Galveston (17 page)

He almost glared at me when he said it, and for a moment I suspected he'd known all along that Charlie was Damon's child, but then as soon as the thought crossed my mind I realized its foolishness. Like as not he was just in one of his bad moods. He'd gotten so he had more and more of them over the past few years, the years he'd been with Pete Marlowe's firm, and as I was quite contented with his being in partnership with Pete, I always tried to smooth over his moments of irritation or frustration.

“You needn't get your back up,” I said. “I know how close a friend you are to Rubin, and anything he and Janet do is always fine and dandy with you. I wasn't meaning anything personal toward them. I was just theorizing.”

His face softened. “She is a sweet little angel—Serena—isn't she?”

“Indeed she is,” I said, and I meant it honestly for she was a winning child most of the time, except, for instance, the day of Monsieur La Faira's ill-fated concert, when she squirmed in Janet's lap and rubbed her eyes, and pushed her lower lip out, making herself extremely unattractive. Her curly hair was the color of corn silk, though it grew a little darker by the day, and also straighter, and she had wide brown eyes set in a cherub face. One might have mistaken her for Janet's own child, if not for the fact that her features were more sharply hewn and clearly defined.

To both Janet and Rubin she appeared the fulfillment of long-held dreams, and though she was less than overjoyed in my presence usually, she had taken to calling Charles her Unca Sharrie, which he seemed not to mind at all.

The Pavilion was filled to capacity that day, and Charles remarked in a whisper, “The place must be making money hand over fist for the Colonel.” Colonel Sinclair owns the Galveston City Railway Company and also the big Beach Hotel down the sand a few hundred yards. He had envisioned the Pavilion, as Charles earlier explained, as a means to make money for the streetcar system, for anyone on the island could catch the streetcar at any of its stops and be brought directly to the Pavilion entrance. Of course we lived only a matter of blocks from the building, and always walked.

The Pavilion was the first structure in the state to have been equipped with electric lights, and because of this, it was a source of great pride to all who lived in the town. Otherwise it was truly an architectural nightmare, painted brown and shaped like a big mushroom, with turrets, battlements, towers, and ornate carvings choking it from all angles.

Monsieur La Faira appeared unimpressed by the supposed magnificence of the setting arranged for him (four potted palms and four large candle sconces), as he stretched his long fingers over the keyboard, and a hush came over the audience.

“I just can't believe we got such good seats,” Janet whispered excitedly. “He's come all the way from Chicago, you know. They say he is quite talented and well known in the Midwest.”

“I can't help thinking how Ruth would have enjoyed him,” I said. “I see here on the program he intends to play the ‘Minuet in G'… really brings back memories.”

Janet nodded, whispered something to Serena, and turned her attention to the stage.

True to her word that summer of 1879, Ruth had never returned for another visit, nor had Charles and I managed to get away to Grady in all these years, yet her name was often mentioned in conversation and we did have letters from her occasionally. She'd married a young man who shared a second-hand furniture business with his father in Grady. His name, she had written, “is Edward Byron, just like the English poet, and he's been here all the time, though we noticed each other just a few months ago (didn't know Grady was that big!).”

That letter came in the spring of '81, and within the year following, she and Edward had married and Betsey had taken ill and died. Both events we learned of after the fact, and had it not been for my great affection for Ruth, I would have been unforgivingly angry with her for reporting by letter that my own beloved cousin had passed away. Yet Betsey was ill only a few weeks before she died, as though she thought it impractical to waste any more time than that on preparing for death, and had requested upon her deathbed that Charles and I not be told until after she was gone. Once I learned this, I knew I had no right for being angry with Ruth. It would have been like Betsey to want to save me from the agony of watching her being put forever into the ground, and just like Ruth to carry out her wish.

Still, I wept for days at the thought of such unfairness, for Betsey, like me, had been whipped by fate. In her adult lifetime she had never done anything but work hard, then was struck down before she lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of her efforts.

I've often consoled myself that at least she had seen Ruth grow into womanhood, had seen the metamorphosis brought on by her stay here with us, and had watched her joined together in marriage with a young man she apparently loved. Yet losing her was for me almost as heartbreaking as losing Charlie, like the wrenching away of a limb of one's body. I shall never get over her death entirely. Ruth places flowers regularly on her grave and on Charlie's up on the hill in the Grady Memorial Cemetery. Ruth is the light of my life.

There was a burst of applause in the Pavilion hall now, and Janet leaned toward me and said, “You look in another world, Claire. Did you realize he was playing the ‘Minuet in G'? You know, I've always kind of wished Ruth might have gone into music professionally. I really believe she could have made it. Do you suppose she still plays? She never mentions it in her letters.”

“I don't know. Even though they sold Betsey's store after her death, I'm sure Ruth stays busy helping Edward in the furniture store.”

Rubin, seated on the other side of Janet, now held out his arms to Serena and took her on his lap. He whispered something in her ear which obviously delighted her, and she clapped her hands and hugged his neck. He looked well that day, as always. In the years I had known him, he seemed to have become more youthful, while Charles continued to amass more and more gray streaks in his hair, and I waged a continuous battle to keep the gray in mine from showing.

Charles was tapping my shoulder. “What time is that Chamber banquet tonight?”

“Eight o'clock, why?”

“Nothing. But I do want to run over my speech a couple of times before we go down.”

“Lord, Charles, you've worn out the paper it's written on, going over it. I'm sure you'll be splendid tonight.”

He'd been chairman of the Industrial Expansion Committee for a couple of years, and his speech tonight would deal with three manufacturers he'd been courting lately, all of Houston, whom he had persuaded to open plants here. One was a lace-making business; one a candy factory; and one a textile mill. The speech symbolized something of a triumph for him and his committee, although he would not admit to it. “I'm just doing my job like the other committee members,” he'd told me. “It's a tough one though, because the Octopus of the Gulf has a way of hurting our image as a city.”

As the afternoon wore on I became increasingly uncomfortable in the hard-back chair. There was the telltale pain in the small of my back—a sure sign I was in for a bleeding spell soon. I'd been through more and more of them over the past few years. Dr. Hutchisson had given me little hope of ever conceiving another child, and told me also that eventually I'd have no choice but to submit to the surgery I dreaded.

This fact did not seem to bother Charles a lot; perhaps, I thought, because he'd long since passed the stage of wanting a family. And though I was saddened that I probably would never again know the joy of giving birth to a child, I supposed it was just as well. If I could not have a child of the man I loved with all the urgency and passion I'd loved Damon Becker, then to have one under other circumstances might have put limits on the amount of love I could give to the child, and it would have been cruel to have it grow up a poor substitute for the child I loved who was dead. For this reason I was thankful Charles did not suggest we might adopt a child just as Rubin and Janet had, although in truth I felt I'd probably be a better mother than Janet Garret. Ah well, I'd long since quit making myself miserable over the seemingly tenuous relationship between Janet and Rubin. It looked as though they were bound to live with each other forever, especially in view of their decision to bring a child into their lives.

Serena, lulled by the soft concert music, had fallen alseep in her father's arms. Janet, entranced by the music, sat on the edge of her chair. Occasionally the whimpering of an impatient infant somewhere in the audience could be heard, and one could sense a general stirring around the hall of people who grew weary of the performance. Monsieur La Faira, I thought, would not be finding this an easy audience to play to. He would probably not come again if invited, and would probably not be invited by the astute management of the Pavilion anyway.

As though in reply to my thoughts, the Pavilion manager walked out on the stage—Monsieur La Faira was then executing one of Chopin's mazurkas—and for the length of time it took him to cross to the piano and whisper something into the maestro's ear, I thought with astonishment he was asking our guest pianist to leave.

Then he turned toward the audience and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, a small flame has been discovered in one of the towers, and while it is now fully under control, we must take every possible precaution for safety. Therefore, will the audience please exit from the building by the two exits on either side of the stage. I repeat, we are in no danger. Do not panic. Leave calmly. Your money for today's performance will be refunded.”

Everyone began talking at once, yet there was no sense of panic among the audience that I could see. Janet came closest no doubt: her face turned ashen, and she looked pleadingly to Rubin as though he might say a prayer that would save her from the horrible fate of burning alive. “Come along,” said Charles. “The door to the right of the stage is our closest.”

To save distance, we and others trooped across the stage which had been built especially for Monsieur La Faira, and there the piano sat open, its ivory keys exposed like teeth in an open mouth, for Monsieur La Faira hadn't hesitated long enough to close the lid before hurrying out the door. Two of the potted palms were overturned, dirt spilling across the floor, yet the sconces, whose flames the manager had doused before he left the stage following his announcement, both stood intact. Someone tripped over the leg of the empty piano bench just as we walked up, and I heard the sound brought forth by someone's hand touching hard on a random group of piano keys: an awful, grotesque chord which pounded through me. And still we went like soldiers, filing four or five at a time through the open exit doors.

The tower from which the fire billowed out was located at the opposite end of the building, off the front lobby, and as we walked out into the sunshine we could see the blaze and smoke coming forth through the window and knew the manager had lied to us for our own sakes. The blaze was clearly out of hand. Not until the building was empty of people did the first fire alarm sound.

Only a few minutes had passed—five, maybe seven or eight. The crowd stood out and away from the wooden building and watched as the fire consumed it. Down the beach, not far distant, more people stood on the wide promenades surrounding the big Beach Hotel and gaped at the growing spectacle. They, like those of us who'd just escaped the building, now looked upon what was happening as a new form of entertainment. Rubin raised Serena upon his shoulders in order that she might see.

People talked and talked, exclaimed and gesticulated, pointing out the route of the flames as they swept across the side of the building and up on the roof. A man standing near us spat out, “That damn manager ought to be strung up for lyin' about how bad the fire was!”

Charles turned on him angrily and shouted back, “You fool! If he'd told us the truth we would have panicked and all of us been killed while we ran around like idiots!” The man calmed down then, and I was thrilled by Charles's authoritative manner … so unlike him.

By the time the first fire wagon made its way up to the building, the fire had complete control of its prey: the Galveston Pavilion now looked like a giant mushroom afire. The best the poor firemen could do was to keep control of the burning cinders which flew from it and might well have caused several other fires along the dry sand. The building itself was gone within the space of twenty-five minutes, start to finish.

As we walked back home Charles said, “I hope everyone realizes that the manager saved us from a paralyzing wave of panic. I can't believe it's possible for a building to go up in flames so fast that even the fire wagons can't reach the scene in time. This is utterly outrageous. Something must be done.”

“I never considered the danger of taking a child into a place like that,” said Rubin. “How horrible, how horrible.”

Serena stroked her father's face and crooned, “Daddy, don't be sad … don't hold me so tight, okay?”

Charles was still shaking his head in dismay and I said, “The weather has been so dry, dear. The building was like a tinderbox—we've hardly had any rain this summer. It probably couldn't be helped.”

“Couldn't be helped?” he repeated. “By God, it has to be helped! Something must be done about our system of fire prevention here and our water supply. I can't believe that I—of all people—could have been so ignorant of the necessity of—”

“Charles,” Janet broke in gently, “I'm afraid Serena may be getting f-r-i-g-h-t-e-n-e-d by the tone of your voice. Could we discuss it later?”

He stopped walking and turned toward the child, his face stricken. “Oh, Serena, Serena, come let me hold you in my arms.”

“Let me ride on your back, Unca Sharrie,” she said, and happily made the transfer from Rubin's arms to Charles's shoulders.