Coldwater Revival: A Novel (21 page)

I turned my back on Tate, signaling an end to the story.

He’d asked for more than I could deliver. I’d barely survived the tragedy, yet here I sat, talking about the sadness that had almost destroyed my life. I couldn’t tell Tate about my neglect or the horrors that had followed that dark August day. He would have to wait for the rest of the story, I decided—if ever I chose to tell it.

I scooted from his closeness and grabbed my crutch, my legs atremble as I stumbled down the carpeted aisle. I knew my quivers were just a prelude to the bad case of nerves that would follow if I didn’t get myself out of that church.

I sped past memory-provoking candles. They couldn’t have frightened me more had they been a ravenous pack of wolves bent on devouring me. I hurried through the foyer, seeking distance from the church’s quietude and my tumbling emotions. Pious icons and religious statues mocked my heretical spirit as I rushed through the heavy oak doors and into the sun’s warmth and familiarity. And then, at last, I was outdoors, hobbling about in an abundance of autumn sunlight.

“If the church wasn’t our destination, then what is? Where are you taking me now?”

Tate met my sidelong glance with a smile unique to his person: quirky and bulging with mischief. He slipped a hand from his pants pocket and pointed toward the south. I studied the sky, noting with disappointment the lateness of the hour. Granny would surely wear new patches into her floor if I wasn’t home by the stroke of twilight.

“I wanted you to see Kempner Park. German immigrants built it as a dance pavilion in the 1800s. Old Man Kempner bought it a few years back and donated the land to the city. Now it’s free and open to everyone, and … it’s only a block from here.” Tate’s smile proved a beautiful sight, though it packed a wallop to my insides that made me flinch.

We headed for the park, walking faster than earlier in the day. After viewing the scenery, I had to hurry home. I’d promised Granny I’d be back before dark. I meant to keep my word.

Even the hissing sounds of the word
disobedience
offended my ears, for I had finally come to love and appreciate my grandmother. I’d been blind to her wisdom and guidance before, hearing only the harshness in her voice; seeing only weakness in her rheumy eyes. It took me weeks to comprehend Granny’s unimaginable loss; the dreams she’d had for her children, the combustible disintegration of those dreams. But memories and dreams had a bit of forever in them—they never truly died. I pictured Granny—even now—stealing from bed in the dark of night, going in search of her dreams. I imagined her finding them, dusting them off, and holding a candle near so her ancient eyes could take in all their beauty. How difficult it must be at break of day when Granny had to put them away. Lock and bolt them in her trunk of yesterday’s memories.

I wagged my head, chagrined by my past behavior, yet hopeful I could be the means of fulfilling at least one of Granny’s dreams. Though it would never equal the lost love of her children, I contrived to pour every bit of my unspent love for Micah into Granny’s unsuspecting heart.

I wished the afternoon would never end. Despite its disastrous beginning, today’s outing might prove the high point of my stay in Galveston. I stole a glance at Tate, wondering if he felt the same as I.

Tate’s mouth wore a lazy smile. Below his lower lip rested a nest of black whiskers.

“Did someone steal your razor, Tate?” Artificial innocence resonated in my words as I placed my fingertips on my puckered lips, camouflaging my smile. Tate hastened a hand to his bristly chin, stroking the spiny stubble, sparse though it was. His smile brewed up a storm in my heart, causing it to pitch and yaw like a ship in a tempest.

“Naw, I just overslept this morning. Didn’t have time to shave. I’m thinking about growing a beard.” It seemed his eyes widened with expectation. Did the handsome Tate think to gain my approval, I wondered, or could he care less what I thought?

I guffawed at his declaration. “With that measly batch of whiskers? Never. It would take you fifty years to grow a decent beard.”

My reflexes were fast, but not as quick as Tate’s powerful stride. Before I knew what he was about, he clutched me beneath my armpits, spilling my crutch to the ground. Then he lifted me from my feet as though I were a sack of coffee and rested me against his chest. My gaze sank into his eyes like quicksand. What a wicked grin he wore! While my legs dangled the air, Tate leaned in and scraped coarse chin whiskers against my forehead, marking me with his passage into manhood. Though his rub chafed my skin, it seemed unimportant in the moment. Laughter bubbled up from my heart, and for a brief flash of time I knew what it felt like to be in love.

Music drifted on the air as we mounted six stairs and stepped onto the gazebo’s planked flooring. As I circled the octagonal structure, I tried to pinpoint the origin of the strain that floated into my ears. Though the slightly off-key tune carried an oompah beat, the melody sounded familiar. I pictured a gathering of mustachioed men wearing felt hats and wide suspenders; their bellies jiggling as they blew into horns and pounded on drums. It seemed to me they pumped out a song from their homeland, wherever that might be.

Someone had grafted a bench onto the gazebo’s interior wall. I sank to it, viewing a vista of greenery that stretched beyond my vision. Weeping acacias, swaying palms, willows, and stately oaks dotted the landscape, while a trail of pink-and-white oleander bushes snaked through the park like a river. I sighed at the loveliness, for it possessed the hues and verdancy of a pastoral painting I’d once drooled over in Papa’s art book.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Tate’s gaze bored into my eyes. He cocked his head, as though seeking reassurance the trip had been worth the trouble.

“I’m glad we came. It’s truly beautiful.”

“Speaking of beautiful … you’re looking awful pretty today. I like seeing you in skirts rather than those striped things you used to wear. First time I saw you I thought you were a boy.” Tate’s laugh was a man’s laugh, deeply rich and uninhibited. Shoving his hands into pants pockets, he leaned his shoulder against the railing post in a casual slouch. “You were the skinniest little fellow … little gal I’d ever seen.” He screwed his face into a quizzical mask, as though stumped by my former appearance.

“Believe me, if I could find my overalls, I’d be wearing them right now.” I glared at Tate, daring him to say another word against my beloved garb.

“To each his own.” With whipsaw motion, he flung a leg over the railing, straddling it as he would a horse. I caught a look in his eyes. With wariness, I held my breath and my tongue while contemplating his countenance. Tate either wanted to grill me about my former state of being, or worse yet, testify at greater length about his love relationship with the Lord. Choosing not to participate in either discussion, I rose from the bench and stalked to the far side of the gazebo. But as I gazed at the miracle of nature before me, my heart pitter-pattered as though I had sprinted all the way from Coldwater to here.

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear Tate’s approach. He tapped me on the shoulder. As I turned to him, he bowed, as would a gentleman in the presence of a queen. In total Tate unlikeness, he gestured himself into dance posture.

“Pardon me, miss, but may I have this dance?”

I felt a rush of heat flood my face, my neck, my entire body.
Why are you doing this to me, Tate? Do you think so little of me that you would taunt my lameness?
Mortified by Tate’s mocking insensibility, I turned from him and hurried across the stage. A quick glimpse revealed he no longer stood frozen in the mannequin-like position of moments earlier.

“Come on, Emma … it’s a slow song. We can do this together. Come dance with me,” he coaxed.

I kept my back to Tate. “I’ve never danced in my life. I don’t know how … and frankly, it would be quite an impossible task, bound to this crutch as I am.” If a voice could be void of everything but tartness, mine was.

“I’ve never danced before, either. Who’s to see us? Who’s to care that we’re a couple of first-timers?”

I didn’t miss the possibility that Tate’s words carried a double meaning. Surely he’d held a girl in his arms before. Unlike me, who’d never known another’s embrace, outside the hardy hugs of my family.

“Did you think to make sport of my condition, Tate?” The words wobbled from my mouth as tears pooled in my lower lids. I detested my every show of weakness.

“Heck, no. Look … I’ve got it all figured out …” Tate slipped his hand beneath my elbow and turned my body to face him. “All you have to do is put your right foot on top of my left shoe, then you’ll be on even-keel. Want to give it a try?”

No, I don’t want to give it a try! I’ll probably fall flat on my face and prove I’m even more of a bobble-foot than you thought I was.

Tate relieved me of the opportunity to answer by grasping my crutch and placing it on the bench, even as my feet floundered for purchase. Back into a listing position I sank, my right shoulder tilting starboard. This day seemed one of my worst, if measured against the yardstick of humiliation. First the church scene, in which I had erupted like a geyser, and now—awaiting the comical disclosure of my clumsy gracelessness.

The music flowed into a lovely waltz, though it still leaned heavily upon its oompah heritage. Tate lifted me, my right foot resting atop his left. Then he moved, treading with care as I tried to keep up with the music and him. We took tiny, awkward steps at first. I feared we’d tumble into a leg-sprawling, inglorious heap, but Tate managed to shuffle us around the floor without a single spill. After a time, I forgot to worry about disgracing myself and became entranced with the miracle of the dance.

In my childhood daydreams, I had danced across splendid ballrooms, prancing on light, nimble feet as handsome partners twirled me about the floor. I had concocted spectacular, unbelievable daydreams because I knew they would never come true. But now, as our halting, bumbling motions smoothed into the metered cadence of a lilting melody, I rethought my declarations about dreams. Perhaps—on rare occasions—they came true after all. I lifted my gaze to Tate. His indefatigable smile said it all.
You knew how this would turn out, all along, didn’t you? You really are something, Tate.

I wished we could dance until morning light, but the afternoon melted away, as I had feared it would. The sun sank nearer and nearer to dusk’s pealing curfew.

“I’ve got to go.”

A look of disappointment swished across Tate’s features, even as a lump of letdown plopped upon my heart. He nodded, his face unsmiling as we walked to the corner of O Street. With a promise to meet at the dunes the next afternoon, we turned onto separate pathways.

I glanced over my shoulder, the distance between us lengthening as I snatched glimpses of my one-and-only dance partner. In the waning daylight I saw his lanky form and his grinning face as he trotted backward in an unorthodox exit. Tate’s feat surprised me, his agility smooth and accomplished as he waved a hand each time my gaze turned his way. I couldn’t fathom how a person could stay upright and run in reverse at the same time. I laughed at his antics, for surely ’twas only a matter of time before he lost his equilibrium and went sprawling to the ground. But even as I laughed, my heart bucked and gamboled with the thrill of his attention. As Tate drifted from view, I secretly rejoiced in his seeming reluctance to let me out of his sight.

Twenty-eight

Granny looked me up and down, surveying the length of my legs and the pathway my arms traveled. Her gaze paused overlong on my face. I knew my looks donned a peculiarity of their own, but not enough to warrant the stare that now drilled me to the core. As her eyes squinted to wrinkled slits, she thinned her lips into a wry contortion I’d come to think of as fossilized determination. She had studied me thusly all through the supper hour.

I turned my back on her and dunked my hands into a pan of dirty dishes. Granny’s seasoned hands required boiling dishwater, but mine felt relief that the scalding water had cooled a bit. The intensity with which I peered at the dishes might have led one to think they held hypnotic power over me.

A chair scraped the floor. I heard Granny plop herself into it. Then a thump. I turned toward her, noticing the troubled look in her eyes. Though she didn’t speak, her silence requested an audience with me. She had something on her mind, and nothing under heaven would forestall her a moment longer from sharing it with me. She pointed to the chair across from her. I dried my hands on a towel, and, with a weary sigh, seated myself in the appointed witness box.
What have I done now?

“How’d ye say ye got that mark on yer forehead?”

So, that’s why Granny’s in such a stew.
I had forgotten all about the whisker scrubbing Tate gave my brow this afternoon. I drew a fathomless breath, readying myself for Granny’s inquisition.

“It’s a chin-rub, Granny. Tate gave it to me. ’Twas his way of getting back at me for teasing him about his scrawny beard. I told you about Tate, way back … remember?”

“Of course I remember ye telling me about him. Do ye think I’m already into me senility, child? But I tell ye one thing, lassie. That’s not the markings a boy leaves. That’s a man’s beard for sure, and ye can’t be telling me otherwise. How old is this Tate fella, anyways?” Granny’s eyes widened a bit as she awaited my answer. Most likely, she thought it would lead to self-incrimination—or perhaps the gallows.

“He turned sixteen a couple of weeks ago. He’s nice, Granny. Truth is—he’s been a help to me. You know, with me being sad, and all?”

“I’m more than grateful for that blessing, sweet-pie. But I’m thinking it’s high time I met the lad. See that he comes for dinner, Sunday next. Then I’ll be making up me own mind about yer friend Tate. Tell him to be here at one.”

My mind spun a spindle of worrisome thoughts. Would Granny grill Tate, her nosy questions embarrassing both of us? Or would she bore him to death with her never-ending tales? “Tate’ll be here, and on time, too. He’s not one to turn down good food. By the way, Granny, he loves your cooking.”

Tate was coming for dinner! My heart beat with wildness, even as my mind scrambled to compile a spectacular menu for Sunday dinner.

In the quiet hours before bedtime that evening, I shared some of my Tate adventures with Granny. I told her about the turtle clutch he found, and about the reservoir of tenderness concealed within his man-size heart. Though I knew it might open up the forum to questions I’d been avoiding, I spoke of his mother’s death, and how Tate had come to love the Lord. I disclosed these things because I knew they’d soften Granny’s heart toward Tate.

“Ye don’t say,” Granny said from time to time, her eyes squinting as though I was a rare moth under her magnifying glass. I understood why she appeared baffled by my verbosity. After nearly two months of head nodding, with sparse words thrown into the kettle at odd intervals, I had suddenly evolved into a jabbering jaybird.

I sifted through my pack of stories, handpicking ones most profitable to my cause. There were tales—unutterable thoughts—that lodged in my throat like fish bones. So I left them unsaid. Sighting Mr. Panduso was one such story; his daily pilgrimages to the dunes inspiring me to build Micah’s shrine. But hearing about Mr. Panduso would have resurrected Granny’s ancient, pain-filled memories, and my own heart needed no such reminders. Like a web-footed albatross, they clung to my neck, refusing to take flight. I suspected sorrow might pinion itself to me forever, sucking joy from my heart like a hungry leech.

I lay between the bed covers and reflected on my afternoon with Tate. His friendship was the closest I had come to having a boyfriend. Oh, I liked to gawk at good-looking fellows, and dream up fantasies in which they fell at my feet, overcome with longings for me—longings I did not yet understand. However, if a handsome youth had ever dared return a bit of the stardust flowing from my eyes, I did not know of it. Nor did my heart, for long ago I decided that going without love was far more comfortable than experiencing the pain of rejection. Therefore, I simply turned my gaze from a lad’s face—before I detected signs of repulsion, or even a spark my presence might have lifted to his eyes.

In the background of reminiscing, I heard Granny’s mantle clock, tolling the midnight hour. I first met Tate on a night such as this: soft moonlight shadowing the sand, bright stars flickering in the yawning blackness overhead. I had noticed Tate onshore sometime after the sun breathed its last breath. His untimely appearance had stirred my heart with ireful flames. At the time, I hated the young man. Now I had come to love him.

Had Tate foreknown the journey I intended to take that night? If so, he never mentioned it. Since that lonely night, six weeks earlier, I had come to believe the trite old saying: Life is worth the living. Now Tate’s meddling seemed more an act of heroism. Part of me wished he would stick around forever, butting his nose into every jot and tittle of my life. But who knew what the future held? It might find us a world apart. No matter the span of time, or range of separation, Tate would always hold a true measure of my heart.

The later the hour, the more undisciplined my mind became. Tate’s last question to me on the beach buoyed to the surface with great fervency.
Have you tried talking to God, Emma?
Though I shoved his words beneath the swells of my restlessness, they repeatedly bobbed to the top with a surfeit of strength. Though my body was weary from a day well spent, his pestering question would not leave me alone. I dared not respond to it without first asking some questions of my own.

What further harm might I endure if I asked God for his help? More disappointments, disillusionments … despair? I had loved God long and hard—the only way my heart knew how to love. Nevertheless, when he slammed my trust back in my face, it left an ugly void in my heart that only fellow heathens could understand.

I considered another horror. What if I sought God, only to have him turn his back on me—because of my disobedience and blasphemy? What if God held grudges against wayward believers and skeptics like me? Jonah’s obstinacy led him into the belly of a whale. And Jonah hadn’t been nearly as mad at God as I was. I gazed at the ceiling, deliberating over what sort of wrathful recompense God had in store for me. Whatever it was—could it be any worse than the hollow, hurting heart I’d been living with?

Then a more ponderous and aching thought elbowed its way into the shouting match in my head. Had I allowed bitterness to hinder my little brother’s recovery? Was my stubborn faithlessness the only thing standing between Caleb’s sickness—and his healing? My body shook with the notion. I buried my face in the covers, blotting a river of tears from my eyes.

God … you’re all I have. Please don’t let me down. Please don’t let little Caleb down.

Stretching through a fog of sleep, I reached for the haunting melody that drifted just beyond my grasp. As I awakened from a tangle of dreams and sat up in bed, I cocked my head, seeking the refrains I had heard in my slumber.
Singing! Who would be singing this time of night? Where was the music coming from?
Melodious strains toppled over themselves like waves against the shore. Fluid and serene, they lifted my heart on wings of joy. I held my breath, fearing the music would disappear altogether. Was this the song of a make-believe world, or a dream? No—impossible, for never was there born a poet or dreamer who could create the matchless beauty I heard. I found myself floating, if not in body—surely in spirit.

Scrambling from bed, I yanked my robe from a hook and slipped my arms into it. Was the song earthly or ethereal? I wondered. The melody followed me as I hurried down the hall.
Granny will know where the music’s coming from.

“Granny … Granny.” I halted on the threshold of her bedroom, whispering across the way as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. She lay on her back, mouth agape. I thought her dead for a moment, until she gave a snort and blew bumpy snuffles through her lips. I tiptoed to her bed. Granny looked pale in the bundle of bed linens that swaddled her like a newborn. Wrinkles dipped into her cheeks and forehead like creases in a book. A mighty sense of love swept through me as I considered her ancient state—a portent, perhaps, of a time when she would no longer be with us.

Granny was a hunk of woman but appeared small and insignificant in the large four-poster bed. Potent fumes of Vicks VapoRub lifted from her covers, stinging my eyes. From September until May, Granny scrubbed the ointment into her chest at night—whether she needed it or not. Then she pinned a cloth to her nightgown, keeping the vapors tucked in close to her rib cage. She had told me about the outbreak of Spanish influenza ten years earlier that had killed thousands of people. She feared its resurgence. I dared not cough in Granny’s presence. Not if I wished to avoid a similar torture as the one she put herself through every night. She turned onto her side, facing me. I nudged her shoulder with gentle hands.

“Wha … what is it, child? What’s wrong? Are ye sick or something?” Granny swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her spectacles, all in one motion. When she locked her hands onto my shoulders, I saw the worry in her eyes.

“I’m okay, Granny. Didn’t mean to scare you, but I had to know where the singing was coming from.” It felt good when Granny loosened her grip on me. She was a true elder, but had strength in her fingers and a grasp that would put a young man to shame.

“What singing? I hear nary a note of singing, child.” Granny shook her head and raised her chin, glancing at the ceiling and around the dark room. “The only sound I hear is a bit of wind in the trees.”

I drew in a breath and held it, listening for the melody. I feared I had imagined it. Nevertheless, there it was, rolling through the room with all the loveliness of an Easter morn.

“Can’t you hear it now, Granny? It sounds like the sea is moaning and singing to me. I don’t know … maybe the whole world is joining in. It’s the prettiest music I’ve ever heard.” I leaned in close to Granny’s face and peered into her wizened eyes. She had wrinkled, shriveled lids, but oh, the warmth that sparked her depths. Granny had to hear the singing. She just
had to
.

She rubbed my arms as she shook her head. “’Tis not a song I can hear, Emma Grace. I’m sorry. Perhaps … you dreamed it up … perhaps not. Ye’ve been through a lot these last few months, sweet-pie. Why don’t you go on back to bed now and get some sleep. Everything will be all right in the morning. Ye’ll see.”