Galveston

Galveston

A Novel

Suzanne Morris

for J.C.

and my parents

and for
WILLIAM GOYEN
,

without whose help the publication of this book

would yet be but a dream

THE AUTHOR WISHES TO EXPRESS SPECIAL THANKS TO
:

M
R
. L
ARRY
W
YGANT
, Archivist; Mr. Bob Dalehite, former Archivist; and Miss Ruth Kelly, former Assistant Archivist, Rosenberg Public Library, Galveston, for their ever willing assistance in my quest for authenticity in the background of this book;

M
RS
. C
AROL
T
HORNTON
of Houston, who served as typist for much of the manuscript, and whose long-standing friendship I count among my greatest blessings;

M
RS
. R
EGA
K
RAMER
M
C
C
ARTY
of Tacoma, Washington, my teacher and close friend, whose guidance and encouragement have helped immeasurably in all my writing endeavors;

M
R
. L
ARRY
C
OOK
of Houston, whose help in photographing me at various Galveston sites was invaluable in making the task an easy one;

M
RS
. K
AREN
G
IESEN
, for her special assistance;

and M
R
. F
RANK
P
AGE
of Houston, my father and photographer, whose accompaniment on numerous trips to the island over the years has helped to enhance my intrigue with Galveston as it is today and as it might have been.…

CONTENTS

Claire

March 1, 1877–April 4, 1886

Part I
and
Part II

Serena

June 1, 1899–September 8, 1899

Willa

December 20, 1920–December 26, 1920

GALVESTON

Claire

March 1, 1877–April 4, 1886

PART I

Chapter 1

Nightfall.

The breeze glides gently across the porch and winds around me, then passes on. The only sound I hear is the squeezing wicker of my rocking chair, and I am alone.

Now let me tell you how it was this morning, how inevitable the tragedy which occurred next door and how innocent I remain of causing it, regardless of how well it seems to suit my purposes.

To begin, I've never loved my husband, Charles Becker, not in the way a man expects love from his wife. Yet I've stood by him both in success and failure. Surely this is fair exchange for all the deep desire and affection I might have showered upon him had I adored him as he thought I did, from the start.

In fact I married Charles for every good reason except love. And to be fair, my decision was influenced by my mother, who thought him fine and brilliant, and by my cousin Betsey, who considered him a responsible man. Yet I pride myself on honesty, so it must be said that would his brother Damon have taken me away with him, I'd have gone and never looked back at Charles. Yet Damon Becker presumed to trifle with my affections, mistaking me for a woman of no account, so what better way to show him the error he made than by marrying his brother?

So it happened that we made the match everyone back home in Grady had come to expect and Charles, known for his tall, erect figure, his distinguished looks and Vandyke beard, was said by many to seem a little less solemn, his smile to be a good deal broader across his well-turned face, and his hazel eyes a bit brighter now that he'd finally won the woman he'd loved for years.

It was little more than a year later that he took me far away from Grady and brought me here to Galveston: the city of stairs.

Now, most people who know Galveston will remark on the coolness of its Gulf breeze, the length of its sandy beaches, the state of its port. I shall always think of the blood rising to my head as I climb the stairs, and the sinister sinking feeling which comes over me as I descend them.

I won't argue the steep stairs elevate us from danger of high water; I only wish to point out that high water is scarcely the only danger to be found on Galveston Island. There is danger in the stairs themselves, for instance.

There are ten leading from our outside walk to our front door and twelve at the yellow, white-shuttered Episcopal rectory next door, and I watched from our parlor window as Janet and Rubin Garret carried the last of their household goods up those stairs on the day they moved in, the first day of May in 1877. All I knew of the Garrets then was what I had heard others say—she was from a wealthy Virginia family; he was a man of the cloth, newly established at St. Christopher's Church several blocks away.

What struck me as I watched them move in was that he looked no more like a priest than she did a parson's wife. His frame was husky, shoulders and arms too massive to seem at home behind a pulpit, his complexion tanned, and his hair light as fresh honey: bleached by the sun, I suspected. She was tall—not more than three or four inches shorter than he—but reedlike and wispy, with tendrils of blond hair streaming down her long, narrow, fragile-looking face, and somehow I couldn't imagine her presiding over church receptions and planning fall bazaars.

When all the boxes had been lifted up the stairs, the two of them disappeared through the front door, opening off the side of the verandah. I wanted another look—it was curiosity, nothing more—so I waited at my window hoping they'd come out again.

One minute passed, maybe two, then suddenly she appeared at the window directly across from mine. She gave me a quick, surprised look, said something over her shoulder, and pulled down the shade.

I looked away, embarrassed at being caught prying, but thinking at the same time how strange she'd looked just then, encased in shadows, her eyes wide and sorrowful, the skin stretched taut over the bones of her face. Had I not known better, and were I of a superstitious mind, I might have believed Janet Garret a ghost.

Later that day, when Charles came home he remarked all the shutters were drawn over there, and so they remained for the next four days, as though the Garrets wished to barricade themselves against all intrusion, even the polite overtures of friendship by their neighbors.

Then one evening Rubin Garret came to call, and as we talked I sensed a quiet power in his voice, as though he possessed a great reservoir of emotions kept carefully checked. His eyes were full of fun, mischievous almost, yet had a quality of magnetism that kept my gaze fixed on them constantly.

Shortly he cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. “You must come over and meet my wife, Janet,” he said.

“We'd like to, but we noticed the shutters have been drawn and thought she might be ill,” Charles said.

Rubin hesitated a moment, then answered, “No, not ill, but she's been in low spirits since we've been here. I think it's hard on her, having to get to know new people, but she agreed that moving here was a good thing. Have you been here long?”

Charles explained we'd come two months earlier, and that he was gradually taking over the practice of an attorney named J. P. McBride, who wanted to retire within the next couple of years. “Galveston offers so much opportunity,” he said with a wide sweep of his arm, then his voice dropped, “and of course our little son died just a few months ago … Claire and I felt we could forget more easily in a new place.”

“I won't ever forget,” I said.

“I hope he didn't suffer,” said Rubin, turning to me.

“Not that we know of. He just died one day. Three doctors looked at him afterward … all three said suffocation; none could tell us why. He was all I—we—”

Rubin looked uncomfortable, and dug a finger inside his tight white clerical collar. “A true test of faith, losing a child,” he said. “We don't have any children yet, but I hope someday we will. And perhaps the Lord will bless you with others.”

He rose abruptly to leave, yet lingered at the door, clasping my hand in his. “And please, do call on my wife. She'd be delighted to have you,” he said. My hand was still enveloped in his, like a pussycat in a warm blanket, as he continued. “She's a person of many interests, you know, paints and even writes a little poetry though she doesn't think it's any good and won't show it to anyone.”

“Does she paint portraits?” Charles asked. “I've wanted one of Claire for the wall of my study.”

“Oh, I'd think she would find Mrs. Becker an interesting subject. I've always found people with widow's peak so striking … almost mysterious, as though they know something no one else does.” He looked embarrassed then, as if he felt he'd said too much, and released my hand.

“We might visit sometime at your church,” I said.

“Oh, you're Episcopal?”

“No, but we've visited Trinity downtown and liked it … we were thinking of changing from Congregational.”

He smiled. “Fine church, Trinity … bigger than ours, of course, but I like to think St. Christopher's will catch up one day. Well, maybe I'll see you soon.”

After he had left, Charles said, “Why did you tell him that? The service at Trinity was foreign to both of us.”

“Look at it this way. Rubin Garret's church is close by, so we might as well go there as any place.”

He shrugged, then said, “You know, there's something about that man that reminds me of Damon.”

My heart quickened as I looked away without replying. His comparison was so logical it plunged through me like a double-edged sword.

Chapter 2

I'd known Damon Becker long before I'd met Charles. Back in Grady I kept a fine palomino stallion from the time I was eighteen until I was twenty-one, when he contracted a disease and had to be destroyed. I loved Sandy, and kept his golden coat so shiny the sun all but glinted off him as we rode the paths of the countryside surrounding the town.

One torrid afternoon when I was about twenty, I was riding Sandy along the edge of an open field that ran parallel with a dense thicket. I gave Sandy his lead and let the wind blow my hair and cool my face. I was soon lost in pleasant thoughts of everything in general and nothing in particular.

I sensed my stallion's temperament was in harmony with mine as he galloped swiftly along, enjoying as I did the freedom, the openness ahead. I wasn't watching as I should have been, had taken the dangerous luxury of closing my eyes for moments at a time as we surged forward, yard after yard …

All at once Sandy gave a furious neigh and reared up until his body stood vertical to the ground beneath, throwing me off his back and into a bush. It happened so fast I wasn't at first aware of what had caused his fright. Then I saw—an immense black hound, teeth vicious as a wolverine's.

In an instant Sandy had bolted away across the field, and the dog turned his eye on me and crouched low to plunge. As I lay back, helplessly snarled in the bush, all I could see were his gaping mouth, his red tongue and white teeth: the teeth were branded on my mind as I thrust an arm to my face and closed my eyes, knowing death awaited me.…

A powerful gunshot split the air. I opened my eyes to see the animal pitch high above, like a fish thrusting up from the surface of the pond. His body bowed, he gave a pitiful whimpering sound and hit the ground with a dull thud not two feet from me.

My breath came in gulps as I looked across through the glare of the sun to the open field beyond. And there, astride a horse black as midnight, sat a man I had never seen before.

He was some hundred feet away and replaced his rifle before he gave a spur to his horse and came unhurriedly to where I still lay, too frightened to move. He did not get off his horse, but leaned down and offered me a hand. His hair was auburn, his face smooth and young; his eyes were smiling even as he said, almost mockingly, “You look fit enough.”

I couldn't take my eyes off his face as I stood, unsteadily, below him. “You saved my life,” I stammered. “I'm so grateful … I could hardly believe … you seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. It happened so fast.”

“Your horse is over by the thicket. I'll go and fetch him.”

I nodded.

He smiled. “You'll be all right, here?”

I nodded again.

He was back with Sandy in minutes, or seconds, what was time to me? “Your horse is all right,” he said. “No wounds on his ankles that I could see. You'd better get home now. Have you got your wind back?”

“I'll be all right,” I said, lifting myself into my own saddle again. “I'll never be able to thank you enough—Mister …?”