Galveston (33 page)

Marybeth had done everything, it seemed, and I sat year after year in Galveston, my only piece of news being that I'd finished a pillowcase I was embroidering, or made a new outfit to wear to church.

As I began to write that day, I thought I'd have paragraph after paragraph of exciting news—after all, I'd met and spent a morning with Roman Cruz. Surely there was much I could say that would please her, and convince her I wasn't the prude she always accused me of being.

Yet what could I say to show her how Roman really was? Taken piece by piece, none of what had happened so far was glamorous. He was a member of a traveling band from New York, had traveled for three years and been all over the place … exactly where, I had no idea. His sister was in a ballet corps, and on and on … I knew it was impossible, then, to capture Roman Cruz on paper.

I wrote on anyway … “I've met an interesting man from New York. He's a musician and handsome enough, I suppose. I may be seeing more of him this summer, but haven't yet decided whether I like him enough.…”

I read it over, pen poised in the air. The words looked like me trying to imitate Marybeth, which they were, and in disgust I pulled up the sheet of paper and wadded it into a ball. It was then that James appeared at the fence. “Good afternoon. Your leg's all right, then? I'm so relieved.”

Porky had been stationed at Mother's feet, but upon seeing James had rushed to the fence, tail wagging. I looked up at Mother. She'd noticed him and was staring. I did, as I have many times, attempt a one-sided introduction, for James hadn't yet been into our house to meet her. He'd seen her staring, and was spellbound by her vacant gaze.

“James, please meet my mother, Mrs. Garret. Mother, this is James Byron, who lives next door with Claire. His mother was Ruth Miller, you know, that nice girl who visited Claire one summer a long time ago.”

At first she seemed unable to comprehend, but then, surprisingly, tore off the paper she'd been writing on, and held it out. “You want to give it to James? All right, Mother. I'll take it over to him.

“I think she likes you,” I told James softly. “Perhaps she even understands who you are. Will you let me look at what she's written, later?”

“Of course. I was going to bring the Mythology this afternoon anyway, after I walk Porky.”

“Good. I'll get his leash. Come over later, after Mother is back in her room. I don't know if she'd mind our looking at the poem together, but just in case, I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.”

“I understand,” he said, and slipped the piece of paper into his shirt pocket.

He and Porky soon disappeared down the block, and Mother and I sat together for another hour before Dad came home. She seemed to have written all she wanted that day, and wouldn't pick up the pen again. Instead, she stared toward Claire's house for a long time. I watched for a while, trying to figure what she might be thinking. Yet it was a fruitless effort, as usual, and I gave up and wrote a short letter to Marybeth in which I wound up mentioning James and his man-of-war sting, yet leaving Roman Cruz out of the story.

At sundown, James came over again and we sat on the verandah together, poring over the poem.

Come in; you look so tired
.

The dark is hiding here with me
,

Running from the truth of light
.

He will wait here until the lying stops
.

Do come in; I assure you we've room for

another guest
.

“It's very strange,” he said. “I've read it several times, but can't figure out its meaning. But then, I'm not very good at poetry, anyway. What do you think?”

“I wish I knew. All her poems make me think she has something to hide, but heaven only knows what. Probably something mixed up in her mind, something she did once that took on greater magnitude than it was worth, after the accident. I doubt she ever knowingly killed a bug, though. Anyway, I'm saving all her poems. Would you let me have this one?”

“Sure. And here's the Greek. The part about Apollo begins on page 321.”

“What makes you think I'm interested in Apollo?”

“I don't know. It's just that guy Roman is so perfect for him. See if you don't agree.”

“All right. You'd better go now. I have to cook dinner, and Helga will be calling you for yours.”

“Before I go, could I look at the picture of my mother you have?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

“Is your father home?”

“No, he's been here and gone again,” I said.

Dad had carried Mother up the stairs and fed her her dinner, visited a few minutes, then come down again.

“Who brought the cake?” he'd asked.

“Same as usual, Claire.”

“It looked good, but she wouldn't touch it.”

“She never eats anything Claire brings.”

“Perhaps she doesn't care for it.”

“Looks more as though she doesn't care for Claire,” I said.

“Ah, Nan, there's no reason she shouldn't, is there?” he asked.

“How should I know?”

It was an oft repeated conversation between us. Dad knew as well as I did that Mother's eyes often held fear when Claire was around, but he attributed it to the fact she was with Mother just before the accident, and felt Mother might somehow connect her fall with Claire, although Claire was not at fault. She'd gone upstairs that morning to fetch something Mother had forgotten, and by the time she returned, Mother and Donnie were at the bottom of the stairs. Of course it has occurred to me over the years that Claire might have actually had something to do with Mother's fall, but she would have had no reason to want Mother hurt then, as far as I know, and anyway, the way she carried on after it happened, the way she cried at Donnie's funeral, she must have been as heartbroken as anyone else, or at least she seemed to be.…

Dad was gone soon after the conversation that Tuesday evening, staying only long enough for two shots of whisky, and to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Don't wait up. I'll probably be late.”

As James and I viewed the portrait together in silence, I thought perhaps he'd reached some milestone in forgetting, if he could bear to look at his mother's picture.

“It's a little fuzzy, isn't it?” he asked finally.

“That's just the style, I guess, kind of dreamy, elusive, you might say.”

“I suppose. She didn't look exactly like that, though.”

“I know, I know. She was much prettier …”

“No, I only meant, she just looked different, although this portrait does favor her a lot, of course. It's very nice.”

“An artist's rendering isn't supposed to be like a photograph. It's more an impression of what the artist sees in her subject. Perhaps Mother looked deeply into her personality and painted what she saw.”

“Maybe. Well, I'd better get home. Helga's fixing chicken tonight.”

On the way to the door he turned and said, “You know, I think I like your house better than Claire's. It's friendlier.”

“That's nice of you to say, but I'm sure Claire's house is friendly, too.”

“No, it isn't. I could never be at home there. Helga's always cleaning and straightening everything. And besides, Cousin Claire keeps part of it locked up.”

“Oh? Which part?”

“I think it must have been Cousin Charles's study. I looked through the keyhole one day when she was gone, and there's a desk and lots of papers in there. You know, she is gone a lot, and never says where.”

“James, I think you're fond of intrigue, and you let your imagination run away with you.”

He turned to go. “Oh, by the way, I didn't know your father was hard of hearing.”

“What makes you think he is?”

“Well … on the way to the grocer's today when I went to get baking powder for Helga, I saw him walking ahead of me—two or three houses further up Avenue L. I called out to him several times but he never turned around and I finally realized he hadn't heard me.”

“Well, he isn't hard of hearing. Perhaps it was the direction of the wind or something. Or maybe you only thought it was him.”

“Maybe so, though I was pretty sure. Anyway, I only mentioned it because my father was deaf in one ear. Of course, no one ever guessed. He could hear perfectly from the other.”

“That's too bad.”

“A childhood accident caused it, he always said. Something about a rifle being fired too near him. But, as I said, you'd have never guessed if he didn't want you to know. Well, good night.”

That evening after dinner, I took the mythology book and turned directly to page 321. There was a sculpture of Apollo depicted at the beginning of his section: a god of muscular body, broad chest, slender hips. His face was beardless, his long hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of his neck.

He was apparently an amorous god, for there followed a long section about his many loves, and my eyes scanned this section for mention of Aphrodite. Her name wasn't linked with his, though, and, closing the book, I wondered why it should disappoint me so. Greek gods and goddesses! What had they to do with ordinary people in Galveston, in 1899? Still, it bothered me, for James had infected me with his drawing of parallels between the mythological characters and real people, and I decided to look up Aphrodite to see whether she ever found anyone she could truly love.

I fell asleep later, the book resting on my pillow, and awoke the next morning to a glare of sunlight streaming through the window by my bed. I looked at the time: eight o'clock. Why hadn't Dad awakened me? I looked out across the hall. The door to the little room where he sleeps was closed.

I dressed quickly and went to the kitchen to see if he was up. Then I realized what had happened the night before. There was an Old Saratoga bottle on the table, and an empty glass beside it.

I picked up the bottle. There wasn't more than a spoonful of whisky left. He would still be sleeping, then. I poured the whisky into the sink, put the bottle into the garbage, and washed the glass, just as I always did, for it made it easier to pretend in front of him I'd never discovered it.

Often I wished he wouldn't be so careless. If it weren't for me looking after him, someone would soon find out about his drinking and everything might be ruined for him in the church. What if Claire should come, bringing homemade rolls for breakfast, or biscuits or something? I never could feel certain whether Claire tattled everything she knew to her co-workers on the gardening committee, but there was always the slight chance she might, even though I would have thought it a better guess she would have protected my father and his foolishness to her dying breath.

As I cleaned the table and started breakfast, I remembered the first time I'd discovered my father's drinking habit. He always kept a decanter of port on a tray in the parlor, but before that time, as far as I knew, he never drank anything else. Then one day when I was twelve years old, still too short to reach the top cabinet in the kitchen, I brought a stool around to stand on so that I could reach the cinnamon kept above the sink. When I opened the cabinet and poked my hand inside, I felt the cool smoothness of the whisky bottle. His keeping whisky didn't alarm me; his habit of hiding it did. I was so frightened, I ran up to my room and cried. I'd seen a drunkard once, stumbling around down on Market Street and brandishing an empty whisky bottle that he soon dropped on the sidewalk, splattering glass and whisky all over the place. Charles was with me that day, and a large piece of the glass had narrowly missed striking his leg. Charles had taken my hand, and we'd crossed to the other side of the street.

I was convinced, then, that my father was like the drunkard. Of course he wasn't, and by now I know he drinks mostly in private and doesn't become obnoxious in front of others. I only hoped on that morning, early this summer, that his condition wouldn't somehow keep me from going to the beach. I made a pot of oatmeal, and when Mrs. McCambridge appeared at the front door, I grabbed my bag and left the house, not breathing properly until I reached the front gate.

Stupidly, I'd forgotten about James. He was waiting at the fence in his knickers and old shirt, wanting to know if he should get Porky, and obviously puzzled I'd forgotten him myself.

“Oh, Porky … yes, I guess you'd better,” I told him, wondering whether I would ever have a chance at being alone on the beach again. “Are you sure it's safe for you to go into the water with that leg?”

“Yes'm. Claire said so. She's gonna buy me a bathing suit today.”

“That's nice. Come on, then.”

When we were on our way, Porky pulling James along, poking his nose in one place then another, I tried to broach the subject. “Listen, as we pass by the band boys on the beach today, don't look over, all right? Don't look interested in whether they're there or not.”

“Oh, are we interested?”

“Of course not. I just don't want to leave the wrong impression.”

“Serena, if Roman comes to the Fischer place today, I'll stay in the water. Don't worry. I won't let any fish bite me. Now I know what a man-of-war looks like, I can keep clear.”

“Yes, but their tentacles are sometimes very long, so they can be a good distance from you and still sting, remember.”

“I know. Last night I read all about them in one of Claire's books. You've bathed around here long enough, and never gotten stung. Certainly it's not going to happen to me again. The law of averages is against it, as my dad would have said.”

“It's all right if you want to come out of the water. If Roman Cruz should come over, we'll only be talking anyway. I only pay attention to him because he's from far away, and he's interesting.”

“Yes, well, all I want to do is thank him and tell him Claire wants him to come to dinner tomorrow night.”