The Promise

by Weisgarber, Ann

  Now, in the bathtub, I wrung the sponge, twisting it. I washed my hair, then drained the tub and huddled near the faucet to rinse it. Back in my room, I dried it with a towel and left it loose. Wearing only my summer robe and slippers, I found my sheet music in one of my trunks. I sat on the spindle chair by one of the windows and read the music for ‘Moonlight Sonata’, hearing the sad slow notes as if I were playing them. It was said that Beethoven composed it to honor a woman he loved but who did not love him in return. He wrote it to say farewell.

  I put the music back in the trunk.

  I arranged my hair into a pompadour even though it was still damp. Dressed in a fresh white shirtwaist and my green skirt, I went downstairs and had a light dinner of tomato soup in the dining room. After, I went to the small parlor on the second floor and sat on the pink upholstered settee across from a cluster of horsehair chairs. A gray-haired man sat at a desk in the corner studying what appeared to be blueprints. Long shafts of sunlight came in through the tall open doors. Early evening, I thought, and still so hot. I tried to read the wrinkled newspaper that someone had left on an end table, but the news about the upcoming presidential election blurred before my eyes. I folded it and put it back, and that was when I noticed the brown upright piano near the fireplace.

  I had never played an upright. The professors at the music conservatory advised against it. Uprights were inexpensive and their tones were inferior. Play nothing but the best, the professors said. Steinways or Sohmers. But now my hands longed for the cool touch of ivory.

  I got up and went to the upright. It was a Mason & Hamlin, and there was sheet music on the rack.

  ‘You play?’ the man at the desk said. I looked at him over my shoulder. His spectacles magnified his eyes and showed his curiosity. I turned back to the sheet music. ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Upstairs, my room glowed orange from the setting sun. I closed the door and turned the key in the lock. I pulled the tortoiseshell combs from my hair. A train left Union Station, its engine gaining as it slowly picked up speed. I undressed and hung my clothes in the wardrobe, which smelled of cedar. The floorboards creaked beneath my slippered feet as I put on my nightdress. The rose-flowered wallpaper was loose at the seams, and it shimmered with sweat from the dampness in the air. The light faded, and the room eased into darkness.

  I pushed aside a panel of mosquito netting that draped from the bed’s canopy. The mattress was spongy in the middle and had a musty smell. In the hallway, someone hummed as he walked past, and on the street below, a man called out, ‘Robert, I’m coming.’ The white linen drapes lifted slightly in the breeze, but the air in the room didn’t move and my skin was soon sticky as though covered with salt. In bed, I lay on my side, my black crystal earrings on the nightstand beside me.

  It was August 29, 1900, the eve of my wedding day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Central Hotel

  A black silk ribbon dangled from the spine of the worn book that Judge Monagan held open in one hand. Oscar and I stood before him in his wood-paneled office. Two clerks leaned against a side wall with a four-drawer file cabinet between them. The taller of the two had his arms crossed while the other man twisted one end of his dark mustache.

  This was my wedding, held in a courthouse office and witnessed by two clerks. For them, this was nothing more than an interruption in their work day. They didn’t know that the floor beneath my feet felt slippery or that within minutes, I would step into a world that bore little resemblance to that which I had come from.

  The open window behind the judge faced the cream-colored brick wall of another building, and outside, birds cackled. If only there were a breeze, I thought. My navy suit was far too heavy for this climate, but this was my wedding. My pride would not allow me to wear a shirtwaist and skirt. Drops of perspiration ran from the judge’s brow, and my own face was damp, my wool hat with its white plumes another choice dictated by pride.

  Beside me, Oscar stood with his shoulders back. He was freshly shaved, and his high collar was starched. His suit jacket was buttoned. This was his wedding, too. His second wedding.

  He put his hand on the small of my back, his fingers spread wide. My pulse quickened and for a moment, I felt myself lean into his hand.

  Judge Monagan cleared his throat. Oscar dropped his hand, and the judge began to read. His voice boomed as if the room lined with shelves of law books and court records were filled with family and friends wishing Oscar and me well. ‘We are gathered here on this day, August the 30th, 1900, for the wedding of …’ He stopped and pulled out a piece of paper he had earlier inserted into the book. He studied it, then started again. ‘For the wedding of Miss Catherine Wainwright and Mr Oscar Williams.’ He looked at me. ‘Are you, Miss Wainwright, here of your own free will, and do you intend to marry this man?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘A little louder, Miss Wainwright,’ Judge Monagan said. ‘So the witnesses can hear.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and this time it was too loud, my voice startling me.

  ‘And you, Mr Williams,’ he said. ‘Are you here of your own free will, and do you intend to marry this woman?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Oscar said. ‘I am, and I do.’

  One of the clerks laughed. Oscar, his jaw set, gave him a tight look. Both clerks straightened, their smiles gone, and I resisted the sudden urge to take off my crystal earrings. They were a gift from Edward; I should not have worn them.

  Judge Monagan continued. ‘Is there anyone here who has a reason why this couple may not be lawfully joined?’

  He looked up and over his eyeglasses, his gaze going back and forth between Oscar and me, and then to the witnesses. The room was thick with silence.

  ‘Mighty fine,’ he said. ‘No objections.’ He made a twirling motion with his forefinger. ‘You two turn and face one another.’ We did, my movements jerky, the toes of Oscar’s broad boots now just a handful of inches from the tips of my narrow shoes. A thin crack splintered the top of one of his boots, but the leather, I saw, was buffed to a high shine.

  I looked up. Our eyes met and all at once, everything – the desk stacked with papers, the judge, the witnesses, the cackling birds outside – fell away. Oscar frightened me, I realized all at once. Not that he would harm me, it wasn’t that. It was the way he looked at me, drawing me in, my composure lost.

  ‘Miss Wainwright,’ Judge Monagan said.

  My thoughts snapped back into place.

  ‘Repeat after me.’

  I nodded.

  He said, ‘I, Catherine Wainwright.’

  I echoed the words, my sense of disquiet heightened.

  ‘Take you, Oscar Williams,’ I heard myself say, my gaze fixed on Oscar’s jacket lapels. They were too wide; the fashion had changed a few years ago. Then, ‘To be my lawfully wedded husband.’

  ‘Good,’ Judge Monagan said. ‘Now you, Mr Williams.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Oscar said, and again the phrases filled the room, spoken once by the judge and then repeated by Oscar.

  I steadied my breathing. The judge licked his finger and turned the page. He said to Oscar, ‘Is there a ring?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Oscar unfastened the top button of his jacket and took out a wide gold band from his vest pocket. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. The judge gave him a look of approval and then told me to take off my glove. I did so, my hands all thumbs, my cloth purse with its drawstrings swinging from my right wrist.

  Oscar took my left hand. I watched as he slid the wedding band along my ring finger. The band in place but feeling a bit loose, his fingers began to close around mine.

  ‘Good,’ Judge Monagan said. ‘Very good.’

  Oscar released my hand.

  ‘Now then. In front of these witnesses, this couple has declared their intention to join their lives in marriage.’

  A declaration, and I belonged to Oscar. As he belonged to me.

  ‘Y
ou may kiss the bride.’

  Oscar leaned toward me. My breathing turned shallow and fast. Not in this office, I wanted to say. Not with three men watching. He put his hands on my upper arms and all at once, my eyes closed and my chin lifted. He bumped my hat as he kissed me, a light brush against my lips, quick, but long enough for the smell of him to envelop me.

  Soap. Tobacco. And fresh-cut hay.

  ‘Ten minutes past four,’ Oscar said, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. He put the watch back into his vest pocket. We were on a bench in the shade of an oak tree in front of the courthouse. ‘More than likely the Jerseys are having themselves a little siesta right about now.’

  ‘Jerseys?’

  ‘My cows.’

  I didn’t know what to say to this man who was now my husband. I was dazed by the quickness of the wedding ceremony and by the hearty congratulations from the judge. I felt rearranged and marked as though the people walking past us could see by my features that I was a different woman, a married woman.

  ‘All right,’ Oscar said. He took out a matchbox and a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in his jacket. ‘It’s a powerful habit,’ he said, referring to the cigarette he held now between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘My father said much the same about cigars,’ I said. My father had never smoked in the presence of ladies but Oscar had no such reservations. The cigarette between his lips, he struck a match. The flame flared. He lit the cigarette; its tip burned red. He flicked the match and the flame went out. His chin raised, he inhaled.

  Water bubbled at a nearby marble fountain and splashed into the circular basin. It was a lighthearted melody but it did not soothe my nerves. The Central Hotel was blocks from here. Earlier, Oscar had met me in the parlor and from there, we walked to City Hall for our marriage license and then on to the courthouse. The walk had seemed endless, block after block in the sun. Now, as we sat under the oak tree, a noticeable space between us, I imagined our return to the hotel. His hand would be on the small of my back as we’d step through the open door and into the modest entrance. There’d be arrangements to make with the desk clerk: a change in the registration, a line drawn through my name, and a new combination of names – Mr and Mrs Oscar Williams – written in the narrow space above. The desk clerk, a knowing look in his eye, would hand Oscar the room key.

  The leaves of the oak stirred. I should say something but I couldn’t think what that might be. Oscar, too, didn’t seem to know what to say. The breeze caught at my hem, lifted it and my navy skirt ballooned. I pressed it flat, and on the street that bordered the courthouse park, a trolley slowed to a stop, the sharpness of the clanging bell carrying me to Dayton, the overhead electric wires humming as Edward Davis sat several rows behind me.

  ‘How about we take a ride?’ Oscar said. ‘Show you the sights?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, the word coming out in a rush. ‘I would enjoy that very much.’

  ‘Me too,’ Oscar said. He took one last pull on his cigarette and blew out the smoke in a thin stream. He dropped the cigarette on the gravel and ground it with the toe of his boot.

  We sat in the middle of the trolley, Oscar on the aisle seat and I at the window. His leg was close to my skirt, and the weave of his trousers was rough and knobby. In front of Oscar a dark-haired woman held a sleeping baby whose cheek was pressed into her shoulder. The trolley, buckling and shuddering, lurched into the traffic.

  His hat in his hands, Oscar leaned forward to see around and past me. The trolley creaked as we gained speed, and Oscar’s leg came closer.

  ‘We’re on Winnie Street, coming up to what we call the East End,’ he said. The track dipped and the baby in front of us opened his eyes and then closed them.

  ‘Beautiful homes,’ I said. ‘And such lovely shade trees.’ Block after block of two-story houses with wraparound porches and gingerbread trim slipped by. The houses had complicated roof lines with peaks, dormer windows, and widow’s walks. Their staircases were grand, wide and sweeping. In my mind, though, I was at the Central Hotel, Oscar directing me toward the stairs. I’d have to hold on to the banister, the pitch of each scuffed step uneven as he followed with the room key in his hand.

  That could happen an hour from now. Perspiration dampened my hairline. Hot wind rushed in through the trolley windows and loosened strands of my hair. I tried to tuck them into place but it was hopeless. Beside me, Oscar swayed with the trolley. His leg crushed my skirt. I blotted my forehead with my gloved fingers.

  In front of us, the woman rocked from side to side, and patted the back of her sleeping baby. The voices of passengers floated around me, the trolley stopping at every corner, the bell ringing. People got off and others boarded, a few of the women glancing at Oscar and then at me as they walked past in search of seats.

  ‘Next street up is Ninth,’ Oscar said when the trolley started moving.

  ‘Very nice,’ I said. I saw myself in the hotel washroom that I had used yesterday. I was in the rusty tub, water to my shoulders, the door locked and Oscar down the hall, waiting in my room. Our room.

  We rounded a corner. ‘The cross street coming up is Sealy,’ Oscar said. ‘They’re a big family in these parts. They’re customers, too. Good ones.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘My milk,’ Oscar said. ‘The Sealys drink it by the bucket.’

  ‘I see.’ With Edward Davis, there had been conversations about literature, artists, and composers. There had been dinners in secluded dining rooms and rides in private cabs, my hand on his arm.

  ‘Broadway Avenue,’ Oscar said. ‘We’re proud of this street.’

  ‘I can well imagine.’ Oak trees and bushes with pink flowers trimmed the boulevard in the center of the avenue. The trolley crept across the avenue, the conductor clanging the bell to warn the cross traffic. We stopped and started, the trolley jerking. Finally we were on the other side of Broadway. We gained speed, passing blocks of houses. Here, though, the yards were narrow, as were the small plain one-story clapboard houses, most of them atop brick columns a few feet above street level.

  The trolley turned a corner, lurching. I fell against Oscar, my shoulder colliding with his arm, my leg pressing against his. I felt the solidness of him; I heard the quick intake of my breath. He steadied me, his hand gentle on my upper arm. I gathered myself, straightening. The trolley slowed, and Oscar released my arm.

  ‘The Gulf of Mexico,’ he said. The city street had given way to sand, and the tracks now ran parallel to a beach. Beyond it, a wide expanse of water shimmered blue and silver in the sun.

  ‘See them?’ Oscar said, pointing out the window. ‘The Pagoda.’ In the water, two round wood buildings stood on top of tall thin posts. Long wood walkways, crowded with people, connected the pagodas to the beach.

  ‘We call them bathhouses,’ Oscar said. ‘Aren’t they something, up on those stilts? Seven feet above the water and some thirty paces from the high-tide line. Folks call them an engineering marvel. Tourists come by the hundreds to see them.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like them,’ I said.

  ‘And all this commotion over here is the Midway. See it? Here on the beach? The carnival games, rides, and suchlike? Tourists keep it busy spring, summer, and fall.’

  The trolley crawled along the wide, flat beach and took us past the clutter of the Midway. In the surf, children leapt over small waves while others dug barehanded in the sand. Men and women walked along the tide line, the women in belted bathing costumes, their striped bloomers billowing down to their ankles and their hair tucked up under ruffled caps. The men’s black costumes were sleek and form-fitting, the shapes of their torsos and thighs unmistakably outlined. Their calves were bare. The straps over their shoulders were narrow so that their upper chests and arms were exposed.

  ‘Murdock’s, that’s one of the bathhouses out over the water. Can’t see it from this angle but it has a restaurant,’ Oscar said. ‘They’re proud of their lemonade. They serve their beer cold, too. I’m a tad thirsty
, how about you?’

  I forced a smile.

  The trolley eased to a stop and began to empty as passengers filed down the aisle and towards the back exit. The woman in front of us with the baby stood up. My pulse rushed. I could have a child by early June. That had been something Edward and I had sought to avoid, although we had never spoken of it. But I was married now, and Oscar was a Catholic. He would expect children. Many children. It was one more thing that I had pushed from my mind when I was in Dayton.

  He stood and stepped into the aisle. He thought I had agreed to get off. He didn’t know that I couldn’t depend on my legs to hold me.

  From somewhere, a calliope played, the tinny notes carried on the breeze. The words hummed in my mind.

  ‘It rained all night the day I left.

  The weather it was dry.

  The sun so hot I froze to death.

  Susanna, don’t you cry.’

  Out in the water, bathers held on to chains looped to staked metal poles, the waves picking the bathers up and setting them down.

  This morning I hung my nightgown in the hotel wardrobe that smelled of cedar. Soon, I would take that plain, highnecked gown from the hanger and put it on, my fingers clumsy with the buttons and my knees buckling.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said.

  Oscar said, ‘Lots of newcomers say that about the bathhouses. Said it myself when I first got here, the stilts being so thin and sunk down in soft sand. But Murdock’s is safe, even if it is high up. It’s been here for years.’

  The sweating wallpaper on the hotel walls, my crystal earrings on the nightstand, and the bed draped with mosquito netting.

  Oscar said, ‘Wouldn’t take you up there if I didn’t think it was safe.’ He paused. ‘How about it? Willing to give it a try? Catherine?’

  The sound of my name startled me. I looked up at him. The scar on his cheek appeared more prominent than it had earlier. The corners of his mouth were turned up in a small smile, and his green eyes carried a steadying calm look. And something else. Disappointment. How could he not feel it? My conversations were stilted, my smiles were frozen, and my bearing was rigid. I found it difficult to be any other way. He was a stranger to me, as was the world he offered. But there was more. There was this sense of disquiet stirred by his very presence.