Galveston (37 page)

“I know, I know. I'm sorry, Dad,” I said. “Here, the stew's hot. Have your supper now. I'm not very hungry. Think I'll sit out on the front porch in the swing for a while.”

He made no move toward filling his plate, and I suspected he probably had no more appetite than I had as I walked away from him. Soon he'd probably go instead for the bottle of whisky in the cabinet.

It was a pleasant change sitting on the porch after being in the hot kitchen, and the rhythmic screech of the swing as it rocked to and fro always calmed me. It hadn't been such a bad argument, really, and I had—luckily—managed to control myself, and keep from betraying anything of my feelings for Roman. I don't think I had ever imagined he would approve of my seeing a stranger all the way from New York, no matter what his background, and that was why I worried from the beginning over someone finding out about us.

What had just happened between Dad and me was almost unheard of, though, even if it hadn't ended in screaming or hitting, like some arguments I'd heard of at Marybeth's house. We'd always been close as father and daughter, probably because of Mother's accident happening so early in my lifetime. We'd spent many an evening together in the swing where I now rocked alone—the swing he'd given my mother so many years ago as a present for something or other, and where she would probably never sit again. He'd read me stories from books there, and often made up stories, which I always liked better. He'd gotten up early to take me to see the circus animals being led into town when I was a little girl, and bought me stuffed toys and dolls clad in gaudy net and feathers, all of them long since lost and forgotten. He had always been there when something was troubling me, and always understood. And when I was bad, he had always scolded me gently, never letting me doubt he loved me just as much as he did when I was good.

How could he be so totally lacking in understanding now, when it meant more to me than ever that I have my way? How could he presume on Roman's character, basing his condemnation on pure hearsay? It didn't fit with my father's sworn philosophy. Saying what he had just said, he wasn't like my father, but rather like some judge sitting high above a courtroom, arbitrarily handing down sentence on a criminal he'd never seen before nor would again.

I sat in the swing for a long time, and Dad never came out to join me. No matter how much thought I gave it, I knew there was but one answer. I had to tell Roman, and leave it to him to figure a way. All the confidence I'd once felt in Dad now transferred itself to him, leaving Dad as merely an obstacle to be somehow dealt with. And though I regretted matters coming to this, I realized for the first time in my life I wasn't always going to be able to live in a way that would please my father, or anyone else.

Next morning I set out for the beach, firmly resisting James's pleas to go with me. “I have to talk to Roman, because my father has forbidden me to see him again. You understand, don't you, that we want to be alone?”

“Yes, but how did your father find out?”

“That's what I'm wondering. You didn't say anything to Claire, unintentionally?”

“No, I'm sure I didn't. I don't talk to Claire about things like that.”

“Good boy. I knew I could count on you. Now, go down and try to make some friends your own age today, and tonight I want a full report as to how you made out.”

“All right,” he said, and stood taller. “May I take Porky along? He needs a bath, and I used some of my money to buy him a brush yesterday afternoon. I want to try it out on him.”

“Sure. You know, I think you're the best friend Porky ever had.”

Halfway to the beach, I began to worry Roman might not come that day, and wondered what I would do if not. Would I have the courage to walk up to the Pavilion and ask for him? Would all the fellows snicker behind my back and think I was just another foolish girl on Roman's lengthy string? Was I just that?

Maybe, just maybe, it was one of them who had leaked the news Roman was seeing me. But to whom? Did any of the band members know people in Galveston who knew me as well?

I went straight to Marybeth's and waited. A side glance as I walked by the Pavilion told me at least a few of the musicians were free to play ball this morning. Oh, if he'd only hurry and I could get this matter off my mind, and let him handle it. It was curious to feel a sense of protection by one such as Roman Cruz, yet I did, whereas I'd never felt protected by Nick, no matter what he did to prove his worthiness. Roman would know how to get on Dad's good side, probably go right up to him and deny the charges made so unfairly against him.… Then Dad would see how he really was.

I wonder now, how I could ever have been so mistaken.

He never came, and after almost an hour on the pier I picked up my things and walked to the Pavilion. I loathed doing it, yet it was clear this was the only chance I would have of getting things settled.

The musicians were now absent from their playground; the beach around the building was deserted. I walked up to one of the front doors and pulled it open slightly. Cool air from the big hall wafted toward my face. After the brightness of the sun, it was hard to make out exactly what was going on inside, yet the cacophony of notes suggested that a practice was about to begin, and this was probably the worst time for intrusion.

My eyes focused better after a few moments, and I could make out Roman seated at the piano, in the center of the stage.

I lost my nerve when I saw him, and was about to let go the door, when it swung out with a suddenness that almost pulled me through it. A chubby, curly-headed man I recognized as one of the players asked, “Is there somethin' we can do for you?”

“I—well, oh no, you see—”

“I know who you are,” he said, and popped a wad of chewing gum. “You're lookin' for Roman. Wait here. I'll tell him you've come.”

“I only want to deliver a message,” I said stupidly.

He was off and through the lobby without hearing my last statement, though, and I had a feeling it gave him satisfaction to see me looking like a little idiot. I stepped out on the porch and wondered just how many girls had come looking for Roman Cruz. How many had he flirted with for a while, then jilted when he was bored with them?

Soon he came out, a scowl on his face, so I began by apologizing. “Look, I'm sorry to have interrupted. I was about to leave when that fat fellow came and pulled the door open—”

“It's all right. You're here now. What is it, anyway?”

“I've got to talk to you, but if you haven't time I'll meet you another time … if I can.”

“What d'ya mean, if you can? It's all right. I have time. We've been working on music for a benefit performance later this summer, but we're just finishing. Come on around to the back, where we can talk privately.”

He took my arm and led me round to the back side of the building, facing the shore. We sat down on a back stoop below a stage door I hadn't realized existed.

“Well?”

“My father has forbidden me to see you.”

“Oh, he has, huh?”

“He says you have a questionable reputation in Galveston, and that I shouldn't be seen with you.”

“Quit staring down at your feet and look at me,” he said. “Have you been telling him we're meeting?”

“No, I don't know how he found out. It might've been Nick, or someone else. James denies he told.”

“No, I doubt it would be that kid. He worships you, that's obvious enough. Hmm …”

“Well, what do you say? Can't we just go and tell my father how ridiculous this is? He's a reasonable man—”

“I'm afraid not, for you see, it isn't ridiculous at all.”

“Oh.”

“Well, did you think I come here every summer and gather seashells during my off-time?”

“I guess I never thought.”

“Yes you have. I've let you know I've had a few girls here and there. I've even gotten in dutch a couple of times, if you want the truth.”

“Oh, I see.” I wondered how far “in dutch,” but was afraid to ask.

“Look here, if your father forbids me to see you, I guess that's it. I don't know what to tell you. Oh damn, don't start crying.”

“I'm sorry. I know I must seem like a stupid little girl to you. I don't know why you ever bothered with me in the first place. But I've never felt like this about anybody else. Nobody.”

“In your long and varied experience, eh?” he said with a chuckle, then added more seriously, “Nor I, Serena, nor I.” He put an arm around my shoulders. “Listen, you've got to understand something. I won't apologize for anything I've done, to your father or anyone else. I've had no strings attached, nobody to answer to. And believe me, I never forced any woman into being involved with me. If we're going to go on seeing one another, we'll just have to be discreet, that's all. Have you never sneaked about anything in your life?”

“Not before this summer.”

“You
are
lily white, aren't you?”

I raised my head and took a deep breath. “Yes, I'm probably not your type at all.”

“You're right about that, sister. I guess that's what I like about you,” he said, and pulled me over on his lap. His voice became low and soft; he pulled my hair back and kissed my neck lightly, playfully. It sent chills up my back, yet it frightened me too, and I said, “You don't understand about me. I've never … never …”

“You talk too much. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“But I've never even—”

“I know,” he said, “don't worry about anything,” and kissed me hard on the mouth. If he would have kept at it then, I would probably have wrenched loose and gone running down the beach. But with true musician's timing he pulled away, as though something had just occurred to him.

He folded his arms and looked out toward the sea. His face was flush. “What do you want, Serena? Hm? It's up to you. Lord, if you haven't got me hamstrung. But with me it's all, or none of it. So make up your mind and stay here, or get out my life for good.”

I sat there for a moment, sorting out his words. I knew exactly what he meant, knew suddenly that one did not dillydally a summer away, taking an occasional kiss, a handclasp, and expecting Roman Cruz to be satisfied with it. Yet I also knew there was no thought worse than a summer without him, this or any other.

“I could never walk away from you,” I said finally, afraid to look into his eyes. I felt his hand cup my chin and turn my face toward him. He wiped away two wayfaring tears with the back of the other hand, and looked at me for a long moment. “I want you, Serena, have wanted you from the beginning …”

My mouth was dry. I nodded.

I remember thinking, as he carried me inside the dark hallway and up the isolated tower stairs, that it wasn't going to be as I had always imagined. If for no other reason than that he, Roman Cruz, had his own way of doing all things, it would be different than with any other man. I held him tightly as we spiraled up toward the door. It was a time to fear what was about to happen, yet it was a time, too, for holding close, for trusting.

“It isn't a thing to be rushed,” he said when we were in the tiny room and sitting side by side on a makeshift bed in the corner. And I thought, oh no, he's going to send me back home after getting this far—afraid of soiling the reputation of a preacher's daughter. But he sat without touching me and looked away. “You look upon this act of love-making as a surrender, a kind of obligation you always thought you would have, to the man who married and supported you, don't you?”

I nodded, and in that moment felt the stupid tears smarting behind my eyes again.

“This is so silly, I don't know why I always cry around you—”

He took my face in his hands gently, and said with logic, “It isn't quite fair that it should be that way, is it?”

I nodded again, my mouth still dry as harvested corn, first yes, then no, for he had been so right in my assessment about love-making. My hair had gotten caught inside my collar, and he pulled it free and kissed it softly, and said, “Don't be afraid, darling, or shy or embarrassed.…”

He stood me up then, gently as though he handled a china doll, and found where the buttons began on the ill-fitting bathing dress. And when he'd reached the last one and moved his hands to open it wide, I grabbed his hands and said, “Roman, I'm frightened, truly I am.”

“Hush, darling, you've no more to fear than I,” he whispered, and continued to shed the clothes from my body until I stood before him as a bride on her wedding night. Then he said, “By God, you're even more beautiful than I expected,” and swept me up against him. Soon after there was the feel of the rough bed linens against my back and his own body, warm and strong, fine as a god's, bending above.…

Afterward we fell asleep under the square of sunlight streaming through the tower window, and I dreamed an endless dream of lying on the edge of the shore and having skeins of colored silk, reds and pinks and greens and blues, washing over me again and again.

When I awoke and opened my eyes, Roman was raised up on one elbow, looking down into my face; not in a crooning, loving way, but rather detached, as though he studied me. I panicked for a moment, and my eyes shot down. We were both covered by the bedsheet.

“What time is it?”

“What difference? Time means nothing.”

“Yes it does, because if anyone finds out I could never come again and—”

“And you want to come again?”

“Oh yes, more than anything—”

“Good, then, come again tomorrow.”

“No, I can't come until Monday. It isn't that simple—I could never get away on a Sunday.”

I rose from the bed, as shy as before at being unclothed, and pulled my swimming dress from the floor. He went on lying there, watching me.