Coldwater Revival: A Novel (17 page)

Twenty-three

I held my tongue in check as the stick-lady led the children away, lest my riptide of naughty taunts sweep the old scarecrow off her feet. She took her place at the head of the line, marching with shoulders squared and nose perched in the clouds. The wee ones followed as best they could, though a few dared another turn of head in my direction.

Yes, little ones … I’m still watching you.

I wondered if they attended a nearby school. Too bad—if they shared the misfortune of having that woman for a teacher.

I spat out the taste of sea while gravity tugged gallons of saltwater from my skirt. Water dripped on the sand and oozed down my legs, spilling into my laced-up oxfords. Granny would have a conniption fit if she were to see me now, in the act of ruining a fine pair of high-polished shoes. I wrung the hem of my skirt and yanked the tail of my shirtwaist free, hoping it would take a notion to dry more quickly in the breeze.

“Hey … what are you? A fish—or a mermaid? You’re too graceful to be a fish, so you must be a sea nymph.”

I spun around at the sound of Tate’s voice, wondering if he’d seen me plucking those bobbing minnows from the sea.

A grin split Tate’s face as he trekked across the pallet of sand. It widened even more as my gaze lengthened into an impolite stare. Tate teased as Papa did, holding his eyes steady until the blush made its way to soft places on my face and neck. I felt the heat now. His teasing brought back a familiar—even comfortable—feeling.

I knew at once that Tate and the sun were fast friends, for his face was as brown as Elo’s tanned rabbit skins. He chuckled, most likely because he’d not met with such rude gawking before. As my first reliable look at him stretched into eternity, I noticed straight brows and dark curls that caught fire in the sun. How much more the sun revealed than the moonbeams and lamplight of Sunday evening. The truth couldn’t be denied: Tate was more than handsome. I turned my face away. He’d seen enough of my rudeness for one day.

I fidgeted with my hair, attempting to arrange it into something other than the windblown mass of my creation. And all the while I wondered why Tate had referred to me as graceful. Was he someone who could be careless with his teases? If there was one thing a cripple could never be, it was graceful.

“You know, you had me fooled the other night. I thought you were just a kid. What are you … thirteen … fourteen?” I saw a flash of white behind his smile and believed he attempted to put me at ease with his nosiness. I nodded my head in answer to his question, for my tongue had not yet recouped its glibness.

“Been looking for you every day. Wanted to give you this.” Tate opened his hand, baring the wooden carving of a whooping crane. It seemed a perfect replica of the startling white bird that had forever been my favorite. My fingers shook as I placed the delicate figure in my palm, noticing the deftness of each feather tip and stroke of the knife.

“Thank you … but it’s much too beautiful to give away. I’ve never seen such delicate carving before.” I held out my hand, thinking the wonderful crane needed to remain with its maker, not with the likes of me.

“No, you keep it. I made it for you. Shoot … I’ve got a whole shelf filled with my whittlings. Seems like I’ve been cutting on wood or rock or something most of my life. Nothing special about it … I just like to work with my hands.”

Tate shifted his weight and slid his hand into his pants pocket. “They nest around here, you know, along with blue heron and pelicans. But whooping cranes are my favorite, ’cause you don’t see so many of them anymore. Seems there’s fewer and fewer every year.”

Having found its true purpose, my tongue rolled out a soliloquy. “They migrate from Canada to Texas every autumn. They’re the tallest birds in North America,” I said on a rush of whisper. Tate arched an eyebrow and stepped a bit closer to me, surprise registering on his face. Perhaps he had thought me an ignorant twit, or maybe my voice just sounded weird to him.

“What’s your name? You’ve got to have a name.”

“Emma.”

“Emma what?”

“Emma … uh … Grace.”

“Grace. Hmm, don’t recall hearing of any families by that name before. You live around here?”

When I didn’t answer, Tate rephrased the question.

“You live over at the—”

“What are you, the census-taker or something?” My heart thundered as red flares of warning exploded in front of my eyes. Tate asked too many questions. Why was he so interested in me, anyway? I turned away without thanking him for the exquisite figurine he had carved, and walked away, my dispirited heart prompting me to recall the mission to which I’d made a vow. The mission I would complete tonight. It frightened me that—for a moment—it had vanished from my thoughts like a wraith in the night.

Tate jogged to me, grasping the boniness of my elbow, skidding me to a stop. “Please don’t go. I won’t ask any more questions. Look … I just want to be your friend. Thought you might need one as much as I do.”

I looked into the depths of Tate’s eyes. Papa said you could discover a lot about a man just by observing his eyes. Tate’s were chocolate brown with a slight shading of green near the pupils. They looked to be honest eyes—trustworthy eyes.

“Look, why don’t you go find a place for us to sit and talk while I run over to Murdoch’s and buy some soda pop. What kind do you like?” Tate awaited my answer, but I had turned my gaze to the sea, and there it remained. He tarried a moment longer, then dashed off to the bathhouse.

Inside my head, opposing thoughts warred with one another, each vying for the podium. The loudest of the two shouted that I didn’t deserve Tate’s friendship, nor should I be seeking unmerited favors, such as laughter and companionship. The other questioned why I would even consider slipping my melancholy to the back burner when one brother lay buried in the ground, the other beneath a blanket of unconsciousness. I shivered at a wind suddenly gone cold, and knew the time had not yet come to shed my hair shirt of guilt. Until I had forfeited full penance to the sea, my shame was visible for the world to view; splayed out and naked like a filleted flounder. ’Twas only a matter of time before Tate spied it.

Tate returned in a flash and together we walked to a level stretch of sand, mere feet from the water. Shock must have chronicled itself in my eyes when Tate spread his jacket and motioned me to sit down.

“Don’t look so surprised. I can be a gentleman if I’ve a mind to.”

“Thanks,” I murmured. I sat on the far edge of his coat, feeling tongue-tied and more than a mite self-conscious. My hands trembled as I lifted the bottle of Delaware Punch to my lips and sipped its sweetness. I thought the young man beside me must be a seer or gifted mind reader. How else could he have chosen the drink I loved most?

Tate sat on the sand, his gaze fastened on the sea as he guzzled his soda. “Someday I’m going to board a ship and sail around the world. Visit all the places I’ve read about. Italy, Japan, Africa. Every one of them.” He turned a sideways glance at me and our eyes met briefly. “What about you? What would you like to do with the rest of your life?”

I shook my head, my tears welling as I remembered there’d be no “rest of my life.” Not after tonight. For the extent of my remembrance, I had aspired to be a wife and mother, a mother who wrote stories in her head and told them to her children. But that was before the tragedy; before I realized a mother’s child could be snatched from her arms as quickly as an eagle could whisk a field mouse from the ground.

An hour passed in which a bank of clouds paused before the sun, broadcasting patches of shade over the cooling sand. Tate did most of the talking, except for a few grunts I tossed into the conversation at appropriate and inappropriate times. By the latter, I’m sure he knew I was only half-listening to what he said. I did glean a few facts: He was a dockworker and he lived with a lady he called Mrs. K.

One thing became clear: Tate had no intention of leaving. I held no doubts he would pitch a tent, if necessary, and sleep the night away on the beach if I didn’t take my departure first. Had Tate somehow stumbled upon the truth of my shame? Had he prowled into my personal territory and now thought himself a hero who would save me from the sea?

I rose from the ground and brushed sand from my skirt and hands. “Thank you for the soda pop.”

“Do you have to go right now?” Tate’s voice carried a bit of forlornness in it.

I picked up his jacket and shook off the sand before handing it to him. “July—I’ll be fourteen in July.”

Tate grinned as though he’d just retrieved a star from the sky. “Let’s see … that makes me your elder by two years … and eight months. No wonder I’m so much wiser. I could teach a tadpole like you a lot of things.” As Tate hefted himself from the ground, muscles in his bronzed arms flexed like those of a youth familiar with hard work.

In consideration of Tate’s wisdom and ancient condition, I swept into a full curtsy, then turned and shambled toward the dunes to fetch my crutch. As I walked, something soft as goose down brushed across my lips, carrying with it the intimate sensation of a smile. With great suddenness, my heart lurched with yearnings I’d not experienced of late. I knew the reason for those wild palpitations in my heart. ’Twas the forgotten dreams of marriage and motherhood I’d dared recall earlier, and the longing to someday hold my own child in my arms. The idea clutched at my chest, leaving me breathless. Those impossible longings could be attributed to two things only: the wee children who’d followed me into the sea today and Tate’s nosy questions.

Twenty-four

“I believe your hike to the ocean has perked ye up a bit. Put some pink in your cheeks.” Granny beamed as she ladled soup into the bowls I had arranged on the kitchen table. While she sliced cornbread, I poured two glasses of milk. We sat across the table from each other, Granny’s eyes peering at me with speculative interest. I was the one with the shifty eyes.

I had changed out of my salt-stiff clothes and into a clean outfit when I returned home this afternoon. My clothes were soaking in the bathtub now. If Granny were to determine the real reason I had trekked to the sea, I feared she might be stricken with a severe case of apoplexy.

“Yer appetite’s a mite better too.”

The hot soup felt good going down my throat. And Granny
was
the best cook in Texas, according to Papa’s calculations. “I’m thinking about going back tonight. Wanted to study some constellations from the seawall.”

“No … ye’ll not be going back tonight. There’s a norther comin’ in. I can feel it clear down to the marrow of my bones.”

“I won’t stay long, Granny. It’s something I need … to do.” My chest squeezed as Granny’s eyes narrowed on me from across the table. Her head moved forward ever so slowly, like an old arthritic turtle distending her neck from the shell. She uptilted her chin and glared at me through the bedrock of her spectacles. The frown on her face was one to scare little children on Halloween night.

“We’ll not be speaking of you traipsing down to the sea tonight … or any other night, for that matter. What we’ll be doing is sitting over there by the fire. Just you and me. It’s high time we passed an evening together, just talking to one another.”

As my stare probed Granny’s aged eyes, the look of determination I found there surprised me not. What I didn’t spy was one pinch of giving in.

“’Tis good to see you eating again, sweet-pie. Maybe all ye’re needing is a little more exercise. A walk down to the beach every day will add a little strength to your muscles, and you can soak up some sunshine at the same time. But remember this—I won’t have you walking the beach at night anymore. Ye understand me? It’s too dangerous for a young woman to be out alone at night.”

“Yes ma’am.” I glanced at my empty bowl, unaware I’d eaten its fill. When had my appetite returned? I wondered. During the nighttime hours, when sleep-dreams stole sorrow from my heart? Or had its gentle pangs returned this afternoon, while my heart basked in newfound affection for a passel of tykes who reminded me of my brothers? Or had it reappeared as I sat in silence, sipping on the spicy tales from Tate’s brewery?

“Now, help me clean up and then I’ll be teaching you some fancy stitches no one else is privy to. Might even tell ye a story or two.”

The spellbinding beacon in the waves seemed but a distant spark in a long-ago memory, as did my vow to pursue the sea’s forgetfulness. Pushing aside what had lain heavily on my heart for countless days, I gathered up the supper dishes and set them soaking in an enamel dishpan at the sink.

Granny gawked at me. If it were possible, I would have gawked at myself, for my bottomless pit of lethargy now seemed to be filling with something akin to energy. “I’ll wash the dishes, Granny, while you lay the fire.”

Most likely, Granny assumed the daughter of Annaleen Falin would possess the polished gift of stitchery. But my ineptness with a needle rang clear as we huddled beneath the reading lamp, my fingers a-fumble as I botched stitch after stitch upon the practice cloth. Granny’s patience must have worn down to a nubbin after a while, for she rose with haste, collecting needles, embroidery thread, hoops, and cloth, stashing them in her sewing basket.

I shuffled to the stove in wild relief, making a pretense of warming my hands next to the tin-wrapped smokestack. My senses—once blunted by sorrow—burgeoned with renewal as I sniffed traces of burning mesquite and cedar. As the fire hissed and crackled in the belly of the stove, it called to memory nights whiled away beside our hearth in Coldwater. I glanced at Granny. How many nights had she sat alone in this room, recalling her life before the big wind sucked life from her husband and children? I now understood why her mantel overflowed with a menagerie of keepsakes, photographs, and mementos. They were all she had left of her family. I gazed at the carved casing above Granny’s fireplace, which bore the weight of her treasures. A large brass bell occupied center stage. When Granny lifted it from its doily cradle and gave it a good polishing, what memories did it summon forth? I lifted the cumbersome bell with care, turning it belly-up as I studied the long, heavy clapper.

“’Twas your grandpa’s bell,” Granny said. Though her voice sounded flat and lonely, her eyes glazed over with obvious love.

“Grandpa Johnny’s?”

“He was a fisherman, ye know. The best in Galveston. Used to clang that bell when he’d return from a spell at sea. Three times he’d ring it; four times if he was bringing back an exceptional catch. Dobber would take off ’fore I could say yea or nay about the matter, running lickety-split to the wharf to help his papa unload the boat. Dobber thought he knew most everything about the deep there was to know. But the sea had all of us fooled.” Granny sighed and shifted on the sofa, sinking more deeply into the broken-down cushions that carried the permanent imprint of her heaviness. She tugged on her shawl and chafed her arms against the chill—of body or heart, I knew not which. Granny removed her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose, lantern light casting sheen on her faded eyes. I lowered my gaze out of respect for my grandmother’s pain.

“Bring me that picture, sweet-pie.” Granny pointed to the photograph of her children. She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and squeezed her eyes. I worried about her as I placed the picture in her hands, for I knew that memories could strangle the lifeblood from a heart.

Granny’s gnarled finger pointed to the oldest boy, shaking a bit as she outlined the lad’s handsome face. “His baptized name is Griffen Delane, but his papa nicknamed him Dobber when he was a toddler. Called him that ’cause he flitted about like a dirt dauber. Never seen a swifter pair of feet in me life. And boy, did that child love to fish … got that from his papa. He was soon to be thirteen …” Granny’s finger stumbled as it moved to the middle child. “This boy … this overly bright child is Logan.” Her voice hitched, but she continued on. “He was eleven. Craved the book learning as much as his papa did. Like your papa still does.” Granny’s eyes stayed fixed on the boy with whom my papa looked most similar.

“Why was Papa so much older than his brothers and sister?”

“I had a baby girl when Roan was three years old. But she was weakly from the start. Got the pneumonia when she was five and … just couldn’t fight it. Guess my body wasn’t ready to go through that sorrow again ’cause I didn’t bear another child until your papa was ten years old.” Granny placed her finger on the last child in the snapshot. I looked up, anxiousness for Granny’s heart causing my own to act up a bit.

“That’s Katie Ann,” I blurted out, hoping to give Granny’s emotions a bit of time to rebound. “You named her Katie after your mother, and Ann after the little girl you lost, didn’t you, Granny? Mama said I reminded her of Katie Ann.”

Granny nodded her head. I felt sure it was all she could manage at the time. We stared at the pretty girl with blonde pigtails. She looked much younger and smaller than her brothers. “How old was Katie Ann when … when the storm hit?”

“She was only nine years old. Your mama’s right … Katie Ann was small and pretty, just like you. Maybe that’s why I’ve been partial to you since the day ye were born, sweet-pie.”

I reached for the photograph, thinking it past time to draw Granny’s attention elsewhere, but she tightened her clasp on the frame, exposing the iron will and unrelenting fingers I’d grown used to. I should have known Granny wasn’t finished yet, for once retrieved, memories were most difficult to dislodge. Nor could you wipe them away like dusty chalk from a blackboard. They lingered on … until that moment in time when putting them aside seemed the only pathway to survival.

Granny and I sat shoulder to shoulder on the sofa. Part of me regretted my earlier request to learn more about the storm, for I now sensed the need in my grandmother to share all of her sadness with me. I’d barely begun to feel an ebbing of my own sorrow. Why had I thought myself strong enough to hear of another’s unbearable loss? For sure my unshakable curiosity was a troublemaker at times, dealing me more misery than I could handle.

“We knew a storm was brewing, but we’d survived so many that we gave this one no particular heed. The rain started on Friday. Just light rain with a little wind. And mugginess … my, was it muggy. The surf was higher than usual, but there was nothing astir to cause us any great alarm. During the night, I heard the wind pick up and knew Johnny would be moving his boat to the lee side of the island come morning, just like he always did when a storm blew in. It was hot and humid again the next morning, and the wind was brisk. Johnny and I talked about the storm, how it would probably be a strong one. He mentioned the sky—the red tint of the sky. After a quick breakfast, he readied to leave. The kids begged to go with him. Katie Ann liked to steer the wheel, you see, and Dobber and Logan wanted to get in an hour or two of fishing at Offat’s Bayou.”

“It was called The Great Storm of 1900, wasn’t it, Granny?”

“Yes, it was called that, along with a lot of other things. September 8, 1900—’twas a day the world will never forget.”

Granny closed her eyes. I imagined the years rolling away in her mind.

“If only I had made the children stay home with me that day.”

If only I had kept the twins out of the death field that day.

“Johnny said the kids could go with him. He teased it would get them out of my hair, but even as we laughed, something inside me sounded a warning bell. I paid it little mind. I was too busy thinking about the baking I had to do, and how good it would be to have a little peace and quiet. Besides, Johnny never paid a bit of mind to my worry words and neither did the children.”

“Where was Papa when the storm hit?”

“Why … Roan was a grown man by then, working on a farm near Coldwater. Let’s see … guess he was about twenty-two at the time … and already in love with your mama.”

I smiled at Granny, wishing she’d let the story slip away so we could turn our thoughts from what was sure to follow.

“Katie Ann was so excited. I remember looking at her right before she ran out the door, thinking someday she’d be the most beautiful belle in Galveston County. I ignored the sick feeling in my stomach, and after a while it went away. Johnny slipped on his slicker and stopped in the doorway, taking hold of my hand. ‘Ye’re the love of me life, ye know,’ he said. The second he let go my hand, fear clutched my heart in a way it never had before. ‘Wait, Johnny,’ I pleaded. ‘Why don’t ye leave the boat at the dock? Surely ’tis safe enough there. This storm is no worse than the others we’ve been through.’ But he just smiled and said they’d be home by noon.

“I left the house around eleven, determined to find me family and bring them home. The wind had picked up to gale force by then, and I had this terrible, sinking feeling inside me. It wasn’t just raining—it was blowing sheets of rain the likes of which I’d never seen before. Earlier that morning, I’d watched kids floating in washtubs, playing in a foot of water in the street, but now the water was up to my knees and rising fast. I tried cutting across the island to get to Offat’s Bayou, but made no headway a’tall. The wind was ferocious. I knew I’d not make it to the boat, so I turned back, thinking maybe my family was already home, safe and warm. Probably messing up my kitchen, fixing sandwiches and the likes. I got back to the house about two o’clock but they weren’t there. I was beside myself … didn’t know what to do. Our house was low to the ground back then, not set up on stilts as it is now. The water kept rising all afternoon. It came in under the doors and through cracks. I opened everything I could—windows, doors—even chopped holes in the floor with Johnny’s ax so the water would flow through and not lift the house off its foundation.

“The storm surge hit about six-thirty. I heard it coming … sounded like a freight train steaming down the tracks. Later, I learned that the sea rose four feet in four seconds, and out in the ocean, swells reached a hundred and twenty feet. A huge dome of water swept over the island, knocking trains off their tracks, uprooting trestles and trees, carrying streetcars, trucks, houses, slate roofs along its path of destruction. Outside—everything was pitch black, except when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Then you saw the horror of it all: the sea of mayhem; people screaming for loved ones, injured and drowning people begging for help; dead animals and human bodies, floating with furniture, houses, and every sort of debris imaginable. I saw mamas pleading for their babies, and daddies clinging to a piece of wood with one hand, trying to keep their children’s heads above water with the other. And I couldn’t do a thing to help them … any more’n I could help my own family. I was so afraid for my family. My only hope was that they had holed up on Johnny’s boat and were riding out the storm. Our roof had blown away and the house was swelling like it’d split apart any second. I took a lantern and the family Bible and climbed the stairs to the attic. The end had come for me. But oh, if only my family could survive. I spent the next hours praying for that very thing.”