The Uncertain Season

by Ann Howard Creel

  “You have no regrets, then, about your vocation?”

  “My rewards grow larger every day.”

  “I admire your philosophy and your faith,” I said, and then a moment later, “I admire you.”

  He didn’t respond, but his face colored and he turned away. I had overstepped. Working this closely with him had changed me and had broken down some of my usual reserve. His frequent searching glances were piercing holes in my carefully crafted façade. With his back to me, Ira silently began to wipe his spectacle lenses in careful circles, his head down, and his hair soft against his collar.

  Behind the joy, I sensed something raw and open about him, some unspoken pain that perhaps drove him to do the work that he did. Perhaps some people take on other people’s woes instead of their own. Perhaps those people in fact need caring for more than others.

  But instead Ira doted on me. He frequently took my hand to help me around a puddle of water or a pile of rubbish, even though by then I could handle myself without his assistance. In the rain, he removed his coat and held it over my head so I wouldn’t ruin my dress. Sometimes, though, when we were alone in our office, he left me abruptly. And once I came upon him holding my hat, which I had removed earlier. He blushed, handed it over, and whispered, “Lovely.” My cheeks grew warm.

  He was surprised to find out that I’d never ridden the trolley. I hesitated to tell him that my mother had never allowed it, since we had carriages and drivers. So for no reason other than fun, we rode the trolley up and down Broadway, and I turned my back when we passed my house, without pointing it out to Ira. When the trolley filled and we were shoved far to the left, Ira hung on to the side and purposefully leaned out over the track.

  “My friends and I used to hop on trains when we were teenagers,” he said, smiling, over the clacking of the trolley. “We would ride for a while and then jump off.”

  I hung on with all my might. “It sounds dangerous. What compelled you to do such a thing?”

  “It impressed the girls.”

  I spurted out a surprised laugh. “So, how did the girls show their appreciation?”

  He laughed, throwing his head back in the wind, and I was afraid he might lose his balance. Don’t fall. Crazy feelings surged through my brain. I cared too much what this man thought of me; I cared too much for this man.

  He answered, “It’s not a very interesting story.”

  Gathering myself, I said, “Let me be the judge of that.”

  He drew his body closer to the trolley car, closer to my face, where I could pick up his scent. Masculine but sweet. A flush rose from my neck into my face. What was happening to me? My mind wasn’t right.

  “They teased us into believing they might go on dates with us, but they didn’t.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  Patting his stomach, he said, “I was the fat boy in school. And my friends—Temple, he had a crippled arm from polio, and Roger, he was the smallest boy in our class—we weren’t very appealing.”

  He said this with a smile, which made it all the sadder to me. I had to blink away the beginnings of tears. “I’m sorry to hear that your childhood was . . . difficult.”

  “Not at all. I’ve given you the wrong impression. Those two—why, they were the best buddies anyone could ever want. We had something rare: true friendship. I’m close to them to this day. We write once a week.”

  “I-I . . . How wonderful for you . . .” Desperate to know more about his life, I opened my mouth and hoped for something appropriate to come out. But just then a baby on the trolley started howling, and the wind whipped up and swept my words away.

  In the evenings I always returned home in time to share dinner with my mother and Etta, and sometimes with Jonathan as well. Still mulling over my day, I picked at my food after such demanding and emotional work, while Etta ate voraciously. I had been on my feet all day, whereas Etta had been sorting through her assorted invitations and going on excursions and shopping sprees. And yet my heart held no ache of envy.

  After the dinner hour, I was usually too fatigued to go anywhere; therefore, I was declining most of the invitations sent my way. I was not becoming antisocial, but rather many of the parties and celebrations had begun to feel a bit silly. We gathered together all the time simply for enjoyment, ate lavish meals, and enjoyed expensive entertainment, and seldom did anything that could benefit others.

  Mother usually studied me for a moment and then accepted my explanations without further questioning. But Etta watched everything. She studied me with Jonathan, she watched me as I ate or didn’t eat, and she hung on every word uttered by my mother. Over dinner, which was the only time I saw Etta now, she would often say to me, “How was your day? Tell us what goes on down there to keep you so preoccupied.”

  Typically I gave some vague description of one small event and left out any specifics. The city belonged to me even more now that I knew its contrasts and needs, those unseen screw men and dancehall girls, barmaids and charcoal peddlers. But there was no way to describe my experiences to Etta. Not even Jonathan could understand. When we spent time together, he filled me in on the latest stories: who was courting whom, where people were escaping the heat, and what new game or activity was currently in vogue. I found my mind wandering while he spoke.

  No longer angry with Mother, I was relieved, released from being a center of attention I no longer desired. My mother, if she noticed the change in me, didn’t say. Of course she would think it a temporary lull. But at night I had dreams during which my legs were unloosed from twine while I was carried away by floodwaters of different whirling colors, my head always above the waterline, watching things go by.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ETTA

  She was invited to go sailing for a day aboard a yacht owned by Viola Waverly’s father, one of the founders of the United Fruit Company, which had holdings spread across the Caribbean. A servant delivered the invitations to both Grace and Etta after dinner one night.

  The three women of the Hilliard household were spending some rare moments together in the parlor. Bernadette was embroidering, Grace was reading, and Etta had been daydreaming.

  After opening the invitation, which was for Friday of the same week, Etta looked over at Grace, who had just put aside her book and opened her identical invitation. “Where are we to sail?”

  “I guess wherever the winds are favorable,” Grace answered. “I’ve gone out many times, and I’ve never asked where beforehand. It’s exhilarating. Have you ever been out on open water?”

  Etta said, “No.”

  “They most likely have planned a picnic on Red Fish Island. You’ll get from the yacht to the island by rowboat,” piped in Bernadette.

  Grace said, “You’ll enjoy it. There’s no other feeling like sailing.”

  “Are you going?” Etta asked Grace.

  “Friday is a workday for me.”

  A spark of tension ignited in the air, and Bernadette set down her embroidery hoop. “Grace, this is becoming ridiculous. You must take a day off and go. In fact, I insist.”

  “I have a prior commitment.”

  Pursing her lips, Bernadette said, “I never meant for this duty of yours to take over your life. Perhaps you’ve done enough. I’m certain you’ve made your apologies to Etta, so for now let bygones be bygones. You haven’t painted in weeks. I scarcely see you.”

  “Are you saying my penance is over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Now I’ll be going on my own. I feel much better about it then.”

  “You wish to continue?” Bernadette swatted a hand in the air. “Nonsense. You must get back to your life. Reacquaint yourself with your friends and Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan is busy all day. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be, too.”

  “You’re getting too carried away about your work and letting your social life suffer. I’ll have none of it.”

  Grace simply smiled and picked up her book. But not long after,
she left the parlor in favor of her room.

  “Oh, Etta dear,” Bernadette said pleadingly. “I don’t know what to do with her. I know I’m not the warmest person, but I do love my daughter. Why must she defy me like this? She has never been this bold before.”

  Etta moved quickly to her aunt’s side. “May I offer you my opinion?” When Bernadette gave a tiny nod, Etta continued: “I think you should let her go as long as she pleases. This has clearly become some sort of rebellion, and if you try to stop her, it will only make it worse. Her determination will grow stronger. Let her go until she tires of it. What harm could there be? She’s doing some good for the poor, probably learning a little humility, and she’ll grow weary of it eventually.”

  Bernadette stared into Etta’s eyes with a kind of appraising concentration, and Etta feared she may have overreached. But then Bernadette’s shoulders lowered and she finally said, “Yes. I believe you may be right.”

  How perfect. This would give Etta more time with her aunt. Let Grace exert her independence for the rest of the summer, or forever.

  Her aunt whispered, “Thank you,” and the genuine emotion in her voice touched Etta.

  “You’re the one I should be thanking. For everything.”

  “Such a dear you are.”

  Etta gazed down at the rug, where her invitation for sailing had fallen. She picked it up and sat again across from her aunt. For the first time, Etta was dumbfounded by an invitation. Parties, dinners, luncheons, and outings on the island had been enjoyable, but on the ocean? Or even the bay? Normally adventurous, she had retained a fear of the water, although she rarely admitted it. Why go out on the water unless one had to get somewhere? Why take risks on the scary seas with no destiny in mind, for no purpose whatsoever?

  Bernadette asked, “What is your hesitation?”

  “I’m not fond of the water. I like to look at it, but I can’t swim, and I don’t think I’d enjoy the outing.”

  Picking up her embroidery hoop, Bernadette started stitching again. “You don’t have to accept every invitation that comes your way, dear.”

  Etta pondered her dilemma. Viola had probably invited the rest of her cousin’s inner circle, and that meant Wallace, as well as Jonathan and Larke. Etta’s circle of friends had expanded beyond them, and sometimes she ran around with a flashier crowd, but she hated to miss seeing these friends, who were the first to take her in. And who knew what other young gentleman might be there?

  “Maybe I’ll decline the invitation to sail but . . . will they all go to dinner afterward?”

  “Most likely they’ll dine aboard the yacht after they come back to port.” Bernadette stopped stitching and gazed away wistfully. “Oh, it’s lovely to sit on the deck of a fine boat after a day of sailing. Most invigorating.”

  “Would it be proper to ask to join the group just for the dinner?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Bernadette nodded. “In fact, I think that’s a fine idea. I’ll suggest it to Grace as well.”

  Therefore, on Friday evening Seamus drove her alone—Grace had still declined—to the dockside as the sun was going down, the sky turning the color of overripe peaches and the wind settling into a mere whisper of what it had been during the day. Probably the group had enjoyed a fine sail. When she disembarked from the carriage, Jonathan was standing there to greet her and escort her on board.

  The boat was huge, and Etta had no idea what type of sailboat it was. Named Joan of Arc, it had two masts and was all rich teak, polished brass, lines held taut in fancy knots, furled sails, servants standing by, and an aft deck set up with a dining table and slatted chairs, adorned with pillows and cushions.

  Disappointment was a cold wave washing over her, however, when she saw that it was the same old crowd, with no new additions, except for the captain, a weathered but well-appointed middle-aged man in uniform.

  “You missed a wonderful day out there,” Jonathan said as he walked her to the table, where everyone was sitting and sipping on champagne.

  “I missed being frightened,” Etta replied quietly as she took her seat and greeted everyone.

  Jonathan spread his arms wide. “Look at this beauty. Best sailing yacht along the Gulf Coast. It would take an act of God to sink her.”

  “That’s what they always say,” uttered Etta under her breath as she smiled at the others.

  “We saw dolphins,” Larke exclaimed. “How do you like the ship?”

  Etta put on her pretty face. “I’m charmed.”

  She settled in, ready for an evening of attention, but was surprised that the talk was all about sailing in the Caribbean. Viola’s father would be taking the yacht to the West Indies over the winter months. They would be visiting Cuba, Puerto Rico, and several islands of the British West Indies, including Jamaica and Barbados. All of the dinner guests had already visited the region, and they talked of reefs, shipwrecks, and storms. Fishing trips and visiting friends who owned plantations. Weather and adventure.

  For the first time since her arrival in Galveston, Etta found herself left out of the conversation. She’d never even heard of some of the islands they mentioned, and she had no desire to visit a single one. On this night, a clear difference between her and these people emerged: the rich were more fearless than regular people. They took off for foreign places and crossed oceans as if their lives were so valuable that God wouldn’t dare let anything befall them. They were simply untouchable, invincible. They didn’t hesitate to do hazardous things simply for fun and to be able to relive their experiences later with others. Possible dangers were mentioned only in passing, as if they were little bothersome things that sometimes got on their nerves but ultimately added to the adventure. They had never tasted trepidation on their tongues, had never felt doubt creep over their scrubbed, smooth skin.

  Her eyes drifted over to Wallace. Poor Wallace. As the one who had let it slip about Etta’s circus man, he had kept his distance from her ever since. Wallace had a clean-cut, baby-faced attractiveness that had not especially appealed to Etta before but on this night seemed more enticing—perhaps by keeping himself removed. And he was growing a beard, probably trying to offset his cherubic looks. Normally Etta didn’t appreciate facial hair, but it was rather fetching on Wallace. And it did make him appear more mature.

  Someone was speaking to her. Viola. She had said something about Grace.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear.”

  “Why didn’t Grace come?”

  Etta said, “She’s busy.”

  “We’ve missed her,” said Larke.

  “I wonder what she does all day down in those . . . alleys,” said Viola.

  “She works,” Jonathan said.

  “I saw her the other day on the trolley with a man I assume was the Reverend Ira Price we’ve all been hearing so much about at church. They were laughing and hanging on like children. It didn’t look like work to me,” said Larke.

  Foolish Larke’s comment made everyone pause. Etta snapped a glance at Jonathan in time to see his face fall. Etta couldn’t believe that she had once thought of Jonathan as a rogue. He could never get away with deception of any kind, because everything he felt showed on his skin and in his eyes—he couldn’t mask a thing. However, he recovered quickly. “They work hard; this I know. Grace speaks highly of the Reverend.”

  The conversation moved on, and after dinner Wallace asked if he might give Etta a tour of the ship. After she agreed, he took her below to view the salon, cabins, galley, and wheelhouse. Etta found the interior constricting and asked if they might stroll above deck instead.

  Soon he had taken her to the bow, which pointed out into the bay, and Etta could finally breathe again. “You’ve been avoiding me, Wallace, neglecting me, in fact.”

  Wallace frowned. “I had no idea you had been missing my company. I was sure that you would want little to do with the likes of me, the indiscriminate one.”

  “Such old business,” Etta said. “It’s already forgotten.”

&n
bsp; “I’m so pleased.”

  Etta saw opportunity there. So far she had met many people, but despite her social standing and bright prospects in the beginning, she had not yet been sought out for any serious courting. Men had lined up to dance with her, but few had come to call. Maybe she needed to initiate something more substantial. “Grace has left me to my own devices. Not that I’m helpless . . .”

  “You? Of course not.”

  She waited.

  “I’d be delighted to call on you.”

  “Please do,” she said with a smile.

  He looked elated.

  At the evening’s end, Jonathan offered to escort Etta home, and once they were in the carriage he said with a drawn face, “Grace never told me about the trolley ride.”

  Etta almost smiled but restrained herself. Jonathan had looked rattled ever since Larke had mentioned seeing Grace with the minister. And now he obviously considered Etta to be a friend, a confidante. “It’s nothing. Perhaps they were simply running an errand.”

  “She has never mentioned taking the trolley. She told me they go about on foot.”

  Etta sat still. How interesting it was that Grace was apparently not telling her fiancé everything.

  He gripped the door handle and gazed out into the twinkling lights of the streets. “She tells me almost nothing now. It’s as if the girl I knew is gone.”

  “Come now. Grace is probably incapable of hiding anything from you. Don’t you trust her?”

  “I did,” he said through a sigh. He seemed like an unwanted pet or discarded toy. Staring out the window, he sounded achingly vulnerable as he said softly, “But I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  She chose her words most carefully. She had never desired discord between Grace and Jonathan, but now that it was here, there was something intriguing about it. Why were people drawn to watching house fires? To surveying the scenes of accidents? “You’re having doubts.”

  “Not really . . .” He shook his head and continued to stare blankly outside. “Maybe.”