Galveston (8 page)

I stacked the three empty trays, gathered a few used napkins and a glass or two, and, without a free hand, turned and backed into the swinging kitchen door. As I turned around I saw them together, Rubin enclosing his wife in his big arms and kissing her full on the lips. They looked at me in surprise. I lowered my eyes, left the trays on the kitchen table, and excused myself.

Could there have been a better demonstration that I had been wrong about the way Rubin had been looking at me? It didn't seem so that night, nor many nights following, as I began to realize I was about to get caught again in a web of wanting someone I couldn't have, and for the most obvious of reasons: however ill suited was Janet as the wife of a clergyman (or any man, actually), Rubin Garret loved her.

I knew I must throw my energies elsewhere, and get my mind off Rubin, and in the long run we'd all be far better off. Yet the way of doing this eluded me for a few weeks, until Charles, inadvertently, gave me the answer.

One night in early February, he came home from the office and said, “By the way, I had lunch downtown today with several people, among them Pete Marlowe. He told me to be sure and remember him to you. He thought you were ‘right charmin' and a ‘real lady'—you know how he goes on. I promised him I'd tell you.”

“Why, how nice,” I said, and then it hit me. Maybe I couldn't openly persuade Charles to go with Pete Marlowe's firm, but I might be able to do it without his being aware of it, and if so, it would mean we'd move among that elite group of people in Galveston that had so fascinated me at the Marlowe party a month before. These people had teas, receptions, evenings at exclusive restaurants. One read about their busy lives in the newspaper. Charles and I could become a part of their crowd in time, if I worked it right, and we might eventually move to Broadway, far away from Rubin Garret, and if I was to be forever denied the man of my choice, I could at least live a life so busy and full of excitement that it might not matter so much the one basic ingredient of happiness was missing. My mind spun forward to visions of wealth and social importance, entertaining as only I could do it, parties, dances.…

“Charles, you know it really would be nice to reciprocate the Marlowes' hospitality.”

“What? Oh, how do you mean?” he asked, looking up from his paper.

“Well, maybe have them to dinner sometime.”

“Um-hum,” he said, focusing back on his newspaper.

“You know a lot of trouble goes into a party like that, and I'll bet you not a fraction of the guests invited ever have the decency to reciprocate. Now that I think of it, it seems almost … well … ill mannered.”

“If you say so, Claire.”

“Could we invite them?”

“I guess so, if you want to.”

“When?”

“Oh, I don't know, we can talk about it.”

“Let's set a date.”

He put down his paper and drew on his pipe. “All right, if it means that much to you. Tell me when you want to do it and I'll see if they're free.”

I was surprised at the ease with which my wishes were carried through. The Marlowes came one evening in early spring, arriving promptly at seven-thirty, a Darby and Joan if ever there has been and acting as though it were not the first but the hundredth time they'd come to our house for a meal.

Charles explained them eloquently a week or so before, when I was poring over menus and worrying whether the linen or the more formal crochet tablecloth would be appropriate: “Pete was raised on a dirt farm somewhere in North Carolina,” he had said, “and Faye was the daughter of a clerk in a small-town bank. Believe me, dear, you don't need to fuss. They're home folks.”

After I disregarded the elaborate style of the New Year's Day party and thought of the personable nature of the two Marlowes, I decided he was correct and was put somewhat at ease, and as though to reaffirm this, Faye with her bejeweled chubby fingers took a knife to the hot bread and helped me put the food on the table just as a friend of long standing would do.

The table conversation was launched on our lavish compliments over their recent party and Charles's expressed surprise that McBride had seen fit to come. “Only way I could git him over to the house was to remind him he'd be retirin' soon, lucky rascal, and movin' away from Galveston, and he might never have another opportunity to see a whole bunch of people who were comin'.”

“You certainly had a good crowd,” I said.

“Reckon we had about sixty all told. Course our party is nowhere near the size of some of the others around on New Year's Day, but then we keep our distance from the more illustrious people on the island,” said Faye.

“Like whom?” I asked.

“Mainly the folks connected with the Wharf Company. They're the ones who really own Galveston, and don't let nobody kid ya',” Pete said.

I thought of the neighborhood oyster roast a summer before, and the awkward moment following Driscoll's faux pas over the Wharf Company.

“By the way,” he continued, “I've got a client who wants to lease some land along the north side of the channel for puttin' up a warehouse. The petition goes before the council next Monday, but just between us, I don't think it has a chance.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because goods stored in that warehouse would go directly aboard the sailin' vessel, escapin' the drayage and wharfage charge. The city wouldn't pay it any mind if it was small pickin's, but this one's gonna be a considerable building and they're not gonna like losing all that money. They haven't got sense enough to see they'd make more revenue off taxes on the property if the warehouse was put up than they would from their interest in the wharfage,” Pete replied.

Then Charles mentioned hearing a rumor that the already exorbitant wharfage rates were going up again pretty soon, and Pete said, “Could be; the Wharf Company's got nothin' to stop them—a closed corporation holding two thirds of the stock, and no competition!”

“Well, can't the city do something?” I asked.

“Not likely,” he said, his face reddening. “It took a court rulin' to get them their measly one third of the stock in the first place, and that much ain't worth a pot of spoiled black-eyed peas.

“I'm tellin' you, it's outrageous that a handful of individual stockholders could have a death grip on the best port on this part of the coast, and, mind you, if they don't quit paying themselves dividends—seventy grand one year not so long ago—instead of usin' their profits to expand the wharf facilities, they're gonna play right into the hands of Houston.”

I'd read newspaper stories now and then of Houston's efforts at dredging their own channel, but hadn't taken them seriously. After all, Galveston was situated on a natural harbor; Houston's only connection with the open sea—fifty miles away—was a few tortuous, moss-hung bayous. However, Pete was obviously fired up about the subject, so I didn't argue.

“That's right,” Charles was saying, “and while we might be the largest cotton exporter in the South right now, how long before we lose our place when our channel continues to shoal and deepen according to the whims of nature? Right now it's only eighteen feet deep and ought to be at least twenty-five, to handle the bigger ships. Our complacency is going to get the best of us one day.”

“You bet,” said Pete, then leaned back without another word, surprising me by giving Charles a chance to elaborate.

“Look how many people already hate the Wharf Company,” he continued. “Take the cotton farmer, for one. Although Galveston draymen are willing to move his cotton from railroad car to shipboard for about fifteen cents a bale, they aren't allowed on the wharves. Only Wharf Company people can put the cotton aboard, and they charge forty cents a bale. Now, after suffering the high cost of rail transportation to get the cotton here, the farmer doesn't look too kindly on having a big wharfage fee slapped on him.”

“But what can be done?” Faye asked.

Pete wiped the crumbs from around his plate and let them drop from his fingers onto the empty plate, then answered, “The city would buy the other two thirds of the stock and make the wharves free for public use. This has been talked about several times before, but mysteriously dropped. And maybe it's just as well. The city needs revenue.

“On the other hand, maybe we could get a court rulin' to force the corporation to go public—thereby bustin' the monopoly. That's unlikely, though, because there's politics involved.”

“But if what you're saying is true, Galveston is doomed. All those people up in Houston have to do is figure out a way to dredge a deep channel up one of those bayous. Seems like people here either don't give a hoot, or are afraid to buck the monopoly,” Faye replied.

“Well, let's don't spend the whole evening talkin' about the Wharf Company,” said Pete. “I do tend to get carried away on the subject. Besides, I didn't want to let the night pass without askin' Charles how soon old Mac is gonna move out.”

The moment had come. I looked at Charles, who appeared unruffled. “He says next year, but you know Mac. He may stick around for two, three years. Then again, he may pack up tomorrow afternoon and buy a ticket on the evening train.”

“Mac's been around a long time,” said Pete. “You know, they say he lost his wife in that yellow fever epidemic back in '67, nearly killed him, losin' her. Never looked twice at another woman after she went.”

“He rarely mentions her,” said Charles, “but he does keep her picture on his desk. She was a fine-looking woman.”

“Gonna be lonesome down there all by yourself, boy, when he's gone.…”

Faye reached over and put a hand on Pete's arm.

“All right, Mama. I just want Charlie to know my invitation remains open.”

“I'm much obliged,” said Charles.

Later, as Faye helped me cut apple pie in the kitchen, she remarked, “You mustn't mind my husband pushin' Charles a bit. I haven't known him to be so taken with another lawyer in all the years I've been married to him.”

“I'm sure Charles finds it flattering.”

“Don't ever underestimate your husband, honey. He's got charm; he's a very nice-lookin' man; and he is smart. That's a winnin' combination.”

When we walked into the parlor I became conscious of a pain in the small of my back. It had bothered me at dinner, I now realized, yet I was too interested in the conversation to notice it. Charles had lit up his pipe; Pete was smoking a cigar, telling Charles about his son Teddy.

“He has one more year left at military academy, then off to college. Boy don't know what he wants to do yet, though, and I'm concerned he might take to a military career.”

“Have you tried to interest him in the law?” Charles asked.

“I'm afraid to. If I suggest it he may rule it out on general principle. The boy is a rebel in his own way. Our other kids—we got two married daughters back in Carolina—were easy to raise compared to Teddy. But he's a good boy, and I got my fingers crossed he'll come into the firm one day.”

As they were leaving, Faye asked if we'd ever been to the Garten Verein.

“No, but I've heard of it,” I told her. “Some sort of recreation club, isn't it?”

“Yes, they have special functions—dinners and dancing, concerts and so forth. We're members, so one night you must go as our guests and see how you like it. Pete loves the tenpin alley. Do you bowl, Charles?”

“Haven't for a long time, but it sounds like fun.”

“Good, we'll git together one night and go over,” said Pete. “Maybe git some other fellas together. The place looks best in the summer—the gardens are full of flowers and the trees are filled out. Course there's somethin' goin' on there all the time. And they have the best German sausages ever touched your palate.”

“As you can see, my husband pays particular mind to the menu,” Faye interrupted, poking at Pete's ample stomach.

“Hush up, Mama,” Pete said, then added, “It's a German club, you know, only German folks can be stockholders. Plain folks like us can only be members.”

“Sounds like another Wharf Company,” Charles said with mock intrigue.

“As a matter of fact, I do believe the man who once owned the land it lies on was an original incorporater of the Wharf Company. The Octopus probably started as innocent as the Garten Verein. Anyway, the Wharf Company is an economic and social evil, and somethin' ought to be done about it.”

The remark seemed no more than idle talk that night—as indeed it probably was—like the general talk several years earlier that something ought to be done about the scandalous Grant administration. When Faye and Pete walked down our stairs, I'm sure none of us had any idea we would come any closer to solving the problem of the Octopus than we had come to solving the Grant scandals.

I had a dream that night: I was alone, treading water out in the Galveston harbor on a damp, foggy morning. My legs ached so I could hardly keep them moving, and my body was all but rigid from the cold.

I dared not swim out in any direction in the fog, for I had no idea in which direction safety lay. And so it continued, hour after creeping hour, until I was sure this was it for me and fate had finally slammed the door and swallowed the key.

Finally, the wall of fog began to meander unhurriedly away, blowing in curly wisps across the surface of the water and thinning above to allow in the sun. At last I could see the wharves, and I summoned all the energy left me to swim toward them.

Yet it was a trick, for as I swam nearer and nearer and the gauzy mist continued to lift, I could see the wharves were all but deserted; no ships were berthed in their outstretched arms and only four men were visible, walking along near the landings. These men carried a sign which I could not read until I was near the landings. Then its red-lettered message became clear:
UNESCORTED LADIES WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO CROSS THE WHARVES
,
IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE POLICY OF YOUR GALVESTON WHARF COMPANY
,
SERVING YOU BETTER
.