Galveston (34 page)

I stopped short. “What?”

“She wants to repay him for what he did for me. She said if we saw him today, to ask him over, and you too, of course. She'll invite your father and you can ask Nick to come, too.”

“How nice. Well, I doubt Roman will have time to come to dinner. He'll probably have a show that night. Besides, we'll probably never see him again.”

It seemed odd at first, Claire wanting to have a dinner party. She hadn't even been around when we got home with James that day he was stung. Why bother with a party now? Then I remembered what a flair she once had for entertaining. While Charles was alive, she was always inviting people over, often including Dad. She loves making show, especially when she is the star.

As we passed near the Pavilion I looked straight ahead, as did James, yet I could see from the corner of my eye a group of people at the surf's edge. “They're there,” James whispered. “Did'ya see them?”

“Oh, are they? It doesn't matter. Come, let me find my gate key. Look, the surf's up today.”

James clearly viewed his role as co-conspirator, even when I'd tried to be as offhanded as possible about Roman. He had a sixth sense that helped him to see far more than what lay on the surface. Someday, after shedding his callow youth, he will be a bundle for a young maid to handle.

I spread a towel on the pier and James jumped into the water. He loved the sea now that he was used to it, and while most children his age would have been wary after the sting received only two days earlier, he was content to ride the waves as though nothing had happened to him.

Porky, too, had taken to the surf today, and was splashing around happily with his new-found friend. I couldn't deny I'd cheated Porky lately. He still went to the beach with me, and I'd never failed to feed him or to take care of him properly. But then I hadn't been a companion for him, over the past year or so. I never seemed to find the time to play with him as I had when he was a puppy. Either I didn't want him mussing my dress, or I had to wash my hair, or had somewhere to go that he couldn't conveniently go with me. So, except when I went to the beach, he'd often stayed in his pen, staring between the fence pales as though he wouldn't mind running away should he have the chance. This was another reason I was grateful for James's arrival here in Galveston. He was such a perfect friend for the big dog, and was obviously as attached to him as though Porky really belonged to him … as perhaps in some ways he did. James often bathed him, fed him, took him for walks when I was at dancing class, or otherwise busy, roughhoused in the yard with him, and lately was teaching him to retrieve, although this project wasn't proving too successful, probably because Porky was a little too old for training.…

Lost in my thoughts as I lay there under the queer relaxing power of the sun, I'd almost forgotten about Roman Cruz. Then there was a voice from behind.

“Unlock this confounded thing, will you? What does a man have to go through to get to you?”

My heart speeding to a gallop, I ran up the pier, across the lawn, and opened the gate. “I'm sorry. I had no idea you'd be coming round today.”

“I didn't either,” he said, and walked with me back down the length of the pier. I was feeling smug already for the way I'd addressed him—so casual, unassuming.

“Hey, young fellow out there, how's that leg?” he called to James.

“It's fit, sir, thanks to you.”

I was afraid James would pick this moment to come bounding up on the pier and invite Roman for dinner, yet he stayed in the water. I wished profoundly there were some way I could stave him off, keep him from mentioning the party at all. I'd had misgivings before, and now, in the presence of Roman, I sensed more strongly than ever he would despise the idea.

“You didn't come to the show last night,” he said, almost scoldingly.

“I didn't know I was expected.”

“Well, you were. You were supposed to fix up your hair, put on your best dress, and be out in the audience mooning at me as I played. But you didn't show up.”

I laughed. “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I can't find time to go to the Pavilion every night.”

“You're not like most of the girls around here,” he said. “You don't react the same. I like that.”

“Oh, do you? Well, don't ever feel you can take me for granted.”

“What makes you think I'd be guilty of such a thing?”

“I know your kind. You're—”

“What am I? What do you know of me?” he demanded, and I thought for a moment he must be angry at my flippancy.

“Nothing, nothing. I mean, you're used to having your way with girls, that's all.”

“You're right, I am at that.”

“I meant no—”

“I like you, Serena, like you a damn lot. If that kid weren't out in the bay over there, I'd try to hold your hand. Of course I don't usually operate that subtly, but for you I would.” He was teasing now, and I could feel the red going to my face.

“You'd like that, would you?”

“Maybe.”

“You wore a different suit today.”

“Yes.”

“I like the other one better.”

“It doesn't fit right.”

“I know. That's why I like it.”

I leaned back a little and shaded my eyes. “You're very fresh.”

“I know it. You really ought to tell me to leave right now.”

It was at that moment James, with his unique sense of timing, came up from the water and told Roman about the dinner. Hanging onto a stair rung, he began a long sermon about Roman's gallantry and trustworthiness that surely was made up of Claire's ideas, rather than his own.

Roman rolled his eyes and laughed. “She tell you to say all that?”

“You'll come, won't you?”

“You needn't feel obligated if you don't want to,” I said quickly.

“What night—Thursday?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“I think I will. We're off tomorrow night—as a matter of fact, it's odd she happened to pick that night. We just found out last night the show has been canceled because they have to work on the wiring or something—otherwise I'd have had to work. And it isn't often I get invited up to someone's house on this side of Galveston. Tell your cousin or whoever she is that I'll be there. What time?”

“Seven. She'll be glad,” James said with delight, and jumped back into the water, sending a shower over both of us.

“Really, you needn't bother,” I said. “I've a feeling you couldn't care less about something like that. It wouldn't hurt my feelings if you didn't come.”

“Nonsense. How else am I going to get to see you? We can't go on meeting at the beach forever, with a boy and a dog as witnesses. Who knows, maybe your father will even like me, though I doubt it.”

“My dad isn't as prim as you might think. He sometimes—” I continued, but stopped. There was no use going into Dad's drinking, just to make him seem more daring. When a man's drinking is a barometer of his sorrow, it's unfair to use it to impress someone else.

“I've got early rehearsals today,” Roman said finally. “See you tomorrow night.”

“You remember where the house is?”

“Certainly. A man could find his way around this island blindfolded, doing back flips. I'll be there.”

Yet I half believed he wouldn't as he disappeared on the other side of the Fischer gate that morning, and would worry about it from that moment until the day and night and day after had passed, and it was time to walk over to Claire's.

Chapter 6

Thursday, June twenty-second, is printed indelibly on my mind: a unit in time with a beginning and end, wedged inside a summer otherwise made up of loose ends, unanswered questions, nameless fears.

Mother awakes that morning looking well rested, and I take this as a good omen. The day is hung over with a cloudless sky Mrs. McCambridge would call “purely blue.” Helga Reinschmidt has four clotheslines hung with linens and clothes, billowing out in the breeze. I can see them from the kitchen window as I make the coffee before going to Madame's.

I will not be at my best while dancing today. During exercises at the bar, I will be thinking hard about the evening ahead, and will turn the wrong way and wind up backwards to the class, looking directly into the face of Michelle O'Grady, who is not much of a dancer but always at least technically correct in her movements. Madame will first give me a look of consternation (I can see her reflection in the big wall mirror behind), and in a moment will say, “Serena—come, come, where is your mind, girl?”

I will try to concentrate better on my work, but it will be of little use. I will keep wondering at Claire's desire to throw a dinner party, for I have decided her love of show simply is not sufficient to cause her to go to this sort of trouble. James reports she has spent hours poring over menus, and has had Helga busy polishing all the silverware and the silver coffee service, which is her pride and joy. If for love of show, why not spend it on some of her friends, rather than on us?

At Claire's request, Nick will be there, for Dad would have thought odd my reluctance to invite him, and I am being cautious about betraying anything of my attraction to Roman. Altogether there will be six of us. Mrs. McCambridge will spend the evening with Mother.

As I arrive home after dancing class, I see James standing in our yard, below Mother's window. I open my mouth to call to him, then see a piece of paper flutter down from the window like a bird with broken wings.

James retrieves it, reads it, then looks up. “But what does it mean?” he demands of Mother. She, of course, doesn't answer him, and I know the frustration he feels. I've a thousand unanswered questions for every year since Mother fell down the stairs.

“Come here, James,” I tell him. “May I have a look at it? What is it, a poem?”

He hands it to me.

Were going to Abaddon, our bad sins for to pay
.

We're going to Abaddon, ne'er to see the light of day
.

“What's that word, ‘Abaddon'?” James asks.

“I thought you'd know; I don't.”

“I brought my dictionary from home. I'll go and fetch it.”

“All right,” I tell him, but I know by the context the word can mean but one thing, and I wonder again what Mother is trying to hide. There must be something in her past she's kept secret, but what? There is a chance Dad might be able to tell me, but he always dismisses her poetry as insignificant, and I don't try hard to persuade him to discuss it, for I can see it grieves him to see her scribbling. Her handwriting is almost bizarre—large, and grotesquely uneven. I have seen samples of it in her younger days. It was round and neatly formed, with circles over the
i
's, instead of dots.

In the afternoon I wash my hair and take the curling iron to it. Tonight I will wear it pulled back and tied with a blue bow to match my shirtwaist dress. There is a shameful number of freckles across my nose, but it is too late to worry about them now.

Fifty-eight minutes past six o'clock. I have bathed and dressed. I feel flush and nervous, and watch anxiously from the window to see if he will come. When he does amble nonchalantly past the string of fences down our block, humming a tune, I am so relieved I practically shout down to him. It crushes me that he walks on past without looking toward our house, but then, he isn't my escort after all; a few moments from now Nick will pull up in a rented rig and we will walk to Claire's together. The realization of this makes me almost angry at Nick, and when he arrives, bringing a bouquet of daisies, I must concentrate hard to avoid being pesky and short with him.

By seven-thirty, we are all seated around Claire's big candlelit dining table with the hand-crocheted cloth. She has taken care to seat Nick and me side by side, Roman and James together, opposite us. She herself is at one end and Dad is at the other, in Charles's place.

Roman has seemed completely at ease throughout the awkward introductions and trite opening remarks by Dad and Claire about the band. Nick is nervous. He begs permission to smoke, then lights one cigarette after another until the first course of cold shrimp is brought by Helga, clad in her white starched apron and cap. Later, after raisin pie and coffee, he goes back to smoking again and Claire, the perfect hostess, unobtrusively asks Helga to open a window. Helga obeys, but only after giving Nick a look of disapproval that would close a wildflower in bloom. Nick pretends not to notice.

The talk has been frivolous during the meal, consisting mostly of compliments toward Claire's lovely presentation of dinner and Helga's talents in the kitchen. Claire is dressed in wine taffeta with white lace collar, and has put extra rouge on her cheeks, giving her face a phony, made-up look, as I see it from above the candlelight.

As Helga picks up the last empty pie plate, Dad pats his mouth delicately, pushes back his chair, pulls out his pipe. “Well, James,” he says, “you look none the worse for being stung by a man-of-war, eh?”

“No, sir. It didn't bother me long, sir.”

“Of course, the purpose of our gathering tonight is to thank Mr. Cruz.” Claire smiles sweetly across at Roman.

“It was kind of you,” he replies. “I was only glad to have been around when it happened.”

“Anyone would have done as much,” says Nick.

“Of course,” Roman agrees.

James gazes down at his place; he has hardly touched his food. Dad breaks the silence. “Claire, I guess you and your committee will be down at the church all summer, putting the perfect touches on the garden, and weeding out all those unwanted dandelions.” Dad always mentions the church garden when there is nothing else to fill a painful conversation gap.

“Yes. Too much sunshine this year, though,” Claire answers. “It's better when we've a balance between that and rain.”