Galveston (57 page)

“Do I! But it's so much more than I expected.”

“Yes, and it'll be convenient to the office, but not too close to Mother, I thought of that too, and not too close to your parents, either. We'll be all on our own out here, with no one around us except new friends. Oh, there are so many potentialities, honey. I can hardly believe I did it. I know I should have asked you first, but I wanted to surprise you. You know, I've felt almost like a non-participant in all this hoopla over the wedding. I wanted to do something myself.”

“It's nice, Rodney, one of the nicest surprises I've ever had.”

“We can board up the undercroft.”

“No, no, that won't be necessary. I've got to learn to lose my fear of a few things,” I said, trying to sound more convinced of my words than I really was.

November, early December. The pressures mounted. I was trying to consider everything, to convince myself I was happy about it all, and succeeding quite well for a while. Whenever Rodney broached the subject of the wedding night, which he must have done two or three times, I managed to change the subject smoothly enough, to turn away so that he couldn't read my expression.

“Only four more weeks,” he said one night. “I'll never have to go home alone again.”

“Time flies.”

“We're going to be so happy. I know you say you've never been happy, and I'm determined to change that. It was one reason I knew I had to buy the house—to do something really special for you that hadn't been done for somebody else before.”

“You had no house then, you and Rosemarie?”

“Not quite. We rented a tiny duplex off Congress—awful place, cold in the winter and stifling in the summer.”

“But it didn't matter, did it? I mean, you two were happy all the same.”

“Yes, we were … but look, Willa. You needn't feel there's a ghost behind you all the time, or that I'm marrying you because there's no way of ever getting her back. Believe me, that isn't so. Rosemarie was eons ago, and now that I've met you and known you, she seems even further back than ever.

“Being married to Rosemarie was like—well—a children's game. This time I'm marrying a woman, an adult. There are things about you she could never have matched. I know you'll be able to deal with whatever comes along.”

“Don't credit me too much on that. I don't know …”

“Stop worrying. Oh yes, almost forgot. We don't have to come direct to the house after the wedding. We're going to take a little trip, but I won't say where, unless you want to know—it's your right, of course. I can't make all the decisions just because I love to pull surprises. I could tell you what I have in mind, and you can chuck the whole idea if you don't like it. I wish we could afford to take a long trip, but—”

“Surprise me.”

“Good. Well then, pack your nightgown and your toothbrush.”

“Yes, I—”

“Not that you'll be needing it very much.” He was close to me now, not holding me, just looking into my eyes. My mouth was dry. I looked away. “You're not afraid, are you Willa? Of me?”

“Why should I be? Why in the world be afraid of you?”

“Good girl. I knew you'd look at it that way. You know I'd never hurt you for anything in the world.”

“Of course. It's getting late, Rodney, and I'm tired. Let's call it a day, shall we?”

I saw Agatha Younger only once more, shortly before the wedding. She'd invited us for a dinner that turned into a showdown between her and Rodney.

“Regardless of your own personal feelings, I'm sure you both realize children deserve a Christian background,” she began. “After all, how do you think I'd have overcome my grief at losing Sidney without my faith? I want you to promise me you'll raise your children in the Catholic Church.”

I was too stunned to reply.

“Look, Mother I've told you that's our business,” said Rodney. “We'll make that decision when … and if … we should have children.”

“But—”

“That's final, Mother.”

As Agatha rose weakly and left the room I couldn't help feeling a twinge of sorrow for her. Rodney stood sternly as she passed, and after she was gone he said, “It's best to leave it at that. If I don't stop her now, she'll never give up.”

I nodded, admiring his strength in front of her, yet wishing he hadn't found it necessary to insult her in her own home. It all seemed so senseless. Who cared about religion or anything else? God, what a pain to get married!

It seemed after that night time galloped at a fiercer pace than ever. I had but one more important errand. I went to Sakowitz and bought Rodney a dark gray wool winter coat, satin lined, double-breasted, elegant. It cost three times my November salary and cut into my allowance from Dad, and when I saw the silk scarf and hat that made such a terrific match, I bought them too and ordered everything delivered, the morning of the wedding, to the Heights house. Rodney was living there now, using bedroom and living room furniture given to us as a wedding present by my parents.

I also prayed for cold, clear weather on the wedding day so that he'd be disposed to wear his new coat instead of his ugly trench coat. On the card enclosed, I wrote, “It's my turn for surprises. My wedding present to you may not be as grand as yours to me, but I hope it will be just as useful. Love, Willa.”

The word “love” looked queer somehow. Had I ever said outright that I loved him?

Two days later, after we'd returned home from the wedding rehearsal and dinner and kicked off our shoes, and Rodney had gone home without me for what he assumed to be the final time, I made a small, trivial decision which would wind up leading me to the truth, not only about my real parents, but about myself as well.

Chapter 6

I decided to pack my things.

For days, Mother had been after me to tell Julia which luggage I'd need, so she could be sent up into the attic to bring the bags down and clean them. Finally, sick of her nagging and a little hesitant, I guess, to do this one final, inevitable task, I said, “For God's sake, I'll get to the bags when I'm good and ready. Leave me alone, won't you?”

Mother had shrugged and shot me one of her “I give up” looks, and said no more.

Then, on the eve of the wedding, disgusted by all the phony smiling and hand shaking and thank-you-ing at the rehearsal dinner, yet determined to stick out the whole farce somehow, I lay in bed unable to sleep because I couldn't get my thoughts off the days and nights ahead, knowing in less than twenty-four hours I'd be standing somewhere in a hotel room, pretending to love being looked at naked, being touched, with no rights left to say, “Stop and leave me alone, I never want to see you again,” and wondering, What have I done? Yet knowing I'd waited too long to stop what I allowed to begin …

I got out of bed, shivering from head to toe. At least the packing would help pass the time and get my mind off things I could scarcely stand to think about. I pulled on a robe and went up into the attic of the silent house, telling myself I could pull this off if I could just keep busy, just close my eyes when the time came and concentrate on something else. I turned on the light.

I first saw my large alligator suitcase that would hold all the big things I'd be taking, and put it by the attic stair landing. All I would need, then, would be my small weekend bag, to carry toiletries and stockings. I passed by my father's heavy luggage near the front, worn from being hauled around on so many trips, then spotted my mother's a little farther back, but saw no sign of the suitcase I had in mind. I hadn't used it in a long time, and it'd probably gotten shoved back somewhere …

Then I noticed a pile of boxes against one wall and two handles poking out from the side midway through the stack. Must be it, I thought, and walked over to pull it out. There in my hand, instead of my weekend case, was a black carpetbag. It looked so beat up—its leather handles brittle, its bottom discolored as though it had gotten wet—I was surprised it hadn't long ago been thrown away. Yet even then something about the looks of it aroused my curiosity. I put it down on the attic floor, then pulled the heavy zipper across it and opened it wide. The soft white cambric on top looked to have been stuffed in the bag at random, and when I forced it slightly, it came out in wrinkled puffs into my hands.

Something in my memory opened up like a fan then, and I could see myself as a little girl, taking a ribbon out of my hair. My thoughts were so vivid, all awareness of present reality disappeared. The years back to my childhood sped past …

I am standing in front of the mirror in my room, yanking on the big taffeta bow my mother makes me wear opposite the part in my hair. I hate the bow because it makes my head look lopsided. I want to see how I look in the beautiful new hat Mother has bought. It is a grand creation of straw: wide-brimmed and banked with flowers, veiled with soft netting.

Finally, with one determined jerk, I get my bow ribbon freed, and off it comes with a snarl of hair. I walk from my room, down the hall, to my mother's room, and go to her closet. I feel safe. She is somewhere downstairs, cleaning. I pull the big vanity chair from its place in front of her dresser. The chair is so heavy, it takes all my strength to move it the short distance to the clothes closet. I open the door, push the chair well in, and climb upon the seat. But the seat is still too low. I can't reach the shelf at the top of the closet where she keeps her hats. I climb further up, balancing myself on the tufted chair back. Now I can reach the shelf. I take one quick look around, listen for sounds of her coming. Nothing.

I am confused at first because all the boxes look the same, and I can't tell which one holds the beautiful hat. Then I see, further back toward the right corner, a bag with handles. I forget about the hat and reach for the bag, intrigued by its queerness. When I pull it forward, one box is upset, and it lands on the floor beside the chair. I stop a moment, listen, then, hearing nothing, part the handles of the carpetbag and pull the heavy zipper across. I can see something white inside. I pull at it, timidly at first, then harder, and white puffs of material billow out into my hands.

Suddenly comes my mother's voice: “Willa! What in the world are you doing up there? Get down this minute!”

Her angry tone startles me and I reel around, pulling the white material in my hands and forcing the bag to follow. The bag hits my back and knocks me off balance. My mother's arms are open wide, trying to break my fall from the back of the teetering chair, but she is not quick enough. I plummet down with the chair, knocking her backward and landing so that she is pinned between the chair and the floor.

In a panic I get to my feet. She is moaning in pain. I pull with all my might to get the chair off her. Her body looks twisted, legs outstretched as though in a run, arms still widespread, her head turned to the side and pitched upward.

Over and over I am whimpering, “Mama, Mama, Mama,” and she interrupts my cries to say, “Shut up crying and run for Mrs. Baxter. I'm in great pain.”

Mrs. Baxter hears me screaming as I reach her porch and, flinging her dustcloth aside, runs with me all the way back to where my mother still lies, quietened yet still in that horrible posture of agony.

By this time I am in hysterics. I kneel down beside her sobbing, begging her, “Mama, Mama, I'm so sorry, please, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, please say it's all right, please, please, please—”

“Get away, child,” says Mrs. Baxter, pulling at me. “We'll have to get her to a hospital.”

“Take Willa to her room,” Mother directs. And still I have my arms out, begging one word of reassurance, “Mama, Mama, Mama, please!”

Mrs. Baxter yanks me up and carries me off to my room. I kick and twist to get free but it is to no avail. She pushes me inside, slams the door, turns the key.

I fasten myself to the other side of that door, jiggling the handle with one hand, beating the door with the other, kicking the bottom with my feet. I stop at brief intervals to listen, and, hearing nothing except rumbles and movements, unfamiliar voices and the pound of hurried feet up and down the hall floor, I beat again, scream and yell, but no one seems to hear.

After a while I look through the keyhole, and see my mother going by on a stretcher just inches from me. I am transfixed by the sight of her being carted away by people I've never seen before. And then I hear her say to Dotty Baxter, walking alongside, “Willa was after that carpetbag. I'll have it thrown out of this house. I don't care if it
did
belong to her mother.”

Whose mother, I wonder frantically? Then I beat and kick some more, beat and kick, beat and kick, but no one hears. Shortly thereafter I hear no more sounds of movement. I look into the keyhole again. The hall is bare. My mother is gone.

I lowered my head down on the folds of material, my heart pounding away, my face bathed in its own perspiration. The memory had cut off abruptly at the sight of the empty hall … it was as though nothing happened after that. The next thing I could remember clearly was my mother telling me I was adopted. I knew as I sat in the attic that I must have forgotten it all even by then, or blotted it out, for I'd reacted calmly to the news that I had been “chosen,” and only thought it odd that my mother, at the end of her short explanation, had looked out the window behind me and said hurriedly, “Oh, there's your father, home. Let's not talk about this to him, shall we? He'll be tired from working so hard. Let's not bother him about it now, promise?”

No wonder I sensed they lied about knowing little of my true beginnings, especially of my real mother. But my poor adopted mother, suffering all those years of back pain because of my nosiness and thinking I was after that carpetbag when all the time I was in search of her beautiful hat.

I could have told her that, if she'd asked. But no one had asked me anything. I'd been shut away, frightened to death by what I'd done, then cast aside as though I didn't matter …