The storm had been vicious and cruel. Anyone small or weak could have been hurt. Or worse. But not Oscar; he’d be home by daylight. If he wasn’t, I’d summon help. I’d find the Ogdens or other neighbors, and we’d search for him.
The moon went behind the clouds, and rain showers came and went. Something pressed against my skirt, frightening me. It was one of the dogs, then all four were on the veranda. Their panting was labored, and listening to them made me thirsty. So little water, I thought. I had to make it last. Oscar, though, would be home in the morning, and he’d know what to do. At this moment these dogs were perhaps as parched as I. They were Andre’s pets, his friends, and I couldn’t let anything happen to them. Andre had been through enough.
I went inside and poured water into the two bowls that Andre and I had used for our peaches. A few days ago I would have been appalled at the lack of sanitation but there was nothing sanitary about the storm. The dogs crowded around the bowls and licked them dry. I filled them again. Listening to the dogs as they lapped the water made me all the thirstier. Only five buckets, I reminded myself. And the water in the bathtub and in the cistern.
I went back out onto the veranda. When my legs began to tremble with fatigue, I came inside, sat on the edge of the bed, and took off my shoes. I lay down beside Andre and curled around him.
I awoke with a start. For an instant, I was lost: the torn canopy overhead, the dank earthy smell of mud, and Andre beside me, stirring. Daylight showed through the broken storm shutters, and the memory of the storm returned. Outside, the dogs barked and yipped. From a distance, someone shouted, calling.
Oscar. Joy drove me to my feet, the cold mud on the floor momentarily stunning me. Barefoot, I hurried, slipping, to the back veranda. Oscar was midway between the house and the bayou, on foot and skirting around a pond of standing water. The dogs circled him, their tails wagging. I waved and went to the back steps. The veranda bounced as though the stilts had come loose, and all at once, my joy buckled and collapsed.
This wasn’t Oscar. He wasn’t tall enough, and his gait was wrong.
‘It’s Mr Wiley,’ Andre said. I hadn’t heard him come outside. Wearing Oscar’s worn blue shirt, he looked all the smaller. He said, ‘Mr Wiley’s walking. He don’t like to walk, not if he can hitch up a wagon. Or ride a horse.’
Wiley Ogden. The skin below my left eye twitched. I touched it. It wouldn’t stop.
‘Mr Wiley!’ Andre shouted. ‘How come you’re walking?’
Wiley put his hand to his ear.
‘He can’t hear you,’ I said. Andre looked up at me and there was Oscar in the shape of his jaw and in his eyebrows. ‘Stay with me,’ I said. I took his hand, the image of Oscar in the water so vivid that it was as though it were happening again before my eyes.
‘Something’s wrong with the cows,’ Andre said. ‘They look funny.’
The grass in the back pasture was flattened with mud. A shovel near the foot of the stairs lay abandoned and farther away, a wheelbarrow was upright as if waiting for someone to push it back to the barn. In places, boards were piled in heaps, and pieces of cloth caught in crushed bushes fluttered in the wind. Steel milk canisters were strewn in every direction and throughout the pasture, cows and horses lay on their sides.
Andre said, ‘That one over there, see her? Her neck is twisted funny.’
Wiley was hatless and even from this distance I was able to see that his pale forehead was drawn with concern. There was something else about him, a sense of reluctance perhaps, his pace slowing as he looked up at us. Wiley had news about Oscar, I thought. Bad news.
‘Why’s her neck like that?’ Andre said.
It was morning, overcast and gray but daylight. It was windy but the storm was over. Oscar should be home. A suffocating pain gripped my heart.
‘Why?’ Andre said.
‘She’s not well,’ I heard myself say. ‘Something happened to her.’
‘She’s sick? Is that what you mean? They’re all sick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Over there, by that big puddle of water,’ Andre said, pointing to one of the horses. ‘That looks like Maud. Her leg is bent wrong. It’s sticking up in the air.’
Wiley quickened his stride, and as he came closer, I saw his alarm. His glances darted from the barn to us, then past the house toward the shoreline, skimming the land before returning to us. ‘Mrs Williams,’ he called. ‘Andre. You all right? Everybody there all right? Everybody?’
‘Mr Wiley,’ Andre shouted. ‘The cows and Maud aren’t right. They ain’t moving.’
‘They aren’t moving,’ I said, my words hollow and flat.
‘I know. It’s all wrong.’
I pressed my hand against my breastbone to ease the suffocating pain. I had been certain that Oscar had been swept to the Ogdens’. I had pictured him safe in their stairwell. I had convinced myself of this; I needed it to be true. But Wiley, here and alone, and his question – ‘Everybody?’ – meant only one thing. He knew nothing about Oscar.
Wiley’s upper lip was split in the middle and crusted with blood. One of his eyes was swollen and bruised. His trousers were torn at the knees, and the buttons were missing from his shirt. He couldn’t meet my eyes when I told him Oscar wasn’t home, the three of us on the back veranda and Andre holding his hand. Wiley’s gaze jittered from my bare feet to the bayou and then toward the barn, taking in its collapsed front wall, the piles of boards, and the overturned water trough. My words were edged with a tremor, an undercurrent of panic ready to surface. I said only what was necessary: Oscar had let the cows and horses out of the barn, and the water was swift and deep. I couldn’t say more. Andre had acquired a puzzled, troubled look, and kept looking off at the pasture. I felt myself teetering toward despair, a dangerous bottomless place. To describe Oscar in the water, the waves and his struggle, to say any of that out loud was to relive those moments again.
‘We’ll find him,’ Wiley said. ‘And Frank T.’
‘Frank T.?’
‘Me and him was in the city,’ Wiley said. His words lisped and there was a tremor in his voice, too. ‘We was delivering milk, doing it quick. Him on his route, me on mine. Water came up, it was fast, I’ve never seen nothing like it. It came to the necks of Blaze and Mike. My horses. I looked for Frank T., couldn’t find him nowhere. I had to ride out the storm with the Browns on Broadway. When the water went down, I headed for home. On foot.’
‘How come?’ Andre said. ‘What happened to Blaze and Mike?’
He shook the question off.
My throat tightened. Frank T. The man who had strutted when we danced together at the pavilion, the brother who Nan scolded every time he spoke to me.
‘Parts of Galveston are gone,’ Wiley said. An odd flatness had crept into his eyes and it was in his voice, too.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Blocks of it gone. The ones close to the beach.’
Andre said, ‘Gone where?’
‘Washed away.’
‘Dear Lord,’ I said. I couldn’t imagine it; it wasn’t possible. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Buildings? Is that what you mean? Homes? Gone?’
‘It ain’t good.’
A storm powerful enough to destroy houses, and Oscar had been in the water. My panic bubbled; I pushed it down. ‘Your family?’ I said. ‘Other than Frank T.?’
‘They’re all right.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ His voice shook. He swallowed. ‘We’ll find them. Frank T. and Oscar. Me and Daddy, we’ll get the neighbors to help.’
A search party. I turned toward the pasture and looked for signs of life, trying to see past the dead cows and horses. Their positions were grotesque, their necks and legs bent and twisted. The cows’ udders looked even more swollen than before.
‘They could be hurt,’ Wiley said. ‘Broke legs.’
‘Hurt,’ I said. It was an instant before I realized he referred to Oscar an
d Frank T. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I agree.’ My hopes rose. They were injured and waiting for help. Oscar was injured but alive.
‘Mrs Williams,’ Wiley said. He cocked his head toward Andre, whose eyes were glassy. ‘It could be a while. You and Andre, you best come on home with me. Wait with Mama and Nan.’ His gaze slid over me and I saw myself as he did. I was disheveled, barefoot with mud to my ankles. My hair was tangled and loose, and I wore only my shirtwaist and petticoat.
He said, ‘Ain’t good for you to be here. Not right now.’
‘Mr Ogden, no,’ I said. ‘I can’t leave. Oscar could be on his way home this very minute. If he got here only to find an empty house, he’d be frantic.’
‘But—’
‘If you could take Andre, I’d be for ever grateful. He needs breakfast.’ My words were rushed, the undercurrent of panic rising. I willed myself to slow down. ‘You see,’ I said, ‘the icebox fell over and is filled with seawater. And yesterday, I had not thought to get the sacks of flour up off of the floor. Even if I had, I’m not a cook. But your sister is. And your mother. Please take Andre. He’s better off there for now. But I need to stay here and wait for Oscar.’
‘Oscar ain’t going to like it, me going off without you.’
‘I’ll tell him that I insisted.’
A tired smile showed at the corners of Wiley’s mouth.
‘Thank you,’ I said. I whisked Andre to his room to help him get dressed. I sorted through his clothes but he had so few and everything was wet and muddy. Finally I found a shirt and short pants that would have to do. I got him out of Oscar’s shirt and into his own. I said, ‘Miss Nan will be so very pleased to see you.’
He didn’t say anything: his teeth chattered too hard. He was cold with fear, I thought. Wiley and I had said too much about Oscar. I rubbed his arms and told him that things would get better.
‘When?’ he said.
‘By tomorrow all of your clothes will be dry.’ I forced a smile but Andre’s eyes were flat. I fastened the buttons on his short pants; I put his stockings on him, then laced his muddy boots. I tried to smooth his cowlick with my fingers, but it had a will of its own. From the front of the house, I heard Wiley move the furniture back into place. The parlor chairs thumped as he righted them. So did the icebox and the stove. The upright was more difficult. I heard his groans as he pushed it back against the wall. When Andre was as presentable as I could manage, we went to the back veranda where Wiley met us. There, he pointed toward the bayou and to the west.
‘We’re that way, if you need us,’ he said. A small grove of trees, or what was left of them, marked the Ogden home. I crouched and embraced Andre and as I did, he put his arms around my neck and his cheek to mine. Fighting sudden tears, I kissed him and his kiss in return was loud and sweet. ‘You’re a brave young man,’ I whispered. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘You are?’
‘Immensely.’ I tightened my embrace, then released him and said, ‘Now mind your manners and listen to Mr Wiley and Miss Nan. And to Mr and Mrs Ogden. I’ll see you soon.’
I smiled for Andre but he didn’t notice. He looked up at Wiley, and in his eyes, a small spark of excitement flickered. Going to the Ogdens’ was a special treat, I realized.
Wiley nodded his goodbye to me. At the foot of the stairs where the dogs waited, he hoisted Andre to his shoulders so that Andre’s legs straddled either side of his head.
Without a look back, they all headed toward the bayou. Wiley avoided the low places filled with standing water and picked his way past the cows and horses, turning his shoulders to shield Andre from the sight. He called to the dogs, his tone sharp when they showed too much interest in the carcasses. Once, I heard Andre call to them too, his voice shrill as if he were upset.
I expected to feel a measure of relief. Caring for Andre and the need to stay calm in his presence was exhausting. It was true that there was very little food, but that was an excuse. I needed time to myself without him clutching me and asking questions about Oscar. I needed silence. Or so I had thought. Now, as Wiley walked farther away with Andre on his shoulders, a profound sense of emptiness came over me. I had never felt more alone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Truth
Everything would be better once Oscar was home, I told myself. In the kitchen, I struck match after match, each one so soft from the sultry air that they bent and broke. At last, one of the matches sputtered and then flared long enough for me to light the oven. When I was sure that the fire would hold, I put a pot of water on the stove to heat. Oscar could be cut and bruised, but he’d be home at any minute.
I went to the bedroom and looked out the back window. Oscar was nowhere in sight. Rainwater leaked from the ceiling and splattered in the mud as I dressed and tied my hair with a ribbon. There was still no sign of Oscar. I straightened the damp bed linens the best that I could, the house settling, popping and creaking. Wiley and his father, I reminded myself, will find him. They’ll bring him home, and I’ll take care of him. I gathered towels and the bar of Ivory soap from the washroom and put them on the dressing table in our bedroom. Come home, Oscar. Please.
I went to the front veranda to look for him, mud clinging to my shoes. My breath caught; I backed into the doorway. The east end of the veranda dangled as though unattached to the stilts. The railing and the steps were gone, sheared off. In front of the house, a misshapen mattress was in a pond of standing water. Part of a picket fence was caught in the bushes, and a rowboat was beached on the scrubby land.
The gulf churned; the white-capped waves rolled and crashed. Channels of pooled water sliced the beach, and piles of rubble had washed up along the tide line. The tide, I thought. It was visible from the veranda. I rubbed my temples. The sand hills were gone.
And St. Mary’s. I couldn’t find it. It was missing. That couldn’t be, I told myself. Two large wood buildings did not simply vanish. It was my nerves; I was imagining things. I needed food and rest. I was on the verge of collapse. I closed my eyes, then looked again. The place where the orphanage had been was swept clean.
The nuns who had danced at the pavilion. The children who chased one another, Andre, too, all of them darting around tables. The three boys who helped Oscar on Sundays.
Inside the house, something clinked and clattered. ‘Who’s there?’ I called, turning.
It was the pot on the stove. It rocked, clattering, the water boiling. I started to pick it up, then let go, the handles burning my hands. I found two dish towels and using them as potholders, I moved it off the burner. The clinking stopped.
None of this was happening, I thought. Oscar couldn’t be missing; the orphanage could not have disappeared. I turned away from the stove and as I did, I saw the house as I had not before. Dishes, pans, sheet music, and my books were strewn on the mud-covered floor. Overhead, the ceiling was splintered with cracks and bowed as if heavy with water. Stains darkened the walls, the plaster already peeling. A line of dirt rimmed the lower parts of the walls.
The watermark, I realized. From the flood.
While Andre and I had found shelter in the stairwell, St. Mary’s had fallen. While I sang to Andre, the children and the nuns must have begged for help, reaching for one another, crying out as water rushed. And Oscar. He might have cried out too.
No. He was all right. And perhaps the nuns and orphans were too. They could have escaped before the storm destroyed the buildings; they could have clung to boards. But the little ones? The ones who were Andre’s age, or younger?
I sank down onto a bench, each drop of water that dripped from the ceiling loud in my ears, the crashing waves at the gulf even louder. For some reason, this small house had stood. For some reason, Andre and I had been spared. For some reason, Oscar had been caught in a wave.
Why?
So I could understand how very dear he was to me, I realized. So the three of us could start over when he returned, so we could rebuild. Because he will come home, I was sure of it. We’d begin again. But
not here in Galveston; I would never go through another hurricane again. Never. We’d go inland to Houston. Oscar could start a dairy there. I’d give piano lessons and every penny would go toward making a new home. It’d be difficult but we had one another. We’d do it together. First, though, Oscar must come home.
I hurried down the hallway to our bedroom, then to the back veranda. Still nothing. Stay calm, I told myself. Make a plan. Do something for Oscar, something more than boiling water. I looked toward the place in the pasture where I’d last seen him. I’d go there, I decided. Then I’d go directly to the bayou where surely he waited for help.
The stairs shook beneath my feet as I went down them. The wind caught my skirt, and I battered away strands of hair that gathered at the corners of my mouth. The ground was boggy with wet sand, and littered with broken boards, pieces of dishes and teacups, a doll, and a shattered gilt-framed mirror. I stopped to gather up the hem of my skirt so that I could walk faster and as I did, I was struck with a new fear.
If Oscar came home while I was gone, he’d find the house empty. He’d be beside himself with worry.
I’d leave him a note. I turned back toward the house. Dearest, I imagined myself writing. Should you find this, do not worry. Andre and I are safe. I am looking for you but will be home soon.
In the bedroom now, I found the box of stationery that I had stored in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was waterlogged and ruined. My fountain pen was gritty with mud but the ink bottle was still capped. I took it and the pen, and went to the parlor, a path now forming in the mud. I searched through the roll-top desk in the parlor, drips from the ceiling splattering my shirtwaist and face. All I needed was paper, even a scrap, so I could write my note and resume my search for Oscar.
The Promise Page 24