The Drowning House (33 page)

“She’s at home? You mean she isn’t …” I stopped, not wanting to put into words what I had been thinking.

“Stand there with your mouth open like that, you going to catch a fly. Careful now. Hold it right. Lemon squares, so you don’t need to be looking inside. You act nice, maybe she’ll let you have one.”

I placed the container carefully under the passenger seat of the jeep and drove slowly, easing my foot off the clutch, starting and stopping elaborately, as if I were taking a driving test.

Harriet Kinkaid was in her front yard when I pulled up. Her house no longer surprised me—I had become accustomed to its weathered exterior and the not-quite-wild plants growing in front of it. I wondered what the new owners would do to it. Paint it, surely, replace the garden with a flat green lawn that was cheaper and easier to maintain. Historically appropriate, too. Who would object? But I didn’t want to see the house restored. I wanted it to stay exactly the way it was.

Harriet shook a spent bloom from one of the hibiscus. “This is what passes for gardening around here these days,” she said. “What’s that? If Faline made it, I know it’s something good. Come. I’d like to rest for a moment.” She took my arm and walked with me to her front steps. Although her manner was unchanged, her face alert, she seemed somehow slighter. Her hand rested on my arm as lightly as a bird on a branch.

She lowered herself and sat. “Now. You can stop looking at me as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I hoped I hadn’t spoiled her pleasure in being outdoors among her flowers. “I came by before, but you … Your car was here. And there was no one home except your yardman. I didn’t know what to think.”

“Luis wouldn’t tell you anything,” Harriet said. “They don’t like to discuss illness. It’s the culture. You’d think, with the Day of the Dead and all. But no. The women get cancer and they won’t see a doctor because they don’t want to talk about it. Or be examined. Mexican women.” She paused and inhaled, deliberately. “I was in the hospital for a bit. But that’s done. We’ve all agreed. Now. If you could just open that for me, please. I have a little arthritis too.”

I prized open the plastic lid.

“Ah,” Harriet said. “Lemon squares. Faline knows how to make these. You’d better have one too. Good for the soul.” She set the open container on the step between us. Her hand shook and powdered sugar drifted down onto the front of her blue chambray shirt as she ate, but she didn’t seem to notice. When she saw me watching her, she lifted her chin and smiled, and I caught a glimpse of the young girl on the high, windy hill.

It was early still and for many people the day was just beginning. Newspapers lay uncollected. A battered truck pulling a trailer bristling with lawn mowers passed by. Then came a young woman with a boy alongside her, a boy about the age Bailey would have been if she’d lived. I waited for the feeling of emptiness to overtake me, along with the irresistible urge to move closer, to experience again, painfully, what I had lost. It didn’t happen.

The mother wore shorts and sandals that laced up her legs. Her hair was wet, as though she had just stepped out of the shower. The boy would know the smell of her shampoo and of the sunscreen she wore that meant it was summer. He would know also the exact spot where his head would meet her waist if he should run to her, something he tried not to do anymore. As she walked, he circled her, dashing ahead sometimes, only to veer back and return to her side. She called to him occasionally, or gestured, but made no attempt to adjust her own pace. Her straw bag swung back and forth. I realized I was enjoying the way their distinct rhythms came together.

One day he would rush forward and not turn back. And she would will him to go. Somehow the sight of them gave me hope.

Harriet Kinkaid brushed at her shirt front. “My, that was good!” she said. “Now, tell me your story.”

I began to speak about the exhibition, but she cut me off. “I want to hear about what’s happened with you,” she said.

“With me?” I repeated.

“Yes. It isn’t a story, you know, unless something happens.” Then her manner became serious. “I can see that something has. Happened. Do you want to tell me about it?”

I sat in silence for a moment, wondering what to bring forward
first, where to begin. “Actually, there was something,” I said. “It happened a long time ago. But I only just found out. Does that count?”

“Of course.”

“I think you already know.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Will is my father.”

Harriet nodded. “You were bound to find out eventually.”

“So everyone on the Island knows? Except me?”

“Your mother laid eyes on Will Carraday and—”

She stopped and placed one hand over her heart. Then she said, “In Spanish they compare that kind of love to an arrow wound.” An image came to me suddenly of Eleanor, a thick shaft piercing her yellow cotton dress. I thought of the arrow’s notched point, buried, impossible to remove. The effort it would take to conceal that kind of pain. “Will cares deeply for her,” she said. “But he’ll never leave Mary Liz. When you were born, and you and Patrick became close … I’m sure they thought of it as a solution.”

“Until we got too close.”

Harriet nodded. “Faline saw you kissing.”

“What about Patrick? Does he know?”

“I can’t be certain, you understand. But I believe he does.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out thin and teary.

Harriet patted my knee.

“How long has he known?”

She shook her head. “You’d have to ask him. But I think part of his reluctance to see you at the party was not knowing what you would expect.”

“I told you I tried to find him. I even went to a bar he likes.” I hung my head. “How could I have been so stupid?” I stared at the space between my legs, at the stone pavers that made up Harriet’s walk, the tufts of grass that sprang up between them. “All those years, all of us living here together, I never figured it out.” My eyes welled, I couldn’t bear to look at her, to see her pity me.

Harriet said, “You are not stupid. You must never think that. You know the saying
‘Seeing is believing’
? Well I think it works the other
way around. Especially with children. Believing is seeing. And for a long time, children believe what they’re told, especially what their parents tell them.”

I thought then of Frankie, of how she had believed my father. How she had followed the course he laid out for her.

“My sister,” I said.

“I was thinking of Stella Carraday.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was peculiar, the way her father treated her. The way he behaved toward her. People used to see them together, on the street, in shops and restaurants, and comment. There was always talk. And she never had any friends. He didn’t want anyone else in the house. Oh yes, everyone knew something was wrong there. But my point is, Stella didn’t. She had no way of knowing. Until she met Henry Durand.”

What would Harriet say about the photo I’d found of Stella naked? She didn’t seem like someone who would be easily shocked. Still.

“I wondered if you would find out about Stella,” she said. “I’m the only one who knows all of what happened, although Will surely has his ideas. They ran away together, the two of them. Stella and Henry Durand. They managed to cross the causeway before the hurricane struck. Afterward … It was a terrible time,” said Harriet Kinkaid. “There was looting. Houses, those that remained unoccupied, were broken into. Someone came to him, to Ward Carraday, to say that Stella had left the Island with young Henry. Hoping for a reward, I suppose. There’s always someone to play that role.”

I began to speak, but she held up her hand. “You’d better let me finish.” She closed her eyes briefly, then went on. “I hold him responsible, Ward Carraday. I want you to understand that. But no one tried to stop him. No one. Life here, on the Island, changes people.” She gazed out at the street, but she seemed not to see it, her thoughts appeared to be far away. “I don’t know why, I seem to be thinking in Spanish today. You know what the Spanish called Galveston?”

A magnolia stood not far from the steps, its moving leaves revealing rusty velvet undersides. The strong, sweet lemon smell wafted toward us. “Malhado,” I said.

Harriet nodded. “Isle of Misfortune. Ward Carraday tracked them down. They were staying in a little flat with a few pieces of cheap furniture. He went through their rooms and smashed everything.” She closed her eyes again. “You wonder how I know. I was a late-in-life baby, my parents had given up on having children when I came along. Maybe that was why my mother treated me like another adult. Told me what most mothers wouldn’t have.”

“It was different after her father brought her back.”

“Yes. He gave away all her pretty clothes. Stella wore the same dress day after day, until it fell to pieces. She was no longer allowed to leave the house at all.”

I thought of the notebook, of Stella, alone in her room, drawing the only flowers left to her, the ones on the wallpaper. Waiting and hoping that Henry Durand would return.

“My mother did what she could—called on her, sat with her on the veranda. She didn’t like to go inside. But she worried about Stella, alone with him. Once she even took her a bird, a singing canary, thinking it would be company. When she saw it, Stella wouldn’t even touch the cage. My mother said she’d never seen anyone so afraid.

“Then they began the grade raising. You know what that meant? Phillip Giraud had to go through the Carradays’ downstairs to get to his house. Your house. And he saw Stella. She was changed. But Phillip Giraud was older. A good man. He went to Ward Carraday with a proposal of marriage. That was when her father took her away with him. On the European trip. They went alone. He said her mother was too ill to travel.”

I thought for a minute. “Your mother helped Stella, didn’t she? When she tried to run away.”

“There. You are clever. You see? She did. She paid the groom. She never told my father. Or anyone else as far as I know. The Island is a small place. And they were all afraid of him. Of Ward Carraday.”

I remembered the biography that mentioned his business ventures. His young wife.
He was not inclined to the pleasures of society
. Was that a way of saying no one liked him? I thought of Stella, alone
with her father in a series of hotels, places where she had no one else, places where the servants spoke no English.

I sensed that Harriet was tiring. But I couldn’t help myself, I had to keep asking. So much had been withheld from me for so long. Again I wondered if I should tell her about the photo.

“And then?”

“Stella’s mother didn’t live long. When Ward Carraday died, Franklin inherited. The bank, the businesses, the house.” Harriet paused, as if considering, then went on. “Stella moved out. Her brother saw to her needs.”

“She moved out? But why?” I thought of the big house, the image over the fireplace unaltered, perfect, while the real Stella had grown older, losing her looks, her clothes falling to pieces. Finally being made to leave.

“Franklin had a young family by then. And Stella. Well. She would go for weeks without washing. And she made strange remarks. Lewd remarks. Once she unbuttoned her blouse in front of guests. It’s a sad story, I’m afraid.” Harriet looked out at the street. “You’ve seen the Cartier-Bresson book?”

“Of course.” I made an effort to hide my impatience. I didn’t want to talk about photography. My mind was too full of other things.

“It’s in the kitchen. On the table by the sink.” Harriet closed her eyes and fell silent, and I understood that she meant I should go and get it. Reluctantly I rose and did as she wanted. When I returned she sat up a little and said, “You’ll see. I haven’t lost my mind.” She turned the pages slowly, her fingers pale against the black-and-white images. “There. You wouldn’t recognize her. Stella.”

I knew the photo. It showed the interior of a once grand Galveston hotel. The carpet was worn, and many hands had rubbed the stain from what had been an elegant stair rail. On the landing was an elderly woman. She steadied herself with a cane. Her eyes, in shadow behind the frames of her glasses, were two black smudges. It was impossible to see what they held. It was the old woman in the boardinghouse.

Harriet said, “Poor girl.” She set the book down and took my arm. “If you don’t mind, I want my chair now. And a rest.”

I helped her settle on the porch with the cushion at her back. She looked at me thoughtfully. “So now you know everything,” she said. Her tone was gently mocking, and I blushed.

“It’s just that …” I began.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I understand. Whatever you’ve found, you don’t need to tell me. At this stage of my life, I’d just as soon not know.”

The air was still and heavy in the garden. There was no lemon-scented breeze, not even the smallest leaves stirred.
Now you know everything
. I wondered. Was she really saying,
Now you know enough
? Once a photo is cropped, the image formed, no one cares what was left out. We accept the result for what it is.

It was just after ten when I drove away from Harriet Kinkaid’s house. The brief, perfect calm of midmorning had settled on the street and the freshly mowed yards. Harriet had supplied a conclusion. I knew she wanted to give me some measure of peace. Instead, what I felt was the advancing edge of a new anxiety. With it came the certainty that I wasn’t finished, just suspended for a moment, like the ballplayer with his arm raised, about to throw.

Chapter 30