Galveston (9 page)

I awoke then. The room was bathed in early morning half-light, and Charles lay beside me, his face toward the ceiling, and these things were comforting after the dream; yet something about the dream was real. I raised up from the bed and knew.

My legs ached and my stomach was in knots. There was a dizzying sensation in my head. I wouldn't make it halfway across the floor before the menstrual flooding would begin like a spring which had discovered a new outlet. It would mean two days in bed at least, maybe more, depending. Charles would have to go out and refill the prescription for pain medicine which was given to me when this happened two months before.

When he awoke at half-past eight, I was back in bed, propped on pillows and watching the morning through the window. “I'm afraid I am in for another spell,” I told him. “There isn't enough of the brown medicine to last me … will you go and get some more?”

“Of course,” he said, and grabbed for his trousers hanging across a chair.

“Not now, just sometime today.”

“But do you think I can get any more of it? Didn't the doctor say he wanted to see you if the flooding occurred again?”

“Yes, but there isn't anything he can do for me now. I'll go in sometime next week.”

“Have you taken a dose this morning?”

“No, I've been waiting until absolutely necessary. It really is vile.”

“Well then, how about some tea?”

I listened to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, then heard the doorbell. It was Rubin … curious time for him to come calling. I wondered whether something had happened to Janet, for even in those days she struck me as a person to whom something untoward might happen.

The easy ebb and flow of the muffled conversation told me not. Presently the door closed and Charles walked to the back of the house and into the kitchen.

One can hear little of what is going on in the rest of the house from the bedroom Charles and I occupy. When we moved here, he favored the larger front bedroom, because it gets greater benefit from the ocean breeze. But I told him if he wanted that bedroom he'd have it alone, for in front of the deep windows is a dais, designed to hold a large bed. The dais reminds me of the bier on which my son's coffin rested for a day and a night, and I have no wish to sleep on anything resembling it.

One can hear sounds in the kitchen from our bedroom, however, because it is directly below. I heard Charles as he rustled among the dishes, and only then remembered the state of disorder I'd left the kitchen in the night before. My back had ached too badly after the Marlowes left for me to consider cleaning it.

Now, I knew, I would think of it constantly until I could get down there to put it in order. Things out of place weigh heavily upon my mind.

When Charles returned with the tea tray I asked him what Rubin wanted.

“He's ordered Janet a wicker swing for the verandah—a surprise—and apparently it came in on a ship this morning. He came over in hopes of persuading you to keep her busy for a couple of hours this afternoon while he goes to pick it up. He wants to have it hung when she sees it. Of course I told him you weren't feeling well.”

“Listen. Is that someone at the back door?”

“Hm? Lord, I guess it is. I'll go and see.”

This time, Janet. I heard him call her name although, even from above, her small voice was barely audible. They spoke for several minutes, longer than he'd spoken with Rubin.

When Charles came back to the bedroom, he told me that Janet had asked if she could do some sketching in our backyard. “I said sure. Then I remembered something I'd thought about but never followed up on—taking her around the island to show her some good spots for painting, like the wharves, or the railroad depot, maybe Bolivar Port. The lighthouse would make a lovely picture. You know, she doesn't get out much because Rubin spends so much time at the church. So I suggested that if you were doing all right, I'd take her out this afternoon. It'll get her out of the way long enough for Rubin to bring the swing home.”

“What did she say?”

“She was worried about you, but I told her I thought you'd be all right and that I'd ask you about it.”

“Of course.”

“You
are
all right? I can pick up the medicine while we're out.”

“Fine. How about taking this tray down? I think I'd better have some of what's left in the bottle now.”

“Good. While you're resting, I'll do the dishes and tidy the kitchen. I know how you hate … listen, I wanted to tell you how grand everything was last night. The Marlowes were very impressed, I'm sure.”

“Does it mean anything to you, that they were impressed?”

“If you're wondering whether I might be taking his offer seriously, I can only answer that, for the moment, no.”

“That doesn't mean you'd rule it out in the future?”

“It doesn't mean anything one way or the other. Now, take your elixir and go to sleep.”

I slept until the afternoon cast shadows across the bed, and awoke to the sight of Charles sitting across the room, smoking his pipe and reading the
News
. I felt hazy, as though there were a thin veil separating me from everything around. It was the work of the medicine, and another bottle of it now sat on the table beside the bed.

“What time is it?”

“Oh, I didn't know you were awake. It's past four-thirty, at least.”

“My heavens! I've slept the day away?”

“You certainly have. I've cleaned up the kitchen—didn't break a dish—and taken Janet for a turn … that burned up three hours or more … picked up your medicine at Schott's—”

“Did Rubin get the swing hung?”

“It was up when we got back. You should have seen Janet—it's a handsome thing, and she was delighted. Clapped her hands and made over it just like a kid under the Christmas tree.

“Say, you must be famished. I'll go down and fix you a tray.”

When he was gone I thought of Janet in her swing. She would look proper sitting there of an evening, rocking to and fro and humming a tune or reciting a poem. Such a frail human being, Janet, her existence somehow more ephemeral than anyone else's.

Chapter 9

Late in the spring of '78 we took instruction and joined the Episcopal Church. Charles had come to love the service at St. Christopher's, and while I'd begun to wonder if it would be wise to put myself into a position of spending more time in the presence of Rubin Garret, I could hardly voice any objection to Charles when I'd been so determined to join shortly after we came to Galveston. One Wednesday evening with six others we were confirmed and took our first Holy Communion in the candlelit chancel of St. Christopher's, from the hand of the Very Reverend Malcolm Palmer, Bishop of the Diocese of Houston-Galveston.

On that same evening, and in conflict with the dignified tea reception which followed the six-thirty ceremony, was held across town at the Union Hall a rollicking stag party in honor of J. P. McBride. Charles hurried away early from the reception to be with his retiring partner for the final making-merry. It was the only farewell party Mac would agree to, and he would come to the office the following morning, pick up a few of his things still left there, and board the afternoon train for Boston. I imagined what care he would have taken as he swept the gilt-framed picture of his late wife from his desk and put it into his satchel. I'd seen the picture on the one occasion I went to Charles's office, a day when Mac was not there. I remarked then to Charles the lady had a sweet, sleepy-eyed look, but did not tell him that I searched the face for a clue to early death. I've always believed one could see that in a face.

Soon after the retirement was done and Charles faced the loneliness of the big, stuffy office, Pete Marlowe like a powerful locomotive began to gather momentum in his thrust to hire Charles. He invited him for rolling tenpins at the Garten one night, and mentioned in advance Horace Turner and Gilbert Parks would be along.

I sat on the edge of the bed while Charles dressed. He was already tired, and without much enthusiasm about going. The fact he did go held significance, then.

He stood in front of the mirror, buttoning his shirt. “I know what's coming tonight, and I'm in no mood for Pete's pressuring.”

“Don't kid me, Charles. You must be interested, or else why would you go?”

“Because I don't want to alienate him, either.”

“Did he come to Mac's party?”

“Oh yes, big turnout from his firm there.” He stood before the mirror, parting and re-parting his just washed hair.

“I wonder why he would be after you? There must be dozens of lawyers in this area who'd jump at the chance to go with his firm.”

“True enough … I certainly don't know why, except perhaps for my diversified background—practicing all those years in Grady. But there may be something about Pete you don't understand. In his own way, he's as hungry for power as those at the Wharf Company he despises. His firm is one of the largest in the Galveston and Houston area, and he likes to see it grow.”

“Before we met Pete, I wasn't aware there were so many holding grudges against the Wharf Company. I thought they were one of our beloved institutions here.”

“Hardly. They're not popular anywhere in the state, and if they hurt Galveston, in the long run, it hurts Pete.”

“You too, then?”

“To a degree, although I'm pretty sure Galveston will always be able to support its share of hard-working attorneys. But Pete's business handles a lot of big accounts in this city—everything from wholesale grocers and manufacturers to shipping outfits. I think he also has an interest in one cotton brokerage firm, and owns quite a bit of land down on the southern shore. If cotton factors and shippers, and various related businesses, start moving out to Houston, it's going to hurt Pete's business badly.”

“What's good for Galveston is good for Pete.”

“Right. And I'm late.” He pulled on his coat and kissed my forehead. “See me downstairs?”

There is something oddly depressing about following someone down the stairs at night. Our stairway is dimly lit; darkness hovers and shadows follow. “I feel terrible, leaving you like this,” he said on the way. “I seem to be spending what free time I have lately doing all sorts of things except being with you.”

“It's all right. I've letters to write, sewing to be done. It is nice to be alone sometimes.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Sometimes. I didn't say all the time.”

He kissed me again at the back door, and I watched him walk through the yard toward the barn and wondered what he would have said if I'd told him, “Yes, Charles, could you not possibly stay at home with me tonight? Tell Pete some other time, and stay home?”

But of course I didn't want that at all.

A sudden rain; a cooling off. Several minutes past nine o'clock, a knock at the front door. Janet, standing alone on the porch, wrapped in a shawl.

“Come in. This fickle weather, one never knows what to expect. Charles is gone. I'll make tea.”

“Rubin, too, a meeting I think.”

“Oh, but this is Wednesday. I thought he wrote his sermons on Wednesday night.”

She followed me into the kitchen. “Something came up,” she said, and sat down at the table. I looked at her and opened my mouth to speak, but did not. There in the light, I could see: she'd been crying. I turned toward the stove and started the kettle.

“What a nice surprise, your coming. You so seldom do, when there are just the two of us to visit.” Why could I not look at her? I busied myself pulling cups and saucers from the cupboard.

“I saw a notice in the
News
today,” she said. “The annual art show is to be held down at Woollam's Lake next month. Do you think I ought to enter?”

I was surprised she deigned to ask me such a question.

“Of course, why not? Is there a prize?” I forced myself to turn and face her.

“Only the proceeds, if you sell. I've got several things, as you know, and I thought I might offer to do some quick portraits. I used to be fairly good at that, though I haven't done it for a while.

“Thought I'd give whatever I make to the Church … I give so little to it. Of course, I may not sell anything.”

“I'm sure you will. Charles says in the two or three times he's taken you on outings, he's been too busy admiring your painting to do the work he brought along.”

“Yes, but for him I'd have nothing to sell. I can't paint flowers in the backyard or oleanders in the front forever. You don't mind him taking me around, do you? I'm afraid to go alone and Rubin is always busy at the church.…”

“It hasn't been all that many times; I really don't mind.”

“I think I have a fairly good rendering of the lighthouse on Bolivar as seen from the end of Galveston Island. It would be great fun, of course, if you could come along with us when we go—”

“You're worried that I'm jealous, and I assure you I'm not. In fact, I appreciate your giving Charles the opportunity of getting out in the sun. He stays cooped up in his office too much.”

The kettle was singing. I poured two cups and put some ginger cookies out on a plate. I knew Janet wouldn't eat any, of course, but true hospitality demands these amenities. She sniffled and turned from the table, fished in her pocket for a handkerchief, and blew her nose. “I must be catching cold,” she said. “By the way, are you all right?”

“Me?”

“That day you were sick, the first time Charles took me out on a paint jaunt. Rubin and I were worried.”

“Oh, that. It was nothing, really. I've had it before and probably will again. I guess—for me—it's part of being a woman.”

She giggled then and I looked at her in puzzlement. “Forgive me,” she said. “Not that it's funny, but men are so cute about things like that. Charles wouldn't tell us a thing about your illness, so of course I guessed right away it was female problems. Have you seen a doctor?”