Galveston (15 page)

I sat with feet tucked under me near the place of our picnic, watching Charles and Ruth among the boaters on the lake, sorry a little that I dislike the water so. Charles sat in one end of the small craft, turning the oars; Ruth languished at the other, her face hidden by the huge sun hat we'd bought her the previous week, and which she seemed today reluctant to cast aside.

The first week of her visit had been a good one for us all. I'd taken her fabric shopping at the Emporium the day after she arrived, then up the street to Madame LaRoche's for tailoring. As the shapeless schoolgirl clothes were shed, Madame had remarked: “Even in my youth my hips were not so firm and well-shaped. Clothes will hang well on Miss Miller.”

Embarrassed at Madame's candor, Ruth suggested we hurry because it was almost time for us to meet Charles at the Imperial Room.

We had been to Goggan's to buy more music, and spent one rainy afternoon making chocolate pie because Ruth declared mine was the best she'd ever eaten and wanted to know how I accomplished it. One evening we'd all three gone to the Tremont Opera House to see Joseph Jefferson in
Under the Gaslight
, for which Charles had gotten seats in the parquet circle. The afternoon before the one at Woollam's Lake we had gone to the beach, and she and Charles had waded at the water's edge, Ruth wearing her new bathing outfit she'd ordered from a catalogue and brought from home. I had sat back in the buggy, sewing, and pointed out they looked like the pelicans who hang around the islands all the time, picking their way along the water's edge—especially Charles, who had his pants legs rolled up to the knees.

We left Woollam's Lake around six o'clock—a lot of people were out that evening, many of them awaiting the availability of a boat to rent, so Charles and Ruth stayed out only a short time. When we arrived at the house Janet and Rubin were coming from the opposite direction, and I could see right away Janet and my Ruth were to be kindred spirits. Looking back on it now, I marvel that I hadn't guessed it would be so between them earlier, for Ruth was young and easily influenced, and Janet, almost bereft of friends, must have been hungry for someone who would admire her creative talents and learn from her.

After the initial introduction and Ruth's inquiry about the piano, Janet said, “Please do come over tomorow. I'll just need tonight to unpack and tomorrow we'll lift the piano lid and dust the keys, have the thing tuned if need be.

“Do you like poetry? Oh, how grand! And I'll be glad to teach you all I know about sketching if you want to learn … I have some books …”

I smarted a little, knowing I couldn't interfere without seeming selfish and domineering, and knowing too that Ruth's first week here—the one just past—would be the only one in which I would occupy all her attention.

And of course I was correct. From the time of Ruth's arrival, the normally withdrawn Janet was like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon, and I don't remember a single occasion all summer long when her shutters were drawn without cause. When Ruth wasn't at her house learning to sketch or practicing piano, or out with some gentleman caller or another (she was courted by several young men from the church, and went out once with Josh Driscoll to a party, before becoming acquainted with Teddy Marlowe), Janet was over at our house.

I would sew and listen to them discuss a poem or a book, seldom joining in. Both admired Longfellow and Whittier, and Hawthorne and the novels of Collins. Wordsworth was often subjected to their analytical discussion and both loved talking about Robert Browning's work and its symbolism.

Once they talked at length about the expatriation of the writer Henry James and the painter James McNeill Whistler. Ruth wondered why anyone would have to leave America in order to better himself in the arts, and Janet told her, “Oh, but in Europe they are so far ahead of us in the realm of culture. I do believe, I just know, if I could have had a chance to study over there I could have been … well, I just wish I'd been lucky enough to, that's all.… Oh well, did you know Henry James's new novel
Daisy Miller
is coming out soon? I've ordered a copy all the way from England, and you may read it when it arrives.”

Once drawn in by Janet, Ruth became less interested in new clothes and hairdos and it took a great amount of effort to prod her into going to Madame's for fittings, even though I pointed out Madame was highly selective in her patrons, and wouldn't countenance people who failed to show for appointments. Ruth crinkled her nose and consented to go, adding, “All right. It isn't that I don't appreciate your doing this for me, Cousin Claire … it's just that, well, if she wouldn't stare at me so. Gives me goose bumps.” This was but a convenient excuse, of course. Madame thought of nothing but the garments she fitted to women. She saw each as a work of art, and rightly so.

“I wish you could be a little more co-operative,” I told Ruth one day. “I'm only trying to help you, after all. It's scarcely a week before the evening we've planned with the Marlowes at the Garten, and once you've met Teddy, I'm sure there'll be no end to the parties you'll be attending, the other people you will meet. If you want this to be a good summer, you've got to put some effort into it.”

“All right, but I'm just a simple country girl, really. I'm having fun enough learning to paint and to play new pieces on the piano—did I tell you I've almost mastered the ‘Minuet in G'?—and Janet's such a love, to put up with me all the time.”

“I expect she won't have to so much once you've met a few people your own age. And believe me, dear, when we're through dressing you up, you will dazzle them all.”

“Maybe so …”

I believe Ruth must have pined away after her Frenchman throughout the summer, for I would hear her crying softly in her room from time to time, for no apparent reason, and while I thought at first she'd probably overcome her sorrow as the summer wore on, she seemed to become more prone to sudden tears as the days went by, rather than happier and more self-assured.

Certainly Josh Driscoll failed to hold her interest, as I suspected he would. She returned from their only evening together with a look of relief across her face. “He is nice,” she said to Charles and me as we were having a late cup of tea in the kitchen, “altogether
too
nice. Too patronizing, too proper—not that I don't believe in propriety, you understand. But it's as though he wears it like a shield. Then of course I have no luck talking with him—he's too nervous for one thing, and for another, we have nothing in common.

“I am sorry, though. I don't mean to be critical. I know you're both trying hard to entertain me and I appreciate it so much. The truth is, I'm having a marvelous time even if I haven't found any interesting men here … it's just I'm no good at pretending when I—”

“Don't worry,” said Charles. “You needn't see Josh Driscoll again for our sakes. When is it we go to the Garten, Claire? Wednesday? Good. Perhaps you'll like Teddy. But don't feel you must. Dishonesty wouldn't suit you.”

He was right, of course, yet I couldn't take the importance of the coming dinner party as lightly as he, for I had more at stake in the situation than he did. So I did a good deal of worrying over the days which followed, while trying not to seem obvious to either Ruth or Charles. Yet on Wednesday afternoon I began another menstrual flood, and it was apparent that whatever happened between Teddy and Ruth, I'd be no witness to it.

“We'll cancel if you can't go,” she said. “We can do it another time.”

“Nonsense. After I pulled teeth getting you fitted into that yellow organdie, and we spent all that time curling your hair this morning? You'll simply be accompanied by Charles alone, that's all. He and the Marlowes are great friends, and I'm sure there won't be any awkwardness about the odd number. Pretty soon you'll find them talking about some business or other, and it will leave you free to get acquainted with Teddy. I'd only be in the way, probably.”

She looked disappointed. “All right, but we'll be home early. It just won't be any fun without you.” She kissed my cheek and started out of the room. “Anyway, I'll probably have a headache from all these pins in my hair. Honestly, it feels nine pounds heavier since we curled it.”

“The discomfort of being beautiful is part of a woman's lot in life, I'm afraid. But it's getting late. You've got to hurry and get dressed, and I want to see you before you leave.”

“All right. Did you take your medicine?”

“No. I won't take it until you and Charles leave. It makes me too groggy, and I want to see how you look.”

“Okay, but I don't know whether I'm ready for that dress or not. Not that it isn't pretty, and any girl would be delighted to have it. But when I think of how I looked just a few weeks ago when I got off the train … well, Mother probably wouldn't recognize me if she saw me in it.”

After she was gone I indulged in a small triumphant smile.

There was a nice afternoon breeze sifting through the open window, and soon I dozed.

When Ruth returned to the bedroom to awaken me, it took several minutes to realize she actually stood across from me, like a picture from a storybook, in a dress that was without doubt another triumph for Madame, fitted tightly around the waist and designed to enhance the bust line. She'd studded her cascade curls with tiny yellow rosebuds picked that morning from my garden, and pinched her cheeks to heighten their color, the way I taught her to do.

She will never know how proud I was at that moment, for all the superlatives I uttered, and I commanded her to turn round four or five times so I could feast my eyes on every line of the dress. Finally I leaned back against the pillows and asked where Charles was.

“He's bathing, I think,” she said. “I wanted to be ready early, so I could show off my new dress to Janet and Rubin.”

“So it's not so bad after all, looking like a princess.”

“I do, don't I?” she said, her eyes glowing. “I don't think I realized how grand it would look once we put everything together. Thank you, Claire,” she said, and put her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Um, you smell good. What's that scent?”

“French Bouquet, the real perfume. Cornel gave it to me along with the dusting powder and I've never worn it before. I never even wore it for him. Isn't that funny?”

“Get your mind off that bounder, and have fun tonight. Believe me, there are plenty of men who would have given their eyeteeth to have had what he gave up so easily.”

“It's too bad really,” she said thoughtfully. “Could he have seen me tonight, he might … oh well, you're right. It's all over and I'm going to have fun in Galveston.”

Ruth always washed her hair on Monday, and often when she was finished we'd sit together in the backyard, the sunshine drying her long tresses as she pulled a hairbrush through them.

On the first Monday following the evening at the Garten Verein, then, we discussed Teddy Marlowe. It seemed an age since we'd had any time alone, for I had been in bed from Wednesday through Saturday, too dopey from the medicine to care about talking to anyone, and Sunday Teddy had called to take Ruth to church, then spent the afternoon and evening with her.

“Well now, tell me, what do you think of the Marlowe boy?” I said. She was sitting on a quilt spread on the ground in front of my chair, and had all her blond hair brushed forward, hiding her face.

“Oh, he's all right … more fun by a long shot than Josh Driscoll or that other boy I went with one night from St. Christopher's—what was his name, Steven Winnebank, or Winneberg, or something?”

“Teddy certainly seems taken with you. His father told Charles he'd mentioned your name quite regularly over the past few days.”

“Is that so?” She lowered her head still further, then raised it up straight, pulling all the hair to the back. “To tell you the truth, Cousin Claire, Teddy can dance circles around his father, but Mr. Marlowe is much more interesting to talk to. And I do get such a kick from watching him get all fired up over something … then Mrs. Marlowe touches his arm or gives him a dirty look—to quieten him down—then she gets started on something and talks twice as loud as he did. They really are a pair.”

“Teddy, though … he seems a bright boy, doesn't he?”

“Oh yes—ooh! There's a tangle—you know, I think he knows more about the war than anyone I've ever met. He'll probably grow up to be a general in the army or something.”

“His father fears he may favor a military career, but, you know, Pete really hopes to get Teddy into his law firm one day.”

“That reminds me, I'm going to begin helping Cousin Charles in his office a couple of days a week, typing.”

“Oh? He doesn't own a typewriter, does he?”

“No, but he thinks he can get a Remington from someone going out of business down from his office. I learned to use one last year at the Ped, and I even won a prize for being the best typist in the class.”

“But haven't you enough to do?”

“I guess so, but I was fascinated to hear him and Mr. Marlowe discuss their work. Then I was astounded to learn poor Charles writes everything out in longhand, himself. Think how much I could help him—then he'd be free to get away from the office more and go on picnics and things.”

“I don't know, I don't hold much with going down there myself.”

“I know. He said you'd only been there once. But more and more girls are becoming interested in office work. One girl in my typing class is working in a bookshop this summer, typing orders and even doing book reviews for the
Star
.”

“My, my, book reviews in the
Star?
Times have changed! When do you go to work?”

“Tomorrow, if Charles can get the machine. Types in upper and lower case, he says. That's the kind of machine I learned on—nothing but the newest and best for Mrs. Tannery, you know.”