Coldwater Revival: A Novel (22 page)

Again I awakened to singing. Once more I traipsed down the hall, disturbing Granny’s sleep. She counseled me, but her words careened into one deaf ear and out the other. I wanted Granny to own up to hearing the music. Otherwise, my next home might be the loony bin.

“What is it, child? Are ye wanting to sleep with me the rest of the night? Don’t mind a bit if you do.”

“No … no thank you.” I thought the beetles in the backyard trees might hear the heavy sound of my sigh. “I’m okay. I think maybe I just fancied up the singing in my head—like you said.”

I tossed beneath the covers, weary, yet too excited to sleep. The music was gone. Its vacancy left a hole in my heart. However, the remnants of the song—that melody of perfect creation—tarried in my mind, warming me like a crisp fire on a three-blanket night. I knew I might someday forget some of the strains I heard this night, but the song’s magic would stay with me forever.

“Emma Grace?”

I startled at the sound of Granny’s voice. My head and shoulders popped above the covers as she neared the side of my bed.
Maybe Granny heard the song, after all.

“I just remembered something, child. Something very important.”

“What, Granny?”

“Many years ago, after I lost my family, I, too, heard singing one night. Just as ye did tonight. Perhaps … it was the same song ye heard tonight. The world was a black, black place back then. So dark I could hardly see me way from one day to the next. I thought God had let me down. I grew more peeved and resentful at him every day. Oh, child, I turned into a bitter, bitter woman. One day I just upped and told God to go away and leave me alone. Told him I wanted nothing more to do with him.” Granny snickered and shook her head as though caught up in the happenings of times gone by.

“Did God leave you alone?”

“Well, it certainly felt like it at the time. Odd, though, how it happened—my family bringing me back to God the way they did. Ye see, one night the truth of my situation hit me smack in the face. I suddenly realized that God was my only choice—my only hope of ever seeing me loved ones again. And I wanted to see my family more than I wanted to live, Emma Grace.” Tears rushed to Granny’s eyes as she sat down on my bed and took hold of my hand.

“’Twas in the late night hours that I heard the singing. Woke me from troubled sleep, but oh, the joy it brought with it, child. ’Tis hard to describe the warmth … the love and contentment I felt. As the music washed over me, I sensed the first stirrings of hope, and by the time the music stopped, there was no doubt in me mind that someday I’d be with me husband and young’uns again in heaven.

“Your papa was living with me at the time. He moved back here after the storm to help repair the house, and, most likely, to act as safeguard so I wouldn’t let go of life—if ye know what I mean. I hurried down to his bedroom, wanting to know if he had heard the singing too. But I changed me mind and didn’t ask him.”

“Did Papa hear it?”

“I asked him the next morning if he’d heard any unusual night noises but he said no, he’d heard only the usual creaking of the house. I didn’t mention the singing. In fact, I’ve kept it secret all this time. Hadn’t thought of it in years—not until you came to me room the second time tonight.”

“It truly was beautiful music, wasn’t it, Granny?” My eyes closed as melodic refrains drifted through my memory. I felt I might float away on the clouds of pure pleasure they brought.

“’Twas the most beautiful singing I ever heard. Too lovely to be describing. Who could understand, unless they heard it themselves? ’Tis a relief to be sharing it with you now, sweet-pie. Ye
do
know who sang to me that night—don’t ye, Emma Grace?”

My heartbeat pounded against my eardrums as I sucked in a breath and held it. I opened my lips, breathing out an answer.

“No.”

“’Twas God, Emma Grace. God. About a month after I heard the music, I was sitting in church, listening to the preacher read Scripture. One of the verses he read said that God quiets us with his love, and he rejoices over us with singing. Oh my, child—ye should have felt the chill that raced up me spine when I heard those words. I knew then that the music had come from God. ’Twas his voice that sang over me that night.”

“Are you saying God sang to me tonight?”

“Yes. It had to be him. If it were anybody else, then I would have heard the singing too, wouldn’t I?”

My head jerked up, then bent forward repeatedly, like a woodpecker going after a tree worm. A light, giddy sensation spilled through my body, bubbles of joy percolating in my stomach and everywhere else.

“God left a part of himself with me that night, Emma Grace. Not exactly sure what it was. Perhaps—’twas his Spirit. All I know is that I haven’t been the same since the hour God sang to me. That’s not to say I don’t get out of touch with him from time to time. I surely do. But if I go looking for him with all me heart, I always find him.”

I recalled earlier in the night, when I talked to God for the first time since Micah died.
God … you’re all I have. Please don’t let me down.
Had that small plea—those insignificant words—gained God’s attention? His affection? Had they pleased him in a way I couldn’t understand? Is that why I reaped the gift of his song? Perhaps he had been by my side all along, just waiting for me to come back to him.

“I’ve been mad at God too, Granny. Guess you and I are alike in a lot of ways.” I leaned into Granny’s chest and we held onto each other as though we knew this moment would someday prove to be more important—more vitally meaningful—than most of the moments in our lives.

“Are ye blaming God for what happened to Micah? Or are ye mad at yerself?” Though her features were vague against the shadowed light, I thought I glimpsed Granny’s lips, curving into a smile.

“Both.”

“Well … ’tis honest ye are—now that ye’re in a mood to be talking.” Granny placed my hand beneath the covers and rose from the bed. She leaned over me, looking her fill before she kissed my brow. “Best we get a little sleep now. Seems ye’re well on the road to healing, Emma Grace. Ye know I’ll be praying for you.”

Granny walked to the doorway, then turned and gazed at me. “Think ye’ll be able to get some rest now?”

I took in Granny’s flowing gown, stooped shoulders, and tall frame. She reminded me of someone—or something. Ahhh—yes. Her waves of unbraided hair gave her the appearance of a vintage angel who had inhabited heaven for a long, long time. “Yes, Granny. I think I can sleep now.”

“Night, child.”

“Granny … I love you.”

She nodded, signaling another way in which we were similar. Tears clogged her throat as easily as they did mine.

Twenty-nine

Upon awakening, my bare feet hit the floor and I knelt for the first time in months. It seemed almost hypocritical to pray to someone with whom I had been so grievously angry. Nevertheless, I gave voice to my feelings, toiling for honesty and forthrightness. What sputtered out were sparse, timid utterances. I felt more like a babbling toddler just learning to talk than a young woman who had prayed devotedly since the age of seven. My first sentence was a plea for forgiveness, but every word thereafter centered on Caleb’s healing. If sincerity counted as gain, I knew God heard my prayer.

Granny and I smiled often over our cereal bowls that morning. I felt peculiar—different in some exciting yet uncommon way. My heart beat without malice, without bitterness or blame. A person could come to treasure such a feeling.

Guided by habits long instilled, Granny went about her work as though I had not kept her up half the night. We chatted as we did the morning chores, and then Granny left to have coffee at Mrs. Beushaker’s house. My face warmed as I considered on whom their conversation would dwell. Most likely Granny and her friend would spend their coffee hour hashing over my business with liberal doses of matronly concern, but no more than any other day of my lengthy stay in Galveston.

I loved to stand facing the sea, finding pleasure when the wind and spray had their way with me. Had I been a boy, I would have chosen the seafaring life, for the ocean now felt like my home. Spirited winds raced across the water, shanghaiing wisps of hair from my French braid, and flapping the hem of my skirt as I turned my back on the sea and walked to Micah’s dune.

As my fingers wrapped around the obsidian stone in my pocket, I thought about how the pumiced rock would have captured the twins’ excitement. Stunned them—if but for a moment. Ebony, and stretched to the length of a man’s knuckle, it had the feel of weighted glass. I’d caressed its smoothness this afternoon, before choosing it for Micah’s treasure can.

Papa found the obsidian last fall while tilling our pastureland. Since he knew its origin and composition, he deduced that coastal Indians, such as Tonkawa and Karankawa, had used it as barter. He claimed that at one point in history the stone had been but a speck of rock on a volcanic boulder. After eons of wind and water-flow, the pebble pushed itself free of the great lava chunk—along with a hundred thousand more just like it. How the rock found its way into Coldwater’s midnight soil was unclear, but now it had returned full circle, back to the Gulf of Mexico.

I uncovered the biscuit tin and placed my stone among the other treasures I had offered in Micah’s memory. After last night’s encounter with God, I sensed that today’s presentation had to be perfect, for it signified a new beginning with God—and with life.

After walking the beach for an hour or so, I settled myself on the pile of sand Tate and I had dubbed “the dune.” I shivered beneath my layer of wool while the wind threw bits of sand in my face and overhead clouds thickened like fat dumplings in a stew pot.
This is just the forefront of another nasty norther.

Temperatures dropped and gusts strengthened as another hour slipped by. I hoped Tate made haste. It wasn’t like him to be late. Perhaps we could seek shelter and talk a bit before the dreaded curfew hour tolled its appearance. Tate’s tardiness concerned me, for he habitually showed up first and took his leave last. Surely, his feelings hadn’t jumped track and switched rails during the night. On the other hand, yesterday’s intimacy may have conjured up regretful memories for Tate. Memories brimming with repugnant visions of a crippled girl who had danced her heart out. Did Tate treasure the closeness we shared, or did he now see me as a naive youth, plump with immaturity? How would I handle it if Tate considered our time together pure foolishness?

I turned up the collar of my jacket and shifted my face from frontal blasts of frigid wind. Perhaps I didn’t suit the seafaring life, after all. Summoning Tate’s face to my mind’s eye, I imagined his expression when I told him about God singing over me. Even more than the song, I wished to share the baby steps I took this morning when I planted my feet on the straight and narrow path back to God.

I remained at the beach until the sun sat like a burning coal on the water, and splotches of eventide crept onto the sand. I scrunched my shoulders against the wind and rammed my icicle fingers into deep pockets. Lost in a passel of shredded thoughts, I turned and trudged my way back to Granny’s house. Today was the first time Tate had not met me at the dune. Dampness gathered in my eyes and followed me all the way home, along with the fine mist covering my hair and clothes. When I came within a stone’s throw of Granny’s house, I looked up, gazing upon the seemingly impossible sight of Tate’s tall form. Rooted atop Granny’s porch like the main mast of a sailing ship, he turned and looked my way. I sensed sternness in his countenance though the distance between us proved significant. While Tate remained glued to his position aboard the schooner, I waved and yelled at him like a cavewoman gone mad.

I hurried up the stairs, faster than was customary for my crutch and me. On the top step, I glanced into Tate’s face and met the surly eyes of Elo.

“Elo—what are you doing here?”

“Where’ve you been, Emma Grace?” Elo forced his words through gritted teeth. ’Twas one of his traits for which I had not been lonesome. “Granny said you were at the beach with a
friend
.”

My crutch crashed to the porch floor as I rushed to Elo and locked my arms around his neck. After an eternity, he clasped his hands behind my back and squeezed as though he had actually missed me. I yanked the wool cap from his head and ran fingers through his thick blondness, the way I used to tousle the twins’ rusty curls. Oh, my. I hadn’t realized until now how much I’d missed Elo’s contrariness. As I leaned down and grasped my crutch, I lifted my gaze to Elo’s face. It seemed as though we had said good-bye a year past, not weeks earlier. Time had nurtured Elo’s height and the breadth of his shoulders, but it had also matured him in other ways as well. Somehow, during my absence from home, a sun god had visited the boy who was born handsome and made him more so by composing his own beauty upon Elo’s features. I stepped back and stared, surely with mouth agape.

“So—what’s this friend’s name—the one you slipped off to meet?” Elo’s breath sent white clouds into my face as he locked his arms over his chest and cocked his head to a disagreeable angle.

“I was supposed to meet Tate,” I said in stammering cadence. “Tate …” I couldn’t recall Tate’s last name. Had he told me his surname and I’d forgotten it—or had I not listened when he said it? “I met him on the beach a few weeks back. In fact, I thought you were him when I first saw you on the porch.”

“What happened? Did he stand you up?”

“Yeah, I guess he did.”

“You look different, Emma Grace. Older, maybe. I’m not sure what it is.” Through squinted lids, his eyes investigated me for extended moments. He shuffled his feet uncharacteristically and cleared his throat. I heard in his voice none of the scale sliding of two months prior. A no-nonsense man’s voice had settled deeply into his throat, suiting him to perfection. With reluctance tingeing his words, Elo continued, “I guess … maybe you’re a mite prettier than I remembered. How are you doing, anyway? Are you well—
finally?”

“I think so. I feel a lot better … and I …” Elo’s gaze aimed true as I stuttered along. I couldn’t put into words the extent of my improvement or the role Tate had unknowingly played in it. Elo’s unstinted observation persevered as I wallowed around in a pile of debris-cluttered words. He wanted the truth. He would accept nothing less. I loved that about my brother, for it spoke of his candor and lack of hypocrisy. Elo didn’t believe in lying. He would rather bring a matter to a fistfight than try to wiggle out the back door of untruth.

He took pity on me and finished my sentence. “Yeah—from the looks of things you’re doing a lot better.”

The front door cracked and Granny poked her head through the opening.

“Get yourselves into the house this instant. ’Tis a gale blowing out there. Ye’ll both be icebergs if ye tarry a moment longer.”

I grinned at Elo. He rolled his eyes, as if to say how fortunate he was to be living anywhere but at Granny’s house.

When we walked into the lighted parlor, I noticed Granny’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen to slits. She appeared to have cried a washtub of tears. Something crinkled at the nape of my neck, causing my hair to rise up like the backbone of a horn-mad bull. I slammed my gaze back on Elo, who wriggled from his jacket with no great urgency.

After slinging his coat over the rack, he turned to me, hands dropping to his sides like a gunfighter. His mouth set itself into a straight, determined line.

“What’s wrong? Why are you here, Elo?” As panic filled my heart, blood upped and departed my head. I grabbed the table, steadying myself. ’Twas one time I would have preferred a lie to the painful truth that flashed across Elo’s face.

“I’ve come to take you home, Emma Grace. Mama needs you.”

“Is Caleb …? Is he all right? Did he come out of the coma?” My legs trembled beneath my skirt as air in the parlor grew scarce. Either my head—or the room—spun in slow, wobbling circles.

“He’s taken a turn.” Elo shook his head and switched his focus to Granny’s empty hallway. “Doctor said he has pneumonia.” His gaze pivoted back to me, and his commander’s voice aimed itself straight at my heart. “Mama needs you, Emma Grace. She’s worn herself out worrying over Caleb—and you.” I noticed Elo’s chest rising and falling with swiftness, as though excessive talking used up all the oxygen in his lungs.

I slumped to the floor. No one moved as I sat in a heap of clothes, pain, and fear. I felt my world shrivel to a small circle of words that expressed everything I held dear.

Please, Father … don’t take Caleb, too.

I stumbled my way to the beach in the darkness of early dawn. The wind became my enemy, driving against me with the force of a thousand bearded pirates. Blinded by a cloud of sand, I struggled onward, praying the path I took would lead me to Micah’s dune.

The bus to Coldwater would depart at eight o’clock this morning, and I had much to do before Elo and I began our hour-long walk to the Harbor Street depot.

Granny and Elo would be awake by now, Granny fuming herself into a royal dither when she discovered I had gone missing. However, my trek to the sea was vital—if I ever hoped to see Tate again. I had thought myself clever when I smugly disguised my last name as Grace. I choked on my smugness now, for I had played the dunce, misleading Tate as a common fishmonger might do. Had my secretiveness cost me more than I could measure—the loss of Tate forever? If only I had thought to exchange addresses or last names. I supposed I visualized our friendship as a beginning with no ending of our time together.

Perhaps not all was lost. During a search for clues to my disappearance, Tate might recall the day he spied me digging in the sand. I fingered the missive in my pocket, relieved the wind had not snatched it away. I’d leave the note in Micah’s tin and pray that someday Tate’s feet would lead him to its location.

I smelled the sea before I saw it. As whiffs of stirred-up ocean poked their way into my nostrils, fragmented light leaked through the mottled sky, lighting up the choppy sea. Steering away from the shore, I hastened to Micah’s dune, running my hands along the edge until I found the marker stick. When I found it, I removed the lid, stuffed the note inside, and reburied the can.

I couldn’t make myself return to Granny’s house. Not yet. As waves lifted frothy whitecaps high in the sea and then tossed them overboard, I sat atop our dune and waited for Tate. Shivers raced through my body, chattering my teeth. I imagined my lips were plum purple from the cold.

Why would Tate come to the beach at five o’clock in the morning? I asked myself.

Only an idiot would hope for something so ridiculous.