Galveston (35 page)

There follows another awkward silence. The air is pregnant with unspoken words. Finally Nick clears his throat and offers, “This time last year I was preparing to go off to war.”

“Yes, thank God we've nothing like that facing us this year,” says Dad.

“Did you make it to Cuba?” Roman asks.

“No, it was over before I ever got outside Texas, but I would have gone and served my country. What of you?”

“I had no part in it. It was a silly little skirmish, to my mind.”

Claire looks anxiously from Nick to Roman. “Did you read in the paper they're getting ready to do some extensive repairs on two of the wharves?”

“Yes, seem to be improving on them all the time … government grants for deeper water dredging, one thing and another,” says Dad.

“Did you know,” says Nick, “I read the other day ours is the first primary cotton port in the world, and that we rank with New Orleans as third wheat exporting point in the country, and our foreign import business is growing steadily. I happened to be looking up a telephone number in the directory, when I noticed that information in the statistics section up front. I'll tell you, nothing is going to stop this city. A better place to live won't be found around here.”

“To think, my husband based almost his entire campaign for the mayor's race a few years ago on the fact the Wharf Company would kill Galveston as a port. I tried telling him then it just didn't follow, that Galveston's future was sealed,” says Claire. “Even Houston will never be able to dredge enough out of that craggy series of bayous running to it, to have anything like the port we've here. Don't you agree, Rubin?”

“Of course it would seem you're right in retrospect, Claire. However, I'm sure Charles was making a valid point about the wharf monopoly. Perhaps in time history will prove him correct.…”

Dad to the rescue again. This time as Charles's best friend, listening to his widow make disparaging remarks about him. I feel sorry for Charles, unable to be here to speak up for himself, and wonder whether Claire was so wise in her view of the port a few years ago, or if she is only now trying to shine, sacrificing Charles in a desperate attempt to keep the evening from coming apart in her hands …

“Bosh,” says Nick. “When you have the kind of facilities we're getting here, you can name your price to anyone wanting to use them. That's just business.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” says Roman. He is fingering his empty wineglass, looking into its crystal design as though his mind were many miles from this table of fine china and forced conversation. “It was interesting, to me at least, to learn several days back how your population is decreasing, rather than building. Now, why, I wonder, are people leaving Galveston at a faster rate than they're coming? Couldn't that be saying something about the future of this city? Of course, I'm due no opinion, not being from here myself. All the same, I thought it was pretty interesting.”

“In any case, Charles had other good points to his campaign platform that certainly proved true,” says Dad. “Look at his ideas about water supply—he certainly proved right there. We're doing just what he said we ought to—pumping our water in from the mainland. Our method of getting water where it's needed, and quickly, has also proven satisfactory. Thank God, we haven't had another serious fire since the one in '85. I shall never forget that one.”

“Of course, there was the Beach Hotel, just last year,” says Nick. “Scarcely much they could do for that.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that one,” says Roman. “I don't think I ever saw anything come down so fast as that hotel, like a big pile of kindling wood.”

“Anything built entirely of wood, and located down on the beach, is a risk though, isn't it?” says Claire. “I mean, it takes time to get the fire wagons down there, and wood does burn so fast, doesn't it? Isn't the Seaside Pavilion built entirely of wood, Roman, just like the old Galveston Pavilion, which burned a few years ago?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And it's so remote, isn't it? Much more so than the Beach Hotel?” she says, then begins on a new tack, shifting the subject with her usual dinner party savoir-faire. “Serena, are you still having the run of the Fischer place down there?”

“Yes, ma'am. The Fischers left for Europe the first of the summer. I got a card from Marybeth yesterday mailed in Belgium. I've had a letter from London, too, and one from Paris.”

“How nice you're able to go there. So secluded, private.”

“Yes, but of course Porky is always along, and lately, James.”

“You know, James really ought to try and make more friends his own age, don't you think? I mean, there are the Baker children down the street and other children around.”

James scowls. “I don't like the Baker kids. I've tried to be friends with them, but they have their own little group, and don't care for outsiders interfering.”

“You must be patient,” Claire tells him. “Some things take time.”

There is another break in the conversation then, and suddenly Nick looks across at Roman and says, “I just know I've seen you somewhere before. Where are you from originally?”

“St. Louis.”

“Oh? I'm from Cleveland, but I was in St. Louis three months for a seminar a few years back. How long since you've played there—assuming you have?” He speaks the word, “played,” as though it were something evil.

“Some. But I spend most of my time touring and in New York. I don't get back to St. Louis often.”

“Hmm. Well, I know I've seen you. It'll come to me eventually.”

“Serena tells me you're quite a good organist,” says Roman. “I understand you're planning your career around liturgical music.”

“That's right. I'm off on a special area of interest now—Buxtehude. Do you know him?”

“Only a few things I've heard from time to time. I've never done any of his music.”

“I didn't suppose you had, I mean, being in popular stuff and so forth. He wrote some marvelous works. We're going to attempt some of the less difficult ones at the church pretty soon. Of course, with the small choir, and no professional musicians except myself, I can't expect a lot. I have to be content to tailor my selections for music to the easier things.”

I look across at Dad, who doesn't look up at Nick, and I wonder if he realizes the sham of the remark.

“How nice,” Roman says.

“What do you play?”

“Trumpet, mostly.”

“He plays better than anyone I've ever heard,” says James.

“Anything else?”

“Piano, drums, a little clarinet.”

“Drums? I once knew a drummer,” says Nick with a laugh. “He wasn't much of a sport, poor fellow. Got too much to drink one night, and punched a hole through his snare head.”

It was a poor choice of words, and Nick grabs his napkin and fastidiously pats the corners of his mouth.

“What do you play besides organ?” Roman asks.

“Only piano. I teach piano.”

“Good thing, then.”

“Why is that?”

“The way you smoke. You'd scarcely have the breath for any of the wind instruments.”

There is a chilling moment.

“Shall we go into the parlor?” Claire suggests hurriedly, and we all get up from our chairs like obedient children in school. I am looking down as Nick helps me from the table, so that no one will see the smile of satisfaction on my lips.

When it is finally late enough to take our leave without being rude, Claire suggests a curious thing. “Serena, won't you see Roman to the door, and I'll put these other men to work helping me, so Helga won't have it so hard tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say, wondering whether it's coincidence she should request of me the thing I am longing to do. Could she be a comrade-in-arms?

We walk silently to the front door and out onto the porch. “I shouldn't stay away too long, or it will look odd,” I tell Roman.

“Yes, and we wouldn't want that, would we? There're enough odd ones around here already.”

“I'm sorry to have put you through this. I know how grueling it was. I don't know why you wanted to come, but I'm grateful. At least now, my father has met you and couldn't say my seeing you was improper or anything.”

“Oh? Are we seeing each other?” he asks, his eyes full of mischief.

“Well, I didn't mean—”

“It's all right. I do want to see you again. Will you be at the beach tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. Nine o'clock.”

“Will the boy be with you?”

“I hadn't thought … but now you mention it, I guess it would be best. It might seem funny if I suddenly had nothing more to do with him, and besides, if my father thought I were meeting you alone somewhere, he certainly would object.”

“Really now, are we always to be stuck with a pint-sized escort?”

“I don't know. I hope not. Maybe later, when I know you better—”

“Okay. But the summer is a short season, you know.”

“… Besides, I really do care about James and have to figure out some way to keep from hurting his feelings. He's had a bad shock—both his parents killed—it wouldn't be fair to hurt him unnecessarily.”

“Good old altruistic Serena. All right. But your unwillingness to hurt people to whom you owe nothing may one day cause you a lot of heartache. Nobody is going to worry that much about you. You've got to look out for yourself, and if you can help someone along the way, fine. But don't make a career of being a young boy's companion. He'll soon become like a barnacle stuck to a pier, and in the long run, you won't be doing him any favor.”

“You're right, of course, however—”

“Besides, there are older ones who need you more,” he says, taking my face in his hand. He kisses me quickly and hard, then lets go and starts down the stairs.

My face smarts from the tightness of his grip, but the kiss was a warm, welcome thing and I stand for some moments on the moonlit porch, savoring it.

Roman wasn't on the beach the next morning, and James must have sensed my disappointment as we sat on the Fischer pier, for he kept trying to make up excuses as to why he hadn't come.

“Perhaps they called a special rehearsal or something.”

“The other musicians were out there.”

“Some of them. I know, maybe he's rehearsing alone. He is the star, you know.”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe he got word something happened to his mother, and he had to go to St. Louis.”

“Oh, James, don't be so dramatic.”

“Nah. He'd have let you know if he were going off somewhere.”

“How do you know?”

“He likes you. I can tell.”

“How?”

“I don't know. I just can.”

“Have you ever had a sweetheart, James?”

“Only once, a few months before my—before I came here.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She was very good at arithmetic, and she would help me sometimes. She had long brown hair, beautiful, silky; but there was a space between her front teeth. Probably that's the only reason she'd be interested in me.”

“Don't be foolish. You said she was smart, didn't you? She knew a good man when she saw one.”

This last remark bolstered him. He tried to hide a smile of pleasure by turning away to look at a gull soaring high above. “Oh well,” he said at last, “it didn't work out anyway. Her family moved to Dallas.”

“Don't worry, there'll be lots of other girls in your life.”

“Maybe.… But you've found your beau, haven't you? I mean, it's plain he likes you.”

“You're kind to say that James, but I don't know. He didn't bother coming over this morning, did he? Let's get into the water for a while. Hang the freckles.”

When Roman failed to appear again on Saturday, I was certain this was the end of it, that I'd never see him again. Practical thoughts had begun to edge into my mind. What did he want of me? With virtually every available girl on the island at his disposal, wasn't it a little foolish to waste time on a parson's daughter, who must always be treated with at least a modicum of prudence, even by Roman Cruz? Parsons' daughters were good girls, who grew up and married young men active in the church. Perhaps people like Marybeth could have a fling or two and get away with it, but it was hardly possible for a girl like me to consider such behavior.

I probably should never have pressed about James, though. Roman was looking for a way to see more of me privately, and, stupidly, I held James over his head, when I should have promised to find a way of getting free of him. He had tested me, and I had failed.

Then again, how could I have offered to see him in private? What would he have thought of me then? How long before we would be discovered, everything ruined?

I lay across my bed for a long time that Saturday afternoon, wondering why I should be doomed to miss all opportunity for happiness. Marybeth wouldn't have let him pass her by. Even if it had been no more than a summer love affair, she would've tagged on and ridden the tide all the way out. If I were ever to tell her how clumsily I had lost Roman, she would throw her hands up once and for all. I was thankful, lying there on the bed, I hadn't mentioned Roman in my last letter to her after all. She need never know how badly I bungled things.

Yet, he did kiss me.

Perhaps only as a parting gesture, though, so that later I could remember it and not feel so bereft in his absence. Better, perhaps, for it to end now, before it was serious enough to cause tears and misery.

I got up finally, washed my face and straightened my hair. There was nothing to do but make the best of it. Nick would be coming tomorrow afternoon for the inevitable Sunday dinner. Perhaps, when he came, I could make an effort to be kinder to him. True, he behaved abominably at the party, but then it was clear he was jealous. I could hardly blame him for lashing out at a threat to his happiness.