look back on them I recall best the way Sidney rolled his hands over the piano keys as he sang, “Hello, My Baby,” his armbands dazzling in the light. I believe now I’ll think more often of him, although I never felt a twinge of sadness or spent a tear when he died before the end of the year. He’d had cancer for over a year and had shared the knowledge with Rodney and Agatha all those months. One night shortly after Thanksgiving he was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.

  Rodney and I had tickets to see six reels of Harry Houdini that night, and, being a great fan of the escape artist, I was eagerly looking forward to the show. Rodney phoned as I was dressing to explain why he couldn’t make it.

  “I’ll come down to the hospital and meet you,” I said.

  “No, you go on to the show—”

  “I’ll come,” I repeated, and when I hung up the phone I muttered, “damn.” Mother, who was coming down the hall j
ust then said, “Willa, what in the world? Standing there in your slip like that. What’s the matter?”

  “No Houdini. Rodney’s father is at St. Joseph’s Infirmary. I’ve got to go there now.”

  “But your father isn’t home yet with the car—”

  “Oh yeah; will you order me a cab?”

  “All right. But do you think you ought to? I mean, do you know the family all that well?”

  “Skip it, Mother. I have to go.”

  “All right then,” she said, and picked up the directory.

  On the way out I tossed the Houdini tickets on the table and offered them to her and Dad.

  “But your father has a meeting tonight.”

  “Well, get Velma to go with you.”

  “Velma? I hardly think she’d be interested in that sort of show. She and Carter are attending the Houston Grand Opera tonight. You ought to see her dress—”

  “Okay, leave them. Maybe we can exchange them if the films play here long enough.”

  The films did not play long enough, and I had no more than entered the halls of St. Joseph’s and found Agatha Younger sitting stoically against one wall near the admittance office than I knew that Sidney Younger would not last long either.

  I sat down beside her, realizing for the first time I had nothing to say. I hadn’t stopped long enough to consider this after Rodney’s call. She’d been crying, for her eyes were red, her cheeks pinched and damp, but she wasn’t crying at that moment.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Younger. I didn’t know Sidney was ill.”

  “It was a family matter,” she said almost huffily. “They gave him six months, but he’s survived this long. We are grateful for God’s blessings to us.”

  I looked down at her hands and saw the wrung-out lace handkerchief in one, the black beaded rosary wound around the other. Was this what you did when about to lose someone? Pray for strength, or count the beads along a cold piece of jewelry?

  I leaned back against the wall, no harder than the wooden bench that had been provided for the loved ones of patients going through the machinations of entering the hospital. My mother had been right. I had no place here tonight, though perhaps not for the reasons she named. I knew nothing of losing people, what to say, how to cope. I could feel nothing except sudden flashes of resentment when I thought of missing out on Houdini.