Galveston (21 page)

“No, I've let you talk in circles to me before, but this is too much. How perfectly—is this your way of explaining, a lie? Please don't. You are a man—how impossible—”

“I am a servant of God!” he said, his voice raised. “More is expected. What could I do? I love her, and I've never given up hope that one day she'd get over that horrible event in her childhood that makes her repelled by me … by all men. Don't you see how much wrong I've already done, betraying her trust when she has no defense against it? What I've done to her is far worse than it would be if she were, well … normal.

“If I could ever lay my hands on that scoundrel who forced himself on a thirteen-year-old child—did you know my poor dear Janet had been raped, Claire? Violated against her will when she was too young even to understand what was happening to her?”

“Rubin?” I stretched a hand across to touch his face. His eyes were filled; he would cry in front of me, I knew, and I couldn't stand it. He took my hand away and gently laid it on the table. “So you can see, I could never leave her. It would be a sin far worse than those I've already committed. I can hardly live with myself now. I'd sooner be dead than to commit any more wrongs against her … or anyone.”

“Oh, Rubin, please, please—”

“No, I must go. Claire, please forgive me as Christ has taught us all to forgive.” He rose from the table and went to the back door. “I'll come for Serena later,” he said quietly, and walked out, closing the door behind him.

I sat at the table long after, my clammy hands outstretched, unable to comprehend what had just taken place. At first, the only part of it that penetrated my mind was the fact of Rubin's celibacy with his wife. I didn't know whether I ought to be pleased or repulsed, and couldn't get my thoughts together.

Then little bits and pieces of memory returned like the trickle of water into a cup. Janet's telling me of Rubin's patience and understanding that evening we walked to our first oyster roast; and later, when she became so angry at my insinuation she might be expecting—gad, no wonder!—and still later, when she came over one night and asked if my doctor could help women who had “other” problems; Janet as a young girl being held down and raped.

I lay my head down on the table and wept. It was a curious thing to do, because I did not know for whom I was weeping.

It was soon after that day that Rubin came to tell Charles and me the wire had been received about Janet's father's death. When I asked him if he'd be going to Virginia, he glanced at me quickly, then looked down before answering. “No, Janet will be coming home soon. Cleo will stay and help for a while.”

After he was gone Charles remarked, “Rubin seems to be taking this pretty hard—did you notice how washed-out he looked?”

“Isn't it so,” I agreed, though I knew the state of Rubin's appearance had nothing to do with the telegram he held in his hand. I felt so sorry for the man, yet at the same time so utterly frustrated that he would not accept the kind of help that only I could give him. My confused mental state after our day in the shed was nothing to compare with my dispirited feelings following our bizarre conversation at the kitchen table. I lost all appetite and had trouble keeping the simplest thoughts straight. I couldn't remember where I'd left my sewing basket from time to time and lost my handbag while out shopping one day. I misplaced magazines and mail and once found I'd packed a sterling silver teaspoon between layers of clean bed linens.

In early May I took fabric to Madame LaRoche. Charles's announcement at the Marlowe home in June was to be a formal affair with a buffet dinner and reception, and, for the first time I could remember, he'd expressed the wish that I should have something new to wear. I picked candlelight silk with seed pearls and soft blue lace. When Madame took my measurements—she always took new ones no matter how little time had lapsed since the previous time she had made a frock for a customer—she said, “Ah, Mrs. Becker, what has happened to you? Your waist has decreased an inch and a half, and your hips have lost some of their roundness. It's good I took new measurements today … you probably bought too much material.”

A look in the cloudy full-length mirror confirmed her estimation. Even my cheeks had grown hollow. A horrible irony struck me then: after awaiting Charles's announcement for months on end, and planning my own appearance at the gathering, I would look my worst instead of my best.

Still, it was Charles himself who truly brought me to my senses. I could hear him pacing up and down in his study when I returned from Madame's that day, and I knocked softly to show him I was home.

“Claire, is that you? Come in here, will you? I want you to listen to something in my speech. It seems a bit awkward.”

I walked in and sat down obediently in front of him. As he said nothing for a few moments, only stared at me, I finally asked him why he didn't get on with it.

“Claire, what in heaven's name is the matter with you?” he asked. “I make my decision to run for mayor of Galveston, in no small measure because it's what you want, and almost from the moment I tell you, you begin to change from an enthusiastic helpmate to a slow, lethargic mute. Have you changed your mind? Because if you have, I'll be damned if I'll go through with it. It's going to be difficult enough, without worrying about you. Now, tell me the truth. Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Well, if not, what in God's name is bothering you?”

“Nothing. Of course I haven't changed my mind. I want this almost more than anything in the world. It's just—I haven't had much appetite lately. The heat, I guess, and then so much time worrying over Serena this spring with Janet gone, one thing and another, and then I haven't had much help with the garden and I've been working awfully hard.”

“All right. But I want to see some pink in your cheeks this time next month or, I swear to you, I won't go through with this business. I'll call it off before it really begins.”

“No, please. I'll eat, I promise. You'll be proud of me by the time the day comes. Now, read me that part of your speech.”

His lecture had a rallying effect on me, and helped put matters into perspective again. Could I not have Rubin, I would be foolish to jeopardize what blessings had been given me. If I couldn't force my heart into the mayoral campaign, I could at least throw my energies toward it, and I did. I overate at meals until I was sick at the sight of food. I took long afternoon naps when time permitted; I stayed away from the garden and away from Rubin (the latter of which was no difficult task to accomplish). I lunched with Faye and Isobel at the Imperial. I shopped for new hats. I restyled my hair into an upsweep with curls. I bought more fabric; had more outfits put into the making. By the night of the announcement I felt better twenty times over, and when Charles watched me model the candlelight silk he smiled contentedly and said, “Well, even if we go down in defeat, we'll do it in style.”

The magnitude of the situation had left my awareness over the past few months, not only because of what had occurred between Rubin and me, but also because over the many months since Charles decided to run, the mayor's campaign had been reduced to a speech on paper and endless nights of his pacing the floor with it.

That night of the announcing, though, it all became real again. Handsome rigs, one after another, were pulled up along the front of the Marlowe property and down the block when we arrived.

“I thought only a few were to be here tonight,” I told Charles.

“Oh, about fifty, I guess, counting wives.”

“I don't know how you can be so calm.”

“There's nothing to be worried about tonight—this is a gathering of friends. I feel prepared, and I'm determined to enjoy this before they throw me to the lions a few weeks from now.”

“Charles, you do want it too, don't you? You're not doing this just for me?”

“No, I'll admit the idea has grown on me a bit. But I'm still not kidding myself. We have only a small chance of beating Fuller. Did you know he's decided to run again?”

“No, I hadn't heard, but I'm not surprised.”

“Not that it really matters. If it wasn't him, it would be someone else of the almighty men's choice—some other puppet to do their bidding.”

Just as we approached the wide porch a male voice came from behind. “If this isn't a winning couple, I've never seen one.”

We looked around to see Lucien Carter, immaculate as ever. Isobel was at his side, a stunning figure in a deep green taffeta gown with sparkling emeralds encircling her throat and plunging down her soft breast. We bid them a cheery hello and walked in together.

I never expected the sight which greeted us when we got up to the entrance of the Marlowes'. The buffet itself was set up in the large dining room so that people could walk around the table and fill their plates, then proceed into the ballroom. There, at one end, were small round tables and chairs set with candles and silverware. Further back, to the rear of the room, chairs were set up classroom style with an aisle down the center. At the tail end was a podium that rivaled one I'd seen before in a daguerreotype of some presidential inauguration long ago. It was a massive platform, hung with blue bunting with a slender speaker's stand in the center and five chairs behind.

“What'cha think?” Pete inquired.

“I don't know what to say. It's so grand. Forgive me, I'm quite overwhelmed at all of this suddenly. I had no idea it would be anything like this.”

“Your husband is a very important man, young lady. The trappings for his platform speech had to be in keepin' with the occasion.”

Many passed before us in a reception line soon after we arrived. Of these, one man in particular remains in my memory. Porter Jackson, prosperous nursery owner, suggested we have a telephone installed for the campaign. “We've just gotten one at the store,” he said proudly, “and you've no idea what a fabulous contraption it is.” Galveston had been the site of the first telephone installation in Texas several years back, but there were relatively few phones on the island as yet. I smiled and said, “Why, certainly—what a wonderful idea,” but thought to myself a telephone was a bunch of tomfoolery.

I was a little surprised at the appearance of some of the guests, having had no idea their wealth was sufficient enough for them to pledge dollars to Charles's campaign, but then Charles has always said not all wealthy people put on show.

After we'd greeted everyone, Pete announced from the podium in his folksy manner, “Ladies and gents, we're gonna eat by and by, but before I git your stomachs full and git you all comfortable and sleepy, I want to progress on to the business at hand. So if everybody will have a seat up here in front, we'll start.”

The chairs behind the podium were for Lucien and Isobel, Faye and Pete and me. As we made our way to the front, I felt my first misgivings about the whole thing. I hadn't realized what an awesome task we had before us. All these people were here because they expected something great from Charles. They expected him to save their city for them, or else they would have never gone out on a limb in his behalf. I felt so small, inadequate. I looked at Charles as he took my hand and lifted me up to the platform. He looked confident; distinguished. I wondered whether I would ever learn to appreciate him fully.

His figure was tall and fine as he stood up in front of us, and I kept telling myself over and over, “This is it. We're finally here. It is only the beginning.” Yet my body tensed at the deep, resonant sound of his voice and I clenched a fist around my closed fan. He outlined the situations he believed so threatening to the progress of our city, and followed with his plans for solving each of them. He spoke about all the issues he'd spent months researching—from his intent to solve the water supply crisis by piping in water from the mainland, to his proposal to break the stranglehold of the wharf monopoly once and for all. I realized his convictions had never been so earnestly and cogently expressed, his plans never so feasible, as his voice carried smoothly out among the audience, where every eye and ear remained on him from the beginning of his speech to his closing comments.

For one or two moments after he uttered his thank-you, a silence hung in the air and my heart seemed to swell until I could feel it in my throat. Then all at once the room was alive with applause. As Charles nodded and drew back from the podium, the applause evolved into a standing ovation that seemed to go on and on. Just when I'd begun to relax a little and open my fan Charles turned around and grabbed my hand, pulling me up beside him as the clapping and shouting continued.

I knew suddenly how thrilling the role of the candidate could be, and how easy to believe in one's victory. Pete was up there beside us then, holding high his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs, “VICTORY FOR BECKER IN '86, VICTORY FOR BECKER.” I looked at Charles's perspiring face. It was suffused with a delight and wonder I had never before seen there.

Chapter 4

From that night on the campaign was a force that caught us up and drove us through each day, and depleted us of all energy and ability to think clearly by the time we went to bed at night. It was not long before the
News
described Charles's campaign as “the most vigorous mayoral campaign ever to take place in this city.” The
News
sided with Charles from the start, and staff reporters came out often to interview him on the progress of the campaign.

There was nothing complicated about the race. Charles spoke before people in parks, before club meetings, in front of special interest groups—anywhere he was invited. I went a few times to witness his campaign speeches, but often did not attend. I would be at home waiting for him to arrive, with a bucket of hot salty water ready to soak his tired, swollen feet, and a good hearty dinner—enough for Charles and anyone who came in with him.