Though Waters Roar (32 page)
He sat on the bed and kicked off one of his shoes. It fell to the floor with a thud. “Thanks to Neal MacLeod, I suppose?”
Bebe wasn’t sure what would anger him more: knowing that Neal had saved the business or that she had helped him. She decided to tell him the truth. “Mr. MacLeod and I worked together until things turned around.”
“You worked with
him
?” He kicked his other shoe across the room. “I suppose he found great satisfaction in that. He has stolen everything else from me—my father, my job . . . What’s left to steal except my wife?”
Bebe cringed, aware of how close to the truth Horatio’s words were. “It isn’t like that at all,” she told him. “You’re my husband, not Mr. MacLeod. You’re the man I vowed to spend my life with. And I’ve kept my vows. But you also made vows to me, Horatio. You vowed to honor and protect and cherish me. You can’t do those things when you’re drunk.”
“I’ve tried to stop and I can’t!”
She helped Horatio put on his pajama top and buttoned it for him. “No one can get through life’s trials alone. We all need God’s help.”
“God wants nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with Him!”
His words shocked Bebe, but she tried not to show it. She had to keep coaxing him to talk, to unload all of the reasons he had started drinking in the first place. Maybe then he would be able to stop.
“What makes you think that God doesn’t care about you, Horatio?”
“Because God never answers my prayers. He never answers anyone’s prayers. Why doesn’t He right all the wrongs here on earth? Put a stop to war and killing? All my friends . . . all my friends . . .” He paused, passing his hand over his face. “I prayed for courage, and He didn’t give me any. I was scared all the time during that war.”
“But Franklin and your other friends will tell you that they were terrified, too. There’s no shame in being afraid.”
“Neal MacLeod won a Medal of Honor, did you know that? My father made sure that I knew all about it—and he called me a coward. God is supposed to be our Father, isn’t He? Well, if He’s anything like my father, then I want nothing to do with Him!”
“Oh, Horatio . . . listen—”
“My father turned away from his family, did you know that?”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“He didn’t love my mother and me anymore, so he left us and started another family. Then he sent me out to die on a battlefield to be rid of me. How could a loving father do that? How could he force his son go to war? He wanted me to die!”
The anguish in Horatio’s voice made Bebe ache for him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. “I don’t know, Horatio . . . but I know that God isn’t like your father at all. God loves you.”
“Then why does He stand aside and watch us hurt and betray each other?”
“I don’t know the answers to your questions, Horatio. But I promise that we’ll try to find them together. . . .”
Grandma and I arrived back in Roseton that rainy afternoon just as she finished telling her story. “So you see, Harriet, there is a time to fix your own flat tires, and a time to recognize that all of your efforts to help yourself are only making matters worse. You’ll only end up soaked and muddy and trapped in an even deeper rut. That’s when you need to know enough to turn around. That’s when you need to call on the Lord for help. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I suppose so.”
“Listen, I’m sorry that we didn’t get to the meeting. I know you’re disappointed, but—”
“I was going to take The Pledge today. I made up my mind, and I was going to surprise you.”
She looked at me in dismay, not pride. “You’re just a child, Harriet. You’re much too young to understand what you’re promising.”
“I’m not too young, I’m twelve! And I know that I’ll be promising never to touch a single drop of alcohol all my life and to do my best to stop other people from drinking it, too. I want to get my own pledge book to carry, so I can get other people to sign it, like you do.”
“You also would have to promise to banish alcohol from your sideboard and your kitchen, and that’s not something you can promise yet. And you would be pledging not to court a man who drinks or to marry one—”
“That’s easy. I’m never getting married.”
“You see, Harriet? You’re much too young to be making such rash decisions. Let’s wait a few years to see if you change your mind about drinking alcohol—and about getting married, too.”
She parked the car in the garage and went into the house, leaving me sitting there, mystified. Grandma was working so hard to get other people to take The Pledge. Why wouldn’t she let me sign it? I didn’t understand my grandmother at all. She was turning out to be a woman of great contradictions.
In June of 1912, my sister Alice married banker Gordon P. Shaw. It was the society event of the year in Roseton, and people considered it a social triumph to be invited. I considered it a triumph when I successfully avoided wearing a hat, a corset, and any article of clothing with frills or ruffles. I watched all the other women’s heads wobbling beneath the weight of their voluminous hair and enormous hats, and I ran my fingers through my short, bobbed hair and gloated.
The weeks and weeks of fluttering preparations for Alice’s wedding, along with several last-minute emergencies, had exhausted everyone in our family. The worst crisis had been the heated argument that had erupted over whether or not liquor would be served. Grandma opposed it, of course, and wanted all types of alcohol completely banned from the event. Mother worried that a “dry” reception might offend the groom and his well-to-do family.
“Poppycock!” Grandma said. “Are they such lushes that they can’t celebrate a happy occasion without a drink? If so, perhaps Alice should think twice before marrying into that family. We already know there are lushes on our side.”
“Shh! Don’t say such things!” My mother always became horrified whenever Grandma implied that drunkenness ran in our family. “Think of the girls! Do you want to tarnish their reputations?” she whispered.
“Our family’s ‘secret’ isn’t exactly a secret, Lucy. Everyone in town knows that I’m the president of the local Women’s Christian Temperance Union—and most people know why. Besides, how will it look if my granddaughter’s wedding reception turns into a drunken brawl, especially after all my hard work preaching temperance?”
“Really, Mother. My friends are respectable people. The reception is hardly going to turn into a brawl. You always exaggerate.”
I listened to weeks of such arguments. The truth was, Daddy’s relatives also would have been offended if the liquor didn’t flow freely. They figured Daddy owed them a lavish party in exchange for the gifts they were giving Alice. My father finally announced his decision, attempting to meet both sides in the middle and avoid a rift between Grandma and Mother.
“Liquor will be served in small amounts,” he decreed as he stroked his clean-shaven chin. He looked as wise and decisive as King Solomon had when he’d ordered the baby to be chopped in half. “We will serve enough liquor for a decent toast and a festive celebration, but not enough to encourage drunkenness.”
In other words, neither side would be happy.
As I sat at the wedding reception watching the festivities, my father wore the dazed look of a man whose hard-earned money had been stolen by pirates and carted away in fat treasure chests. My mother looked flat-out exhausted. The bright rouge on her cheeks couldn’t distract from the dark circles beneath her eyes. Presiding over this lavish wedding had been the pinnacle of all her achievements, the fulfillment of all her dreams. This extravagant party for Roseton’s most important citizens had kept seamstresses busy for months, while the local jewelers had made hefty profits polishing everyone’s heirloom diamonds. The drama and pageantry of the occasion represented everything Mother loved most in life. In one glorious evening she would exercise all of the etiquette skills she had learned from Grandmother Garner—who would have reveled in the event, too, had she been alive. Best of all, the wedding united Mother to the groom’s impeccable family. What would she do for an encore?
I asked to sit beside Grandma Bebe at the wedding reception because I enjoyed her company more than anyone else’s in my family. Neither one of us fit in with this crowd. We were two social misfits who didn’t care one whit about what people thought of us. By the time I had eaten all of the food I wanted to eat, and Alice and her groom had cut the wedding cake, I was ready to go home. The dancing had begun, and I didn’t see a single gentleman in this sorry assembly of social climbers who I cared to dance with—even if I had known how to dance.
Grandma gazed at the waltzing couples in their glittering finery and sighed. “It’s on joyous occasions such as this that I miss my Horatio the most.” She smiled and yet at the same time she looked sad.
“Whatever happened to him?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t opening a Pandora’s box of bad memories. “Why doesn’t he live with you?”
“Don’t be obtuse. You’ve heard the story a hundred times, I’m sure you have.”
“No, I haven’t. Mother never talks about him. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Well,” Grandma said with a sigh, “it’s really quite a long story.”
“Good. The longer the better. This party is boring.”
Horatio looked wretched as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Very well, Beatrice, I give up. I’ll go up to the fishing cabin with you.”
Bebe closed her eyes in joy, wondering if she were dreaming. She had formed the local chapter of the Temperance Union more than a year and a half ago, and had fervently prayed ever since that one day she would hear Horatio say those words. She went to him, hugging him tightly. His embrace felt limp in return. His once ruddy skin had turned dull and gray, his sunken eyes looked lifeless. But Bebe believed that the man she once loved still lived inside this sad, tired body. He would be his old self again once he quit drinking.
“Thank you, Horatio. It will be wonderful to get away from here for a while, you’ll see.” She got out their satchels and began to pack. “I’ll tell Peter to get the carriage ready and—”
“No, don’t. I want to drive up there myself. Tell him we’ll take the runabout.”
Bebe hesitated, wondering if she should try to talk him out of it. It would be easier for Horatio to change his mind and return home if he didn’t have to wait for Peter to come back for them. On the other hand, he might decide not to go to the cabin at all if she argued with him. She decided to say nothing and let him drive the runabout. She had waited much too long for Horatio to get sober.
After Bebe and her temperance women had closed down Horatio’s favorite saloon, he had found another—and another. Then he’d begun drinking at home. Neal MacLeod continued to operate the tannery for them in Horatio’s absence, but Bebe was careful never to mention his name.
Forgetting Neal proved much harder than she ever imagined. She kept busy with her temperance activities: holding prayer vigils in front of saloons, attending rallies and conventions, writing articles and speeches that told about the high cost of alcoholism. Now, as she prepared to climb into the runabout with Horatio to drive to Iroquois Lake, she was almost afraid to hope that her prayers were finally being answered.
Rain began to patter against the roof of the runabout before they even left the city limits. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Bebe nestled closer to Horatio. “Good thing we bundled up in our warmest clothes.”
“It always rains when we go up to the cabin. Did you ever notice that?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. But it’s nearly April, after all—and you know what they say about April showers. Besides, I don’t care if it does rain. We can just sit by the fire together in the cabin.”
Fifteen minutes later, the sky opened up and rain poured down on them. The canopy could barely keep them dry. “Maybe we should turn back,” Horatio said. “We’re getting wet, and besides, I’ve never seen the river this far over its banks before.”
Neither had Bebe. The rain-swollen river they had been following up the mountain had seeped into the woods, leaving trees stranded and the forest flooded with several feet of water. It surged across their path in some places as if trying to swallow the road. She urged him on. “The weather won’t matter once we’re up there. And I’m sure everything will be dried out by the time we go home.”
The higher they climbed, the more rapidly the river seemed to flow. Once again, Horatio talked about turning back. “I don’t like the look of that current, Beatrice. I’ve never seen it flowing so swiftly.”
“We’re almost there now, aren’t we?”
Thankfully, he kept going. But as they neared the lake, Bebe heard a roaring noise in the distance like the rumble of a locomotive. “What’s that sound, Horatio? Stop the carriage for a minute.” He pulled to a halt and listened with her. It wasn’t the wind. And it sounded much louder than the rush of rapids in the nearby river.
“I don’t know what that is,” Horatio said. “A train, maybe?”
“It sounds like a waterfall, doesn’t it? Remember our wedding trip to Niagara Falls? Remember how loud the water was?”
“I remember.” He flicked the reins and the horse started moving again. “I’ll be glad when we’re inside, out of this rain.”
The roaring sound grew louder the farther up the mountain they climbed, and when they neared the dam that had created Iroquois Lake, the mystery was finally solved. “Look, Horatio. It
is
a waterfall! I don’t remember seeing it before—or hearing it, either. Do you?”
“That’s because it isn’t supposed to be here. There isn’t supposed to be that much water going over the dam. It was just a trickle the other times we came up here, remember?”
Horatio drove the wagon a little farther up the road and stopped when they reached a clearing. “Look at that!” he breathed. Bebe gaped in awe at the power of the water thundering over the earthen dam. Behind it, the lake looked twice as vast as she remembered. It seemed to strain against the flimsy barrier that held it back.
“I’ve never seen the lake so high . . . or the water flowing over the dam so fast,” Horatio said. “They must have had a lot of snow higher up in the mountains last winter, and now it’s all melting.”
