By Christmastime the city still labored under a cloud of sadness and hopelessness brought on by the fire. To drive downtown was a miserable experience; seeing acres and acres of charred ruins reminded me of accounts I had read of the burning of Atlanta during the war. No one doubted eventually that part of the city would be built again; still, it gave one a helpless feeling to know that in one swift, deadening stroke, the lives of hundreds could be affected. I only drove down to see it once. I couldn’t bear to look at it again. Madame LaRoche’s place had been burned to the ground, and she had left the city for good, saving only the clothes on her back and a box of family treasures, a few jewels which had been handed down to her from ancestors in Louisiana. Faye told me of her leaving, but did not know where she had gone, and we have never found out.
We kidded ourselves it was the fire to be blamed for the slim showing of people at the Christmas Eve service at St. Christopher’s. This service traditionally filled the church to capacity. Every family came—even those whose attendance at other times of the year was sporadic at best.
This year, however, was an exception, and I still imagine part of the reason was that some St. Christopher’s families had suffered by the fire. But there were not enough such families to have made the great difference that Christmas Eve, and we might not have known the main reason for the sparse attendance except that one of the vestrymen, Marvin Goethe, told Charles that over the past few months, around fifty families had notified Rubin they were transferring their membership from St. Christopher’s elsewhere. Many of these worked for, or were somehow connected with, the Galveston Wharf Company.
Rubin would have never said. He is that kind of man. Charles was aghast at the news, and both of us knew well what was happening at St. Christopher’s. Christmas Day he spent some time talking privately with Rubin, and I fully expected him to walk out of their talk ready to give up running for mayor, but he did not. Not then.
Chapter 6
It was a time for unusual events: a time of manipulation by things beyond our control. Charles’s first campaign speech for the new year’s thrust was slated for January eleventh. Sometime during the early morning hours of January tenth, snow began to fall.
“If I hadn’t seen it myself I would have never believed it,” he said, looking out the window on the morning of the tenth. The ground was already covered with a white carpet of snow; the fences looked as though they’d been sprinkled with sugar, and children were outside playing, throwing snowballs and building their snowmen. “If this keeps up, I guess I’ll have to cancel the rally tomorrow night.”
The snow was a beautiful sight to behold, more beautiful in Galveston—with the houses close together and the snow along the fences forming a sparkling chain, linking all of us together as a unit—than in Grady, where snow comes a sight more often, and only adds to the bleakness of the sparsely populated landscape out from town.
“Look, there’s Janet,” I said. She’d come out on the lawn with Serena, both of them bundled up from head to toe, enjoying the experience of snow together.
“Lord, she stays cooped up so much lately, I guess I hadn’t realized how big she was getting,” said Charles.
“Her time is near.”
“You know, I’ve a good mind to go out there too. Look at Serena—she’s having so much fun. I could help her with that snowman.”
“Go on if you want. Maybe you can persuade Janet to act as though she has some common sense and get back indoors. In her condition, really …”
The snow continued for three days, and while I did not get out and Charles only went as far as the yard, we read in the newspaper that snowfall had been measured at some points on the island at twelve to fourteen inches deep. Water in Galveston Bay was frozen, and huge tentacles of ice hung from the sides of oyster boats and schooners docked there.
Galveston has no facility for snow; nor do her people have the means of conducting normal business during a snowfall. There are no sleds, of course, though a few people pulled in small boats and used them for gliding up and down the streets. As a result, the town’s serious business took a holiday, just as it had following the fire, only this time the whole atmosphere was one of pleasure seeking. “It might just be the lift all of us needed since the fire,” said Charles. “Sort of a release for all the pent-up frustrations.”
At any rate, it seemed good medicine for Charles and Rubin. They built two snowmen for Serena, and wound up having several free-for-all snowball fights along with neighbors from up and down the street. I stayed inside by the parlor fire most of the time. I couldn’t seem to stay warm, and had the feeling in my stomach a good bleeding spell was about to come. I prayed not; I hadn’t been through one in such a long time, and if I were to go through another one, I wished most earnestly it would wait until after the election in March.
Charles’s first campaign speech for the year was rescheduled for the eighteenth of January, and he had to wear heavy coat, boots, gloves, and woolen neck scarf. “I am not sure whether I’m going to the Union Club tonight, or up to the mountains in North Dakota,” he said, half jokingly and half in irritation. Charles hates to bundle up.
The snow had been slow in melting because the sky had failed to clear, and now the streets were filled with a soup of dirty mud and slush. There was a sparse turnout that night, but it was more than made up for during the speeches which followed in the next couple of weeks. “It’s hard to get a second wind, though,” Charles said one night. “I almost wish the election had been done with at the end of the summer.”
“It’s just the cold. By election time the weather might be prettier, and all of us will feel a lot better if it is.”
“That reminds me, have you heard from Janet or Rubin?”
“Not in the past couple of days. I saw Rubin once, and he told me he’s sticking close by. Janet hasn’t been out of the house since that morning she played in the snow with Serena.”
“Is Serena going to stay with us for a few days after the baby comes?”
“No. I believe Mrs. McCambridge from the church is coming. Her husband is on a boat right now, and she has time on her hands. She’ll watch after Janet and Serena, and cook for the family.”
“Oh, I was hoping Serena would stay here.”
“You’ll have enough on your hands without worrying about a child.”
“She wouldn’t be any worry.”
One afternoon in mid-February a man whom I had never seen came to our door. He was slightly built, carrying a satchel, and wearing a big coat and a black derby. He inquired in the politest tones whether Charles was home.
“Not yet, though I do expect him any minute. Is there something I can do for you?”
“My name is Marcus Keyroy, and I’d like to see Mr. Becker if I may. It concerns some private business.”
“Do come in. Warm yourself by the fire, Mr. Keyroy. Will you have some coffee? Let me take your overcoat?”
“No thank you. I won’t be staying long,” he said. He stood in front of the fire, warming his hands and looking above the mantel at a landscape Janet had painted for us one Christmas.
“Nice painting,” he remarked finally. “Galveston in summertime. Warms one to his very soul on a day like this.”
I agreed with him—this was one of my favorite of the paintings Janet had done for us—and before I could tell him she had painted it, I heard Charles enter the back door. “Oh, there he is now. Ill just fetch him and tell him you’re here.”
“Many thanks, Mrs. Becker. You’re very kind.”
Yet Charles didn’t recall the man’s name. “Oh well, I’ve met so many people the past few months, I’ll probably remember when I see him,” he said.
He went into the parlor while I hung up his coat, and then I heard the two of them walk into Charles’s study and close the door. They were closeted in there for such a long time that eventually I ate my supper alone and left Charles’s plate on top of the stove. Finally, I heard the doors open and waited to see if Charles woul
d invite the man to stay and eat. But then I heard the front door open and shut, and Charles’s footsteps back into the parlor.
I kept thinking he’d come into the kitchen, but he did not, so finally I walked into the parlor to get him. “Supper’s ready—” I began, then stopped. He was sitting down in a chair facing the window, holding a glass of madeira.
“Charles, you shouldn’t drink that on an empty stomach. Come eat. Your dinner’s been ready an hour.”
“I’ll be along. Just let me sit here alone for a while.”
It had grown dark in the room, but when I started to light a lamp he stopped me.
“Had a rough day?”
“The roughest.”
“Who was that man? What did he want?”
He looked up as though puzzled by the question. “Oh, just someone with campaign business. Was Pete coming by tonight?”
“Later on, I think.”
“Good. I need to talk with him.”
“If you don’t hurry up and eat, you won’t have time before he gets here.”
“Put it away. I’m not hungry.”
Charles and Pete were in the study for over an hour that night, and I will confess to having passed in front of the doors several times with a keen ear. Oddly, I could hear nothing but the soft rhythm of Charles’s voice. Usually Pete did most of the talking, his words barreling through the door as though meant for everyone in the household. But tonight Pete was listening. After their conversation, he left without telling me good-by, and this departure from the usual was what alerted me something odd was going on.
Charles returned to his study and shut the doors. He’d said scarcely two words to me since coming in that evening, and by now I was overcome with curiosity as to what was bothering him.
I knocked on the door softly.
“Come in,” he said, as though he expected me.
I opened the door slightly and looked in. He was seated behind his desk, looking pensively into an open drawer where he kept a small handgun. The desk was so scattered with papers, the shelves and tables around him piled so high with books and folders, he looked like a newspaper editor who’s just realized he missed a deadline.
“Darling, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“In a way,” he replied, and slowly shoved the drawer in.
“Look at me, Charles. What’s happened? Something at the office? Something to do with that man who came by?”
“Sit down. I want to talk to you.” When he lifted his head and looked across at me, his face was pale. “Claire, I don’t know how to tell you this except to put it plainly, though I wish there were some other way.
“I’m not going to run for mayor.”
“Not going to run? But why? At this stage, when you’re almost a cinch to win—even the News predicts—”
“The price is too high. I can’t do it, that’s all.”
“Price too high?” I repeated. My head was spinning. He might just as well have taken the pistol from the drawer and shot a hole through my hand.
“I don’t expect you to understand; just believe there are many reasons. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m sorry for that … more than you could know.”
“Disappointed? You don’t know the meaning of the word! You simply can’t back out now. Pete won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it.”
“Pete’s been good enough to see my position. I was expecting at least that much from you.”
“But you talked an hour to Pete and you must have told him why. You expect me to accept a decree, with no explanation.” My words drifted across to him as wind across a desert. I took another tack: “And what about your high-minded ideas for making Galveston into a great metropolis? I thought you were such a dedicated man. What about that?”
I’d hit home finally. He made no reply, but looked down at the clutter of engineers’ reports on water supply and speech notes. “Claire, please sit down and keep your voice down. We must talk this out calmly.”
“Is it Rubin and the church?”
“That’s part of it; part of what made me see what I’m in for.”
“But people will forget this election. They’ll come back to St. Christopher’s in time. Not everybody in this town works for the Wharf Company or has to cater to it for one reason or another. Surely its power can’t be that far-reaching.”
“Oh, it is far-reaching all right, believe me. But whether or not that was the case, I’ve realized something about myself: I don’t want to run for public office, don’t want to go into public service. I’ve allowed myself to be manipulated by people generous enough to have confidence in my ability, and I’ve been convinced that I’m capable of it—even that I want to do it. It was a terrific mistake. Better to learn now than to go on with this thing.”
“But what’s Pete going to do? The election isn’t a month off.”
“We’re going to ask Lucien to run in my place, although, just between us, I doubt he will. But if so, I’m going to try to throw my supporters his way.”
“But what will people think? That doesn’t make any sense to me. I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make any sense.”
“We’ll make a statement as to my health. We’ll say that my physician has urged me to drop out of the campaign.”
“Are you really ill, Charles? Have you been seeing a doctor without my knowing? You do look pale. Go on, tell me if that’s the truth.”
“No, it isn’t. But it is no one’s business. Believe me, dear, it’s best that it end like this. The whole thing is making me sick. It’s such a filthy game and I hate it. I hate it, and won’t go through with it.”
I knew then he was bent on this course, that no amount of pleading would change his mind. I began to think of all the plans I’d secretly harbored over the months: grand plans that would take us so much further than Galveston politics. Now I would scarcely be able to face anyone in town.
“Will you stay on with Pete?”
“No, we’ve discussed that. After a few weeks I’ll go back into private practice, where I should have stayed in the first place, because going with him was my first mistake, or, at least, one of them.”
“All very neat and tidy, isn’t it?”
“Darling, I know how you must feel. I’ll try and make it up to you. We’ll travel—anywhere you want to go. We’ll move from here if you want—maybe it would even be better in the long run—not to Grady, of course, but anywhere else you’d like. Maybe to Houston—”
“I don’t want to travel. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to look at you anymore. For the first time in our marriage, I could see some promise you might really be somebody, might go somewhere, and now this.
“I’ve known you to be many things, but never a blundering fool. To give up just when victory is at hand because some nonsense about self-revelation comes over you, even when you know how much this race means to me … When I think of the years I’ve wasted, staying with you, bound by a sense of duty. Oh, I should never have come here to Galveston. Would to God I’d have had the good sense to leave you after Charlie died!”
“But I thought you liked it here. I thought coming here helped you to get over the loss of our son.”
“By God, he was Damon Becker’s son, not yours!” I shouted, then caught my breath and brought my hand to my lips.
I shall never forget the icy stare he returned to me. Then in a moment he looked past me and said with a hollow voice, “The door. Someone’s at the door.”
“Charles, I—”
“The door, Claire. Just get the door, please.”
I walked out of the study, down the hall, and to the front door as though in a dream. I couldn’t think or reason, couldn’t believe what had just taken place. I opened the door. It was Rubin. It bothered me he would be coming to the front door, and I kept trying to form the words to ask him why he didn’t come to the back. I must have stared at him wide-eyed. He’d been speaking to me and I hadn’t heard him.
“Claire, don’t stand the
re like a blinkard. What’s the matter with you?” He was literally shaking me by the shoulders. “I’m trying to tell you it’s Janet. The baby is coming. I’ve got to go and fetch the doctor. Can you go over? Tell Charles to go after Mrs. McCambridge.”
He let go of me, hurried down the front steps, and boarded his rig pulled up out front.
Chapter 7
It was deadly cold that night, and although I’ve already managed to forget part of the sequence of events which took place in Janet’s dimly lit room, there are some things I shall never forget: the way she looked as she lay in the bed, writhing in pain and gripping the brass rungs above her head, limp hair hanging in cords around her shoulders, her swollen body moving in spasms, and her oft-suppressed cries as the contractions took hold.
She looked at me in her pathetic, helpless way, but I could scarcely bear to be in the room, much less speak to her soothingly. She was in the second stage when I arrived, but I couldn’t get my thoughts together as to what was to be done for her, and could only pace back and forth in front of the window, praying that soon the doctor and Mrs. McCambridge would show up.
The feeling I had in the pit of my stomach when I saw Rubin’s rig pulling up but no sign of Charles and the midwife was like the slow turning of a dull knife. Mrs. McCambridge lived only blocks away. She and Charles should have returned long before Rubin. Then I recall Janet screaming, “Oh, God, hurry, the baby is coming now!” I turned from the window and pulled up the sheet which covered her. The bed was soaked. The dome-shaped head had begun to push itself from between her outstretched legs. The stench will always stay with me. Why did it smell so?
Doctor Arnold burst into the room. He is a huge man, bigger than Rubin. He stalked across to her bed, and apparently seeing I was going to be of no help, ordered me to wait outside, and sent Rubin down to get hot water. “And bring more light into this room! My God, you can hardly see your hand in front of you!”
I walked out into the hall and watched down the stairs for the appearance of Charles and the midwife.
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