Galveston (6 page)

She shouted triumphantly, “It's over!” and ran outside, Charles following. When I saw her next she had stepped off the porch onto the soaked grass, and was twirling around and around, shouting in merriment with her head upturned to the sun.

It was almost as though, that day, Janet Garret had single-handedly banished the storm that threatened all of us, and exorcised at the same time the ghost who had stalked her all the way from Virginia. She seemed to believe her luck had changed for the better, and for a while, anyone might have agreed.

Chapter 6

Rubin visited us a day or two later, alone, and it occurred to me he must often serve as Janet's ambassador, explaining her queer ways or putting into words what she herself would not bother to say. “All the way to Houston I worried that perhaps I shouldn't be going, that she might need me, that the weather might get worse,” he explained, his eyes troubled. “And to find that you came to her aid! You don't know how it relieves my mind, how much better I'll feel, knowing I have you as neighbors.”

“We were glad to have her with us,” said Charles.

“She told me her visit was pleasant in every way,” he replied.

Charles and I exchanged a glance. Apparently she hadn't mentioned to him she'd confided her secret to us.

“Well, I must be off now,” he said. “I've got to work up a report for the vestry about the Houston conference. Hope I can get enough information together to make it satisfactory. Thank you both again.”

After he left Charles said, “Poor Janet. Rubin's visit makes me think of how unfortunate she is. Imagine having something so awful happen to her as a youngster, it will affect her the rest of her life.”

“Yes, poor dear,” I said, but truly felt she received more sympathy than she deserved. Like me, Janet had been dealt a swift blow by fate once; yet at least she'd been given a second chance in the form of the handsome and charming Rubin Garret, whereas ill fate wouldn't let go of me, not since the day I first knew the strength of Damon Becker's arms around me. As far as I was concerned, Janet Garret ought to have been smart enough to realize how lucky she was, and try to be a better wife to her husband.

Several weeks later, while Janet sat behind shuttered windows next door, Rubin paid us a visit and invited us to have Thanksgiving dinner in their home.

“Are you sure we wouldn't be imposing?” Charles asked, as we were both struck by the oddity of the one-sided invitation.

“Oh no,” said Rubin. “Janet wouldn't have it without you. We're having several couples from the church. Since she's not feeling well this afternoon, she asked me to be sure and stop by.”

“I guess we could—Claire?”

“Of course. May we help?”

“No, no,” said Rubin quickly. “Janet is going to handle everything.” He looked proud as he said it, as though it were something of a triumph for her and thus caused him joy. Yet, when the day arrived, her behavior seemed to indicate he may have pushed her into holding the affair against her wishes.

Janet was clearly unequal to the task of cooking for ten people. Clarence Chichester, the church organist, and his wife, Roberta, were there, and the John Nimmonses, he sat on the vestry, and Marquita and Stephen Southby, who sang duets the first Sunday of each month.

After dinner I followed Janet into the kitchen just as Charles was telling of the letter we'd received from Cousin Betsey after the storm, in which she asked if reports were true that Galveston had been all but leveled during the catastrophe, stories having a way of becoming exaggerated by the time they reach the Grady
Star
. Everyone at the table was chuckling at the story for it was so far from reality—the only damage that I heard of occurred on our own block, where a few pieces of loose roofing slate flew in the wind and crashed through a couple of unshuttered windows in unfinished houses—and Janet and I were hardly missed as we withdrew to the kitchen for cutting the mince and pumpkin pies.

Poor Janet was forever disorganized; the kitchen was a total mess of piled-up dirty dishes and pots and pans from the cooking, and cabinet doors open here and there as though she must have been in an awful hurry to finish things before her guests arrived.

While I took a knife to the mince, she looked in drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, for the server, and seemed to be quite unnerved about not being able to find it, and finally she stopped, leaned against the counter, and drew a hand to her forehead.

“Sit down, for goodness sake,” I told her. “I'll find the server.”

“It's the heat, that's all, so stuffy in here,” she said, lowering herself into a chair. “Would you pour me a glass of water, please?”

I poured the water and took it to her. She sat with her face down on the table. I was impatient to keep things going, although it wasn't my party. Her lack of ability to get herself together, particularly at a time like this, grated on my nerves. Perhaps if everyone wouldn't indulge her by feeling sorry for her all the time, she'd straighten up a bit, I thought; Lord, you'd think she was pregnant or something. And then it struck me she might well be.

“Have you come 'round this month?” I asked.

She raised her head and looked up at me, obviously surprised. “I don't keep track; I'm sure I wouldn't know.” She took a sip of water and put the glass down on the table. “I know what you're thinking, and I am sure you'll agree that it's best not to speculate too much on a thing like that.

“In other words, I'd much rather we didn't discuss it, if you don't mind.”

“Of course,” I said, “I didn't mean to pry.”

“You needn't worry that I'll have a child before you do.”

I sat down across from her. In truth this thought had not crossed my mind. Yet, now that she spoke of it, I knew she was right, and the bitter irony of it was that should she be pregnant, she would be carrying Rubin Garret's child, and while up to this time I had managed to keep my wistful speculations about him in check, this sudden new prospect had a shattering effect on my well-founded resolve.

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks and sat blinking at her for a few moments, unable to speak. Then it dawned on me I had to say something, or she'd think me daft, so I blurted out, “That's a cruel remark, Janet. You seem to forget, I lost a child once, and that child cannot ever be replaced, not if I had ten others.” She of course had no idea of the full meaning of that statement, but it sufficed just the same.

She put a hand across. “Oh,” she said. “I don't know what made me say such a thing … just a feeling I had. You know how it is when you don't feel well, you speak without thinking. Forgive me?”

I nodded.

“Come on, let's finish the pies so we can get out of this room. It makes me nervous.”

“It would seem so.”

“You can see how inept I am at these things”—she nodded her head in the direction of the dining room—“but Rubin insisted we must—”

“Everyone has bad days,” I said, remembering how he'd proffered the invitation as though she'd been in favor of it, and feeling sorry for him as I had many times before, that he must always cover for her inability to handle even the most routine responsibilities.

“This isn't a bad day. It's just a day.” Her cheeks were flush. She kept sipping the water and sitting there. I picked up the knife and began to cut again.

“You'd be so much better at a thing like this.”

“Not necessarily. Everything is fine out there. You're just tired. You can hear the people laughing … everyone's having fun.”

The door swung open and Rubin looked in. “How are you ladies doing? Janet, is Claire helping you cut the pie there? Coffee ready?”

“Not quite, dear. We'll be out shortly.”

He nodded and withdrew, looking a little ill at ease.

“Poor Rubin,” Janet said, and rose to her feet.

Though the conversation that day, especially the part in which Rubin took part, was brief, it jolted me into a new awareness. We all knew the truth was staring at us. Janet was wrong for Rubin and no one was more certain of it than he was, except perhaps Janet herself. I could see it in his eyes for that brief moment. Fate had cheated us all. Were we pieces on a chessboard, a simple maneuver would have changed things around and made the situation right.

I spent the rest of the visit with the Garrets knowing that something had clicked into place between Rubin and me, yet wondering whether anything could ever come of it, or were we both to remain trapped forever?

I was thinking, at the same time, would to God Rubin Garret were anything but an Episcopal priest.

Chapter 7

There is a social sector in Galveston, an upper echelon, if you will, that I scarcely knew existed for the first year or so I lived there, except that the island was dotted here and there—especially along Broadway—with handsome homes far bigger and more expensive than ours, and in these houses lived people with names sometimes appearing in the Galveston
News
and across the more prominent business buildings in town, down around the Strand.

Broadway, then, is the name of the street that will draw one's attention when it appears on the reverse of an envelope which comes in the mail. One thus decorated—and the word “decorated” is appropriate when the flourish of the handwriting is considered—arrived the week before Christmas of our first year in Galveston.

The F. Peterson Marlowes of 3600 Broadway requested our attendance at a New Year's Day reception at two o'clock in the afternoon. While recognizing the reason behind such an event, New Year's Day being the traditional visiting day when all the city people call on one another and make merry according to their individual tastes and customs, I failed to recall ever having heard the name F. Peterson Marlowe. It did, however, have a certain ring of importance when I spoke it aloud, and the invitation was engraved on a heavy card. I propped it on the mantel among the holly so that Charles would see it upon his return from the office that evening.

He arrived early, complaining of swollen feet. Charles is often so plagued, especially after a day in court. He looked over the invitation while sitting in a kitchen chair, his feet immersed in hot salt water. Steam off the water rose up and curled around the card as he held it in his hand.

“Hmm … Pete Marlowe.”

“Who is he?”

“An attorney. His office is located not far from ours. He's with a firm called Marlowe, Turner, and Parks. It's one of the best in the area.”

“Can we go to his party?”

“Oh, I don't know … I guess we could if you want to. But there'll be a lot of people there. Besides, we've got to be at Janet and Rubin's that evening.”

“There's nothing to keep us from attending an afternoon reception, is there?”

“No, guess not. I wonder if McBride got an invitation.”

“Let's hope so. If he doesn't go, I may never meet him.”

“Mac isn't much of a socializer. Sometimes when a man has no family he becomes a little withdrawn. I doubt he'd come, but I hope Pete invited him anyway. I'd feel a little funny if not.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”

When the weather turns fine for New Year's Day, it gives one the feeling that perhaps the year to come will be fine, too. I cannot remember a more beautiful day in Galveston than that one in 1878 when we first visited the Marlowe home. Charles put the buggy top down so we could better enjoy the breeze, crisp as an autumn leaf, during the drive down Broadway, and all along the way we passed others bound to call at one place or another. The holiday feeling in the air was far better than on Christmas Day the week prior, a day of freezing rain and bitter cold that penetrated to the bone.

Broadway is a wide boulevard which severs the island down the center and severs, too, to some degree, the rich from the not rich. Here the fences are longer, the houses bigger, the roofs higher, the porches closer to the ground. It was this enigma about the porches that troubled me as we arrived at the Marlowe house, a dark red brick Mediterranean-style building which rambles along a lot six times the size of our own.

“Is it safe for the houses to be so low to the ground?”

“Up here it's all right. Broadway is the high spot on the island, besides being a good ways from the shore. Probably it would be your best bet during a storm. By the way, did I tell you how lovely you look today?”

“Thank you, Charles. I feel better than I have in a long time. I'm sure we were right in coming today … I just feel it.”

“Did I mention Mac is coming? Don't know what possessed him, although I did tell him you were anxious to meet him.”

“I've asked you to invite him to our house often enough. He ought to know without being told … look, that man up ahead wearing the light gray derby. Haven't we seen him at St. Christopher's?”

“I don't recognize him.”

“Would you look at the people! How many do you suppose are here?”

“No telling. Pete's party is always a big one. There may be as many as seventy-five or so, I don't know.”

We were ushered by a servant through a round foyer with murals on the walls and a circular stairway up to the second floor, and then to the right into a large rectangular room with two crystal chandeliers, a parquet floor, and windows all the way around. A small ensemble of stringed instruments made music near the door, but there was so much talk going on and so many people milling about, the efforts of the musicians were hardly noticeable, and I thought as we trailed in among the people that we, too, were going to come and go without notice and this was to be another disappointment after all.

But it was soon that Charles saw one familiar face, then another, and someone called to him from the distance and waved, and the prospects of enjoyment began to change. I was glad I had thought to buy a new dress and hat, because this was a very elegant party.