The Promise (31 page)

I smiled for Andre but he didn’t notice. He looked up at Wiley, and in his eyes, a small spark of excitement flickered. Going to the Ogdens’ was a special treat, I realized.

Wiley nodded his goodbye to me. At the foot of the stairs where the dogs waited, he hoisted Andre to his shoulders so that Andre’s legs straddled either side of his head.

Without a look back, they all headed toward the bayou. Wiley avoided the low places filled with standing water and picked his way past the cows and horses, turning his shoulders to shield Andre from the sight. He called to the dogs, his tone sharp when they showed too much interest in the carcasses. Once, I heard Andre call to them too, his voice shrill as if he were upset.

I expected to feel a measure of relief. Caring for Andre and the need to stay calm in his presence was exhausting. It was true that there was very little food, but that was an excuse. I needed time to myself without him clutching me and asking questions about Oscar. I needed silence. Or so I had thought. Now, as Wiley walked farther away with Andre on his shoulders, a profound sense of emptiness came over me. I had never felt more alone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Truth

Everything would be better once Oscar was home, I told myself. In the kitchen, I struck match after match, each one so soft from the sultry air that they bent and broke. At last, one of the matches sputtered and then flared long enough for me to light the oven. When I was sure that the fire would hold, I put a pot of water on the stove to heat. Oscar could be cut and bruised, but he’d be home at any minute.

I went to the bedroom and looked out the back window. Oscar was nowhere in sight. Rainwater leaked from the ceiling and splattered in the mud as I dressed and tied my hair with a ribbon. There was still no sign of Oscar. I straightened the damp bed linens the best that I could, the house settling, popping and creaking. Wiley and his father, I reminded myself, will find him. They’ll bring him home, and I’ll take care of him. I gathered towels and the bar of Ivory soap from the washroom and put them on the dressing table in our bedroom. Come home, Oscar. Please.

I went to the front veranda to look for him, mud clinging to my shoes. My breath caught; I backed into the doorway. The east end of the veranda dangled as though unattached to the stilts. The railing and the steps were gone, sheared off. In front of the house, a misshapen mattress was in a pond of standing water. Part of a picket fence was caught in the bushes, and a rowboat was beached on the scrubby land.

The gulf churned; the white-capped waves rolled and crashed. Channels of pooled water sliced the beach, and piles of rubble had washed up along the tide line. The tide, I thought. It was visible from the veranda. I rubbed my temples. The sand hills were gone.

And St. Mary’s. I couldn’t find it. It was missing. That couldn’t be, I told myself. Two large wood buildings did not simply vanish. It was my nerves; I was imagining things. I needed food and rest. I was on the verge of collapse. I closed my eyes, then looked again. The place where the orphanage had been was swept clean.

The nuns who had danced at the pavilion. The children who chased one another, Andre, too, all of them darting around tables. The three boys who helped Oscar on Sundays.

Inside the house, something clinked and clattered. ‘Who’s there?’ I called, turning.

It was the pot on the stove. It rocked, clattering, the water boiling. I started to pick it up, then let go, the handles burning my hands. I found two dish towels and using them as potholders, I moved it off the burner. The clinking stopped.

None of this was happening, I thought. Oscar couldn’t be missing; the orphanage could not have disappeared. I turned away from the stove and as I did, I saw the house as I had not before. Dishes, pans, sheet music, and my books were strewn on the mud-covered floor. Overhead, the ceiling was splintered with cracks and bowed as if heavy with water. Stains darkened the walls, the plaster already peeling. A line of dirt rimmed the lower parts of the walls.

The watermark, I realized. From the flood.

While Andre and I had found shelter in the stairwell, St. Mary’s had fallen. While I sang to Andre, the children and the nuns must have begged for help, reaching for one another, crying out as water rushed. And Oscar. He might have cried out too.

No. He was all right. And perhaps the nuns and orphans were too. They could have escaped before the storm destroyed the buildings; they could have clung to boards. But the little ones? The ones who were Andre’s age, or younger?

I sank down onto a bench, each drop of water that dripped from the ceiling loud in my ears, the crashing waves at the gulf even louder. For some reason, this small house had stood. For some reason, Andre and I had been spared. For some reason, Oscar had been caught in a wave.

Why?

So I could understand how very dear he was to me, I realized. So the three of us could start over when he returned, so we could rebuild. Because he will come home, I was sure of it. We’d begin again. But not here in Galveston; I would never go through another hurricane again. Never. We’d go inland to Houston. Oscar could start a dairy there. I’d give piano lessons and every penny would go toward making a new home. It’d be difficult but we had one another. We’d do it together. First, though, Oscar must come home.

I hurried down the hallway to our bedroom, then to the back veranda. Still nothing. Stay calm, I told myself. Make a plan. Do something for Oscar, something more than boiling water. I looked toward the place in the pasture where I’d last seen him. I’d go there, I decided. Then I’d go directly to the bayou where surely he waited for help.

The stairs shook beneath my feet as I went down them. The wind caught my skirt, and I battered away strands of hair that gathered at the corners of my mouth. The ground was boggy with wet sand, and littered with broken boards, pieces of dishes and teacups, a doll, and a shattered gilt-framed mirror. I stopped to gather up the hem of my skirt so that I could walk faster and as I did, I was struck with a new fear.

If Oscar came home while I was gone, he’d find the house empty. He’d be beside himself with worry.

I’d leave him a note. I turned back toward the house.
Dearest,
I imagined myself writing.
Should you find this, do not worry. Andre and I are safe. I am looking for you but will be home soon.

In the bedroom now, I found the box of stationery that I had stored in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was waterlogged and ruined. My fountain pen was gritty with mud but the ink bottle was still capped. I took it and the pen, and went to the parlor, a path now forming in the mud. I searched through the roll-top desk in the parlor, drips from the ceiling splattering my shirtwaist and face. All I needed was paper, even a scrap, so I could write my note and resume my search for Oscar.

There were only black leather-bound record-keeping books. I fanned through one, looking for a blank sheet but the pages were filled with Oscar’s postings about money earned and money spent. I glanced toward the clock on the mantle. Two minutes past six. For a moment, I was unsure if it was morning or evening. I looked again at the clock. The pendulum had blown off. The clock had stopped. It had to be late morning if not early afternoon. The storm had been over for hours. Oscar was somewhere, waiting, injured and needing help.

He could be dead.

No, I told myself. No. Find a piece of paper and write a note. Then look for him and bring him home.

I pulled out another record-keeping book and as I did, a balled-up sheet of paper tumbled out from the back of the desk. I took it, stepped away from the leak in the ceiling, and worked at the paper. It was deeply creased and I smoothed the corners with my thumbs. It was a letter –
Dear Oscar.
There was handwriting on both sides of the sheet but it was blank at the bottom half of one side. It was enough space for me to write a note. I’d leave it on the kitchen table for Oscar to see.

Then I saw the closure.
Your loving sister, Vivian Boehmer.

I turned it over. It was dated August 17, 1900. Two weeks before our marriage. Oscar’s sister. Someone who had heard the rumors about me.

I crumpled the letter, squeezing it tight. As Oscar must have done, I thought. Something in the letter must have upset him. Or angered him. I jammed it into the back of the desk.

Tear out a page from a record-keeping book, I told myself. Write the note and search for Oscar. Find him and bring him home. That was all that mattered. Yet, it was the letter that I took out from the desk. I had to know what his sister had told him.

I should stop reading; I’d read enough. But I had to finish it. I felt sure that Oscar had.

Oscar knew.

The letter slipped from my hands. He must have been furious when he read it. I had deceived him. He might have written to me.
I will not Marry You, Miss Wainwright. I know the Truth about You.
If he had, the letter would have arrived too late. I would have already left Dayton and been on my way to Galveston. For some reason, he went ahead and married me. Was it because he saw how very desperate I was? That I had no place else to go? Had he married me out of pity?

I looked at my wedding band, its gold bright and unmarred. Not pity, I thought. Oscar cared for me as no other man ever had. Knowing the truth about me, he took me as I was. He hadn’t complained when I was cold and withdrawn; he didn’t belittle me when I made mistakes with Andre. Instead, Oscar kept a firm hold on me, understanding that without him, I was lost.

I had to find him. I had to apologize for deceiving him. I had to make amends, set things straight. From this moment on, there would be only the truth.

The back veranda steps creaked and rattled as I went down them. The mud in the pasture was slippery, and the sole on my right shoe had come loose at the toe. The watery soft ground dipped in places, and I tripped over clumps of uprooted grass. In my mind, Oscar’s hand was on my elbow, leading me toward the place where I had last seen him.

Yesterday, when the water came into the house, I had scooped up my letters from Oscar, the ones he had written when he first came to Texas, and put them in the hatbox. His letters had been with me during the storm just as they had been with me when I moved to Oberlin, to Philadelphia, back to Dayton, and finally to Galveston.

Tears filled my eyes. Andre, I thought. He had held my hand when we had left the stairwell, trusting me to keep him safe. After I found Oscar, I’d bring Andre home. Oscar will want that; I wanted that, too.

I blotted the tears with my fingers and all at once, I gagged, sickened by the stench of a nearby cow.

My hand over my nose, I hurried on. Debris lay everywhere in the flattened grass: milk canisters, driftwood, and the headboard from someone’s bed. A piece of white cloth was tangled in the branches of a salt cedar tree, and farther on, a washtub was in the middle of a shallow pond. In the distance, someone – a woman – was coming my way. Nan Ogden. Or her mother. My pulse quickened all the more. There might be news about Oscar.

I waved to catch her attention, and as I did, I heard again his words: You do things right. He’d held on to that belief even after he knew the truth. I shook my head. Not me, I thought. You, Oscar. You’re the one who does things right.

‘Mrs Williams,’ the woman called.

I waved again, then stumbled, tripping over a board. It shifted, exposing a snake. It coiled, the long brown body with black patches taut as a spring. Its head held high, its dark eyes stared into mine. The rattle was crisp and loud. I took a step away. The boggy ground dipped; I slipped and fell onto my hands and knees. The snake reared its head back, the tongue flickering. It darted forward and struck my left hand.

I couldn’t get up. The loose sole of my shoe was caught in my hem. The snake coiled again, then darted. It struck my wrist. Somehow I got myself up on my feet. I backed away as it slithered off in the grass.

Pain shot through my hand and wrist. Dizzy from it, I held my arm to my chest, the pain deepening with each footstep as I tried to get farther from the snake, afraid that it might return to bite again.

‘Mrs Williams,’ the woman said, ‘What’s the matter? What’re you doing out here?’

It was Nan Ogden. I expected her gray eyes to be critical and her mouth to be tight with disapproval. I had turned Andre over to her instead of caring for him myself. Instead, there was concern. I held out my left hand. The wounds bled and the skin around them was red. ‘A snake,’ I said.

‘What kind?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did it rattle?’

I nodded, too frightened to speak now.

‘Oh good Lord, let’s get you inside. How many times did it bite?’

Her face swam before me. A rattlesnake. My arm tingled, and I was suddenly down on the marshy ground, water seeping into my skirt. I blinked to bring Nan back into focus.

‘Mrs Williams, stand up.’ She got behind me and tried to lift me. Pain stabbed my left arm and streaked up my neck and into my jaw. I heard myself moan.