Galveston (55 page)

“Look, I really meant what I said. Sorry. Would you mind letting me by?”

“May I just come in, turn down the bed, visit for a while … after dinner, I mean?”

“I'll probably go right to sleep. I've had an exhausting day. We'll go to the show next week, all right?”

“Yes, Mother said you were working in that real estate office with that man. Wish I had an interesting job like that. Oh, but a show would be marvelous. Call me?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Hope you feel better. I'll see they leave some lemon pie for you …”

This was a generous concession for Maybelle. She was but a year my junior, yet somehow had never grown up. Eating was her favorite pastime, as evidenced by her still pudgy figure.

Cool water rushing over my hot face, soap on a soft washrag.

I checked the blouse to see if anything was torn or any buttons missing, and, finding none, closed my suit coat again. Rodney was not so rude as Cliff Wagner, of course. What he had done was out of … well, a kind of longing, I guess, whereas Cliff's advances had been fiendishly calculated.

I changed into a nightgown and got into bed, though it wasn't yet seven-thirty and I wasn't sleepy, or at least was beyond the point of unwinding sufficiently to doze off. So I stared at the wall for a while, and lit up a cigarette, took one puff, squashed it into the ashtray, then turned out the light and stared some more. When I am gone, I thought, my tombstone will read, “Here lies Willa Katherine Frazier [always remained a Frazier], a cold bitch who died as she lived … alone.” It was funny thinking of that, and I turned my face to the pillow so no one downstairs would overhear my giggling, but then the tears smarted behind my eyes and I knew the only amusing part of the tombstone was its irony.

Why could I not open up to anyone? Not even to Rodney, who saw beyond the mask? I wanted to open up, really, wanted it more than anything. But when matters began to get serious I was frightened, so frightened I would always panic just like today. I could have handled it better, more adult-like, without spouting off about not coming to the office tomorrow. But at that moment I hated Rodney Younger neck and crop. Now, only minutes later, I didn't know. It was as though all my feelings for him—whatever they were—had been muffled, covered over by a heavy quilt and hidden somewhere in the far reaches … Was that the door?

“Who is it?” I asked, expecting Maybelle. Worse still, it was Mother.

“Willa, dear, are you all right?” she asked, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Let's feel that forehead … no fever, that's good. Is it your stomach? Did you take a powder?”

“No, you know I hate taking things. I'll just sleep it off.”

“It's Rodney, isn't it? You and he had a quarrel. Did you work it out all right? You didn't break it off, did you?”

I leaned back against the pillow and considered for a moment. “I really think you'd be disappointed if I had.”

“Well, he is a nice boy and all, dear. I just wondered. Of course it's entirely your business.”

“Well, the truth is, I don't know yet. But don't wake me tomorrow. I'm taking the day off.”

“All right. You have worked awfully hard for him, haven't you? Bernie says he thinks you've become very interested in real estate, as you never were in his business.”

“It's nothing, Mother. I just ate something that set my stomach off. Just leave it at that, will you? You'd better get downstairs, they'll be missing you.”

“Oh, all right. Don't think you've fooled me, though. I know you're holding back as always.” She sighed heavily and moved away. “Sure you wouldn't like Julia to bring you a tray?”

“No. I've no appetite. And don't save me anything. Give all the leftovers to Maybelle. She loves to eat.”

“That's unkind, Willa.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She left the room and closed the door quietly, the soft folds of her long dress brushing the floor behind.

I didn't work the next day, nor all the rest of the week. Truthfully, I didn't feel well, though it was nothing one could put a name to. It was easy enough to use the semi-illness as an excuse, though, and not to have to explain any more to Mother. No word from Rodney, not even a phone call. Maybe he felt we'd best stay clear of each other for a while, or maybe he was too busy picking up all the clerical work at the office, or too busy out in the field. Maybe he was just fed up. Why did I wish he wouldn't be so stubborn, and call?

Saturday morning he came.

I was up early and happened to be looking out the window, brushing my hair, when I saw him drive up. I concealed myself behind the fluttering curtain and waited until he'd gone up to the porch. In a few minutes Mother was knocking at my bedroom door.

“I know who it is, Mother. Tell him of course I'll see him. I'll be down in a moment.”

She said nothing, and I heard her footsteps down the hall. A week had done my old sense of coyness a lot of good. I should better be able to face Rodney Younger. I felt completely detached.

He was seated in the parlor on the edge of the sofa, looking pitiful. Had he slept since Monday? He didn't look it. I hadn't expected him to have been suffering so much and the surprise of it threw me off guard and temporarily dispelled my determination to be flippant.

“You look terrible. Are you all right?”

I sat down next to him, in perfect command even still.

He looked at me pleadingly. “Oh, Willa, it's been a horrible week. I've missed you so much. Can you ever forgive my behavior? I know I was just awful.”

“Forget it.”

“No, I can't. There I was like some kind of animal, pawing at you. Lord, no wonder you were put out—anybody would have been. Please say you'll forgive me.”

“Of course. It hasn't bothered me. I've been sick.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” he said, taking my hands in his. “You look fit, though. Are you all right now?”

“Perfectly. I may even come back to work Monday, if you still want me.”

“Listen, Willa, that's up to you. But one thing I wanted to try and explain today was the reason for the way I acted the other day. Do you know why I got drunk? Not out of reckless pleasure about what had happened or anything. I'm not the sort for that, never have been.

“It kept gnawing at me, that's all … my father. How happy he'd have been to have been a part of it all. One of the houses that sold was a property he'd gotten shortly before Thanksgiving. He worked like the dickens trying to unload it, and the customer who finally bought it had orginally talked with him on it months ago. So you see, all the success wasn't mine, and yet he wasn't there to share even a part of it. God, how I miss him. Can you understand that?”

“Maybe I can, a little. But you can't make yourself miserable over it. You can't bring him back, Rodney. You can't live your life feeling guilty over whatever happiness or success you enjoy, just because you think he might have had a hand in it. Do you think he'd want that?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Well, I know he wouldn't. Your dad wasn't that way.”

“You liked him, didn't you?”

“Of course. Who wouldn't have? He was kind, straightforward. I liked him or I would have never spent so many of my Friday nights forbearing your mother's probing or her looks of disapproval.”

“You just have to try and understand Mother, Willa. She's really not so bad. Just kind of confused.”

“I'll give her that.”

“She likes you, you know, was really impressed that you showed up at the funeral. Things like that are important to her.”

“Well, now we've got that settled—”

“Listen, Willa. That isn't all I came to say. I know it's probably not the time or place and you don't have to answer right now if you don't want to, but will you … that is … will you marry me?”

“Marry you?” I repeated.

“Yes. You've proven yourself in so many ways, darling, when all the time I've sat back criticizing you for this and that. You weren't warm enough, you didn't open up enough. And all the time, there you were working your head off just for me—no pay—just working like a good scout. And the way you came when Dad died—it meant a lot to me, too. You're so level-headed, and I've come to appreciate that, especially in the past week.”

“I'm not level-headed. That doesn't fit me.”

“Oh, but it does. And then, the way you reacted toward me the other day. It made me see how really fine you are. I'd never credited you for having such, well, corny as it sounds, high morals. Why, Willa, you're just the kind of person I want for my wife. It took me a while to realize it, but I know it now, and I'm not letting go of you again unless you force me out of your life.”

“I hadn't thought of marriage—”

“Sh. Don't make up your mind today. Give it some time. Tell me when you're ready. Oh, I do love you,” he said, and leaned and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “I'm going now, won't bother the household any more. I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

“All right then. All right.”

“Good-by, darling.”

“Good-by, Rodney.”

Chapter 4

It occurred to me that day as he left, and I'm not sure even now I wasn't correct, that he'd arrived at the conclusion I should marry him because he was finally able to cast me in the role of Rosemarie, whom he had truly loved but lost.

Everything he said that morning, especially about morals, seemed to hint that in his search for a new Rosemarie he'd finally been able to compromise with me, although heaven knows, Rosemarie and I must have been poles apart both in character and personality.

Still, I viewed the question of marriage to Rodney Younger dispassionately. I don't believe I'd ever imagined myself married, even as I watched my school friends graduate from Central High and each one, in time, marry their high school sweetheart or find someone new, perhaps in an office where they worked or in college, settling down to do all the inevitable things like fixing up a house, starching and ironing curtains, learning to make coffee and to cook, and, of course, to have children as soon and as often as nature permitted.

I simply could not see it for me, mainly for a reason Rodney would have never suspected: what had appeared to him as high morals in the car the past Tuesday, when I'd screamed and fought off his advances like a tiger about to be caged, was instead a basic, nauseating fear of sex.

Poor Rodney thought I was saving myself, determined to remain in my virgin state until I approached the altar and gave myself, once and for all, to the man I loved. Actually, I had plenty of chances for sex even before Cliff Wagner came along, and if I'd wanted to take advantage of any of them I'd have done so long before Rodney ever entered my life.

This aversion to sex would not make me good marriage material. Night after night—I thought of it then—submitting myself to a man's desires, no matter how much I cared for the man, was degrading. Even when I welcomed the feel of Rodney's body touching mine as we sat close together in the car, or when he leaned down over my desk in the real estate office to explain a certain procedure to me, I welcomed that presence only to a point. Beyond that point I grew panicky. What a fine wedding night I would bring him! What a shock to find Willa would perform her duties with excellence during the day, yet at night would turn cold and demand to be left alone.

Further, even if I was able to grit my teeth and withstand the punishment long enough for Rodney to satisfy his desires for me, there would be the inevitable question and final reality of children: the swelling stomach, the confinement, the painful hours of labor; crying in the night, dirty diapers, ruined furniture and clothes. The whole thing was a vicious circle, and one which I'd never been foolhardy enough to allow myself to get caught in.

Yet one must consider every aspect.

I hated the thought of giving up the work in real estate. Even over the past week I had missed the hustle-bustle of the office, the creating of ads on the properties. I'd wondered how Rodney got on with writing the ads himself again, whether he'd gotten them to the papers by the Thursday deadline. I regretted now that I probably wouldn't be visiting properties with him this Sunday (unless I phoned and invited myself, thus also inviting a confrontation over his proposal, perhaps before I was ready). Should I go back to work on Monday, I would be at a disadvantage with any prospective client who phoned or came by to inquire about a new listing I had never seen.

Oh, why couldn't things just go on as they were? Everything was so perfect between us. I could have been content for years. Why must I always be called upon to take direction, why continually find myself at a crossroads of some sort or another? Why, when I suddenly found a workable daily routine that brought the feeling of usefulness, did there have to be a decision looming in the corner, forcing me to give up something for something else?

What, on the other hand, would happen if I refused Rodney's hand?

My education wasn't superior enough to offer many career options. I should probably wind up back in Dad's office, drifting along for the next few years, wandering through oil statistics and index cards and right-of-ways, choking to death with boredom while Miss Daniel breathed down my neck.

Would I ever marry? Certainly I'd never felt about anyone as I did about Rodney. If there were such a thing as love, then I'd come closest to feeling it for him. If missing him when he was gone or didn't call, or worrying over him when he was out in the rain, or going all out to support him when his father died, not even knowing why, could be classified as a kind of love, then I had it for Rodney as surely as I'd never felt it for anyone else.

It was there to be faced and I faced it that Saturday morning. If I didn't marry Rodney Younger I would never marry. Always frightened off by the same misgivings, no man would ever please me enough to make me give up myself for him. In the years to come the few people I did have contact with would drift away, Mother and Dad would die, and I would be truly alone just as the imagined tombstone had told me, not only in spirit but in cold reality.