Galveston (47 page)

Chapter 14

How long had he been calling?

He was running toward me now, fright written all over his face, the beautiful Apollo running to save what might have, should have, been his. He'd never run to me before; how strange to see him spatter like a panicked animal across the water, then to glide with muscles taut the last few feet. I treaded silently, waiting.

“You crazy little fool,” he shouted, grabbing me first by the shoulders, then lifting, carrying me. “I start calling you, and you run into the water. Would you have the sea before me?”

It was all a dream, of course, and I was but a limp puppet being handled by its master. I gave no resistance to his pulling me back, yet had he let me go I would have contentedly given myself to the sea.

Back on the beach he sat me down roughly and shook my shoulders, bringing me out of the daze. He was angrier than I have ever seen him, for I had frightened him. “Damn you, don't you ever let anything happen to you, you little idiot!” he said, then took me into his arms and held me, rocking back and forth, and kissed my face, till the breath went out of me.

Later he carried me back up to the tower room, just as he had the first time I ever went to him for loving, laid me down on the bed, and pulled covers around my quaking body.

He was kneeling beside the bed and rubbing my hands. “Look, whatever you want,” he said. “I'm not the prize you seem to think, but by God, how I'd ever live a day without you, I don't know …”

He laid his head down on the bed next to mine then, and I stroked his hair. It was strange, my comforting him. He was a man always in command of me, yet now he came to me as a small boy comes to his mother, frightened of a storm during the night. My body continued to shiver, yet I had a warm, overflowing feeling inside. I wanted him now more than ever, and raised the cover and looked into his eyes. It was the first time I had ever made the move toward love-making, and as he moved in and began to kiss me I felt I would never be afraid of anything again.

Later I thought of it all, walking home from the beach.

He hadn't told me how we would work it out, only that he would fix it and for me not to worry any more. Just as I was leaving him I'd turned and asked the questions which had nagged at me all summer long.

“You're not already married or anything, are you? I mean, I've always had this fear you might have a wife back in New York. Are you … married?”

“I have been.”

“And now? What about now?”

“No. There is no one.”

“Roman, could you just say … do you love me? Tell me the truth now, please. I have to know.”

“You little fool. There isn't an inch of you I haven't loved since the beginning took place right in this room. Haven't you realized that?”

“Then, will you say it?” I was at the door, looking out into the hall. I dared not face him at that moment.

“All right. It's only that … I've said it so many times to so many women, it has a rather cheap ring to it by now. I didn't want to cheapen you by saying it. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, but it wouldn't be cheap to me. It would be like music.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I love you, Serena. I love you by day and by night, as I never intended to love anybody. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

I turned and looked at him. It was so much more than I had hoped for.

There was much excitement on Avenue L when I returned, and I feared I must be awfully late and Mrs. McCambridge was having a fit, readying a search party to drag the ocean for my body. Yet why was everyone walking away from the beach?

When I reached our gate I saw James come from the crowd several houses down, and run toward me. His face was tear-strewn as he tried to tell me. “Oh, Serena, Serena, it's so awful. I don't know how to tell you, I don't know.”

He was crying and talking at once, and I knelt and tried to calm him. “James, what is it? Has someone been hurt? Mother? Dad?”

“No, no. It's Porky. He's down the street in the Madison yard, and he's dead.”

“Dead? How can he—where?”

“Down there,” he said, pointing toward the people. “You mustn't see. I don't want you to see him. They're going to bring him back in a wagon.”

“No, I have to see,” I said, and ran down the block. Even as I approached the scene I couldn't believe it. Porky never got out of the yard except at the end of a leash. What would he be doing down the street in some else's yard?

When I got there Dad was leaning over him, and I knelt down beside him. Porky's body was perfectly still, lying on its side, showing no marks at all. He might just as easily have been sleeping, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes closing out the sunlight. I felt nothing, then, except disbelief.

“But what happened? He doesn't look as though he's been touched.”

“Poisoned, no doubt about it. You can see it around his mouth.”

I didn't want to see his mouth. “But why? Who?”

“I don't know. Maybe some mischievous prank. Some kids, or vicious grown-ups. Poor old boy, he never hurt a soul.”

Something about the endearment clung to my heart and I felt the lump come into my throat. “Just let me stroke him,” I said, “tell him good-by. I haven't been the best mistress lately, have I? Poor, poor Porky. He's so beautiful, so beautiful …”

“Come away now,” said Dad, pulling me up. Tommy Driscoll, a junior edition of his undertaker father, stood by with his wagon, and Dad gently picked up the lifeless form. James appeared then, and said, “Please, Father Garret, I want to help pull the wagon home.”

“All right,” he answered, and allowed James to help him get Porky into the wagon. Over the summer Porky had been James's dog more than mine. It was fitting, then, that he should be at the lead of this queer entourage of people, making its way back up Avenue L …

Porky was the final living evidence of Charles Becker. Everything else he had given me during his lifetime—the countless bijous purchased here and there, and given for little or no occasion; the dolls in the doll chest in my room; the sewing machine on which I had learned to sew; the wooden rocking horse; the mounds of books he'd brought to me—all were still around. The books were in St. Christopher's children's library and even the rocking horse, his mane lost somewhere along the way, his paint job in bad need of repair, was housed in our attic. Yet Porky was the gift he took the most delight in giving. Now that Porky was gone I found I missed Charles more than I had following his own death three years before.

I think now that if Charles were around, everything would be different for all of us today. Dad would find it much easier to handle his problems, for, contrary to the opinion of most people, Charles was the stronger of the two men. People found strength in my father because they expected it to be there, and never bothered wondering whether it really lay inside him, or whether his manner of self-assuredness was really only a thin mask imposed by the priesthood. My father leaned on Charles a great deal, and I don't believe it was until after his death that Dad began to take his whisky so frequently.

Were Charles here now, I might have gone to him, confided in him about Roman. He would have known how to reason with my father, there being no question he would have sided with me … why, I don't really know.

They buried Porky in the side yard, opposite Mother's window and Claire's house. I took a book and read to Mother as they turned the ground. We didn't want her to see what had happened, and felt it might be better if she discovered him gone one day and thought he'd run away. Of course, one never knew about Mother. She might not even remember tomorrow that Porky ever existed and had sat sometimes at the foot of her wheelchair out in the sunshine.

James came over in the evening, and asked if I could come out on the verandah and talk. We sat on the swing together, smelling the sweet scent of blooming oleanders in the moonlight. I had shed my tears for Porky in the afternoon, and I remember as we sat there the contentment I felt, as though no matter what happened between now and next week, everything was going to be all right. If I had Roman's love, I could make it through anything.

“Serena, I want to tell you a proposition,” James began.

“Yes?”

“It was so terrible about Porky …”

“Yes. He was such a good dog, and I shall miss him. I know you will too, James. He was quite fond of you, you know.”

“I never had a dog of my own. Mother and Father promised me one for this birthday, but then of course they were killed.”

“Yes.”

“Anyway, with Porky gone now I thought we might get another dog. Not that any could replace Porky, but at least he would be a dog. I looked in the directory just now, and there's a pet shop downtown, right off the Strand. I think I've enough money saved to buy a puppy there. We could go down together and pick him out. He would be your dog, and I'd only ask to be able to play with him the way I did with Porky.”

It was one of the greatest kindnesses anyone had ever paid me, and I couldn't resist a sudden urge to hug James's neck, a fact which dismayed him terribly.

“Don't get all mushy,” he said, wriggling loose.

“All right, I won't. But, James, you'll never know how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Does that mean we can do it?”

“I'm afraid not. James, you've been swell at keeping secrets all summer. Now I shall tell you another, if you think you can stand it, and this is the biggest one of all. I'm telling you because it will explain why I can't let you buy me another puppy.”

“I think I know. You're going away, aren't you?”

“Yes, did I give my secret away?”

“Only just then, when you said what you did. You really love Roman, don't you?”

“You sound like a little old man, James. Of course I do, more than anything in the world. And he loves me. We're going to be together always.”

“Yes. I was afraid you would decide to go with him.”

“You do approve, don't you? Look at me. I wouldn't want you disapproving, because you mean too much to me.”

“I guess so. If you're sure he can be trusted.”

His words puzzled me until I thought back a little. “Oh yes, you're remembering that girl Lucille, in your hometown. The one killed by the gambler.”

“They never said for sure it was him, only assumed it was. They never caught him, you see.”

“Surely you know Roman wouldn't harm anyone. Didn't he rescue you that day, carry you all the way home?”

“Yes, and I believe he's a good man. I just wouldn't want to ever take any chance when it comes to you. You're too special. And don't get mushy again.”

“All right. But don't worry about me. Just be grateful I'm finally going to get my chance at happiness. Someday you'll get yours too, only it won't be like this—clandestine meetings, running away without letting people know where you're going. You'll meet some lovely young girl who just might be deserving of someone as dear as you, and you'll have a huge wedding attended by everyone in town, and live happily ever after in a cottage up on a hill somewhere.”

“I don't know. I may not ever marry. I might be something else, might sail the seas or something, like Cousin Charles's brother. Claire is always talking about him, and how exciting his life was.”

“Oh, I can't really see … Is that what you want to do, really?”

“I guess I don't know yet. I've had several ideas, but always change my mind.”

“You'll probably do that many times before deciding.”

“Will you ever come back?”

“I don't know. Roman hasn't yet explained all the arrangements for leaving, and I haven't thought far enough ahead to consider whether we'll come back. Someday … perhaps not right away … he'll help me get into a ballet school in New York, the one his sister attended.”

“You'd let me know, wouldn't you, if you were ever stranded or needed me, or anything?”

“Certainly. Tell you something else. If you were about five years older, I should be very tempted to set my catch for you, if you'd have me.”

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

It was the last conversation we had. Yesterday morning James came by and brought a slip of paper, but didn't stay as Tommy Driscoll awaited him for their morning crabbing trip. When I opened the paper I read his full name at the top, James Randolph Byron. Underneath in bold lettering was first his Galveston address, 707 Avenue L, then his former Grady address, Number 2 Blackburn Place. I doubt seriously I'll ever have need of either of them, except perhaps to write to him someday. I am touched by his concern for my welfare, however, and have slipped the paper down into the pocket of my carpetbag, alongside the other things there.

It is seven o'clock. The dawn is creeping upward, bathing the sky in new light. Surely nothing can happen in the last five hours, yet why does this uneasiness loom above me like a sword of Damocles?

Minutes from now, Dad will arise and Mother will awaken, and soon after Mrs. McCambridge will come into the hall, take off her hat in front of the mirror, fluff her hair, and see to Mother's breakfast. I shall go down to the beach at the usual time, so that no one will suspect anything. There I will meet Roman in the Pavilion tower room, where we will wait until almost noon, then go to Union Depot in the rented rig and join the other band members, who've come straight from their downtown hotel.

Tomorrow a group of men I've never met will board up the windows of the Seaside Pavilion, making it safe for the coming storm season. Even our tower window will be denied its patch of sunlight, and the place that was ours will be vacant till a year passes and a new season of summer entertainment begins. Will our room be used by two lovers, who will take joy in their secret hiding place as we did? I hope so, and wish them happiness that will last far beyond the brief interlude of summer.…