Galveston (43 page)

“You're pretty smart,” I said, laughing. “But I do think you might have gotten off a good bit cheaper than that.”

“It's my only picture. I'd have given my last penny if necessary.”

“Of course, I understand. I'm sorry … James, how would you like to have the portrait of your mother that we have? I'm sure it would be all right with Dad, and I can't think of a better place for it to be than with you.”

“That would be swell. But could you just keep it at your house until I leave Galveston? I mean, I don't want to take it to Claire's house.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when Mrs. Reinschmidt was cleaning the other day, she took down every painting your mother had done for Claire, and she and Claire stored them in the attic. Claire's gone right now to buy some new ones.”

“That's odd.”

“I told you those two were rather queer. Did I tell you, Mrs. Reinschmidt's trip is all set? She leaves at the end of August. She's gonna stay a couple of days in Houston with friends, before going on to San Antonio. While she's gone, Claire says we get to go out for dinner twice a week.”

“That's nice. Funny about the pictures, though.”

“Yes, and the walls are faded behind. All over the place it looks like someone painted squares on the walls.”

“Well, maybe she just wanted some new paintings to look at.”

“Yes, maybe so. I don't know, I never ask questions. I'm just a visitor, after all.”

“But, James, don't you think you might consider staying in Galveston for good?”

“I couldn't do that. Only till my grandfather can send for me. Besides, Cousin Claire doesn't really want me here. She's gone all the time—even at night—and when she is at home she and Mrs. Reinschmidt share secrets from me.”

“Oh, James, your imagination again—”

“It is not,” he swore. “They never talk to me.”

“But you just said Claire promised you two could eat out twice a week together while Helga's away.”

“Yes, but she'll probably back out on that because of some meeting or other, downtown.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she has them all the time at night, and comes home very late. That night of the séance I had to wait till she came in and had time to go to sleep before I could get away. She almost made me late … not that it mattered.”

“Well, Claire has always had her circle of friends, and if she wants to go out at night, it's certainly her business,” I said, but in truth wondered myself just where she went at night.

Was there some connection between her nights out and Dad's? Surely not, because, although she had often displayed more than a neighborly interest in my father, especially over the past few years since Charles's death, I'd always felt certain he didn't take it seriously. Yet there was that day not so long ago when James spotted them together in her rig …

Chapter 10

August approaching. I awoke to a dull, dreary excuse for a day, and looked at the calendar. It was easy enough to fool myself that summer might last forever as long as the pages of the calendar were headed up “June” or “July,” but in just two days, I'd have to turn the page and face the finality of the word “August.” The thought cast a shroud over my spirits.

Worse still, today was Sunday, and I had to spend it with Nick and Dad over roast beef for Sunday lunch, and probably dull parlor games in the afternoon. It was the usual routine. How long had it gone on? Only about a year, yet it seemed an eternal game of appearances we must play in which Nick, the eager suitor, played up to Dad rather than to me.…

Yet Sundays had never depressed me as badly as this one. I felt unusually tired as I left the bed and dressed for church, and after fixing my hair, sat down again on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. Only one more month, and it would all be over, and what then? No matter how hard I'd tried not to, I had begun to count on Roman to pull some magical trick that would solve everything and bring us lasting happiness together. More frightening than that, I could never be sure whether he wanted me always with him. He had that maddening evasive way, and he'd never said, “I love you,” in those words, though I'd longed to hear them from the beginning of summer.

Often I'd thought he might say them, thereby sealing the pact between us, yet he hadn't seen fit to do so, so how could I be sure he felt them? Perhaps I was to him, just as I surely would be to any other man who knew about this summer, nothing more than a cheap pick-up, good only for a summer fling.

I was thinking of this later in the day, when Nick spoke up at the lunch table.

“Serena, come down to earth,” he said jovially. “You look a thousand miles away.”

“Do I? Sorry … have another helping of corn?”

“No thanks,” he said, then directed his attention to Dad. “Father Garret, you really have a prize here. A beautiful little woman who can cook and sew. If she ever decides to settle down and marry, the man who gets her will be one lucky fellow, yes, sir.” He sat there waiting, picking his teeth with a match.

Dad lit his pipe and pushed back from the table, then asked in mock surprise, “Oh? You know someone with designs in that direction?”

“I sure do. Not that any young eligible man wouldn't, who got to know her just a little. But one has to consider background in these things. Serena, here, has a whole lifetime of experience in Church affairs. She'd be a great asset to any man who worked in the Church, don't you think?”

“I surely do … a great asset to any man, no matter what he did for a living.”

Strangely, I believe Dad really thought he was pleasing me by giving his blessing to Nick's proposal of marriage in this subtle way. He simply could not believe it possible I didn't want to marry Nick. In truth, the conversation sickened me. My head was throbbing.

I stood up from the table and said, “I have work to do, and even if I didn't, I wouldn't sit here and be bartered like a sack of flour. If you'll excuse me, please.”

Nick looked up at me, the picture of innocence. Dad's mouth gaped open. “Of course, Nan, I didn't mean to imply any such thing,” he said.

“Certainly not,” Nick added, looking at him. “Uh, well, I've got some practicing to do this afternoon for confirmation services tonight. I'd better be getting back to the church now.”

“I'll see you out,” said Dad, and followed him from the dining room and into the hall. I have no idea what they said to each other then, although I imagine they spoke in tones of bewilderment at my unorthodox behavior. I didn't care. I cleared the table and carried the dishes into the kitchen.

Dad soon followed me through the swinging door, and I knew this was to be a confrontation about Nick that had long been brewing. He leaned against the counter. “Serena, please forgive what just happened. I didn't intend to be such a boor.”

I looked at him. He was obviously pained by what had occurred, and seeing it in his face softened my anger toward him. He was so like a little boy, innocent in truth as Nick only pretended to be.

“It's all right. Forget it. Maybe I'm just touchy.”

“No, it was unforgivable, talking that way, only, you can understand how a father feels about his daughter when she reaches your age. More than anything, he hopes and prays she'll marry someone who is kind and will provide well for her, give her a good life. Because once her father is gone, she'll have no one else to lean on for support.”

“But you're not leaving us any time soon …”

“Even so, I was thankful when you and Nick began courting. He's a good fellow, Nan, and would always take care of you. He can have the organist's post at St. Christopher's for as long as I'm around, and if he should ever aspire to a higher post—well, nothing would please me more.”

I didn't say anything. Dad continued.

“You've seen so much of each other, I couldn't help believing you had some feeling for him, and I was afraid you might be reluctant to accept his hand in marriage because of Mother's condition. I know it's been rough on you, kept you from having as many friends and as many good times as you would, had she been well. I felt it would be a good future for you, were you to marry Nick, and when he first approached me about it, I—”

“He's spoken to you about it?”

“Well, yes. That young man is very fond of you, darling, and, of course, anxious to proceed as a gentleman would.”

“Well, I'm not very fond of him. I don't know how many different ways I can tell you that. I thought you understood at the first of the summer.”

“First of the summer?”

“Yes, when we discussed that man from the band.”

“Oh yes, I'd quite forgotten about that. What was his name—Cruz, something? Well, of course, I knew that was just a passing fancy. Surely you could have had little in common with a person like him. I thought you truly cared for Nick.”

“Now you know.”

“But, Serena, let me tell you one thing more. You may not believe this, but when I married your mother, I had no idea what love really was. Of course I
thought
I loved her, but as the years went by I could feel that love deepening, could realize all we had for each other at the beginning was a kind of fondness. Through marriage and all the good and bad times that go along with it, one builds true love that is lasting. It has gotten me through all these years since her accident, that, and nothing else.”

“Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. But you both at least had something to build on, did you not? How do you begin if there is nothing? Nick can never be anything more for me than a good friend. You wouldn't want me to lie, would you?”

“No, no, of course not.” He sighed. “All right. But don't do anything hasty. After all, you've plenty of time for deciding where your heart lies. Perhaps one day your feelings for him will awaken …”

I stared at him. Why couldn't I make him understand?

“Please believe me, Nan, a woman alone is at the mercy of society. I have only your interest at heart when I attempt to persuade you toward marriage. Be it Nick Weaver or some other fine man, no matter. It's your happiness that concerns me.”

I went into his arms then, the first time I had for a long while. Somehow even with this ever widening gap between us, it was comforting to lay my head on his shoulder and be held by him. Despite his mistakes on my behalf, I shall never doubt he loves me, and as we stood there, two afternoon shadows against the kitchen wall, I wanted nothing more than to tell him everything about this summer.

How thankful I am I did not.

In those first few days of August, and even more so as the month wore on, there seemed to be a kind of impatience growing all round. It hadn't rained since the night Mother was ill in early July. The grass was a dirty yellow color; the dust in the street seemed to kick higher than usual when a carriage passed down or a group of children gamboled toward the beach. The water pressure was low, and people up and down the street complained to one another they couldn't get enough from their hoses to water the gardens properly. Good vegetable crops were growing dry; flowers drooped their heads like dancers after a tiring routine.

Claire, who often left in her buggy nowadays a little earlier than I left for the beach, would stop regularly at the barometer on her back stoop, narrow her eyes, and tap it a couple of times to see if it was dropping. Helga seemed more irritable than usual, and I would often overhear her tersely instructing James about something or other, when Claire was away from home.

I would awaken mornings, the bedclothes clinging to my back, perspiration all over my face and neck and arms, and I couldn't be sure whether I felt worn out because of the heat, or because of something else. By the time I was up and dressed, I was in an angry mood, and sick and tired of keeping secrets. The uncertainty of what was to come welled up inside me like a festering sore.…

“You haven't said anything about the contract,” I told Roman one day as we sat on the beach eating apples.

He finished paring a piece of fruit and took a loud bite before answering. “It's still not decided,” he said.

“Are you just saying that, to put me off?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“I don't know.”

“I'll let you know as soon as King gives the word. He's negotiating it this morning, I think.”

“Well, that sounds like a good sign, anyway. No hurry, you understand, August has just begun. It's only that—”

He stopped eating his apple and put a finger under my chin. “You're not going to cloud up and cry, are you?”

“Certainly not. Why should I? Live each moment, as you always say. It's been a great summer. What difference what happens when it's over? No strings.”

“Right. By gosh, that's what I like about you. You understand how things must be.”

“Of course.”

“Tell you what. Let's go for a swim. Fine day for it.”

“Yes, let's. I need something to cool me off.”

He pulled me up from the sand and we ran into the surf together, ending the conversation that obviously made him uncomfortable.

All the month long he was like a little boy on holiday, wanting to play as much as possible before it was over. And if I ever looked too serious, or began to say something about us, he would quickly change the subject or kiss me into silence, and I wondered whether he was having as hard a time facing the end as I was, or whether he looked upon it with relief, and was merely letting his latest conquest down easily before boarding the train for New York.

Day by day I seemed to have less energy. In dancing I could manage only half as many fouettés as usual, and the heat couldn't be entirely to blame, for Carlotta Maxwell, never a particularly promising or energetic student, was now doing ten or twelve of the pinpoint gyrations to my six. Madame said nothing, but began to look at me a little differently, as though she wondered at the cause of my lackadaisical behavior.