Galveston (71 page)

“Dad, it's me.”

“Willa, baby, where are you, where have you been?”

“Been? Twenty years into the past. But I'll explain that later. Listen, Dad, I'm in Galveston at the Union Depot. Will you please do something for me? I know I've no business asking, but—”

“Anything. You name it.”

“I want you to meet me in Houston at the station, and loan me enough money to get to Ohio and back. Only a loan. I'll work for you in the office till it's all paid back, or work somewhere else, but I will pay it back. I've learned just about all I need to know about where I came from, but this is something I've got to take care of. My mother's grave is in Cleveland, and I've got to visit it. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, but wait a minute. Don't go up there. Stay where you are and let me come there. I've got to talk to you.”

“No, Dad, you don't understand. I've got to visit Mother's grave, then I can come home and straighten out the mess I left—or try to. Just do this for me, please.”

“No, you're making a mistake. I can't talk here because Mother's just down the hall. Trust me, will you, wait for me at the station? I'll take the next train down.”

“But, Dad, I—”

“Trust me?”

“All right. But you won't try to keep me from going, will you?”

“Not if you still want to after we talk. Willa, are you crying?”

“No, Dad, almost, but not quite. It's been quite a week.”

“I can imagine. Sit tight. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Tell Mother I'm all right, won't you?”

“Yes, baby. She'll be so thankful. We've both been so worried …”

As I hung up the phone I thought of Dad as he must have been when the phone rang, sitting in his chair by the fire, puffing on a cigar and reading his
Wall Street Journal
. He'd be telling Mother now, having cast aside his paper and squashed his cigar in the ashtray by the phone. He would be having a hard time convincing her not to come along to Galveston with him, but I had a feeling he would succeed.

I was anxious to be bound for Ohio, and couldn't imagine what he had to tell me that couldn't wait, but then I owed him at least the courtesy of waiting for him to come and have his say. There was a train leaving Houston at eight o'clock, and if he could make that one, he'd be here in a little better than an hour and a half. In the meantime I'd sit down on one of the hard benches, in plain view of the door leading in from the tracks, and wait.…

“Willa, wake up!”

It was a voice, coming from somewhere far away, bothering me. I didn't want to be bothered, the sleep was so welcome, the dream of traveling through a beautiful spring countryside laden with blooming apple trees, so real …

“Willa, it's me, wake up.”

I opened my eyes. Dad stood above in his hat and coat, and muffler, and for a moment I was a little girl again, who'd fallen asleep on the sofa, and he was waking me to send me up to bed.

“I'm so glad to see you, so glad you're all right,” he said, and as he put his big arms around me I thought once more of my fears he had kept my real mother imprisoned somewhere and I hugged him hard, wishing I could make up for having been so anxious to believe him wicked.

“But you found my note, didn't you? And you guessed I'd uncovered my mother's carpetbag?”

“Yes. I'll get a taxi and we'll go somewhere out of this madhouse and have a talk. Jesus, I hate train stations, have seen my share of them, I'll tell you.”

“I know a good place where we can go to talk.…”

The Galvez dining room under soft lights and violin music is even more welcoming than when sunlight glances off the crystal on the tables set for lunch. When we were seated I was suddenly hungry again, and ordered another tomato stuffed with crabmeat. I looked around, but saw no sign of my waiter friend from a few days ago.

Dad got to the point quickly. “I guess you know everything.”

“Everything. Even your friendship with the Weavers in Cleveland. I've already spoken with Nick, earlier today.”

“Okay, but one other thing. Your mother isn't buried in Cleveland any more.”

Chapter 15

I stared across at him. “But how can that be? Nick said—”

“Edwynna and I met your mother, Serena, during her confinement at the Weavers. They didn't seem to want to have much to do with her; neither did your mother, really, but I liked to visit with her and got to know her fairly well.

“I don't know exactly how to describe her to you, but she was the kind of person you'd never forget: fragile little thing, tall as she was; pale and thin … yet there was a spirit behind her eyes that I adored, a determination never to give up. You know, it's hard to realize now, but I wasn't much older than she was at the time.

“Oh well, don't know why I keep beating around the bush. I'm afraid I fell in love with her a little. Anyone would have, if they'd known her.”

“But you and Mother—”

He cleared his throat. “Edwynna was carrying Sarah at the time. Nothing happened between me and Serena, of course, God forbid. She was just so sweet, so good to talk to, so much warmer than—”

“Than Mother?”

“Your mother and I, well, maybe you've noticed a certain lack of closeness between us. It isn't that I don't love her—I do, very much—but she's a little aloof. Came from a strict background, ya know, and I think she's always been afraid to break out, really be herself. Don't know why she ever married a man like me—pushy, impatient. I didn't have a penny when we married, and not for a long time after …”

“And I suspect she blamed you for her accident, didn't she?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How did you know about that? You didn't remember—”

“Not until I went into the attic to pick up my honeymoon luggage and found the bag. That was when it all came back.”

“I see. Well, I was going to explain all that to you tonight—in fact I planned to tell you all about it during that lunch date we were supposed to have.”

“Tell me now.”

“Yes … all right. It happened when you were about four years old—almost five. When I got home from work the ambulance was outside and they were carrying Edwynna down the walk on a stretcher.

“Dotty told me what had happened. All Edwynna said was, ‘I don't ever want to see that carpetbag again. Get it out of my house.' And then I asked where you were and Dotty told me. ‘You'd better let Dotty go with me to the hospital and you look after Willa. She's pretty frightened,' Edwynna said.”

“She thought of me then?”

“Yes, Willa, she did. By the time I got up to your room, you'd passed out at the door. I carried you to bed and sat with you until you woke up. I couldn't tell by what you said how much it had frightened you. All you told me was, ‘I fell down on Mommy, didn't I? Is she all right?' I assured you she was, although at that point I wasn't certain. Then you wanted to know why Dotty Baxter locked you in your room, and you told me how much you hated her. I tried to explain why, that she was only trying to help. That seemed to satisfy you, although you seemed a little listless. Pretty soon you fell asleep. I got Martha Stone to come over and stay with you, and I went on to the hospital to look after Edwynna.

“I thought you were all right. Then that night, you woke me up screaming. It was your right hand—the edge of it and your little finger were all swollen and bruised. First, I assumed you'd hurt it in the fall, then I realized you'd probably done it banging on the door. The paint at the bottom of the door was all chipped from being kicked on.”

I stared across at him for a moment, thinking again of the day I got sick in the undercroft in the house on Heights Boulevard, and later how my hand had ached, and how it had puzzled me.

“What is it, Willa?” said Dad.

“Nothing. Go on.”

“There isn't much more. Next day I took you to the doctor to have the hand looked at, but there wasn't anything broken, and eventually it healed up fine and you forgot all about the whole thing. You must have blocked it out of your mind. I was so thankful for that. It must have been a horrible experience.”

“Lord, if you'd only told me everything instead of keeping so many secrets!”

“Edwynna wouldn't let me. She was so damned afraid you'd know something about your mother. She even pulled a trick on me—told you about your being adopted and all one day when I was at work—just so I wouldn't be tempted to tell you all about your real mother.”

“And maybe cause me to turn out just like her—an ‘easy' woman?”

“I don't know … maybe,” he said, looking down.

“Then it was you, wasn't it, who saved the carpetbag in the first place, without her knowing?”

“Yes. See, when we first got you, from the home in Galveston, your things were in the carpetbag along with your mother's shoes and gown. Edwynna wanted to get rid of the bag even then, but I told her that someday, when you were grown, it might do no harm for you to have something that belonged to your real mother.”

“Just the gown and shoes, huh?”

“Yeah, that was all except for something else which I'll get to in a minute.”

I assumed he referred to the picture, the programs, the paper, but said nothing about them because he seemed to be enjoying telling his story. “But what about after the accident—I mean, didn't she insist you get rid of the bag then?”

“Yeah. But I didn't. I told her I got rid of it, and hid it instead.”

“I see. Tell me more, then, about what you knew of my real mother.”

“I think I could put it best in a conversation we once had. I was rememberin' it again on the trip down. We'd gone over to the Weavers for supper one night, and Nick's father, Hal, had gone to run an errand or something. Your mother was helping Clara, his mother, in the kitchen. I went up to say hello to Serena. I always did that unless she happened to be downstairs, and she rarely was, because the Weavers didn't hold with her being there.

“I found her sitting by the open window, looking out at what was left of the sunshine. She was great big—her time would come any day.

“‘Sit down there on the edge of the bed, Mr. Frazier,' she said. She always called us Mr. and Mrs. Frazier, you understand, very proper. I remember thinking as we talked that she had a feeling she wasn't going to live through the childbirth. Don't know why I felt it, I just did.

“‘Mrs. Frazier is feeling well?' she asked.

“‘Yes, Edwynna's fine. I don't think she has long to go now.'

“‘Nor do I,' she said, then sat looking out the window for a little longer, like she was lost in her thoughts.

“‘Your child will have a good life, every chance of growing up happily,' she said finally. ‘I wish I could be sure of the same for mine.'

“‘But your child will, too. Won't you and Nick marry after the baby comes? I figured you'd eventually—'

“‘Give in? No, I will never marry Nick, though I haven't told him in so many words yet. And I couldn't go back to Galveston, break my father's heart. Of course, had Roman lived, things would be very different …'

“She didn't know, you see, that the Garrets were both dead, nor did we, till we began the process of adoption later.

“‘Pardon me, Mr. Frazier. I don't mean to sound so maudlin today,' she said. ‘I only got to thinking about the uncertainty of the future, and I—'

“‘Not at all,' I told her. I felt real sorry for her, cause there wasn't anything for her to do if she wouldn't marry Nick. She was trapped in a deplorable situation.

“‘Look, is there anyone I could contact for you, anyone you think might be of help? Anything I can do?'

“‘You're very kind, but no. I have a girl friend in Galveston who might be able to come up with some solution. Beyond her, though, there isn't anyone except a young boy I know, and he'll be having problems enough of his own just now.

“‘Perhaps you might do one thing for me, though. In the top drawer there, in the bureau, is a diary. Would you get it out, please?'

“Gee, it seemed almost like I was invading her privacy or something. But I got it and took it over to her … only she wouldn't take it from me.

“‘Would you keep it, Mr. Frazier, and if anything should happen to me—no, I know it's probably silly—but, just in case, would you see my daughter gets it? I haven't written in it since the end of the summer last year, but I think there's a word or two in it that may help her someday.

“‘… Of course I guess it would mean a great deal more to her when she becomes a young woman.'

“‘I understand,' I told her.”

“She wanted you to have me, didn't she?”

“I guess she did, though I didn't grasp that part at the time. I saw the diary got into her carpetbag after it was all over and later, after we got you, I took it out and saved it for you. Edwynna never knew about it. I have it here in my coat. I meant to give it to you and tell you about the bag on your wedding day.”

He pulled it out and handed it across the table. It wasn't very large, just a small black book with brittle binding that I would open later, when I could do it alone.

“Well, where was I? Oh yes, right after she gave it to me Edwynna called me to dinner from the foot of the stairs, so we didn't have time to talk any further. As I left the room, though, Serena said over her shoulder, ‘There's just one thing I want for my child, Mr. Frazier. I want her to be able to live her life as she sees fit, and to never be afraid of anything. I don't want her to have to sneak behind everyone's back for her happiness. If I can't give her anything else, I want to be sure she has at least that—a chance. And I will, somehow. The baby
is
going to be a girl, you know.'