Galveston (7 page)

How best explain the glorious feeling born of being introduced to people whose names one has heard spoken in tones of prominence? Lawyers; bank officers; cotton brokers; merchants; fishing fleet owners; wholesalers; retailers. Charles knew many of them, and those he did not know were quickly introduced to both of us by others. He mixed easily with people; he remembered names; he looked more distinguished than I had ever seen him and I was proud to be introduced as his wife.

Someone tapped his shoulder from behind: Horace Turner, one of the partners, a tall, lean bachelor with deep-set eyes and a moustache almost too perfectly groomed to look real. “So this is Mrs. Becker,” he said, bending to kiss my hand and looking up at me. “Where have you been hiding her, Becker?”

“Oh, I can't get her down to the office very much. Some reason, she thinks it's stuffy in there.”

“If I had known my husband has such charming colleagues, I would have made it a point to visit more often,” I said.

“Ah, the lady is a diplomat … always an asset in a wife. I'll be moving on though, not to keep you. Have you seen Pete yet? He's up front, near the refreshment table.”

“We're just on our way,” said Charles.

But we had not gone far before we saw J. P. McBride, talking with several other men near the edge of the floor. “Come on, now's your chance to meet the elusive Mr. Mac,” said Charles, and guided me across the floor.

He looked different from what I'd envisioned, mostly in size. He was scarcely taller than I—five feet three inches at most—and had a thick head of hair, salt and pepper gray, muttonchop sideburns and bright, lively eyes under thatches of unruly brows. He saw us coming.

“Here they are,” he said to the gentlemen standing with him. “Mrs. Becker, how glad I am to meet you … you ought to hear your husband praising you all the time, and I can see why.” His voice was raspy, and hearing it reminded me Charles had once said he had some sort of throat difficulty that was worsening. “Here's Mortimer Black, Joseph Stillwell, Silas Courtier, you remember, Charles, from the Chaffin case not so long ago.…”

“I do indeed, so nice to see you all again … my wife, Claire.…”

The trio soon left to find their wives; I gave a friendly scolding to McBride for not coming to visit us.

“Oh, I'm afraid I don't get out very much anymore,” he said. “You know, since my wife passed away a few years ago, I do feel like an extra wheel around people most of the time … besides, Charles gets enough of my reminiscing up at the office without me imposing any of it on you.”

“Nonsense. We'd be delighted to have you come, any time. Have you family living elsewhere?”

“One daughter, lives with her husband and three children up East. I shall go there when I do finally retire and that will be soon … spend the rest of my days playing with my grandchildren and fishing in the pond.”

“Sounds wonderful, but I hope it won't be too soon.”

“Ah, well … I was so glad when Charles agreed to come in with me. I've too good a practice not to pass on … guess that's my way of believing in my immortality, ha-ha!”

“D'you know, we haven't even seen Pete and his wife yet,” said Charles. “If you'll excuse us, we'd better get up there and speak to them before they tell everyone to go home.”

“Of course. I believe I'll just get my coat and hat and be off. I've been here almost an hour. Well, so long you two, take care.…”

“Ah, my feet are killing me,” Charles said as we turned from Mac. “Let's meet the Marlowes and get out of here.”

“I had no idea you knew so many people, dear. When do you have time to meet them?”

“Well, we all work down around the Strand, lunch together sometimes; work on cases with each other occasionally. I wasn't expecting to see so many familiar faces today, either.” We arrived at the refreshment table and found the Marlowes.

“My stars, if it isn't Charlie … come on over here, boy, so I can meet that sweet gal you're carryin' on your arm.” Big man, Pete Marlowe, tall and rotund with an almost totally bald head and no hair on his face either. His wife, Faye, short and stout, with mounds of red hair piled on top of her head and too much strong perfume, put her arms around me like a long-lost sister.

“Honey, I'm so glad to make your acquaintance. Pete was afraid you wouldn't come.”

Where, I wondered, did these people come from with southern drawls so strong they seemed obvious even in Galveston?

“Charlie, will you allow me to have a word with your charmin' wife? Mrs. Becker, may I call you Claire? Has your old scoundrel of a husband told you we've been tryin' to git him interested in comin' in with Turner and Parks and the rest of us?”

I was quite astounded, and it must have shown because he added, “I can see he hasn't let on yet. But you conspire with me to win him over to our side, won't 'cha? Your husband is a brilliant man, and we need him over at our place.”

His tones were commanding, not to be defied.

“Oh, Charles doesn't talk much business with me. I let him make all the big decisions.”

“Now, don't you let Pete bully you, Claire,” said Faye. “When he takes a notion to get somethin' he very often perseveres a bit strongly.” She eyed her husband warningly. “Folks got to do what makes 'em happy, regardless of what anybody else thinks.” She patted my hand.

“Great party,” said Charles. “It's taken us almost a half hour just to get up here and meet the hosts … we won't keep you, we know you have a lot of guests to see today.”

“Get yourselves a plateful,” said Faye. “If all the guests don't do their part and eat, I don't know what we'll do with all the leftovers tomorrow.”

We nodded and went to the table. A woman out of place, I thought, but perhaps this is what it is to be rich. No need to worry over remarks you make lest they be inappropriate or offensive to others.…

Before us lay surely the most elaborate spread of food on the whole of the island that day. The table was a good ten feet in length, brilliantly lit with long tapers in silver sconces and decorated with evergreen and colorful spiced fruit. Oysters were presented in every describable form, from cold ones on half shell to hot fried ones served from a banquet-size chafing dish and simmering ones in some kind of hot sauce with a queer, exotic aroma. Mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat salad; deviled eggs; caviar; olive sandwiches; cold smoked ham and turkey; steaming hot breads and orange butter; pickles; almonds; raisins; trays of crisp celery and cherry tomatoes stuffed with cheese; individual fruit pies; chocolate creams—chilled champagne at one end of the table and coffee served from an exquisite silver urn at the other.

“Don't look so goggle-eyed,” said Charles. “All this is paid for by the business, which is the reason people like you and me were invited.”

“If my expression appears strange, it may well be from the shock of what Pete Marlowe just told me.”

“Oh, I'll explain that later … tell you what, when we get out of here, let's take a drive down the beach. We've plenty of time before going to Rubin's.”

Whenever we drive along the beach I am always reminded how flat an island Galveston truly is: just a finger of low-lying turf poking up from the Gulf, really, connected to the rest of the world by a spindly wooden railroad bridge.

It was pleasant on the beach that day, and chillier than on the rest of the island as always, a nice change after the stifling atmosphere of the party. The breeze was a gentle thing that cooled my face and made me drowsy. I languished against the leather seat, allowing my mind to drift from one inconsequential thing to another until Charles brought me up short.

“I've been meaning to talk to you about something, Claire, something of importance to both of us.”

“You mean Pete Marlowe's offer?”

“No, not that.” He paused then, as though unsure how to broach the subject on his mind. “You met Esther and Dexter Osborne at the party—remember them? He's tall; he wore a pince-nez. She has auburn hair, quite a nice figure.”

“I do indeed. Her dress was cut so low you could see traces of the talcum powder she'd dusted in her cleavage.”

“Yes … well, Dex is in commercial properties here, and I've drawn up a few contracts for him. He came by the other day to ask me a question about something or other—remember that Sunday a couple of weeks back, when I spent all day at the office?—anyway, he brought his three youngsters along.

“Lord, what a bundle they were! Climbing all over my desk and looking into the wastebasket; pulling out books from the shelves and generally throwing everything into disorder. Finally Dex looked up and shouted at them and they behaved. Dex is like me—he gets so enthralled in what's being discussed that the building could fall down around him and he'd just brush away the dust and plaster and go on working.”

“How horrible. You must have been a nervous wreck by the time they left.”

He had pulled the rig to a halt now, toward the rippling Gulf, and looked at me intently. “The fact is, I missed them when they were gone. It made me wish … well, to tell you the truth I'm beginning to wonder if you're ever going to get over the loss of our little Charles and think about having another child or two.”

His reference to “our” son and his calling him “little Charles” always grated on my nerves, but I did my best to hide it that day as all others. “Sure, what makes you think I don't want to? But you have to understand that a woman never fully gets over the loss of a child, no matter how many more she has. I didn't think I'd have to tell you that, Charles.”

“Yes, I can see that, and I think I've been patient. I knew it was rough on you as long as we were in Grady, and I could even see that moving to Galveston wouldn't solve everything all at once, but Claire, we've been here nearly a year, and … well … you never seem to want me. I love you and want you so much.”

“Oh, Charles, really.”

“No, I mean it. And because I love you I want more children. Think how much fun it would be, like at Christmastime, giving them toys, and on Sundays going for picnics, going to the beach, taking them to church all dressed up, and all the joys of seeing them learn and grow, seeing ourselves in them.”

He looked young when he said it, full of wonder as a small boy. “Well, I can see the prospect doesn't excite you much.”

“Of course it does, but I … just give me time, that's all. You don't realize what it is … what I've been through.”

He sighed, but said nothing, only kept staring at me as though trying to figure whether I was speaking frankly. Had he guessed the truth about Damon and me, known my Charlie wasn't really his? Or more lately, had he noticed the attraction between Rubin and me? Surely not that, for I had taken great care to play it down, always to speak highly of Janet, to appear more sympathetic to her problems.

Finally Charles said, “I wonder whether I didn't make a mistake in bringing you here. You really don't like it, do you?”

I couldn't reply at first. The breeze grew chillier, yet my face and neck were hot. I pulled out my fan, then realized to use it would be to give myself away, and put it back. Finally I said, “There's nothing wrong with Galveston … really, Charles, you do adjust to new places so quickly, I quite admire you for it.”

“All right, but let's not wait too much longer, Claire, I'm nearly thirty-six, you know.”

I looked ahead, knowing that now I'd have to play the pretending game with Charles again, just as in the first few months of our marriage, and it was hard to fake enjoyment at love-making when you had known what real joy in a man's arms could be. The conversation was getting to me. I thought of the remarks made by Pete Marlowe and leapt on the subject as if it were a wagon passing by. “What is this with Pete? Has he made you a real offer?”

“Several times. The offer gets a little better each time, and I'll admit it's tempting, especially in terms of money.”

“Why don't you do it? When McBride retires, you'll have an easy out, won't you?”

“Yes, but to tell you the truth I'd rather stay where I am and be able to pick my own cases. It isn't the easiest way, because there's no one but myself to keep track of whether or not a client pays his fee; and I can't send some underling across town or across the state to deliver papers for me. All the same, I want to be sought out to handle cases on my own merit. That is, for me, the challenge that keeps it interesting.”

I didn't pursue the conversation any further, and we rode in silence back home from the beach. Charles had always made his own choices about his career—it was the one area where he stood fast against any interference from me—so it seemed pointless to carry on the discussion when I didn't really care that day what he did about Pete Marlowe's offer. All I could ponder was the bitter fact that, while other people seemed to have options open to them on all aspects of their lives, I was a person whose wishes carried no more weight than a feather fluttering in the wind.

Chapter 8

The truth of my assessment that day was brought home to me when we arrived at the Garrets later that evening for music and light refreshment (thank heaven Rubin did not insist Janet cook dinner for the small group). A singing quartet visiting St. Christopher's from their home parish in Houston had participated in Rubin's morning service, and he in turn had invited them to come to his home that night to lead a sing-song. Janet seemed in good spirits, had seemed so for a couple of weeks, and worked hard to put a high polish on the piano in their front room. She'd even had the instrument tuned up too, just for the occasion.

I was not feeling well, having eaten something at the Marlowes' which was not setting well with me. I was uncomfortable sitting in the hard-backed chair, listening to the people gathered around the piano go through the heartier and more joyful songs in the Episcopal hymnal, most of which were unfamilar to me. I decided to make myself useful by combining the finger sandwiches now only half covering four silver trays onto one tray. It would make for a neater table and I could wash the other trays and get them put away. I didn't notice, as I rearranged the crusty sandwiches, that Janet and Rubin were not among the guests around the piano. Charles was there, following along in the hymnal, apparently enjoying himself enormously.