The Drowning House (7 page)

Eleanor looked at me closely. “Did she say why?”

“No.”

“She was upset.”

“She seems concerned about her weight. She did just have a baby.”

“I see.” Eleanor folded both hands around her glass and looked down into it. “Clare. Is this how you want the rest of your life to be? No one expects you to forget. But this …”

“She was only talking to me because she thought I was important. Because she thought I was one of them. And I told her I’m not.”

There was a pause. Eleanor didn’t move, but she seemed to withdraw. Her large green eyes grew larger. After a moment, she said, “When you were born, I thought things would be different. I thought, who wouldn’t want two healthy girls, one who is—” She stopped herself. Then her nostrils flared, and I saw that she was angry. “You have never had any reason to be ashamed,” she said.

I felt confused. I wondered how much she’d had to drink. “What do you mean?”

Eleanor shook her head. “You’re lovely,” she went on. “Or you would be if you smiled more.”

I thought of Leanne and the determined way she flexed her facial muscles. “Smiling isn’t something I can do for effect,” I said. “I need a reason.”

“You could have another child. You and Michael.”

“I don’t want another child.”

“You say that, but …” She looked at me, and for once her gaze
lacked the customary element of appraisal. “I want you to be happy,” she said. “Why can’t you believe that?” When I didn’t respond, she sighed. “What will you do?”

“What I’ve always done, I suppose. Look around. Take photos. Try to learn something.”

Eleanor straightened as though drawn by an invisible wire. “Don’t be foolish.” A waiter hurried in from the next room. Someone, a woman, her voice low and cracked, called after him. “Easy on the water, for Christ’s sake.” I heard a prolonged and complicated cough.

Leanne was making her way back toward us through the crowd. Eleanor saw her, and she moved to take my arm again, but I shook her off. “Will you come with me?” she asked.

I couldn’t remember Eleanor ever asking for anything. What she did was give signals. When she stood at the end of a meal, we knew to help clear the table. If she picked up a suitcase, my father would take it from her and carry it to the car. Her request was so unexpected I followed her without protest.

Over my shoulder I saw Leanne with a plate in her hand, staring.

The adjoining room, the solarium, had been the height of fashion when the house was built, when the palaces of Long Island’s North Shore set the pace for extravagant construction. It was filled with the same sort of plants that grew naturally outside—palms of different sizes, ferns, a monstrous lily in an oversize porcelain pot. Despite the air-conditioning, there was a smell of musk.

Mary Liz Carraday, Will’s wife, was sitting on a wicker chaise. A throw covered her motionless legs. She held a cigarette in one hand, a ribbed gold lighter in the other.

“So it’s you,” she said. “Well, come over here where I can get a look at you.” She squinted up at me. “Still carrying the camera.” There was grudging approval in her voice. She took my wrist between her thumb and forefinger and swung my arm away from my body. “My God, you’re puny. You never had much chest and now look at you. Flat as a board.”

Faline appeared and placed a fresh drink on a small glass table.
“What is this,” Mary Liz said, “cat pee?” She held the glass to the light. “Looks like half water.”

“Well it’s not. So you better make it last.” Faline bent and rearranged the throw. “I told Clayborn and them not to let you be doubling up.”

“So he’s under your thumb now, too. I suppose no one entering this house is safe.” Mary Liz turned and looked up at a stranger who was standing beside her. “I met you already,” she said. “Will’s new boy.”

If this was meant as a dismissal, the stranger paid no attention. “We’ve been talking about preservation,” he said, smiling.

He was compact, with the build of a wrestler. I remembered the high-school meets, the boys circling each other until I thought nothing was going to happen. Then all at once they were twisting on the floor. Maybe he was used to sudden attacks. Maybe that was why they didn’t bother him. “Charlotte doesn’t approve of old houses being moved, even to save them,” he said. He smiled at the woman standing next to him. I wondered if I should remember her.

“Charlotte will bore you to death on that subject if you let her,” said Mary Liz.

“You know you don’t mean that,” said Charlotte. Her features were neat and small, the kind that would have been described as “cute” when she was young but were now insufficient for her face, which had puffed up around them like a dinner roll. She had the confidence that often accompanies the ability to write large checks. “Historic houses have no meaning,” she said, “once they’re moved off-site.”

“Jesus wept,” said Mary Liz.

“You could create a site,” the man persisted pleasantly.

Charlotte shook her head. “That’s Epcot. Only worse, because people confuse it with the real thing. Reconstructions like that make people think that they can choose whatever they want.”

There was a silence. “I’m Clare Porterfield,” I said. “My family lives on the other side of the alley.”

“Oh,” Charlotte brightened, “the Hayes-Giraud house? Terrific.
The carriage block. It’s so correct. That’s the way it should be done. Respect for the original context.”

The man said, “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Tyler Henry. Ty. I’m with the bank.” We shook hands. His palm was smooth and dry. His clothes—blue shirt, khaki pants—were casual, but in the way of an office worker on a Friday rather than a person who makes his own schedule. I was pretty sure he wasn’t an Islander.

“What if a house isn’t moved,” I asked, “but a parking lot goes in next to it. And a high-rise. Until there’s nothing left of the original context. Then what?”

“Well,” Charlotte said, “it’s not ideal, but at least it isn’t fake.” She frowned. She must have understood that I was talking about the Carraday house. It hadn’t happened yet, but it could. “Things can’t always be pretty, whatever the tourists want. The past wasn’t always nice.”

“The tourists want condos,” said Mary Liz.

We heard raised voices, the sound of a number of people coming our way.

“Here comes the goddam expert,” Mary Liz said.

It’s interesting to watch the very rich play the role of host. Everything about them, about their lives, is already so overstated, it doesn’t take much to push the situation into parody. But Will, with his air of detachment, of mild surprise, got it right.

He was wearing a white shirt with the cuffs turned back and linen trousers that were just wrinkled enough to look comfortable. As always, there was a crowd with him. Every so often, someone would get close enough to touch his arm or bump his shoulder, as if by accident. I knew what they were thinking. You can’t change the circumstances of your birth, and few would be able to achieve for themselves what Will had. But he made them believe in good fortune, and they hoped a little of it would rub off.

Will took my hand in both of his, the way he had done earlier. He looked approvingly at Ty and me. “Excellent. I see you two have met.” He turned to Mary Liz. “We’re going to do the fireplace and the study, then we’ll see how everyone’s holding up.”

She nodded. “You go on,” she said, as though she had just then decided not to accompany them. I knew that since her accident Mary Liz couldn’t move without help; surely most of the guests knew this too.

She’d been around horses from childhood, ridden in barrel races at state and county fairs, then gone on to compete against professional cowgirls and try her hand at saddle broncs. For her wedding to Will, she wore a fitted satin dress with a fishtail train. A picture in the hall showed the toes of her boots poking out in front like little brown animals. It had been almost thirty years since her horse fell on her and she lost the use of her legs.

Will turned to me. “I’m afraid this will be old hat for you.” He gestured toward the drawing room in a way that managed to suggest both pride in the old house and disarming personal modesty.

“Of course not,” I said. And in fact I wanted to hear him tell Stella’s story, to provide the details that were missing from the guides and tourist brochures. To give substance to the scenes of Stella’s courtship that I had imagined growing up.

I suppose all children dream at some time of running away. For me, the desire had been persistent, acute. Stella gave me hope. When I was small, I told myself that if Stella could escape, so could I.

It was part of the city’s lore that on September 7, 1900, Stella was seen riding alone in a carriage with the young architect who had designed the Carraday house and overseen its construction. Henry Durand had wooed Stella secretly with lilies, her favorite flowers, at first carrying them to her a few discreet stems at a time, later lavishing them on the interiors, so that the house itself became a secret lover’s gift.

This was the part of the story I’d focused on. What happened next was not clear. Were the lovers unable to reach the causeway? Did they lose their nerve and turn back? No one knows.

What is certain is that during the day, the weather changed. At dawn the sun rose through a bright haze and the air was still. But in the afternoon, the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped. Those in town, on Broadway, couldn’t know that on the south side
of the Island, waves larger than any seen before were attacking the streetcar trestle where it curved out over the Gulf.

According to the popular account, when the Great Hurricane struck, Stella was alone in the house. Her parents had already fled to the mainland. Stella’s body was said to have been recovered three blocks away, her long hair still entangled in the drawing-room chandelier.

Will put his hand on my lower back and steered me gently to where the other guests were gathered. He began to talk, secure in his audience. He described the work of the craftsmen who had built the house. He talked about his grandfather, Ward Carraday, and his early days as a storekeeper, when floors were sand and his customers picked their teeth with long knives. He offered anecdotes and just enough humor to entertain even those whose only real interest was being seen at home with one of Galveston’s wealthiest men.

When it was time to speak of Stella, Will’s account was spare, he talked briefly about her love affair with the young architect. The story of her death he avoided entirely. Then he moved toward the fireplace. It was massive, extravagantly decorated, the opening flanked by a pair of fantastic hoofed legs. Above it, set into a panel, was the full-length figure of a girl.

Will made an L with his thumb and forefinger. “From here over,” he said, resting his hand on one corner of the panel, “what you see is plaster painted to look like bronze.” There were expressions of disbelief. “Plaster is easier to work and less expensive. My grandfather wasn’t above saving a nickel here and there.” He grinned. The guests smiled and nodded, pleased to be let in on the deception. “The figure, of course, is my aunt Stella. You can see the likeness, I think.” He picked up a framed photo from the mantel, then replaced it.

I looked at the relief. The face with its upward gaze and parted lips was sweetly sentimental. But the body was plainly sensual. The folds of Stella’s dress defined her rounded thighs and soft belly. The bodice had slipped so that the curves of her breasts showed clearly, and all her clothing was in disarray. On her right hip, she carried a pitcher. There were lilies crushed at her feet.

Will nodded at an older woman who leaned on an elegant, silver-headed walking stick. “Harriet,” he said to her, “you know my sister, Rhetta.” The woman smiled, as people did when he singled them out. He went on, “My sister, Rhetta, lives in Paris, and she tells me that this looks a lot like a painting there, in one of the museums. It seems to have been popular in the 1800s. She thinks young Henry Durand might have shown a copy of the painting to my grandfather. Maybe he even offered to reproduce it at a bargain price. Who knows? But there is a difference. The painting only shows the girl from the waist up. Stella, of course …” Will reached over and rested one hand on the figure’s slender bare foot. As he did, I felt again his touch on my back, the precise weight and extent of it.

Did I mention that Will was especially attractive to women?

That was when I raised my camera. It wasn’t a great shot. Will’s mouth was half open, the figure of Stella awkwardly truncated. When the flash went off, there was an audible gasp. The guests turned. Some looked annoyed.

I didn’t care what they thought. I was looking at Will. He had hosted similar groups so many times, told his stories, fielded the inevitable questions. Now something had changed. It was as though somewhere a bolt had slid back, a door opened. I felt it, and I saw that he did too.

He went on with his talk, ushering the group toward the staircase and up past a pair of stained-glass windows toward his study. He kept everyone moving. He must have understood how exhausting it was to stand and admire.

We were bunched together on the stairs, taking small, awkward steps, when I heard someone say, in the kind of raised voice you are meant to overhear, “I think it’s rude to take pictures without asking.” Leanne’s eyes were glazed and she was breathing through her mouth. “I think it’s tacky.”

“My dear, she’s an artist.” It was the older woman with the walking stick, Harriet, who spoke. She was smiling, and I couldn’t be sure if she was serious.

Leanne said, “An artist?” She looked at me. “You’re a photographer, right?” Before I could answer, she went on. “Photography isn’t
even a craft. The camera does everything.” Her voice rose. “You just push a button.”

The woman in black said, “There’s more to it than that.” Her long-sleeved jacket was fastened all the way up, and I wondered that she wasn’t hot. Her white hair was twisted into a figure eight at the nape of her neck. She turned to me. “I’m Harriet Kinkaid,” she said. “You won’t remember. But I live in what you children used to call ‘the witch house.’ Oh, it’s all right. In fact, I rather like to think of myself as a witch. Better than being just another old bag.” She laughed, a sound of pure delight that made her seem suddenly much younger.