Galveston (59 page)

Was Rodney even now trying on his tuxedo? Had the coat arrived from Sakowitz? Were the florists at the church adding white poinsettias and lilies of the valley to the profusion of red flowers already decorating the sanctuary? Were workers at the Rice Hotel busily polishing silver and arranging tables? Was the caterer putting sugar roses on the five-tiered wedding cake?

I ought to have been ashamed of myself and I knew it, but at the time I was too anxious about what was ahead to worry about anyone else, and afraid that if I dwelled on it too much I would lose my nerve and go back …

“Here's the seven hundred block. Lemme see, 742, 738, 7—”

“It's all right. I think I'll walk from here. I need to stretch anyway, and even if there is no 707, I can knock on a few doors and ask some questions.”

“Okay, miss. I dunno what or who you're looking for, but I wish you luck. Here, I'll get them bags for you.” He pulled each of them out, obviously puzzled by the paradox of a genuine alligator bag standing next to a ragged carpetbag. He waited for his fare, to which I added a fifty-cent tip, and thanked me, giving me a look that said women would forever befuddle him.

Avenue L was like something out of a history book. Its width wouldn't make half of Montrose Boulevard across, and given the same amount of land on either side of the street, there were probably three times the number of houses, all perched together as though being thus situated would offer better protection against high winds and water. I remembered the pictures I had seen, taken after the storm, of houses stacked one against the other and even practically on top of each other, or reduced to a rubble of loose wood, bricks and latticework, not even fully appearing until the water had finally receded. It was lucky they had their seawall built when they did, to protect them from an almost equal whipping by nature in 1915. Was I busy building my own seawall now, to protect me from all the ghosts who had hounded me for a lifetime? Would mine be as effective as the crushed granite wall within blocks of where I now walked?

The bags were heavy, and I was soon sorry I'd told the driver to go, yet I couldn't have him driving me around all day as I proceeded up staircase after staircase, inquiring after James Byron. I crossed to the side of the street with the odd-numbered houses, and walked further and further down, the breeze more brisk the nearer to the beach end that I walked.

When I saw 711 my heart leapt, then there it was: 707 Avenue L, as though it had spent the past twenty years waiting for me to come. It was a pleasant, usual-looking red brick house with gray roof. There was a low red brick fence around the tiny lot on which it sat, so low one might have wondered why bother with it at all. The house was trimmed in light green, and green pots, bereft of plants, were lined along the brick rail spanning its verandah, green chairs and rockers were stationed across either side of the door, as though waiting for people to issue from the house and sit on them. (Was it a boardinghouse?)

The back part of the house extended over the driveway, forming an arch in front of the garage, and I had my first misgivings when I noticed the windows of the room above the arch were boarded up.

I left my bags against a huge oak close to the fence, and walked to the door. I rang twice, yet heard no stirring from inside, and I thought, Well, wouldn't it be just my luck James Byron isn't home, even if he does live here, even if he is still alive.

Just then the front door opened slightly, and a small Mexican woman with anxious black eyes looked out at me through the screen.

“Yes, what you want?”

“Excuse me, madam, but I'm inquiring about a James Byron. I believe he may live here, or may once have. Could you tell me—?”

“Zhames Byron? I know no Zhames Byron. You have wrong house,” she said curtly, and pushed the door.

“Just a moment, please. I've come from Houston looking for him. Do you know who the former owners were? If I can just get some idea—”

“I live here five years now. My husband buy house before he die. I know no one live here before. You go away, all right?”

“Yes, all right. Thanks anyway,” I told her. I could have said a lot more, but it was no use. The woman obviously understood little of what was going on around her, and was afraid of me besides. I went back down the stairs, thinking that you would never catch me living where you had to climb a dozen stairs just to get to your front door. At the fence I picked up the bags again, which now seemed heavier than before, and looked up and down Avenue L.

Should I inquire at other houses, or go somewhere and check the phone directory for a listing under James Byron, as I probably should have done first thing? There was no activity on this street, no children playing, only the sounds of distant traffic. The houses were quiet to the point of seeming uninhabited, with most of the shutters drawn. I seemed to be as far away from finding anything as I had been last night, sitting at the head table with Rodney during the rehearsal dinner, before I even knew about the carpetbag which now dug red ridges across my hand.

Then I heard a voice: a woman one house down and across the avenue was calling to me, and when I looked her way, she motioned with one hand for me to come. She was snow-headed, seated in a rocking chair on her front verandah with one hand wrapped around the end of a black wooden cane.

“You there, girl, you lookin' fer someone, are you? Maybe I know 'em. I been around for a spell.”

Hope rushed up inside me again. I left the bags at her gate and walked up to her. “I couldn't hear what you was sayin' of course,” she continued, “but with your grips and all, I figgered you must be a'lookin' fer somebody. That's old Janie Rodriguez lives yonder. She don't know nothin' and don't care neither. Now, who is it you was huntin'?”

“A man named James Byron. I've no idea what he looks like or how old he is, only that he probably lived here sometime shortly before 1900. Have you been here that long?”

“No, honey, not on this side of Galveston. Set down on that wicker chair, but mind your stockin's. Nobody's been on this block of L that long. I been here since '13, and that's the longest of anybody. Those who lived around here before 1900 were either killed or got away fast after the storm.

“Avenue L was completely wiped off the map, I hear tell. Every house on here was built since then, and I know ever'body who lives here now, don't'cha'see?”

Yes, I thought, and everybody's business too, no doubt.

She smiled across at me, revealing a near toothless mouth. Then she paused, and wiped the saliva from around her wizened lips with a handkerchief. I was surprised to notice her nails were neatly polished and filed, and she wore a sizable diamond on her wedding ring finger.

“Yes, I was afraid that might be true. But I had two addresses for Mr. Byron—one here and one in Grady—and since I live in Houston it seemed logical to check here first.”

“How'd you come to git this man's address?” she said, and narrowed her eyes. “He ain't one of them mixed up in bootleggin' is he?”

“No, nothing like that. I believe he may have known my real mother. You see, I'm adopted and I've never known who she is. Look, here's a picture of her and my father—at least I assume it's them—do you recognize either of them?”

She held the picture far away, then moved it closer. “I don't see so good anymore … no, never seen 'em before. You'd better go to Grady, honey. Maybe your luck will be better there.”

“You're probably right. By the way, would you have a phone directory I could look at?”

“I hadn't got no phone, honey; had it taken out several years back 'cause it was too noisy, woke me up. I sleep late mornings.”

“Well, thank you very much. You've been very kind.”

“Oh, t'was nothing, honey. Maybe you'd stay for some coffee and cake?”

“No, thank you. I've got to be going.”

“You know, I lived other side of Broadway, near the wharves, when the storm hit. Anybody ever tell you about it?”

“Oh yes, I've heard many stories. Must have been something,” I said, anxious to get free of her now I knew she'd be of no help.

“Our house had water clean up to the second floor, but we wasn't hurt. My two brothers and their families stayed upstairs all night and much of the follerin' day. The rugs were ruined and some of the furniture, too, but thank you, Jesus, that was all happened to us. My oldest son worked down to Hafner's Grocery Store, and we was scared to death he wasn't gonna get home safe. But he made it, went upstairs with the rest of us.”

“Yes, well I—”

“Course I seen the one in 1915, too, but that wasn't nearly so bad. Seawall's built to withstand almost anythin' nature can throw at us.”

“Yes, I saw as I came across this morning they're not done yet with the new causeway.”

“You come by train, or ferry over?”

“Train.”

“Well, you be careful goin' back, honey. That old railroad bridge they're usin' ain't the best in the world. I'm not traveling off this island again till the causeway is finished. Got a sister in—”

“Thanks again for the information,” I interrupted, and walked swiftly down the steps toward the bags. My head was beginning to ache.

“Anytime, dear,” she called. “If you're ever around here again, drop by for a spell. I just love visitors.”

“Yes, I'll certainly do that,” I said, wondering why anyone would want to take up with a total stranger so quickly, and whether loneliness could ever get so bad. Would it one day be thus for me, my punishment for the mess I left behind in Houston? Would I grope one day at strangers for company, chattering at people who had no interest in what I had to say?

Here lies Willa Katherine Frazier, a cold bitch …

It was getting near lunchtime, and my stomach was like an empty vacuum for I'd eaten little at the rehearsal dinner and had not had so much as a cup of tea this morning. I longed to put down the bags and relax somewhere with my feet propped up, have a sandwich and some hot coffee. If I walked from this point on L down to Seawall Boulevard, fronting the beach, I should be near the Hotel Galvez. They would have lunch and a place to relax for a little while, if the hotel was anything like I remembered it from when I stayed there in 1912. Maybe going there would be a waste of valuable time, but somehow I felt sure a short stay would be a welcome boost to my spirits.

It was several blocks to the end of L, and I have no idea how many more once I was walking along the Boulevard, facing the wind, holding my hat to my head with one hand and both suitcase handles in the other. My feet were so tired that each boot felt like a vise, and I resolved to find a rest room or lounge at the Galvez where I could change into a less sensible but more airy pair of pumps.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, I felt as though I'd successfully scaled a mountain. There were few people around the great lawns that day, and those who were held hats and clothing with the same stubborn tenacity that I held mine. A trolley trundled up along the left side just as I walked up the front walk, and I cursed myself silently for being too stuck-up to ride a streetcar. The people coming out of the car looked fresh and energetic, and were calling back and forth to one another as though they were all great friends.

The Galvez is seven stories high, its long midsection flanked by a wing on each end jutting out toward the sea like welcoming arms. It was as grand as I remembered, with sweeping drives and huge palms batting in the wind, and I remembered how important I'd felt when we had stayed there in 1912, on the occasion of a business meeting held there by my father.

I went directly to the first lounge in view, and changed shoes, then with feet feeling lighter and a new sense of calmness about the whole matter of looking up James Byron, I approached the dining hall. Almost no one sat at the snowy clothed tables, and a waiter, holding a stack of menus and stationed near the door with all the formality of one expecting a banquet crowd, offered to show me a table.

I knew right off he was kind. He was a heavy man, balding, with the kind of poker face so necessary for people who must constantly put up with peevish customers. But he smiled at me, and offered to check my bags at the desk.

“No, I'm not staying, thank you. Just lunch, please.”

“Very good, madam. But let me take those cases—they do look heavy. I'll keep them safely until your meal is finished.”

“I'll keep this one,” I said, handing him the alligator bag. I wasn't about to let the carpetbag out of my sight.

He nodded then and led me to a good table—far from the kitchen and silverware stand—in a quiet corner where one alone needn't feel self-conscious for having no one to talk with while sitting there. As soon as he handed me the menu I remembered what I'd eaten there before, which all at once seemed like the prospect of a feast to a starving man.

“Do you still have the tomato stuffed with crabmeat? It's been some time …”

“Indeed we do, with assorted olive and chicken finger sandwiches. May I suggest beginning with a cup of onion soup—”

“No, just the sandwiches and coffee, please.”

“Of course,” he said, having written nothing down as I expected he would not. He nodded politely and suggested I await my luncheon in the sun parlor, facing the Gulf. It had occurred to me while ordering lunch that I didn't know how much money I'd brought with me. In the excitement of leaving, it hadn't crossed my mind to switch handbags from the new one I'd carried to the rehearsal dinner. I sat down in a wicker wing chair in the sun parlor, facing the window, and opened my bag. There were four ones and a five-dollar bill wadded up, and less than a dollar in change. I crammed the money back inside and closed the bag. How far would I get on ten dollars? How unutterably stupid not to have switched handbags.

Then something else crossed my mind, an envelope slipped to me during the dinner by Maybelle. I'd figured it to be some sort of well-wisher card, and stuck it absently in my purse. Maybe, just maybe … I pulled out the card and opened it. A fifty-dollar bill was clipped to it, and a note penned in Maybelle's roundish, uniform script followed the hackneyed “congratulations” verse: