“I wouldn’t say that, but I would like to do something amusing with you for a change. Perhaps we should go to a dance or a dinner with our friends.”
I looked his way and smiled as a way of agreement.
“You aren’t painting, either.”
My days were so full of color and texture and movement that I hadn’t felt the need to put more of it down on canvas. “I haven’t been able to focus on art lately.”
“Have you taken to this charity work?”
“Yes,” I told him as we walked onward. “I have a hard time admitting that I’d never thought of helping others until recently.”
A tremendous full moon rose over the salt cedars rimming the back of the property. “Perhaps we should look at things in a new way. Some of my college buddies are becoming Socialists.”
Jonathan had been reading about Jack London. He looked to me for a response, but I could barely smile.
He said, “Like London, I admire some of the doctrine, but I don’t see how it could work.”
Socialism sounded much like anarchy to me, but politics in general had never interested me very much.
Jonathan said, “Americans will never give up their lust for money.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
He recoiled in an exaggerated way. “Please don’t tell me you dislike being wealthy now.”
“No,” I said and laughed. Jonathan could always put the levity back into any situation. “No. I’m not planning on giving everything away, but the wealth of this world is so poorly distributed. If you could only see the disparity close up, you’d also realize that the wealth of the world could be spread so much more evenly.”
“Things will never be even. Don’t even hope for it, or you’ll doom yourself to certain disappointment.”
“Walt Whitman says that if we don’t address the problems of the underclasses, our experiment in democracy will fail.”
“So you see,” he said with a smile, “you may be the Socialist in the family after all.”
I gazed off. “I’m seeing the differences so closely now.”
“I was teasing you, Grace.”
“Oh. Well, I’m serious.”
He stopped and faced me. “So, your mother’s sentence isn’t punishment after all. You’re enjoying yourself. You have triumphed. You’re the victor, Grace.”
He meant well, so I smiled. “I don’t feel victorious, simply overwhelmed at the moment.”
“However, you choose not to talk about it.”
He was irritated with me and obviously feeling ignored. But I didn’t want to share; that much was true. “If I were to relive it all with words, I’d be exhausted.”
“I suppose I should say I understand.”
“I do hope so.”
“Anyway, it will be over with soon.”
But I wasn’t certain anymore if I wanted that. I didn’t presume to think my presence was so important that I would be missed down in the alleys. Life there would continue with or without people such as Ira and me. But there was something about the places and people I saw that I wanted to understand, a glimpse of something that if found would allow me to see what perhaps I needed to see.
The next day, when Ira and I were sorting through some crates, a very anxious-looking young man summoned Ira at the door. “You best come on,” the young man said with a sense of urgency that tightened my throat.
Ira followed the young man down the street, with me on their heels, but when Ira asked what was happening, he received no answer. The young man only shook his head and simply said, “Just come on.” I was struggling to keep up with them, and by the time we arrived on the scene, a small crowd was following us. I overheard the others saying that a young boy of about ten had just died of a fever in the wards of John Sealy Hospital, the skills of modern medical practitioners apparently unable to save him. His grandfather was now in grave need, I was told.
At that point, I almost turned away, not wanting to be a voyeur of someone else’s pain. But something told me to push on. The urgency in the young man’s voice made me worry about Ira.
When we arrived, I saw that the grandfather was Charles, the same man for whom Ira had read a letter on my first day in the alleys; the same one I’d thought of as crass when I first met him. Then I remembered Isiah, the polite and charming boy I’d met that same day. Gone in the blink of an eye.
We found Charles standing wide-stanced among the tall, muddied weeds of his small yard. I’d never noted how tall and rail thin he was, and today his clothes hung off his body, his eyes deep pools of yellowish water. He looked out at the crowd, his face as blank as that of a corpse. He asked a mumbling question that no one seemed to understand.
Only then did I see the knife in his hand. The blade caught a glint of sunlight and beamed it back into the cloudy, lightning-split sky. I held my breath, having no idea if the man intended to use the knife on himself or to inflict harm on others.
Charles stumbled about the small yard as if he were drunk, but he’d had no liquor, I was told. Instead, some dark spirit, a soulless grief, had overtaken him. I looked to Ira for direction. I heard murmurings about summoning the police, but Ira held up a hand to halt this.
Another man, a very large one with sensitive eyes, entered the yard and approached the grieving grandfather. He tried to cajole the knife from the older man, but Charles pushed him away so hard that the other man backed off immediately, his hands up in the air, as if to say, All right, I’ll leave you be.
Then I knew why I had come, despite the weakness in my knees. Ira might need to be stopped from putting himself in harm’s way. If so, would he heed my call?
Charles gazed around for a few long minutes, everyone holding his or her breath, but he did nothing, and it looked as though his grip on the knife was easing. I thought for a long relieved moment that he would drop the knife and the crisis would be over.
Then, as we watched in shocked horror, Charles lifted the knife and placed the blade against his inner forearm just above the wrist. He began to press down.
Now the women around me were whimpering and whispering prayers to the Lord. A sourness churned in my stomach, and my breath was hot and urgent, my neck strung with tight ropes. Everyone appeared to be paralyzed. Ira was standing near me and still not moving. If a number of the men moved forward, they could stop Charles. Why didn’t they try to stop him? I was too shocked to say it myself, and I supposed they were, too.
An old gentleman who wore a patchy straw hat said to the enraged man in a low rasping voice, “Don’t do it, Charles. Don’t do it.”
Another man said, “You go on and give it up now. Give it up.”
But it was as if the older man couldn’t hear, his face blank and inhuman. He slowly and methodically pushed the tip of the knife into his flesh until a bloom of blood appeared. “Don’t want . . .” he mumbled, “to go on now.”
Ira and a few of the men started toward him, but Charles held up his free hand in warning. Then silence and sunlight shot through a crack in the clouds. In one blinding moment, Charles seemed to become aware of what he’d been about to do. He pulled back from the brink, dropped the knife, looked around at the crowd and squinted, as if a bright realization had suddenly been shined into his eyes. His wet, yellow gaze passed over the rest of us and finally settled on Ira. “Good thing you is here, Rev’rend. I just scared all these good folks half to death.”
Ira let himself into the yard and took the man in his arms. I saw silent retching sobs but heard no sounds.
Ira returned to the office hours later, visibly shaken. People rarely saw such absolute grief before their eyes. And I had thought Charles such a happy soul. How humbling was the realization that before I was at the center of nothing except my own small life, and that events went on in the world that were powerful and desperate and had absolutely nothing to do with justice or fairness. My hands were still trembling as I tried to pack crates for distribution. Ira and I had food that needed to go out that afternoon.<
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Finally Ira stood inside the doorway, his hands at his sides, quiet and still. He was watching me sweep around the room, yet his eyes held an urgency I’d not seen before.
Several strands of my hair fell into my face. I tried to rake them away, but they wouldn’t budge. My forehead was too damp and my hands too shaky. I said, “I’ve almost finished. The food must go out soon.”
Ira’s eyes were glazed with something I couldn’t describe. He had always seemed so strong to me, both in spirit and physique, but today he didn’t look so hardy. Our eyes met, and his were full of light and vulnerability. In a whisper he said, “Don’t leave me here alone.”
His words came like a soft blow to the chest, followed by an emptiness, a longing so deep it felt like starvation, as if I’d been hollowed.
I ran into his open arms and let him hold me, his body as steady as ballast, and I whispered into his ear, “I won’t.”
Chapter Twenty
ETTA
Wallace came to call on a Wednesday afternoon when it was so hot and humid the interiors of carriages were almost unbearable. So instead of taking an excursion they remained on the portico, sipping lemonade. Despite the heat, Wallace had come dressed in a suit and tie, and Etta had worn another of the new frocks her aunt had funded. Her aunt had also given her spending money, but Etta had yet to figure out where she would spend it.
After he and Etta exchanged niceties, Wallace kept rocking on his heels and standing, refusing to sit. They made several inane comments about the heat, and Etta, fanning herself with one of her aunt’s souvenirs from the Orient, said, “Something seems to be bothering you.”
At first, he denied it, but he finally stood still, stared at her hard, and said, “I wonder why you’ve forgiven me and yet you won’t forgive your cousin.”
She smiled and wished she found Wallace more attractive. “For talking of my past?” He had shaved off the beard, which she had liked, and now he looked positively childish and angelic, not alluring or enticing at all. “How do you know I haven’t forgiven Grace?”
“It’s obvious. On the rare occasions when we see you together, there’s an air of hostility. Everyone can feel it.”
An arrow of annoyance shot through her, and Etta’s forehead was beginning to dampen. “Why is everyone so concerned about Grace? Overprotective even, as if she’s a child?”
Wallace said slowly, “She hasn’t had an easy life.”
Etta couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Please don’t say that, Wallace. I was starting to like you, but if you continue to make ridiculous statements such as that, you will make it near to impossible.”
He licked his lips. “I mean that it’s her father . . . or rather I should say the absence of her father.”
“But people lose parents all the time. Some even lose both parents.” Her annoyance was growing; this was not the way she had planned for the afternoon to transpire. She sweetened her voice and stopped fanning herself so that Wallace could see the sincerity in her eyes. “But never mind. I’ve been properly chastised, and I have forgiven my cousin. If that hasn’t been apparent, I regret it. I promise to be on my best behavior from now on. And . . . besides . . . I’d rather talk about you.”
He smiled hesitantly. “What do you wish to know?”
Etta positioned herself on a chair and looked up at Wallace invitingly. “Let’s make this a little interesting. Oh, do sit down, Wallace, please.”
He took a chair next to her a respectable distance away but close enough for quiet conversation.
Etta smiled mischievously and said, “Tell me something interesting. Something I’ve never heard before. Tell me . . . your secret.”
He laughed a little uneasily. “Why do you assume I have a secret?”
“Because everyone does.”
Clasping his hands together on his lap, he was clearly trying to appear nonplussed. “I disagree.”
Etta leaned closer. “But in your case it happens to be true, doesn’t it?”
He looked away and then gazed back at her. “Maybe.”
“Do tell,” said Etta and fanned herself again.
Studying her, he lifted one eyebrow. “Gambling.”
Finally he hadn’t held back; she liked that. And gambling did make dear Wallace seem more intriguing. At least he wasn’t perfect, as some people claimed he was. She settled lower in the chair. “Hmm. That is interesting.”
“I don’t do it often, but when I do . . . Well, it’s an adventure. Of course my parents have no idea . . .” He leaned a bit closer. “So there it is. I’ve been honest with you. Now it’s your turn. What is your secret?”
Etta shrugged. She would keep it simple and superficial. “I suppose it’s not a secret any longer. Many people, including you, know that I love to go barefoot, even to run barefoot.”
Though his eyes showed disappointment, he smiled. “Not such a bad vice.”
“I removed my shoes for tennis lessons the other day, and I was told it wasn’t ladylike.”
“So?”
“I kept them off anyway, of course.”
Wallace laughed and then said pensively, “It must be tough on the feet, however.”
Etta batted her eyelashes and then caught his gaze. “I promise that I have no calluses. Nothing but soft skin everywhere . . .”
Wallace colored but unfortunately had no clever response. She had given him the perfect opportunity to say something seductive. Oh hell, she would’ve settled for flirtatious. Viola had been right. She called Wallace a “choirboy” for good reason. Despite the admitted gambling, he was no match for her.
This had not been a good idea after all. She ended up sending him away earlier than planned, using the heat as an excuse. He acquiesced easily, but there was a change in him anyway: unintentionally, she had hurt him.
The next time her aunt told her that she must conduct another day of business, Etta was prepared. She dressed as if planning to stay in, and then at the last minute she grabbed a shawl for travel and took enough coins for train fare, following her aunt again in the carriage that she had ordered prepared in advance. She stayed out of view at the depot until Bernadette had disappeared, and then she gauged how long it would take her aunt to purchase her ticket and board. Then Etta entered the station and bought a ticket on the train sitting in the station, bound for Houston. She bought passage in a second-class compartment, where she was sure not to run into her aunt.
The train clacked across the bay. Today the ocean was quiet and still, in contrast to Etta’s churning stomach and spinning thoughts. Perhaps she should feel guilty for following her aunt, who had shown her so much kindness, but Etta couldn’t stop herself. There was a secret begging to be uncovered here.
In Houston she disembarked and looked about for her aunt while hiding within the throng and being careful not to be seen. She was in luck. Out in front of the depot was a line of carriages for hire, and she recognized her aunt’s distinctive form as she stepped into a carriage that she had apparently just hired.
Etta quickly hired a carriage herself and told the driver to follow the one her aunt had taken, keeping a reasonable distance between them, and soon they had traveled through the hot dusty city—not nearly as attractive as Galveston—to its outskirts on roads that were as straight as drawn lines. They lumbered first on pavement and then on a dirt road that led through an area of vast cotton and cornfields, all as cool and green and orderly as markings on a map. The greenery made Etta momentarily daydream of home, but she quickly put her mind back to the task at hand.
Her aunt’s carriage turned into the drive of what looked like a large, old plantation home, isolated from everything. Etta asked the driver to pull over under the shade of a moss-dangling old oak, where they were less likely to be seen. The house was unmarked and unnamed, quiet, with only a few trees and simple gardens in front, an automobile and several carriages parked before it. A man in a business suit was descending the front stairs.
Etta couldn’t instruct her driver
to go down the drive or she would risk being seen. Instead, she asked him to drive slowly by. So from a distance she watched as her aunt exited her carriage, then turned to face her driver. She appeared to be telling him to wait for her. Then Bernadette climbed the front steps, passed between massive white columns, and disappeared through an unseen door.
Etta then asked the driver to stop. With her aunt nowhere in sight, she studied the place. If she had simply passed by, she might have thought it a private home. It had a lazy feel, but on the other hand there was something uninviting about it, too, something silent and closed. Etta decided the house had the rather sterile air of a business establishment, maybe a place where people made secretive deals. But what kind of business, Etta had no idea. The trees stood perfectly still, framing the house like bars, and through the leaves the closed windows glinted in the sunlight as though teasing her. Etta couldn’t understand it. Closed windows in such heat?
Her aunt hadn’t reappeared, and Etta didn’t know what she would do if she did. If Etta stayed there too long, she might be discovered. When finally the heat sank into her skin to the point of nausea, and after gaining no more information, she had no choice but to instruct her driver to turn around and disappear into the dust stirred up by the carriage’s wheels.
Her aunt had included Etta in everything, but not this. And why the lies? What could her aunt be doing in there? What business could she be conducting, if it were business at all? And why didn’t she want Etta to know about it? She had no choice but to leave the scene without answers. She had thought of her and her aunt as closer than mother and daughter. She had thought of them as alike and inseparable. And now she felt no more significant than a single particle in the midst of all that dust.
The Uncertain Season Page 17