Galveston (3 page)

But then on the thirteenth day he did not come.

I waited an hour or two before riding back to town, thinking maybe something kept him from coming, some simple explanation for his leaving me to wait, and all I found, when I returned home, was Charles's buggy out front and him waiting on my porch to see if I'd like to go on a picnic.

“I had a special basket packed for us at the hotel cafe,” he said. “Everything's here we need. All you have to do is board the wagon.”

“Where is Damon?” I asked dazedly.

He looked at me in puzzlement. “Why, Damon left town early this morning; you know him, gone off to sea again, I think to Spain, though he promised to write, not that I count on letters from him. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Picnic, you said? Sure. Why not?”

I waited four days, to see if a message would come to me from Damon, and when none did I made up my mind. I called at Charles's office and right there, amidst the clutter and stuffiness, said, “Let's not wait any longer to get married. I'm willing to go ahead right away, that is, if you still want me.”

He came around the desk, his face alive with bewildered happiness, and took me in his arms. “I have to travel for the next couple of weeks on business,” he said. “When I get back, we'll call the preacher and set the date.”

And so, within six weeks of my first and last taste of the sweetness of satisfied desire, I watched Charles Becker gently slip a wedding band on my finger and spent the night locked in his arms, pretending. The sensation of pleasure that had been mine when I thought of marriage to Charles as a way to get back at Damon Becker was lost that night, and only a dull sense of hopelessness remained at the pit of my stomach and in all the open chambers of my heart.

Within another six weeks I found, for certain, I was expecting a child, yet could not be certain whose child it was to be until I went to see a new doctor in town. Charles insisted I see Dr. Hardy, who had treated both of us for almost everything we'd ever had, but I insisted on having my way. When the new doctor confirmed the pregnancy took place during the days I secretly hoped—the days with Damon Becker—I went to see Helga Reinschmidt. She'd been my mother's housekeeper and companion for the last ten years of her lifetime, and after my mother's death, had taken a job with another family in Grady. I told her she had to come to work for me and why.

Helga had loved my mother and she loved me, but was not one to show outward sympathy or affection under any circumstances. She listened to my story with a concentrated frown, then drew up her tall, gaunt figure and said, “So I'll come. There's hardly a choice. When the baby arrives we'll say it's early, that I know from experience, and in the meantime you should do a lot of walking to keep the baby small, do you hear? I don't care what anyone says, I know what I'm talking about.

“You're a silly girl,” she added without so much as the hint of a smile to soften her hawkish face, “but you probably had the one taste of happiness you'll ever get and I'd do anything to save a scandal that might reflect back on your dear dead mother. Now get on. I'll make my settlement with these people and move within the week.”

Charles was so happy at the prospect of a baby, he would have agreed to anything I asked (although he'd always disliked Helga Reinschmidt's stony personality), and surely I deserved at least to have my choice of midwives at my side. And when Damon came home, in his time, I thought, I would tell him the whole truth and he would take me away from Grady, from Charles, far away, and it would not matter what anyone thought about it.

We never had a letter from Damon beyond the first one he sent to Charles, saying he was bound for Spain, and within five months after the marriage between Charles and me we'd received word that Damon's ship had been caught by a storm and he was no more.

Now Charles cried and was in need of consoling, but even then I couldn't reach out to him, not when I hurt so much inside. The only thing that kept me going, got me over the loss of Damon, was the certainty I carried his child. I would, I knew, lavish all the love and affection on that child there was within me to give, and I told myself had Damon known the truth in time, he would have rushed back to me without a moment's hesitation. I had his child within me, how lucky, how lucky! I was to hold the only part of him left to the world and carry the knowledge to my grave.

My time came. Helga was there. Charles paced nervously and Betsey ran between the room where I lay and the room where Charles paced nervously, concerned into a frenzy Helga would not do things right, and convinced he should have insisted I stay in the care of the doctor, most preferably, the doctor he wanted me to have.

“A son,” said Helga finally. And added, when Charles entered the room, “The lad's a mite early, say a month, month and a half—you can see how small he is. We'll have to take extra care of him to get him strong.”

And Charles, teary-eyed, came to my bedside and held my hand and thanked me and thanked God above, and said, “Can we give him my name, Claire?”

I was a little surprised Charles had not thought of naming the child Damon, in view of his brother's recent death, yet I had no need to argue, had I? I'd received everything in the world I wanted. A healthy child and part of Damon that couldn't be taken away no matter how fickle-minded the man I loved might have been. “If that's what you want,” I said, and kissed his forehead.

For four months I knew a happiness that encompassed the world and knew no limits beyond it. My son took the milk from my breast like the sweet nectar of the gods, and grew and thrived in the surroundings of so much love, and I gave no thought to the warnings of Betsey I'd soon have him spoiled deplorably, or the glances by Helga that said I'd best pay a little mind to Charles, who seemed delighted by the son he thought his, yet almost awestruck at my possessiveness of him.

And then one day my baby died in his sleep, his crib not two feet from my side of our bed. There was no help for it. Three doctors said so. Some babies just didn't make it, no one knew why, and Helga, her face pinched with grief, said, “The lad was early, you know, and probably didn't get the start he needed. I've seen it happen before.”

I was far too overcome by my own grief to worry about what Charles might be feeling and I remember only one statement he made to me, after the burial was done and we returned from the cemetery. “God help me, I didn't know life could hold such sadness,” he said, almost in a whisper. “First Damon and now our son.”

You
haven't lost a son, I thought, then looked at him quickly to be sure I hadn't said it aloud.

Chapter 3

Charles did not know how close he'd come to losing me in those weeks following my son's death, how many times I'd opened my mouth to say, “Go to Galveston alone, I want no part of it
or
you,” then shut it just in time, and smiled instead like a pliant woman willing to be led wherever her husband wanted to take her.

Had he wanted to, he might have seen that nothing tied me to him except a sense of duty; instead he spent our first few weeks in Galveston trying to please me, believing he could help me overcome my grief as he was overcoming his. The house at 707 Avenue L, he thought, would be perfect for improving my state of mind, and he described it one day, drawing a map. “Here's the island—shaped kind of like a long thumb—the port up on the north side, the beach on the south, and Broadway crossing it from west to east at a slight downward angle. L runs parallel with Broadway, two blocks south. The house is about six blocks from where the avenue veers off to the beach. The Gulf breeze hits it crosswise—perfect for circulation.

“It's a white two-story, with three pointed gables above, french doors in the center and a big, railed verandah. The roof's deep red and the latticework and shutters and doors are dark green. It'll be even more beautiful after you've planted a garden. Oh yes, and there's a small barn out back where we could keep a horse and rig.”

I'd nodded disinterestedly, so he'd continued, “And we have a view of the Gulf of Mexico from the top of the roof—you should see it!” Then he paused and added, “Now, if you're afraid it isn't safe, don't worry. The whole area was developed after the storm of '75, and the stilts underneath the houses are better than eight feet tall—higher than the water got at any point on the island.”

I'd said all right and he'd bought it.

Getting me acquainted with our new neighbors was another of his gestures designed to bring me happiness, so he was anxious that I overlook the queer ways of Janet Garret once her husband explained them, and urged me, the morning after Rubin's first visit, to call on her.

“I notice the shutters are open,” he said.

“All right, I'll give it a try,” I told him.

Earlier that morning I'd watched as two men planted six oleander bushes, three on either side of the steps leading up to her porch. The top of each bush brushed the edge of the porch floor. When I went to pay my call about four o'clock, she was out on her front walk, sketching one of the lush pink blossoms that still clung among the leaves.

“Hello, Mrs. Becker, and how are you today?” she asked, without looking around. Thus was I to learn of her eerie sixth sense. It served her well, most of the time.

“Fine, thank you. Mind if I sit here on the stairs?”

“If you like,” she said, her attention still fixed on the canvas before her.

I cleared my throat and waited as a subject awaits a word from her king.

Finally she said, “This is my first time to paint an oleander. Do you like flowers?”

“Oh yes, my garden in Grady was the envy of the town. You're lucky to have some healthy bushes … everything around here is so barren.”

“Barren … yes, that would describe everything well, I think,” she said, and smacked the brush to her canvas as one would stab a piece of meat with a fork, then smiled at me. “The bushes were a gift from the church,” she said. “I understand oleanders grow quite tall.”

“Oh, really? I don't know much about them … they're peculiar to this climate, I think. How do you like Galveston so far?”

“It's fine. I like the fences particularly.”

“You do? I think they're a bit strange—a low brick fence might connect with a white picket, then on to an iron and maybe a cornstalk. But I suppose that's—”

“Strange, or interesting … depending upon your point of view.”

“Don't you find it odd the houses are so close together? Back home in Grady there was at least a mile between one house and the next. You could go for days without seeing anyone unless you went into town.”

“Still, privacy isn't a problem here, if you seek it. The shutters work very effectively.” I understood the full meaning of her remark and was tempted to point out that normal people used the shutters only during bad storms and cold weather, but I could already see our relationship was getting off to a bad start and after all I did have to live next door to her.

“May I have a look at your sketch?” I asked.

“There isn't much to see at this point,” she said, and she was right-only skeletal shapes.

“It's going to be very good, I'm sure,” I said to her back.

“You must have a very keen eye to tell so soon.”

“Oh well, I don't know—” I began, but stopped as she turned abruptly and stared hard at me.

“Rubin has suggested I might paint
you
someday. I think he was quite taken by your interesting face. If I could capture just the right shade of green for those eyes … greens can be so difficult, you know … maybe …”

I stood uneasily as she inclined her head a bit and continued studying me. Then she said, “But Rubin ought to know I haven't done any portraits lately.”

“I see … well, there are lots of things to paint around Galveston. You could go down to the wharves and see all the ships docked there, and along the beach, too.”

“I do hope to do some sketching of the Gulf,” she said, dabbing at the canvas again. “Pity the island isn't very large, for we'll have to move again after I've painted everything.”

I stared at her. Was she serious?

“Anyway, I'm glad you like the sketch. Perhaps I'll give it to you for a present. Such a blossom as the oleander is best preserved on canvas; that way it's as harmless as it is beautiful.”

“What do you mean?”

“The oleanders. Didn't you know they're deadly poisonous?”

“No, I did not. I'll be sure to stay clear of them.”

“It doesn't hurt to touch them, only to eat them,” she said, plucking a blossom from the bush. “Look, they have a sweet, heady fragrance and are softer than a baby's cheek. Here, put it next to your face.”

I drew away; her actions repelled me.

“It's all right if you don't want to,” she said sweetly, brushing the bloom across her own cheek and sitting down again.

“I must go and fix dinner. Charles is coming home early tonight so we can see a play at the Tremont.” I backed away toward the gate.

“How nice. Do come again, though. May I call you Claire?”

“If you like,” I said, and hurried home to make some tea. I always drink tea in times of stress. It is a very lonely feeling to imagine yourself bereft of friends when far from home, and I wondered that day for the first of many times if Janet was peculiar and unstable, or quick-witted and cruel.

Had Rubin told her of our recent loss of a child? If so, did she compare the poisonous blossom to a baby's cheek out of meanness, or thoughtlessness? Could she have imagined what horrible memories would spring to my mind? “You'd hardly know the baby is not sleeping peacefully,” had said Mr. Weimer, the Grady undertaker, “his skin so soft. Some people like to touch one final time.…”

The teakettle singing, I lay my head down on the table and wept.