Galveston (12 page)

The new church school building, then, would replace the rent house as parish hall, the small office and Sunday school building presently standing, and thereby encompass all church activities other than services under one ample and handsome roof. Charles and Rubin were discussing this pleasant fact one Sunday while sitting around our dinner table, and I came upon an idea which was not intended to put me in a position closer to Rubin, at least not consciously, although it was true that the more time passed, the more we were thrown together by circumstances purely beyond our control, the more I watched his expressions of exasperation from time to time when Janet failed him by not being up to attending some church function or another, the harder it was for me to look into his eyes without believing there was a glimmer of wistfulness there. And Charles, despite all of Pete Marlowe's overtures and my subtle persuasive remarks designed to make him realize his career would no doubt blossom in partnership with Pete's firm, still showed no signs of budging from the little stuffy office he'd occupied since we came to Galveston, and moving us into a new social circle which would have helped me keep my mind off Rubin.

“It's a pity to build a new structure on the grounds of St. Christopher's,” I said.

Everyone looked across at me.

“I only mean the grounds are so utterly bleak, both summer and winter, why bother trying to improve the looks of the property with a new building? The building may be functional, but believe me, the appearance will not be enhanced to passersby and potential members of the parish.”

“You're right,” said Janet. “Just a long expanse of grass that has never grown properly and that one huge, ugly palm right in the center of the yard. And those poor, forlorn-looking shrubberies along the cloisters—what are they called?”

“Croton, and they'd look all right if they were taken care of by someone who knew what they were about.”

“Claire's an expert on flowers. We would do well to put her in charge of improving the grounds,” Janet said then, as though she knew of my design.

“Wait a minute,” said Rubin. “What about Peabody, the sexton? It's his job to look after the grounds. I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by—”

“Oh, Rubin, you needn't do that at all. You could form a committee—with Claire at the head—and Mr. Peabody could work right along with the group.”

“You know, that's a splendid idea. You could begin next spring.”

“But what about the construction going on?” Charles asked. “Won't it be a pretty big mess around there for several months?”

“We could leave the part at the far end till last, concentrate on the other end and the cloisters in the beginning,” I said. “I've envisioned many different patterns, as a matter of fact, and of course it would have to be a perpetual thing, go on from year to year.”

“Why, my dear, you sound as though you've been planning a gardening committee for sometime,” said Charles.

“Not at all. However, you will admit I have a talent for organizing things and making them grow. One could hardly glance at the church property without noticing it's crying out for attention.”

“You're so right,” said Janet. “It would make a good drawing card for the church. You know, Trinity is rather limited as to how it can be improved on, being right in the middle of town.”

“You ladies speak of God's house as though it were a dry goods store,” said Rubin, and Charles began to laugh.

“This is serious, and I'll thank you not to laugh, Charles,” I said. “Rubin is misinterpreting our idea, that's all. There are always going to be churches and there are always going to be people to go to them, so what's wrong with a little worry over catching people's eye? If you don't get the people into the church, you'll hardly have an opportunity of preaching God's word to them. Isn't that so, Rubin?”

“Of course, Claire, and don't believe for a moment I take your concern lightly. It's just that I'd never really thought of the big old palm as being ugly, and never thought how much nicer the property might look with some special talent used on it. I can see we've been wasting you.”

“You'll never know how much.”

“Very good, then. Tell you what. I'll approach the vestry about it at the next meeting. If they're attuned to the idea, I'll mention it from the pulpit and ask for volunteers to help you.”

The vestry officially named my committee the St. Christopher's Garden Guild (although most often it was referred to as “the garden committee,” and as time went on and my name remained synonymous with its accomplishments, it would be called simply, “Claire's garden”), and gave the full responsibility for planning and carrying out the project to me. The vestry allocated thirty-five dollars for expenses, and suggested people might donate cuttings and shrubs, and Rubin promised to bring up the proposition from the pulpit one Sunday shortly after the new year began. “I want you to plan it out,” he told me privately. “If I just suggest to the congregation we need flowers and shrubs, no telling what they'll come up with, and we could hardly refuse someone like Mrs. Travesty, for instance, if she were to offer a bunch of things totally out of line with what you're trying to accomplish. You know how she is. She'd probably leave the church and never come back again. And others might be hurt if they donated plants and never found them blooming in the garden.

“So give me a list of what you want, and the thirty-five dollars can go for the things you aren't able to get donated.”

“A birdbath.”

“How's that?”

“For the courtyard, behind the cloisters. I've already picked it out. It's going to have sweet peas around it—I'll donate them myself if need be—and bougainvillaea climbing up the walls either side.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, Rubin, you have no idea how much it means to me for you to be proud of it. I'm going to work very hard.”

“What we want of course is for all the congregation to be pleased,” he said, and shifted his eyes from mine.

“Of course.”

And so they were, from the start. Rubin can be very winning, and after the service, when he'd mentioned the list of things needed and asked for volunteer workers, a total of fifteen women enthusiastically offered help. Some weeks later with a crew made up of five of them a day, and the helping hand of Mr. Peabody, I started my garden to grow, and the course of all our lives to change.

Chapter 12

Janet announced, shortly after digging began, that she was bound for a trip home to Virginia. “I want to see my parents,” she told us one night. “They're getting old, and somehow I've had the feeling lately I ought to pay them a visit.”

“When are you planning to leave?” I asked.

“Early in April. I'll stay a week or two, no more.”

“Well then, Rubin, you must count on having your evening meals with us. We'll try to fill in for Janet so she won't worry about your growing thin and unhealthy while she's away.”

“I do appreciate that,” he said, and laughed. “I can't impose myself on you every night, however.”

“Very well then, we'll leave it an open invitation,” Charles said. “We always have plenty, so come over any night you've got nothing else planned.”

“Or any day,” I said. “For lunch.”

“I'd better not stay away too long,” said Janet, raising an eyebrow. “You might spoil my husband so he won't want to have me for a wife anymore.”

It surely would not take much doing, I thought.

There came a sudden rain shower one day shortly after.

I had dismissed the other ladies working in the garden, and stayed long after to finish one plot in the far left corner of the courtyard. There were rocks in the soil, and pieces of wood and chunks of cement which had been covered over and left when the church building was put up.

Rubin was working at his desk, which had been moved temporarily into the rent house when his little office building was razed to make room for the new structure. I hadn't known he was still around, but apparently he'd seen me from the window, for when the rain began he hurried toward me with a big umbrella and hustled me inside the rent house for the duration of the shower. He put a protective arm around my shoulders and held me surely closer than necessary to shield us both with the umbrella, and the sound of my heart thumping inside my breast was louder in my ears than our steps across the soaking grass.

After we were safe inside, Rubin poured us both cups of coffee, and said, “Lucky for me making good coffee isn't a qualification for entering the priesthood.” He handed me mine. I wanted to make some witty reply to his remark, but could think of none.

“What made you become a priest?” I asked instead, for it was a question I had long puzzled over. He sat down behind his desk, lit up his pipe, and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“
Made
me?” he said finally. “Well, if you mean, was I the recipient of a holy visitation, or did a bolt of heavenly lightning strike me in my bed one night, I guess I'd have to say that nothing ‘made' me become a priest, that is, nothing so dramatic.”

“People sometimes say a life of religion is a ‘calling.' Was it so for you?”

“Only in the sense that I'd journeyed so far away from God—as you well know—that when he did get my attention, he got it good and made excellent use of it … at least, I hope he feels he did.” He was smiling now, looking across indulgently into my face.

“You think it a childish question.”

“Certainly not.”

“Has Charles told you much about his brother Damon?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Because you remind me—and Charles, too—so much of Damon, and it would have been thoroughly unlike him to have given up his freedom and become harnessed by a life of subjugation.”

“My dear Claire, we are all subjugate to the Lord. We are only truly free when we accept him as our savior.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But something drastic must have happened to change you from being Damon's kind of man—a few saloon brawls and a night or two in jail wouldn't have been enough.”

“I don't know that I was really as like him as you think. Perhaps I was worse—or more liberal, let us say—than Damon, so once I finally saw the error of my ways it was a rather startling realization.”

“You would have liked Damon. Sometimes I can scarcely believe that, some time or other, you two didn't meet, exchange stories, drink together.…”

“I did plenty of that, let me assure you. But as far as I know I never met up with Charles's brother. You seem to have known him well.”

“Briefly.”

“And thought well of him.”

“Yes.”

“How lucky a man Charles is, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“To have won your affections over his brother.”

I looked away, toward the window where he had doubtless watched me digging in the ground only minutes earlier. “You think then, that I am something of a prize?”

“I certainly do. You're very lovely, accomplished, surely an asset to any man.”

“You flatter me?”

“Not at all. I speak the truth, as I am bound to do. Sometimes I almost wish—” he began, but stopped. From the corner of his eye he could see what I now saw from the window. Charles had drawn up in the rig; the rain splintered off its brougham top.

Rubin looked back at me, then crossed to the window and waved a hand. “It's Charles,” he said softly, “come to our rescue.”

Now, Janet Garret wasn't a bad hand with flowers, though she did tire easily while working out in the hot sun. She went down to the church with me once or twice right at first, but we'd hardly begun work on the garden when time for her trip approached. On the day before her train left, in fact, she took time out from packing to bring sandwiches and iced tea for all of us at noon. It was a kind gesture, but so like her to do it at a bad time, and I surmised when I saw her coming with basket and jug that I'd have to spend my evening helping her finish packing so she would be ready for the morning train. It was, of course, important she did not fail to make the train. Could I be blamed for wanting to see how things would develop, knowing how much Rubin had left unsaid that rainy day in the church office, when Charles had interrupted us? Since then I had felt myself pulled along as though by a forceful current, toward what end I'd scarcely the nerve to imagine.

“By the way, you have a letter at our house … meant to bring it but left it on the table by the front door,” she told me as we unloaded the picnic basket. “It came today and got stuck in our box instead of yours.”

“Did you notice who it was from?”

“Someone in Grady, I think. The handwriting was difficult to read, and of course as soon as I realized it wasn't for Rubin or me, I didn't take further notice.”

“Must be Cousin Betsey. It's about time for a letter from her, and with her handwriting it's a thousand wonders the letter made it to Galveston at all, much less to one house down from us on Avenue L.”

The church grounds were alight with activity that day, the workmen hauling wood all over the place and hammering nails, and Mr. Peabody helping two of my girls to plant some new shrubbery along the cloisters. I was anxious that Janet's picnic not turn into a long affair, for there was much work still to do, so I hurried everyone through lunch, the letter skipping my mind until that evening at home.

I'd guessed correctly: it was from Betsey. “Dear Claire,” it began, “This letter will be short because we've been so busy at the store, I don't really have time to write. But I've been so concerned about my poor daughter and I want you to help me out if you can.

“Remember the boy I told you of, the one Ruth was so fond of last summer? Well, when he went off to school in the fall, he lost interest in her. She was so looking forward to his visit this spring, for at Christmastime you'd have thought all was the same as usual between them and I expected him to ask for her hand in marriage. But he wrote a few days ago that he's to marry someone else. Just like that!