Galveston (67 page)

“And seeing my mother and father all those months, together, loving each other, drove her to the edge.”

“Yes, that and the knowledge that the one person she'd loved and trusted all her life—my mother, Ruth—had betrayed her.”

“Do you think she intended to die in that fire?”

“Absolutely. You see, by doing so she'd win against fate—get vengeance on all those she hated and at the same time dictate the means of her own death.”

“In the end, she didn't even get that … she died without knowing whether the three of you managed to escape,” I said, wondering then what images might have flashed across Claire Becker's mind as she struggled over that gun.

“Yes, and without knowing about you,” said James, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. Then he knitted his brow and said doubtfully, “Ohio … are you sure the Fraziers couldn't have gotten you from Galveston, or maybe Houston?”

“Maybe so, and only said Ohio to throw me off the track.”

“Well, considering the way things happened, they probably knew as little about your background as they told you. But you seem to blame them, in a way.”

“Only because they lied. It's a sure bet they knew something. They had hidden that carpetbag in our attic at home.”

“But why didn't you just go to them straight off and ask?”

“It's a long story … goes way back. I had my reasons and I'll tell you sometime, but now I just want to get at the truth.”

“Right. Maybe we can trace right from the Seaside Pavilion. If we could only find out whom Serena sought out for help—if anyone—we could go from there.”

“She must have gone to someone. Wouldn't a girl at that time have been kind of lost out on her own?”

“Yes,” he said, folding his hands and looking down at the desk top.

“What about Marybeth Fischer? You said they were good friends, and apparently Marybeth had plenty of money. She might have been covering when she talked with you after it happened. Maybe she sent her away to Europe or something, till after I was born.”

“I don't think so. Marybeth's family was wealthy, but I doubt she had any money at her disposal.”

“If not her, then who?”

“Only one person I know of: Nick Weaver. She wouldn't have liked turning to him, but he's the only one I can figure. She had so few friends, and that many fewer she might be able to trust.”

“Yes, I can understand that. But don't you think he might have told?”

“Not if she swore him to secrecy. He was quite fond of Serena in his way, and if he did decide to help her, he would have had no one to answer to. His parents lived in, somewhere … let me see …

“Ohio! Yes, that's it. At least, I think they did.”

We'd both risen to our feet, and stood blinking at each other for a moment, before it registered we had no idea where Nick Weaver might be now.

I slumped down. “He might be anywhere, even dead.”

“Yes … I have one hunch, though. Nick's greatest ambition was to be organist at Trinity Church in Galveston; he used to talk about it all the time. Supposing he made it finally, is there now, or has been there? It's worth a try.”

He looked at his fob watch. “Let's see, two-thirty. He might be giving lessons at home. We'll try there first, then if no luck, call Trinity, and even St. Christopher's, in case he's still there. If I were a betting man, though, I'd say he made it to Trinity Church, unless he died during the storm …”

By the looks of the sky, one might have guessed the time to be going on six o'clock. I gazed out at the winter bleakness and found myself in agreement with James about its incredible silence.

Then I picked up my mother's picture again.

How could anyone look so alive, yet be dead? Could that body, that face, be gone forever, reduced to dust somewhere under the ground? I could almost pick her up out of the photo and set her on the desk like a toy, wind her up and watch her dance. Yet, if the sunshine in this picture could be so warm and bright, and the winter but a few feet from me now so cold and forbidding, she could be gone. Summer can die. Mother can be dead …

James's voice grew louder as a bad phone connection worsened. “Yes, operator. Do you have a listing on a Nick Weaver, or Nicholas Weaver? No, I don't have an address for him …”

How many days had it been since I left Houston? Three. It would be all over now, with Rodney. What would he be doing at this moment? Working, no doubt, either in his office or out at some property.

“And, operator, if you don't find a listing, let's try the Trinity Episcopal Church, and ask for him there.”

He turned toward me and winked. I felt someone had finally taken a hand in my life and would help. Someone had come along who was not at cross-purposes with me, after a lifetime of people who couldn't understand why I must know the woman in this photograph. Once I'd had a teacher who took a liking to me, for some reason, and I'd wound up pouring my heart out to her one afternoon after school, only to have her listen attentively, then look across at me sternly and say, “You are foolish, Willa. You ought to forget about this and be thankful for what you have. It's a lot more than many of us ever get.”

I wondered now at the colors in the photograph of my mother. I knew she was fair, her hair light. But what of the filmy costume she wore, that hung like lengths of soft chiffon around her body?

James had his hand over the receiver now, and was whispering, “Operator finds no listing on Nick. She's trying the church, though. At least it's still there.”

“Oh yes, I could have told you that. A storm survivor, raised up stone by stone with the rest of the city, during grade-raising.”

He turned back. “Yes, thank you,” he said, then a pause. “Yes, miss, I wonder if you could tell me whether you've ever had an organist or music director on your staff named Nick Weaver. He'd be about—

“You do? Now? Please, could you ask him to come to the phone? Yes, sorry to trouble you, but you see this is very important and …

“He's practicing in the sanctuary,” James said to me.

A silence. An interminably long interruption in our progress, during which my hopes built and fell, built and fell, as often as the ticking of the clock on James's desk.

“Nick? Nick Weaver? This is James Byron. You won't remember me, but I lived next door to a girl you knew in Galveston long ago, Serena Garret.

“Yes, well, you will never believe who I have here. Her name is Willa Frazier and she's proven to my satisfaction she is Serena's daughter. Um-hum. She's seeking out her past, and we thought you might be able to enlighten us on what happened to Serena after she left Galveston that summer.

“No, she couldn't have been drowned. This girl has her carpetbag, you know, the one she carried her things in? She had it with her that day of the fire. Yes, I'm sure. Serena's things are still in it, and a picture of the Garrets, too.

“Yes, well, you wouldn't have any idea, would you, whom she might have gone to that day? Um-hum. Yes. Well then, I won't bother you any further. Yes, probably is at that. Yes, strange what people will try to pull off. Um-hum. Well, thanks anyway. Be seeing you.”

He hung up the phone and sighed. “He claims to know nothing. Says you're a fraud, said that two or three times. Probably someone hoping to find a few dollars in all this. Few dollars, ha! Serena Garret hadn't a penny that I know of. He knows it, too. Old Hephaestus …”

“Who?”

“Never mind. An old joke.”

“What next, then?”

“I don't know. We can try to locate Marybeth, I guess. But somehow I have a feeling he's lying. When I first told him you were here, the line might've gone dead for the silence. Then he spoke up and adamantly denied the possibility of it, even after I'd told him the proof.”

“Look, maybe he doesn't know anything, and still feels she cared enough for him to have come to him if she was in trouble, so it's impossible for him to conceive anyone else might have taken her in.”

“You might be right, but … oh well, let's give Marybeth a try. I'll get the operator back and ask for the Fischer residence, but it's a pretty long shot the Fischer place would have survived the hurricane, being right there on the beach. Maybe the family still live in Galveston, though.”

He turned around again and picked up the receiver. It was my feeling that Mother would have gone to Marybeth before anyone, because they were of the same age, and she'd probably have written Marybeth about Roman. She might well have been back from Europe sooner than James had been led to believe.

He'd gotten no response on the Fischer number. “No, operator,” he was saying, “I'm positive of the spelling, with a
c
after the
s
.

“Damn that storm,” he said to me. “If it hadn't been for that, we might be able to do better. Fischers probably fled the island like so many others.

“Yes, operator, you have one? No, I don't know what the first name was. Let's give it a try. Ask for Marybeth Fischer, please. That'll get me what I want to know.”

I could not get over the thoroughness of this man. I was sure he'd reach some information if it took all night.

“Yes, I'll talk to him. Hello, Mr. Fischer. This is James Byron in Grady. I'm looking for Marybeth—oh she is, your sister? Um-hum. Yes, well, Roy, I met your sister once, long ago. She was a friend of a friend of mine. We used to swim at your pier sometimes. Yes, Serena, that's right. I'm the boy who lived next door to her in '99 … yes. Look, where might I find Marybeth? I've someone here from Houston who wants very much to meet her. Oh, she does? Splendid. Could you give me her number? Oh, I see. Yes, um-hum, 119 Avenue O. And she'll be back tomorrow night? Yes. Very good. Oh, and her married name? Tracy? Yes, good. Thank you very much.”

“Not till tomorrow?”

“Afraid not. But let's go down, shall we? By the time we arrive she'll be there, gone now with her husband on a business trip. You'll want to see her anyway, and so will I.”

“Yes, me, but not you. Surely I can't expect you to spend your Christmas traveling to Galveston.”

“But, don't you see, I have a stake in this, too, especially since I'm your uncle. I figured that out as soon as you appeared at the door.”

A new feeling of warmth spread over me. Here was someone from my past, more a part of me than my adopted parents ever could be. “Shall we find out when the next train leaves from Grady, try to get transportation back to town?”

“Oh no, we'll go in my car. We're lucky that snow is holding up for us. If we hurry, we can be a good distance from here before it gets too bad.” He was looking out the window now. He turned again. “You wouldn't mind going with me, would you? If we drive straight through, we'll make it by, oh, probably afternoon of Christmas Day at the latest.”

“Nothing I'd like better. But the causeway leading from the mainland across Galveston Bay is out for repairs now. If you have your car, we'll have to ferry over. Only other way is on the train from Houston.”

“So, we'll ferry. No problem there. Look, do you want to phone your parents before we strike out?”

“No, not yet. I'm not ready to talk with them yet.”

“All right. It does seem a shame, though, right at Christmas and everything.”

“Its being Christmas is the least of their worries right now … I'll explain on the trip down. But I've got to do this on my own, and I don't want them interfering.”

“All right.”

“Before we go, could you tell me what are the colors in this picture? The costume?”

“Pink. All pink, soft, almost mauve, as I remember.”

“I guess the dancing shoes were once pink, too. Could we take it along?”

“Certainly. It is a treasure, isn't it? My only picture of her, the only one on that roll of film that turned out worth saving.”

“I only regret I have no picture of my father.”

“Hm … tell you what. Let's get my book on mythology down. It's up here somewhere,” he said, looking among the shelves. “At least I can show you why he reminded me of Apollo.”

It didn't seem much of a substitute, but I pretended to be grateful. He was doing more for me than anyone had ever done. When he found it, and opened it to the page, a slip of brittle paper wafted like a dead leaf out onto the desk. “I didn't know this was here. Serena must have marked the place when she was reading about Apollo, then it worked itself into the margin and was forgotten.”

I reached for the paper. “You know, it's funny,” I said, smelling its mustiness, “it's only time really, separating me from my mother. She once touched this paper as I'm doing, and nothing is between her fingertips and mine except time. She might just have let go of it.”

He looked at me kindly. “I wish we could find her alive, Willa. Sometimes I can see her in you. An expression, something in your smile, and she's almost here …

“Well, here's Apollo. See the fine body contours, the muscles? Roman was like that. And if you look at the face for a moment, you can almost see him. You know, it's remarkable, but my memory of him is more like this than I realized. Notice the slight slant of the eyes.”

It was hard to imagine the white statue being anything like my father, with its laurel wreath and vacant eyes. I nodded, and he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.

“Just let me pack a bag, and we'll be off. I'll have to tell Stewart—the chemistry teacher—I'm going, and leave my presents, such as they are, with him. Need to freshen up? There's a lounge three doors down on the right. If there's anything else you need I might have it in my quarters, bachelor though they are.”

“No, but we will have to stop back by the hotel and get my things.”

“Very good. Now, Willa, speaking as a fond uncle, let me caution you against getting your hopes up too high. I know it's hard not to—it is for me as well, the longer we talk about it—but we may not find a thing. She may have known someone I didn't, may have gone it on her own that day.”