The Promise

by Weisgarber, Ann

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Nan said, ‘I didn’t keep them, couldn’t. I gave them to the orphans. Figured Bernadette would want that.’

  Pressure tightened in my chest.

  ‘That’s how I came to find out. How we all did.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  She ignored my question and ran the knife over a serving platter. Bits of fish fell into the bucket. Her back still to me, she said, ‘Saw you go to the outhouse.’

  ‘You were watching me?’

  She shrugged. ‘Didn’t Mr Williams tell you to bang hard on the door? To call out before going in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s rattlers in that outhouse.’

  ‘Rattlers?’

  ‘Rattlesnakes.’

  The hair rose on my arms.

  ‘Bang on the door, let them know you’re coming, wake them up. That gives them time to slide on out.’

  ‘Dear God.’

  Nan took the lid off of one of the pots still on the stove and stirred whatever was inside it. Finished, she thumped the wood spoon a few times on the side of the pot, clumps of food dropping into it. She put the lid back on and put the spoon on its rest. She faced me. Her hands trembled. She crossed her arms and held her elbows. She said, ‘I saw how you didn’t bang on the door. I said to myself, If that ain’t just like Mr Williams, trying to spare you, not wanting to tell you something that might unsettle you.’ She regarded me. ‘All the same, a person appreciates knowing.’

  I stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have my trunks to unpack.’

  I worked the pump in the washroom by the two bedrooms, the handle squeaking as water trickled into the small porcelain basin. In my mind, I heard Nan’s voice with that slow, irritating accent, the meaning behind her words designed to put me in my place. Until last week, Oscar hadn’t been able to part with his first wife’s clothes.

  I pulled the pump handle up and pushed it back down again. It upset me that I allowed Nan to rattle me to this extent. I pumped the handle again and tried to remember the name of Andre’s mother. The water was still a trickle and the puddle in the basin barely covered the plug. Oscar’s straight razor and shaving mug were on a small shelf off to the side. The bathtub was spotted with red rust. The cistern, a large wood barrel with a lid, was in the corner. A pipe ran from the lid up to the ceiling close to the awning window.

  Bernadette. That was her name.

  ‘Saw you go to the outhouse.’ Nan had watched me as I opened the door to the outhouse, my nose pinched against the smell of the barn. Inside, bitter fumes of lime burned my eyes. The outhouse was hot and dim. The mesh-covered window on the door was too high for the light to reach the corners. Flies bit my hands and face, and wind whistled through chinks in the walls and from around the door. The seat had two openings, one small for a child.

  Rattlesnakes. Oscar should have told me. I pushed and pulled the pump handle harder. Water gushed out and splashed into the basin.

  Texas. The heat, the beach road, and the flies. And now the household help in the form of Nan Ogden. ‘Do something,’ my mother had said when she first heard the rumors about Edward and me. Go abroad, Edward had written in a brief note. ‘You’ll get used to things,’ Oscar said.

  I rolled up my sleeves and lathered the soap, my fingers brushing over the wedding band. I washed my wrists and forearms, scrubbing. From somewhere a fly buzzed. It landed and bit my neck. I let go of the soap and swatted at it, the wedding band flashing before my eyes. The fly flew off, and landed on the opposite wall.

  Texas. Backward and primitive. I held up my left hand. Married. I tugged at the band. It was tight. I put my hands in the water and pulled it off. It sank to the bottom of the basin and landed near the plug. The soap floated on the surface, and all of a sudden, I inhaled the sweet scent of home.

  Ivory soap. It was what I used in Dayton, everyone there did. It was made in Ohio. I scooped it up with both hands and held it to my nose. Water dripped from my hands and onto my lacy shirtwaist. Ivory soap, here in Texas, here in this house. It was the faint flowery fragrance of my home. And more. Beneath the tobacco and fresh-cut hay, it was the scent of Oscar.

  Last night, his embrace had unleashed my sorrow. For eight months no one had had a kind word for me, no one had consoled me, and no one had held me. Only Oscar, a man I had not seen in twelve years.

  It had been different with Edward. He and I corresponded for over a year, slowly becoming acquainted. His first letter arrived at my apartment in Philadelphia during February of 1896, almost two months since he and I had talked about art during Christmas dinner. A letter from my cousin’s husband, I’d thought as I opened the envelope. How peculiar. I waited a month before responding. I, too, enjoyed our conversation about Winslow Homer’s works. Five weeks later, his next letter came. Homer’s Fox Hunt is on display at the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia, he wrote. Have you seen it?

  There’s so little time, I wrote to him four weeks later. My music consumes me. Last Saturday my ensemble performed before an audience of three hundred. The mayor was there. Edward’s response had been one of congratulations and admiration of my success. It would be impolite to ignore his kind remarks, I decided, and so I responded within the week. Our letters continued, the time narrowing between each one. In the spring of 1897, Edward came to Philadelphia.

  The wedding band in the bottom of the basin was a faint gleam of gold beneath the sudsy water. I put the soap back on the washstand where it formed a milky puddle. I dried my hands and arms with the thin white towel that had hung from a nail. I patted the damp towel to my neck to ease the fly’s sting. Then I pressed it to my cheeks and forehead.

  Near the ceiling, the glass in the awning window was propped open and pushed out. Flies clung to the mesh that covered the opening. Mesh was nailed to all of the window frames in the house. Perhaps it was meant to keep out rattlesnakes. It certainly didn’t deter flies.

  I hung up the towel, reached into the basin, felt the wedding ring, and found the short metal chain attached to the plug. For months, while the whispered rumors drove me to despair, Oscar had so mourned the death of his wife that he had been unwilling to part with her clothes. Nan had cleaned this house, she’d cooked Oscar’s meals, and she’d taken care of his son. Perhaps she’d expected him to marry her. Oscar might have given her that impression. Then, this spring, my first letter arrived.

  I almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘Strong in her opinions,’ Oscar had said about Nan, ‘but a good woman.’ He didn’t see her as I did. In her unrefined way, she was patronizing and cutting. If I could, I would tell her to leave. But beyond making tea and toast, I knew nothing about running a household. I needed Nan.

  I let go of the chain, found the wedding band again, and dried it on the towel. I held the band up toward the window. Until this moment, I had avoided looking at it. Now I angled it so that it caught the light. It was wide, plain, and unmarred. The gold glowed, and inside there was an inscription. Galveston 1900.

  Two days ago, during our lunch at the Central Hotel dining room, Oscar must have sized my hand. That afternoon, he must have gone to a jeweler’s and selected this band. He must have waited while the jeweler inscribed it. That might have been when he bought the lemon drops for Andre.

  I held the ring in the palm of my left hand. Oscar could have married Nan but he wanted better for Andre. ‘The right way to talk,’ he had told me, ‘manners and suchlike. You do things right.’

  Yesterday, the wedding band was too big, but today my fingers were puffy. From the salt air, I believed. I slid the band past my fingernail and down my finger. Oscar must have predicted the swelling. Today, the band fit.

  In Oscar’s bedroom – our bedroom – the gray weathered barn was visible from the west windows. I opened the back door and went out to the narrow porch where there were two wicker chairs. In the distance, a wide body of water shimmered in the sun. The bayou, I thought. Between it and the house, reddish-brown and beige c
ows grazed, a few of them in the shade cast by a stunted tree that leaned toward the bayou, its lower branches touching the ground. Other cows were knee deep in the small ponds scattered throughout the rough, bushy land. At one, a tall white bird with a long neck stood at the marshy edge. There was no sign of Oscar. Nor were there any signs of houses.

  I went back inside. My traveling trunks and the stack of hatboxes were next to the wardrobe. From the kitchen, I heard the clinking of pots and crockery as Nan washed the dishes.

  The wardrobe was tall and imposing in this small room. Its two doors were plain and so too was the crown molding that trimmed the top. For months, this wardrobe held the memory of Bernadette for Oscar. I was not the only one to hold on to the past.

  I opened the doors.

  There was no sign of Bernadette, not even a stray button. Instead, there were bare hangers, and Oscar’s clothes.

  So few things, I thought. He had two coats: one was wool for winter, and the other was made of canvas and waxed for rain. Near the coats were a pair of dark trousers, a gray shirt, a vest, and the suit and white shirt Oscar had worn to the city.

  I touched the sleeve of the white shirt and rubbed it between my thumb and fingers. It was mussed from wear but the cotton fabric had body. It was new. He’d bought it for the wedding, I imagined, with the hope that I would think well of him.

  Oscar’s other shirt – the gray one – was faded and the cuffs were frayed. I have left Ohio and am Making my Own Way as a Hand at the Circle C Ranch, he had written in one of his early letters. He had been young and alone, and I couldn’t begin to fathom what it had been like for him when he came to Texas. Nor when his wife died, leaving him with a child.

  One of the lower drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe was empty but in the other, I found a small wood box the size of a cigar case. It was smooth and looked to be made of walnut with light streaks running through the grain. In the center of the lid was an inlaid W. I started to open it, then stopped. It was not mine. I returned it to the drawer.

  ‘Settle in,’ Oscar had told me. From one of my trunks, I took out the navy skirt that I had worn yesterday for the wedding. I shook it, then folded it lengthwise and draped it over a hanger. I hung it in the wardrobe and all at once, I was overcome by the intimacy of my skirt so close to Oscar’s clothes.

  Flushing, I closed the doors and stepped away. I touched my earrings; I thought of Edward but in my mind, I saw him as if he were in a distant haze.

  A different image filled my thoughts. I was on a stage with the two other women in my ensemble. My evening gown was a deep blue, and I was seated before a Steinway. My hands poised above the keyboard, I looked to Helen Christopher, the violinist. Her bow hovered over the strings. The audience was quiet, and a feeling of anticipation filled the concert hall. I waited for Helen’s nod.

  Pain squeezed my chest. I had given up everything I had known for a man whose face was slipping from my memory.

  Outside the house, dogs barked, a wild confusion of noise. Someone whistled, quick and sharp. The barking stopped and was replaced by the creak and groan of moving wagons. Through the window, I saw Oscar, wearing boots to his knees, come out of the barn.

  Unwanted memories rose to the surface: Edward’s delayed written response when I wrote him that I planned to return to Dayton, his occasional failure to meet me as planned, and his half-hearted talk of divorce.

  A cad. Edward was a cad. And I had been a fool.

  A fool. How had I not known?

  The words I’d used to describe our arrangement – friendship, companionship – were veils meant to ease my conscience. All of the excuses for the time we spent together – our mutual admiration of the arts, the desire for intelligent conversation and debate – justified nothing. Edward was married. Our liaison was disreputable. He was disreputable. And so was I.

  The crucifix over the bed loomed, the slumped Jesus bearing down. Thou shalt not commit adultery. I had pushed that from my mind and disregarded every moral objection. Edward and I were the exception. He and I belonged together. Edward’s wife was no longer a wife, not in the truest sense of the word. She was an invalid, bitter and quarrelsome. Edward loved me. I loved him.

  But there had never been love. Only weakness.

  Adulterer. The word ricocheted through my mind.

  A married man with children. I had wounded Edward’s wife. I’d disgraced my family. I’d left Dayton with my bills unpaid. I had ignored the ugly truth about myself and worst of all, I had deceived others.

  It is with fond memories that I think of you, I had written in one of my letters to Oscar this spring.

  Two days ago, I told Oscar I wished to be married immediately. ‘Is everything all right with you?’ he had asked, wariness showing in his eyes. ‘Mr Williams,’ I had snapped, as if he had been the one who had insulted my honor.

  I had held myself so high; I considered Oscar beneath me. I believed I could fool him, but he was not a stupid man. Alone, he had left Ohio. Alone, he had built a farm. And now he had married me, taking me in, too much of a gentleman to ask further questions.

  Through the window, I watched Oscar walk across the barnyard, his stride long and sure, and his hand up in greeting. Two wagons, each driven by a man, came to a stop side by side. These must be Nan’s brothers. They were due to return mid-afternoon after delivering milk in the city. They sat on the buckboards with their hats pulled low and their braces off of their shoulders. The dogs sniffed at the wagon wheels and one lifted his leg. Oscar said something and gestured toward the house. The brothers turned and looked my way.

  I backed away from the window, sure that the mark of adultery was visible on my features. Galveston was a thousand miles from Dayton, I told myself. And here, down the island, Dayton could be on the other side of the moon. Oscar might suspect I was in some kind of trouble but he couldn’t know the details. If he did, he would not have married me.

  Someone still might tell him the truth. His mother might write to him. Or his younger sister or brothers. Oscar’s sister had been three years behind me in school. I couldn’t remember her name and I didn’t know what had become of her. But if she still lived in Dayton, if Oscar had written to his family about our engagement, if his sister had heard the rumors, she would warn him. A letter from her might arrive any day.

  I went cold inside.

  I must admit to it; I must confess to Oscar. Better to hear it from me than from his sister. I imagined telling him – ‘I found myself entangled with the wrong man, a married man.’ I pictured the shock on his face; I imagined him backing away from me.

  The Ogden men had climbed down from their wagons and were walking this way, pulling up their braces. Oscar was with them. Andre ran to them and one of the men caught him and swung him in a circle. Andre laughed. Back on the ground, the little boy skipped, flinging his arms as the men walked with long strides. Oscar intended to introduce them to me, I realized.

  No. I couldn’t bear for Oscar to see me, my disgrace exposed. ‘You do things right,’ he’d said about me. If he discovered the truth, what then?

  The house began to shake. The men had come up the front steps. I went to the bedroom door to close it. ‘Don’t you all be tracking dirt on my floors,’ I heard Nan say.

  ‘Shoot,’ one of the Ogdens said. ‘You’re near as bad as Ma.’

  ‘Hush up,’ Nan said, and it was as if she were speaking to me. Say nothing, keep still. Oscar’s family might not know. His mother might not be living. His sister might have married and left Dayton years ago. His brothers could be the kind of men who did not write letters. Oscar might have lost touch with all of them.

  On the crucifix nailed to the wall, painted blood dripped from the crown of thorns. Should Oscar learn the truth, he would turn me out of his home.

  ‘She’s having herself a rest,’ I heard Nan say.

  ‘She poorly?’ This was one of the Ogden men.

  ‘I asked her. Told me she wasn’t.’

  ‘Worn thin from the
trip,’ Oscar said. ‘That’s what it is.’

  Gratitude rushed through me. He’d made my excuses.

  I closed the door and sat down at the dressing table. My face, pale and gaunt, stared back at me from the mirror. The voices of Oscar and the Ogdens in the parlor were distant and faint.

  My hands trembling, I took off the black crystal earrings. Trinkets, I thought. For Edward’s mistress. I had worn them every day, even for my wedding. Now I couldn’t bear the sight of them. I went to the open trunk and pushed the earrings into a side pocket beneath my handkerchiefs and sachets. Tomorrow I’d bury them. Or throw them into the gulf.

  Through the closed bedroom door, Oscar’s voice was a soft mumble. He’d wanted the men to meet me, his wife. As if I were a spoiled child, I had placed him in a position where he had to make excuses to his employees for my absence.

  I deserved everything that had happened to me. I couldn’t repair the damage I’d done to Edward’s family. I couldn’t make amends to Oscar for my letters that were one deception after the next. But I would not shame him before his employees.

  I put my hand on the doorknob and opened the door.

  ‘I’m ready to get on home,’ I heard Nan say.

  ‘You don’t look ready,’ one of the Ogdens said.

  ‘That’s ’cause I’m waiting for you to get the ice. Guess you all are just going to let it melt out there in the sun.’

  I raised my chin and began the walk down the short dim hall to the parlor to meet the Ogdens.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mrs Williams

  I saw how the new Mrs Williams looked at the house when Oscar brought her here. Her face was pinched like she was on the windward side of meat left out to rot in the sun. Oscar’s own face was streaked with worry as he helped her down from the wagon, then helped her up the veranda steps, doing his best to please her. For pity’s sake, I thought as he stumbled through the ‘howdy do’s, me and her taking our measure of each other. Oscar should stand proud of his house. It was painted and the veranda went all the way around it. There was running water in the kitchen and washroom, and the floors weren’t pine but oak, sanded smooth as could be. It wasn’t patched together like my family’s house was, Daddy adding on a room now and again, the floors not altogether even. Oscar had the finest fireplace on our end of the island, other than the Fultons’, but they were city people. The Fultons’ house by the bay was all about show, them able to have a big house in the city and one here, too. But Oscar’s fireplace was red brick, and if Mrs Williams noticed, she kept that to herself.