There were only black leather-bound record-keeping books. I fanned through one, looking for a blank sheet but the pages were filled with Oscar’s postings about money earned and money spent. I glanced toward the clock on the mantle. Two minutes past six. For a moment, I was unsure if it was morning or evening. I looked again at the clock. The pendulum had blown off. The clock had stopped. It had to be late morning if not early afternoon. The storm had been over for hours. Oscar was somewhere, waiting, injured and needing help.
He could be dead.
No, I told myself. No. Find a piece of paper and write a note. Then look for him and bring him home.
I pulled out another record-keeping book and as I did, a balled-up sheet of paper tumbled out from the back of the desk. I took it, stepped away from the leak in the ceiling, and worked at the paper. It was deeply creased and I smoothed the corners with my thumbs. It was a letter – Dear Oscar. There was handwriting on both sides of the sheet but it was blank at the bottom half of one side. It was enough space for me to write a note. I’d leave it on the kitchen table for Oscar to see.
Then I saw the closure. Your loving sister, Vivian Boehmer.
I turned it over. It was dated August 17, 1900. Two weeks before our marriage. Oscar’s sister. Someone who had heard the rumors about me.
I crumpled the letter, squeezing it tight. As Oscar must have done, I thought. Something in the letter must have upset him. Or angered him. I jammed it into the back of the desk.
Tear out a page from a record-keeping book, I told myself. Write the note and search for Oscar. Find him and bring him home. That was all that mattered. Yet, it was the letter that I took out from the desk. I had to know what his sister had told him.
August 17, 1900
Dear Oscar,
I trust that you and my little nephew are well. All is well here.
I write this in a hurry because I want to put it in the afternoon post. Your letter came this morning and I wish I could say I am happy for you, but I cannot. Dear Brother, please do not marry her. There is so much talk about her and the things people say are shocking.
Oscar knew. I burned with shame.
It pains me to tell you but you must know the truth. She has disgraced herself. Respectable people will not let her in their homes. Even her mother will not. That is what people say.
I should stop reading; I’d read enough. But I had to finish it. I felt sure that Oscar had.
I will spare you the ugly things people have said. But I will say that her actions have broken the heart of a woman who has two children. And this woman is a cripple.
Bands of pain squeezed my heart.
Please do not marry her. I beg you, dear Oscar. I know you are lonely and miss Bernadette. But please do not do this.
Your loving sister,
Vivian Boehmer
Oscar knew.
The letter slipped from my hands. He must have been furious when he read it. I had deceived him. He might have written to me. I will not Marry You, Miss Wainwright. I know the Truth about You. If he had, the letter would have arrived too late. I would have already left Dayton and been on my way to Galveston. For some reason, he went ahead and married me. Was it because he saw how very desperate I was? That I had no place else to go? Had he married me out of pity?
I looked at my wedding band, its gold bright and unmarred. Not pity, I thought. Oscar cared for me as no other man ever had. Knowing the truth about me, he took me as I was. He hadn’t complained when I was cold and withdrawn; he didn’t belittle me when I made mistakes with Andre. Instead, Oscar kept a firm hold on me, understanding that without him, I was lost.
I had to find him. I had to apologize for deceiving him. I had to make amends, set things straight. From this moment on, there would be only the truth.
The back veranda steps creaked and rattled as I went down them. The mud in the pasture was slippery, and the sole on my right shoe had come loose at the toe. The watery soft ground dipped in places, and I tripped over clumps of uprooted grass. In my mind, Oscar’s hand was on my elbow, leading me toward the place where I had last seen him.
Yesterday, when the water came into the house, I had scooped up my letters from Oscar, the ones he had written when he first came to Texas, and put them in the hatbox. His letters had been with me during the storm just as they had been with me when I moved to Oberlin, to Philadelphia, back to Dayton, and finally to Galveston.
Tears filled my eyes. Andre, I thought. He had held my hand when we had left the stairwell, trusting me to keep him safe. After I found Oscar, I’d bring Andre home. Oscar will want that; I wanted that, too.
I blotted the tears with my fingers and all at once, I gagged, sickened by the stench of a nearby cow.
My hand over my nose, I hurried on. Debris lay everywhere in the flattened grass: milk canisters, driftwood, and the headboard from someone’s bed. A piece of white cloth was tangled in the branches of a salt cedar tree, and farther on, a washtub was in the middle of a shallow pond. In the distance, someone – a woman – was coming my way. Nan Ogden. Or her mother. My pulse quickened all the more. There might be news about Oscar.
I waved to catch her attention, and as I did, I heard again his words: You do things right. He’d held on to that belief even after he knew the truth. I shook my head. Not me, I thought. You, Oscar. You’re the one who does things right.
‘Mrs Williams,’ the woman called.
I waved again, then stumbled, tripping over a board. It shifted, exposing a snake. It coiled, the long brown body with black patches taut as a spring. Its head held high, its dark eyes stared into mine. The rattle was crisp and loud. I took a step away. The boggy ground dipped; I slipped and fell onto my hands and knees. The snake reared its head back, the tongue flickering. It darted forward and struck my left hand.
I couldn’t get up. The loose sole of my shoe was caught in my hem. The snake coiled again, then darted. It struck my wrist. Somehow I got myself up on my feet. I backed away as it slithered off in the grass.
Pain shot through my hand and wrist. Dizzy from it, I held my arm to my chest, the pain deepening with each footstep as I tried to get farther from the snake, afraid that it might return to bite again.
‘Mrs Williams,’ the woman said, ‘What’s the matter? What’re you doing out here?’
It was Nan Ogden. I expected her gray eyes to be critical and her mouth to be tight with disapproval. I had turned Andre over to her instead of caring for him myself. Instead, there was concern. I held out my left hand. The wounds bled and the skin around them was red. ‘A snake,’ I said.
‘What kind?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did it rattle?’
I nodded, too frightened to speak now.
‘Oh good Lord, let’s get you inside. How many times did it bite?’
Her face swam before me. A rattlesnake. My arm tingled, and I was suddenly down on the marshy ground, water seeping into my skirt. I blinked to bring Nan back into focus.
‘Mrs Williams, stand up.’ She got behind me and tried to lift me. Pain stabbed my left arm and streaked up my neck and into my jaw. I heard myself moan.
‘Have to get you home,’ Nan said. ‘But you have to help. Can’t do it by myself.’
My legs were sprawled out before me. A rattlesnake. Two bites. My teeth chattered, the cold water from the ground seeming to creep into my skin.
I gritted my teeth to stop the chattering. ‘Oscar,’ I said. ‘Has there been any word of him?’
‘Now you stand up. You hear me? I know all kinds of people that have been snakebit and they’ve walked home with no complaint. So get up. Now.’
She heaved me to my feet. Spots danced before my eyes. ‘You can lean on me,’ she said. ‘Never said you couldn’t. Lift your foot. Now the other.’ She turned me around so that we faced the house. It was far away and seemed to float on top of the stilts.
‘Is Andre all right?’ I said.
‘He’s with Mama. Now walk, Mrs Williams. Wa
lk.’
‘I’m not going to die, am I?’
‘For pity’s sake, put some starch in your legs. I can’t hold you up much longer. Now walk. One foot in front of the other.’
I willed myself to do as Nan said. I’ll be fine, I told myself, the tingling in my arm now a burn. I had to be fine. Oscar and I had so much to do.
‘Have you heard anything?’ I said. ‘About Oscar?’
‘Walk, Mrs Williams. I can’t carry you. You ain’t as light as you look.’
I tried to shift my weight off of Nan. I can do this, I told myself. But my chest was so tight, my lungs squeezed as though crushed.
On and on we walked, the rusty sound of my breathing loud in my ears. Blood ran from the bites. My skirt was smeared with it; Nan’s was too. My eyes kept closing; I fought to keep them open. The stench of the cow was again overpowering and I was all at once gagging, sick, Nan holding me.
‘Don’t you give up,’ she said, wiping my chin with her fingers. ‘Won’t have it.’
I will not die, I told myself. Oscar needs me. Andre does too.
‘We’re almost there,’ Nan said. ‘All you’ve got to do is get up these steps.’
‘What did you say about Andre?’
‘I said he’s with Mama. Now you’ve got to help me get you up the steps. Come on now, you can do it.’
The steps were so high, too high, but her grasp on my waist was firm. ‘A few more,’ she said. ‘You’re doing good.’ We stumbled against one another; pain ricocheted through my arm.
‘Now the veranda, almost there.’
‘Miss Ogden, I’m concerned about Oscar.’
‘You’re slopping your words. Good Lord, this bed is a pretty sight even if all this mud ain’t. Here now, turn around so I can get you in and tucked up.’
‘My skirt,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The hem. It’s filthy. And all the blood.’
‘It don’t matter.’
‘It does matter.’ My voice was shrill. ‘The bed needs to be clean. For Oscar. He’s hurt.’ I started to reach around to the buttons at the back of my skirt. Pain tore through me.
‘Mrs Williams, let me help you with that. Here.’ She took my good hand. ‘Hold on to the bed post. You ain’t altogether steady.’
I wrapped my fingers around the post as she worked at the skirt buttons. Nearby, the tattered ends of the torn canopy over the bed rose and fell in the breeze, and the wardrobe seemed to be at a peculiar slant. ‘You’re quite sure that Andre is all right?’ I said.
‘He’s with Mama. Like I said.’ My skirt slipped off of my hips and onto the muddy floor. ‘Now sit on the bed so you won’t trip.’
She steadied me as I sat and then she unbuttoned my shoes and got me into the bed. My arm was sticky and hot. I shook; everything now so cold. Nan held up my wounded arm and pulled the quilt to my chin. Tears sprang to my ears. I squeezed them away. ‘I’m worried about Oscar,’ I said.
She didn’t say anything.
‘He let the cows and the horses out of the barn and the water carried him away.’
‘I wish you’d stop all this talking. You’re shaking bad and I need to clean your arm.’ She paused. ‘And don’t you worry, no good comes from that. Mr Williams, well, he knows how to swim: Daddy showed him. Likely he’s on his way home, could be he’s helping somebody out. You know how he is. Can’t turn his back on nobody.’
She dabbed at the wounds with a piece of cloth. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. When the pain subsided a little, I said, ‘Oscar’s helping someone? Was that what you said?’
Nan mumbled something, then said, ‘I need to wash this.’ She turned away and went toward the dressing table.
‘But he’s on his way home?’
Her back to me, she stopped, her shoulders drawing up. Her form blurred and there were two of her. I blinked, and Nan was again one person who now stood over me. ‘Mrs Williams,’ she said. ‘That man of yours.’ She put her hand on my cheek. Her touch was light and cool. She glanced down at my arm and then she looked into my eyes. ‘He told you he’d get on home? After he saw to the cows? And the horses? Was that what he said?’
I nodded.
‘Have you ever known Oscar Williams to let a person down?’
The boy who had attended my recitals. The one person who responded to my letters this spring. The man who knew the truth but believed me to be a better woman than I was. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never.’
‘Well, then.’
Yes, I thought, now seeing an image of Oscar. He was on the platform at Union Station. He wore his suit and he held his pocket watch, checking the time, waiting for me.
I closed my eyes and gave in to the pain.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The House
It was a sorrowful time; there wasn’t no other way to put it. What the storm did to us was cruel, and I won’t never forget it. Or forgive it. The storm did what it wanted and then blew itself out, leaving us to try to put things right. But some things can’t be put right.
Like St. Mary’s, the orphanage. I couldn’t keep from thinking about it when I walked through Oscar’s back pasture a little while ago, stepping around the piles of black ashes and charred bones of the cows and horses. There weren’t words for what happened at the orphanage. Them poor little children. I didn’t like thinking how scared they likely were when the waves mashed the sand hills and flooded both buildings. The nuns had taken the orphans to the boys’ dormitory, thinking it was the safer of the two. That was what Bill Murney said when Daddy found him wandering by the bayou wearing nothing but a tattered pair of pants. He was one of the orphans that helped out at the dairy on Sundays. When the water came in the dormitory, Bill said, the nuns herded everybody to the second floor. They all took up praying but God didn’t pay them no mind. The roof blew off and the walls caved in, crushing them. What the wind didn’t do, the water did. The whole place washed away.
Maybe if the nuns had taken off them headpieces that covered most of their faces or if they’d shucked the heavy rosary beads they wore around their waists, they might have had a chance. But they wouldn’t have no part of doing that. Leastways that was what Bill told us. ‘I caught ahold of a board,’ he said, him glassy-eyed, and his hands and feet cut and bleeding. ‘Caught ahold of my brother, too. Him and me washed into a tree, don’t know how we got there. I held on to him the best I could, I did, that tree thrashing. But then a big wave hit us, bigger than the others.’ He looked at us then. ‘Have you all seen Joe anywhere?’
I could hardly think about it, him being in a tree during a big blow. Out of all them nuns and those children, only three orphans lived, Bill being one of them. But not Joe. We didn’t find him. We didn’t find James either, the red-headed foundling that worked at the dairy too.
It’d been two weeks and two days since the big blow but time didn’t heal, not one bit. I don’t know who came up with that notion but it was flat-out wrong. It was work that pulled a person through bad times. Even sorrowful work like what I did now, shoveling dried mud out of Oscar’s house. There was nothing easy about this work, the mud breaking off in sheets and turning to powdery dirt. And there was nothing easy about being here today. I hadn’t been back since Mrs Williams was snakebit. But this morning, I woke up ready. ‘The house needs seeing to,’ I told Mama. ‘If you can spare me.’
I dumped the dried mud with pieces of window glass in it over the side of the back veranda. I hadn’t figured on shoveling mud, but when I walked up from the pasture, there was a shovel close to the back steps. It was like Bernadette had left it there for me. ‘Ahhh, Nan,’ I could hear her say. ‘I knew you’d be the one to take care of my house.’
I worked and as long as I kept moving, I was all right. My mind on work, I didn’t have to think about the mattress in the bedroom that was stained with blood. When my hands were busy, I didn’t think about all the dead people that washed up in the bayou by our house, and how they were swelled up and most of them stripped n
aked. The wind ripped off their clothes, that was what Daddy figured. As long as I stayed busy I didn’t have to think what Daddy and Wiley had to do with them poor dead people.
The shovel scraped the parlor floor and it hurt me to mark up the wood, but we’d had to do the same in our house; there wasn’t no other way. Oscar’s house stank bad from all this mud that had footprints in it going every which way. Some of them prints were mine, and the narrow ones were Mrs Williams’. I figured the big ones were Wiley’s, and I knew the little footprints were Andre’s. Tracks were here too, and not all of them were the dogs’. ’Coons and ’possums had been inside; likely they’d climbed up the stilts looking for food. The front door needed to be boarded up, same for the windows. There wasn’t nothing I could do about that, not today, so I kept on trying to get the dried-up mud out of the house, sorrow wrapped around my heart and me fighting it.
That wasn’t all I fought. When I’d first come into the house, the door that went to the attic stairwell was open. It bothered me and I couldn’t say why, other than it was one more thing that wasn’t right. I started to close it, the dried mud sticking to it, and when I did, I saw something halfway up the stairs. A hatbox. Of all things. There was no counting for the peculiar things the storm had done, but that hatbox, I knew, hadn’t been carried there by the water. Mrs Williams, I thought. She’d saved one of her fancy hats. If that wasn’t like her, I didn’t know what was.
But when I opened it, there wasn’t a hat in it but other things – the crucifixes, letters, and Oscar’s wood box with the W on the lid. I closed the hatbox quick. It was like looking at Mrs Williams’ fear when the water came in, Oscar gone, and her gathering what had to be saved. Me and Mama had done the same. We’d filled a wood crate with the family Bible that nobody could read, a few photographs, my fiddle and bow, Daddy’s deed to our land, and money. The dollar coin that Oscar gave me the night of the dance was some of that money. I’d carried the crate up into the attic, the water on my heels. I was plenty scared, I don’t mind saying. Anybody would be.
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