“Jonathan,” I said. “My painting. Something is wrong.”
He laughed. “Here you go again, you and your self-criticism.”
“I’m serious. I’m imprisoned by this piece. I can’t escape it. Perhaps I should stop painting.”
“Well, let me see . . .” He pushed back his hair. “After all the years to improve your technique, all the study. Yes, definitely, you should give it up.”
“It’s not as simple as that. The work consumes me.”
“Yet it is you who have created the work. If you don’t like it, put this one aside and begin another. It’s your choice.”
I shrugged. How to explain? Jonathan and I had much in common, and he appreciated the arts, but he didn’t understand my need for self-enrichment through art. But I had decided that one need not understand one’s companions entirely, and vice versa.
When I was fifteen and he was eighteen and it was his last year in Galveston before going off to Yale, Viola suggested him to me as a suitor. She said that we were already such good friends it would be a natural course of events to become more than that. She must have made the same suggestion to Jonathan, because one day soon after he changed in his attitude toward me, and I knew his intentions had transformed, too. He asked me to the Garten Verein at Avenue O and Twenty-Seventh, a place known to incite romance, with its octagonal dance pavilion complete with pilasters, balustrades, and a cupola. Under the flags of all the nations, we ate a supper of cold meats, salads, and ice cream, with lemonade to drink, all served to us by rotund, mustached German waiters, and then we strolled the landscaped park, past the bowling greens and tennis courts.
Jonathan was clearly nervous; he had stopped whistling. Finally, as we walked on and had no place else to go, Jonathan took my hand in his, turned me to face him, and then kissed me. The old, sibling-like feelings flew away and what was left was a natural love, like a love of life, as essential as breathing.
From that moment on we were a pair. And after a few weeks, when he started to whistle around me again, I knew he had become comfortable with the idea.
I said to him now, “I’m not satisfied.” Again I looked back at my painting. Yes, something was definitely ill placed or absent altogether. “I’m simply not satisfied.”
Jonathan sighed.
Etta didn’t make her appearance until after all of the guests had arrived, until all were nibbling off plates held high in their gloved hands and sipping on iced tea seasoned with mint leaves. I had just excused myself to go check on her when I saw her coming down the main staircase. She was dressed in the most colorful costume I’ve ever seen, a square-neck gown of a bright-red color made of organza and trimmed with shirred ribbon. My mother had funded a trip to a local seamstress who could produce gowns quickly but had left the choices up to Etta. The gown looked outdated, even though it was new, and I chastised myself for not thinking, for not realizing that of course she didn’t know how to order a gown of the latest style inspired by European designs. The seamstress should have advised her, too. Etta and I were both petite ladies, near the same size. She probably could’ve worn one of my gowns, or I should’ve accompanied her to the seamstress.
But a glance at her face, which was radiant and relaxed and expectant, let me know that Etta would be fine. On anyone else the color would have been too flamboyant, but she entered the party looking like a package under the Christmas tree arrived early in June.
I looped my arm through hers and made the rounds, introducing her to many and enjoying the shocked silences and raised eyebrows by those of my mother’s set, whereas my friends were clearly taken with her daring attire. She flowed among them all with ease, and despite conversations about receptions in the Artillery Hall, voyages to Liverpool, itineraries on the Hamburg America Line, she never faltered.
Soon I left her to her own devices, and later, comments made their way back to me, such as “clever,” “bold,” and “fascinating.”
Mother worked her way to my side. She whispered almost indiscernibly to me, her smile focused ahead on nothing in particular, “You haven’t introduced Etta to all of the guests yet.”
“I think Etta is doing quite well on her own.”
A long pause, and then, “Make sure of it.”
I gave my mother a look and then went about as I pleased. There were some advantages to being an only child; I never lacked attention. But in my mother’s eyes I always needed a fair amount of direction, too.
Later, when the sun was dipping behind us in the west and evening was finally easing the heat of the day, Etta joined the croquet game on the lawn, whereas I went back to my painting. Soon the game was in full swing, while I settled in to entertain those who preferred the shade of the portico.
Wallace McKay was peering over my shoulder. Often I received this kind of attention as I painted, and rather than finding it annoying, as some artists did, I enjoyed it. Praise and awareness of others had always improved my technique.
“Which style do you prefer?” asked Wallace as he perused my work with a practiced eye. He was a student of architecture and could always be counted on to make meaningful comments. If not exactly handsome, he was pleasant looking, with his oval-shaped face, wavy hair, cherubic cheeks, freckles, and hazel eyes. He reminded me of a grown-up toddler.
“I suppose I would be called an Impressionist.” I didn’t want to paint exactly what my eye saw; instead, I only wanted to capture the best parts of it, the best of what whirled around me. Colors and lines shifted, lightened, brightened, and blurred to surreal softness. Illusion.
“Claude Monet. Or better yet, Vincent van Gogh, only watch your ear,” he said with a wink.
“Not to worry. I’ll avoid the compulsion to torture myself.”
“He never admired his own work.”
“Yes, I know,” I said sadly.
Wallace put his right hand into his pocket, gazed back toward the lawn, and then turned again to me. “You don’t exactly look tortured, but you do appear discouraged.”
“Well, not quite,” I said and took a step back to assess the wisps of gold I’d just added to the undersides of clouds in my painted sky. “It’s just that artists don’t generally like to be categorized. I’m not certain that I’m an Impressionist. Classifying artists affronts our sense of singularity.”
“Dear me,” said Wallace with arched eyebrows.
I smiled and went on adding my touches here and there. Soon I realized that Wallace had left me and that no one had taken his place at my side. Often during our parties a small circle enveloped me as I worked.
And then I saw that all eyes were on the croquet, and in particular on Etta, who obviously had a natural affinity for the game. She didn’t hesitate to swing her mallet with more force than I’d ever seen demonstrated by a woman. She slammed the ball with a loud thwack and sent it straight through the wickets with pure purpose. People who weren’t normally interested in the game had stopped to watch. She became the focus, the river running before the evening’s eyes and ears, the current propelling the conversations. And Etta took it all in with reserved enthusiasm, with grace.
Later I overheard snippets of Etta’s conversation with Larke, my black-haired, exotic-looking friend, who despite her partial Greek heritage paled next to Etta. I heard talk of a train excursion they might take together to Dickinson, and then a discussion of proposed shopping on Market Street, where Larke was saying she had just seen a new bolt of purple fabric displayed in her local seamstress’s collection. Although most of Larke’s wardrobe came from Parisian designers, this fabric had caught her eye.
“I do believe you’re the only person I know who could wear that color,” Larke said to Etta. My friend was lively on this night, animated and enthusiastic. She acted as if she’d been waiting for this meeting with Etta all her life. “I’d thought of having a street suit made for myself, but it would be more splendid on you.”
Etta said, “Thank you, but we’ll see about that. Perhaps you can wear the color, perhaps not.
We should go together for a look, and I’ll promise you an honest opinion. We must make the decision together as to whom it suits.”
Later my friend Viola came to stand beside me, but by then I had put aside my oils in favor of viewing the interactions nearby. Viola glanced several times in my direction.
Viola was a plain, brown-haired, brown-eyed girl with an unfortunate chin that made a sharp V on its end. Once I was trying to comfort her about it and said that it gave her face the shape of a heart, but in reality it drew the eyes downward and gave her an overall appearance of prudishness, which would only worsen with age.
Viola made up for her lack of attractiveness, however, with intelligence, not only of the bookish type, but also of the social type, and she could converse on any subject, from the most serious to the most inane. She called my mother “the Queen” behind her back, and she called Wallace McKay “the choirboy,” often to his face. More than with my other friends, I trusted Viola’s judgment.
As she stood beside me and watched Etta mingle, her face darkened. “There is something of need about her, isn’t there? Something yearning.”
I thought of saying that Etta had not been brought up with money and privilege as we had, so perhaps that accounted for the yearning. But I didn’t want to reveal anything about Etta’s past. “She’s new here, so I’m certain she’s yearning for friends.”
“Hmm,” murmured Viola. “No, it’s more than that. There’s something feral about her.”
I laughed. And then I recognized the undertone in Viola’s comment. She meant “sexual,” though she wouldn’t dare actually say that.
After the sun disappeared and pale moths and mosquitoes filled the night, we retired indoors to the dinner tables, set with porcelain, cut crystal, and silver. The ladies in their shining dresses bedecked with jewels swarmed around with the brightness of shimmering fish, the men were dark currents in their austere clothing, and Etta was the central whirl.
She ladled gravy onto her plate and dipped each bite of pork and even vegetables into it for extra flavor. I’d already noticed this about her during shared dinners with my mother. She always added extra seasoning and pepper, too, as if unadorned food was simply not good enough for her. Things needed embellishment.
People sensed this. They shared extraordinary but true stories about the 1900 Storm, about houses twisting and rolling off their foundations during the high water. They described the line of wreckage left afterward, which had stretched for miles, and told her of the winds that had exploded roofs and wagons and trees as if they were made of straw. Although our area of town sat on a high spot and we’d mostly been spared, several of my friends had lost someone—a cousin, a favorite maid, or a former classmate. Mother had lost an old friend. Others had been trapped in their homes, terrified, left with horrible memories, and some still suffered from nightmares. No one had been left unscathed.
Etta’s captivating eyes were open and unblinking as she listened. She asked questions with a piercing look and a lilting voice. “Why didn’t people leave? Why was there no warning?”
Wallace launched into the story of Isaac Cline, the meteorologist who tried to warn Galvestonians but didn’t predict the ferocity of the storm, and Etta acted as if she had never heard the tale before, although I was certain she had.
“So what is he, then?” she asked to all within earshot. “Is he an unsung hero, or the scapegoat, or the real failure in this matter?” On her face was rapt attention as she waited for a response. Every opinion seemed important to her.
“Scapegoat,” answered Wallace.
Larke disagreed. She shook her head, and her dark hair, left down against convention, swam about her shoulders. “Failure. He neglected his vocation.”
“No one could have forecast such a storm. Only a prophet,” said Jonathan.
“A prophet of doom,” said Etta thoughtfully, and that silenced everyone.
Viola finally spoke. “He’s an unsung hero. No one took him seriously, even when he did warn them. He flew the hurricane flags, but people kept on working and going about their business. They even remained on the beach, of all places.”
“On the beach?” said Etta, her eyebrows lifted even higher, her fork poised in the air.
“Apparently the waves were something to see,” said Wallace by way of explanation.
“Cline lost members of his family, too,” said Jonathan.
“What a tragedy,” said Etta, shaking her head. “But it ends well, does it not? The storm heralded the advances that Galveston needs, did it not?”
Everyone was in agreement about that. They nodded and explained and even complained about all of the upcoming changes, as necessary as they were. Mother and I had been traveling when the storm hit, and the house had suffered only minor damage, so we had been mostly untouched. But I said nothing. No need to flaunt our good fortune. By then it was obvious that my friends and even my mother’s friends were quite taken with my cousin. Among our guests, curiosity about her had made the dinner scrumptious. Her newness was just so new. She stared at people, a trait that was normally frowned upon and considered unladylike, but coming from Etta it was fetching. The men were mesmerized though a bit uneasy, and then I remembered what she had told me in the carriage on the day of her arrival: that her circus man had made her uneasy. And that was the effect she was having on many of the young men, including, to my surprise, Jonathan.
After the guests had left and Jonathan and I were taking a final stroll together out on the lawn, now lit with lanterns, he recalled many of her comments and antics. She had openly admitted to coming from the “sticks” of East Texas, and she had made the comment as if it were a novelty rather than a shortcoming. She claimed to need our assistance in adjusting to her new surroundings.
“I was certain everyone would like her,” I said to Jonathan.
“Why, she was delightful, a natural at a party,” he said, and then an expression of regret crossed his face. “Not as delightful as you, my dear, but nevertheless a charming addition to our little group for the summer. Since I am forced to spend long, dreary days observing a wall being built, I’ll look forward to any and all moments of frivolity.”
But only earlier today he had said he wanted to spend most of his spare time with me alone. “You’re taken with her,” I said, my ire rising. Why, even my Jonathan was enamored. Heat climbed up my face, and my eyes burned.
Jonathan’s smile faded as he stopped walking and turned to me. He grasped my upper arms in his hands and peered deeply into my eyes. I was having a hard time meeting his eyes. “Sweetheart, you’re jealous. But you needn’t be. Let me tell you what I think will happen this summer: Etta is like a new young actress who walks onto the stage of our lives and brightens it for a while. But someday she will become a familiar face. I find her amusing, but you have nothing to fear. I’m flattered that you would feel jealous, but no concern is warranted. I’ll always be true to you.”
I watched his chest rise and fall. I’d never expected this, and I thought I might cry. Then Jonathan took me into his arms, holding me solidly and tightly, and finally I breathed. He held me until my taut muscles relaxed and my hands no longer trembled.
When I pulled back, I said, “I wish her only well. I’m happy everyone enjoyed her.” And then he kissed me in a way that made most—but not all—of my worries sail away.
Later still, before we retired to bed that night, my mother summoned me into her private parlor, as she too wanted to recount the evening. I sat on the foot of her settee while she at first recalled some interesting comments made by and about our houseguest, then some humorous incidents I hadn’t even noticed, followed by a favorable critique of the food. But then, as she went on amusing herself, I found myself growing more and more annoyed, because a picture of me emerged that I took exception to, one of me as withdrawn and without humor.
She said, “You are my finest accomplishment, Grace. It disappoints me when you are not at your best.”
Cold fingers grippe
d my spine. “Oh,” I said. “And how did I disappoint tonight?”
With her lips pursed, Mother appraised me for a long moment. She looked at me as if I were a stranger and then crossed her arms. “You were distanced and moody.” Her wand-like fingers fluttered against her skin.
“Moody?”
“Perhaps sullen even.”
“I was not.”
She sighed. “Now, you know I rarely take my eyes off you for long. You simply weren’t up to your usual inviting self. You neglected our guest. But not to worry. We all have an evening or two when we aren’t as amiable as usual.”
She could be so hard. And even now, at the end of a long day, her appearance was polished. Not one hair fell out of place, and if it ever did, my mother would quickly press it back into order. Which is exactly what she was doing to me now.
I said, “Sorry to dissatisfy.”
“Come now,” said Mother. “You’re not above reproach, even though you’re engaged to the perfect man, are you?”
“It has nothing to do—”
“Never mind that. The evening is over. Etta fared well enough. She told me so herself, although she did mention that you didn’t introduce her to the Hardys.”
The Hardys were close friends of my mother’s, not mine, and they had just returned from sailing around Italy and Greece. They had talked about it the entire evening. “I was sparing her their travelogue. Etta hasn’t been anywhere, has she? I thought she’d feel uncomfortable.”
“Give her more credit, Grace. It seems to me she can handle anything. I made the introductions myself, and Etta conversed with them famously.” She reached forward and gave me two short pats on my knee. “Not to worry. We’ll do better next time.”
The Uncertain Season Page 5