Poor Janet was forever disorganized; the kitchen was a total mess of piled-up dirty dishes and pots and pans from the cooking, and cabinet doors open here and there as though she must have been in an awful hurry to finish things before her guests arrived.
While I took a knife to the mince, she looked in drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, for the server, and seemed to be quite unnerved about not being able to find it, and finally she stopped, leaned against the counter, and drew a hand to her forehead.
“Sit down, for goodness sake,” I told her. “I’ll find the server.”
“It’s the heat, that’s all, so stuffy in here,” she said, lowering herself into a chair. “Would you pour me a glass of water, please?”
I poured the water and took it to her. She sat with her face down on the table. I was impatient to keep things going, although it wasn’t my party. Her lack of ability to get herself together, particularly at a time like this, grated on my nerves. Perhaps if everyone wouldn’t indulge her by feeling sorry for her all the time, she’d straighten up a bit, I thought; Lord, you’d think she was pregnant or something. And then it struck me she might well be.
“Have you come ’round this month?” I asked.
She raised her head and looked up at me, obviously surprised. “I don’t keep track; I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” She took a sip of water and put the glass down on the table. “I know what you’re thinking, and I am sure you’ll agree that it’s best not to speculate too much on a thing like that.
“In other words, I’d much rather we didn’t discuss it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I said, “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You needn’t worry that I’ll have a child before you do.”
I sat down across from her. In truth this thought had not crossed my mind. Yet, now that she spoke of it, I knew she was right, and the bitter irony of it was that should she be pregnant, she would be carrying Rubin Garret’s child, and while up to this time I had managed to keep my wistful speculations about him in check, this sudden new prospect had a shattering effect on my well-founded resolve.
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks and sat blinking at her for a few moments, unable to speak. Then it dawned on me I had to say something, or she’d think me daft, so I blurted out, “That’s a cruel remark, Janet. You seem to forget, I lost a child once, and that child cannot ever be replaced, not if I had ten others.” She of course had no idea of the full meaning of that statement, but it sufficed just the same.
She put a hand across. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t know what made me say such a thing … just a feeling I had. You know how it is when you don’t feel well, you speak without thinking. Forgive me?”
I nodded.
“Come on, let’s finish the pies so we can get out of this room. It makes me nervous.”
“It would seem so.”
“You can see how inept I am at these things”—she nodded her head in the direction of the dining room—“but Rubin insisted we must—”
“Everyone has bad days,” I said, remembering how he’d proffered the invitation as though she’d been in favor of it, and feeling sorry for him as I had many times before, that he must always cover for her inability to handle even the most routine responsibilities.
“This isn’t a bad day. It’s just a day.” Her cheeks were flush. She kept sipping the water and sitting there. I picked up the knife and began to cut again.
“You’d be so much better at a thing like this.”
“Not necessarily. Everything is fine out there. You’re just tired. You can hear the people laughing … everyone’s having fun.”
The door swung open and Rubin looked in. “How are you ladies doing? Janet, is Claire helping you cut the pie there? Coffee ready?”
“Not quite, dear. We’ll be out shortly.”
He nodded and withdrew, looking a little ill at ease.
“Poor Rubin,” Janet said, and rose to her feet.
Though the conversation that day, especially the part in which Rubin took part, was brief, it jolted me into a new awareness. We all knew the truth was staring at us. Janet was wrong for Rubin and no one was more certain of it than he was, except perhaps Janet herself. I could see it in his eyes for that brief moment. Fate had cheated us all. Were we pieces on a chessboard, a simple maneuver would have changed things around and made the situation right.
I spent the rest of the visit with the Garrets knowing that something had clicked into place between Rubin and me, yet wondering whether anything could ever come of it, or were we both to remain trapped forever?
I was thinking, at the same time, would to God Rubin Garret were anything but an Episcopal priest.
Chapter 7
There is a social sector in Galveston, an upper echelon, if you will, that I scarcely knew existed for the first year or so I lived there, except that the island was dotted here and there—especially along Broadway—with handsome homes far bigger and more expensive than ours, and in these houses lived people with names sometimes appearing in the Galveston News and across the more prominent business buildings in town, down around the Strand.
Broadway, then, is the name of the street that will draw one’s attention when it appears on the reverse of an envelope which comes in the mail. One thus decorated—and the word “decorated” is appropriate when the flourish of the handwriting is considered—arrived the week before Christmas of our first year in Galveston.
The F. Peterson Marlowes of 3600 Broadway requested our attendance at a New Year’s Day reception at two o’clock in the afternoon. While recognizing the reason behind such an event, New Year’s Day being the traditional visiting day when all the city people call on one another and make merry according to their individual tastes and customs, I failed to recall ever having heard the name F. Peterson Marlowe. It did, however, have a certain ring of importance when I spoke it aloud, and the invitation was engraved on a heavy card. I propped it on the mantel among the holly so that Charles would see it upon his return from the office that evening.
He arrived early, complaining of swollen feet. Charles is often so plagued, especially after a day in court. He looked over the invitation while sitting in a kitchen chair, his feet immersed in hot salt water. Steam off the water rose up and curled around the card as he held it in his hand.
“Hmm … Pete Marlowe.”
“Who is he?”
“An attorney. His office is located not far from ours. He’s with a firm called Marlowe, Turner, and Parks. It’s one of the best in the area.”
“Can we go to his party?”
“Oh, I don’t know … I guess we could if you want to. But there’ll be a lot of people there. Besides, we’ve got to be at Janet and Rubin’s that evening.”
“There’s nothing to keep us from attending an afternoon reception, is there?”
“No, guess not. I wonder if McBride got an invitation.”
“Let’s hope so. If he doesn’t go, I may never meet him.”
“Mac isn’t much of a socializer. Sometimes when a man has no family he becomes a little withdrawn. I doubt he’d come, but I hope Pete invited him anyway. I’d feel a little funny if not.”
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”
When the weather turns fine for New Year’s Day, it gives one the feeling that perhaps the year to come will be fine, too. I cannot remember a more beautiful day in Galveston than that one in 1878 when we first visited the Marlowe home. Charles put the buggy top down so we could better enjoy the breeze, crisp as an autumn leaf, during the drive down Broadway, and all along the way we passed others bound to call at one place or another. The holiday feeling in the air was far better than on Christmas Day the week prior, a day of freezing rain and bitter cold that penetrated to the bone.
Broadway is a wide boulevard which severs the island down the center and severs, too, to some degree, the rich from the not rich. Here the fences are longer, the houses bigger, the roofs higher, the por
ches closer to the ground. It was this enigma about the porches that troubled me as we arrived at the Marlowe house, a dark red brick Mediterranean-style building which rambles along a lot six times the size of our own.
“Is it safe for the houses to be so low to the ground?”
“Up here it’s all right. Broadway is the high spot on the island, besides being a good ways from the shore. Probably it would be your best bet during a storm. By the way, did I tell you how lovely you look today?”
“Thank you, Charles. I feel better than I have in a long time. I’m sure we were right in coming today … I just feel it.”
“Did I mention Mac is coming? Don’t know what possessed him, although I did tell him you were anxious to meet him.”
“I’ve asked you to invite him to our house often enough. He ought to know without being told … look, that man up ahead wearing the light gray derby. Haven’t we seen him at St. Christopher’s?”
“I don’t recognize him.”
“Would you look at the people! How many do you suppose are here?”
“No telling. Pete’s party is always a big one. There may be as many as seventy-five or so, I don’t know.”
We were ushered by a servant through a round foyer with murals on the walls and a circular stairway up to the second floor, and then to the right into a large rectangular room with two crystal chandeliers, a parquet floor, and windows all the way around. A small ensemble of stringed instruments made music near the door, but there was so much talk going on and so many people milling about, the efforts of the musicians were hardly noticeable, and I thought as we trailed in among the people that we, too, were going to come and go without notice and this was to be another disappointment after all.
But it was soon that Charles saw one familiar face, then another, and someone called to him from the distance and waved, and the prospects of enjoyment began to change. I was glad I had thought to buy a new dress and hat, because this was a very elegant party.
How best explain the glorious feeling born of being introduced to people whose names one has heard spoken in tones of prominence? Lawyers; bank officers; cotton brokers; merchants; fishing fleet owners; wholesalers; retailers. Charles knew many of them, and those he did not know were quickly introduced to both of us by others. He mixed easily with people; he remembered names; he looked more distinguished than I had ever seen him and I was proud to be introduced as his wife.
Someone tapped his shoulder from behind: Horace Turner, one of the partners, a tall, lean bachelor with deep-set eyes and a moustache almost too perfectly groomed to look real. “So this is Mrs. Becker,” he said, bending to kiss my hand and looking up at me. “Where have you been hiding her, Becker?”
“Oh, I can’t get her down to the office very much. Some reason, she thinks it’s stuffy in there.”
“If I had known my husband has such charming colleagues, I would have made it a point to visit more often,” I said.
“Ah, the lady is a diplomat … always an asset in a wife. I’ll be moving on though, not to keep you. Have you seen Pete yet? He’s up front, near the refreshment table.”
“We’re just on our way,” said Charles.
But we had not gone far before we saw J. P. McBride, talking with several other men near the edge of the floor. “Come on, now’s your chance to meet the elusive Mr. Mac,” said Charles, and guided me across the floor.
He looked different from what I’d envisioned, mostly in size. He was scarcely taller than I—five feet three inches at most—and had a thick head of hair, salt and pepper gray, muttonchop sideburns and bright, lively eyes under thatches of unruly brows. He saw us coming.
“Here they are,” he said to the gentlemen standing with him. “Mrs. Becker, how glad I am to meet you … you ought to hear your husband praising you all the time, and I can see why.” His voice was raspy, and hearing it reminded me Charles had once said he had some sort of throat difficulty that was worsening. “Here’s Mortimer Black, Joseph Stillwell, Silas Courtier, you remember, Charles, from the Chaffin case not so long ago.…”
“I do indeed, so nice to see you all again … my wife, Claire.…”
The trio soon left to find their wives; I gave a friendly scolding to McBride for not coming to visit us.
“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t get out very much anymore,” he said. “You know, since my wife passed away a few years ago, I do feel like an extra wheel around people most of the time … besides, Charles gets enough of my reminiscing up at the office without me imposing any of it on you.”
“Nonsense. We’d be delighted to have you come, any time. Have you family living elsewhere?”
“One daughter, lives with her husband and three children up East. I shall go there when I do finally retire and that will be soon … spend the rest of my days playing with my grandchildren and fishing in the pond.”
“Sounds wonderful, but I hope it won’t be too soon.”
“Ah, well … I was so glad when Charles agreed to come in with me. I’ve too good a practice not to pass on … guess that’s my way of believing in my immortality, ha-ha!”
“D’you know, we haven’t even seen Pete and his wife yet,” said Charles. “If you’ll excuse us, we’d better get up there and speak to them before they tell everyone to go home.”
“Of course. I believe I’ll just get my coat and hat and be off. I’ve been here almost an hour. Well, so long you two, take care.…”
“Ah, my feet are killing me,” Charles said as we turned from Mac. “Let’s meet the Marlowes and get out of here.”
“I had no idea you knew so many people, dear. When do you have time to meet them?”
“Well, we all work down around the Strand, lunch together sometimes; work on cases with each other occasionally. I wasn’t expecting to see so many familiar faces today, either.” We arrived at the refreshment table and found the Marlowes.
“My stars, if it isn’t Charlie … come on over here, boy, so I can meet that sweet gal you’re carryin’ on your arm.” Big man, Pete Marlowe, tall and rotund with an almost totally bald head and no hair on his face either. His wife, Faye, short and stout, with mounds of red hair piled on top of her head and too much strong perfume, put her arms around me like a long-lost sister.
“Honey, I’m so glad to make your acquaintance. Pete was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Where, I wondered, did these people come from with southern drawls so strong they seemed obvious even in Galveston?
“Charlie, will you allow me to have a word with your charmin’ wife? Mrs. Becker, may I call you Claire? Has your old scoundrel of a husband told you we’ve been tryin’ to git him interested in comin’ in with Turner and Parks and the rest of us?”
I was quite astounded, and it must have shown because he added, “I can see he hasn’t let on yet. But you conspire with me to win him over to our side, won’t ’cha? Your husband is a brilliant man, and we need him over at our place.”
His tones were commanding, not to be defied.
“Oh, Charles doesn’t talk much business with me. I let him make all the big decisions.”
“Now, don’t you let Pete bully you, Claire,” said Faye. “When he takes a notion to get somethin’ he very often perseveres a bit strongly.” She eyed her husband warningly. “Folks got to do what makes ’em happy, regardless of what anybody else thinks.” She patted my hand.
“Great party,” said Charles. “It’s taken us almost a half hour just to get up here and meet the hosts … we won’t keep you, we know you have a lot of guests to see today.”
“Get yourselves a plateful,” said Faye. “If all the guests don’t do their part and eat, I don’t know what we’ll do with all the leftovers tomorrow.”
We nodded and went to the table. A woman out of place, I thought, but perhaps this is what it is to be rich. No need to worry over remarks you make lest they be inappropriate or offensive to others.…
Before us lay surely the most elaborate spread of food on the whole of the i
sland that day. The table was a good ten feet in length, brilliantly lit with long tapers in silver sconces and decorated with evergreen and colorful spiced fruit. Oysters were presented in every describable form, from cold ones on half shell to hot fried ones served from a banquet-size chafing dish and simmering ones in some kind of hot sauce with a queer, exotic aroma. Mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat salad; deviled eggs; caviar; olive sandwiches; cold smoked ham and turkey; steaming hot breads and orange butter; pickles; almonds; raisins; trays of crisp celery and cherry tomatoes stuffed with cheese; individual fruit pies; chocolate creams—chilled champagne at one end of the table and coffee served from an exquisite silver urn at the other.
“Don’t look so goggle-eyed,” said Charles. “All this is paid for by the business, which is the reason people like you and me were invited.”
“If my expression appears strange, it may well be from the shock of what Pete Marlowe just told me.”
“Oh, I’ll explain that later … tell you what, when we get out of here, let’s take a drive down the beach. We’ve plenty of time before going to Rubin’s.”
Whenever we drive along the beach I am always reminded how flat an island Galveston truly is: just a finger of low-lying turf poking up from the Gulf, really, connected to the rest of the world by a spindly wooden railroad bridge.
It was pleasant on the beach that day, and chillier than on the rest of the island as always, a nice change after the stifling atmosphere of the party. The breeze was a gentle thing that cooled my face and made me drowsy. I languished against the leather seat, allowing my mind to drift from one inconsequential thing to another until Charles brought me up short.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, Claire, something of importance to both of us.”
“You mean Pete Marlowe’s offer?”
“No, not that.” He paused then, as though unsure how to broach the subject on his mind. “You met Esther and Dexter Osborne at the party—remember them? He’s tall; he wore a pince-nez. She has auburn hair, quite a nice figure.”
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