Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas

Sunday, September 9th, 11:17 a.m. Galveston Island

  Henrietta clutched the child in her arms and waded through the debris toward John Sealy Hospital. According to all of her calculations, it would be a far cry closer than St. Mary’s Infirmary – if it even existed anymore. She had to find medical care, and soon. Lilly Mae needed help, and as quickly as possible. The youngster hadn’t stirred in hours. Her breaths were shallow and slow.

  “Can we helps you, Miss?” A colored man spoke from her right. Henri turned, half embarrassed to be seen by a man in little more than her undergarments, and half relieved that someone was actually offering to help.

  “I have to get to the hospital,” she said. “This little girl is hurt badly.”

  “Could I carry her for ya?” the grey haired man asked gently.

  Henri looked into his eyes. They carried a bit of a sparkle.

  “You don’t mind?” she asked.

  “Of course not, Miss.” He scooped Lilly Mae up into his arms.

  Henri breathed a sigh of relief, and felt the tears start once again. “The hospital -?” she asked.

  “It’s still there, Miss…”

  “Henrietta. My name is Henrietta.” It seemed pointless to share that she was a nun. What difference did it make, all things considered?

  “Well now, Miss Henrietta—I’s got good news for ya. Mighty good news. The hospital’s still standing tall.”

  “Thank the Lord,” she whispered the words.

  “Oh, I do!” he said with a smile. “I’s thankin’ Him for a mighty lot this morning, Miss Henrietta, that I am.”

  Henri trudged along behind this man, who shared at length his stories of the night. His name was John, though folks along the way called him ‘big John.’ She couldn’t help but notice the respect he commanded, and the inner strength that guided him as he moved them toward the hospital. She forced herself to remain focused, for had she chosen to absorb all that lay around her, it might prove to be her undoing.

  “My wife, Vada... she’s strong as a mule and sly as a fox,” John said. She done crawled up on the rooftop down to the church with all the young‘uns in tow. They lasted through the night same as you—up in the air. That chimney kept ‘em all alive, if you ask me – that, and the Almighty. He had a hand in it, sure He did.”

  “So they’re fine? No injuries?”

  “They’s all alive and well, praise be to the Lord!”

  Henri wondered how it was possible a man such as this, who had been through far more trials than she in the night, could have so easily forgotten his own misery when he saw her with Lilly Mae. His faith in God seemed evident, though her own had all but vanished.

  “This little one,” John said softly, looking down at Lilly Mae. “She’s doin’ mighty poorly, Miss Henrietta. I don’t believe any hospital can help her now...”

  Henri did not respond. She couldn’t. The lump in her throat wouldn’t allow it.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 11:33 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  “Can I help you?” Emma looked into the kind eyes of a large black man who carried a small olive-skinned girl. She didn’t feel like helping them. She didn’t feel like helping anyone. What she wanted, what she needed, was the assurance her mother and father were alive and well. And Sadie. Dear, darling Sadie. Even now, staring into the face of this child, she could not help but feel the familiar tug of love for her darling baby sister.

  “I’m guessin’ it’s already too late for this little angel.” The man spoke with tenderness.

  Too late? Emma quickly checked her pulse. Are we too late already? They must try to save her. A young woman, about her own age, stood near the man. She looked frightened, and clearly in need of medical attention too.

  “What’s your name?” Emma asked.

  “Henrietta.”

  “Henrietta. We’ll have to find something to put on you. You’re soaked to the bone. And who is this little one?” Emma glanced down at the child in the man’s arms. Her breaths were labored and slow.

  “Her name is Lilly Mae,” the young woman said. “She’s one of the orphans from St. Mary’s.”

  Emma’s heart twisted, as it had done so many times over the last several hours. Where would they put the little girl? The wards upstairs were full; the downstairs remained a muddy mess. But she had to find room for her—no question about that.

  “Come upstairs with me,” she said, stepping out ahead of them. She would find a way. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know where. But she would find a way.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 12:00 Noon The Courier

  “Is there anything left standing on the island?” Everett’s patience had waned as the day wore on—hot and sticky. The smell of death was everywhere, even permeating the walls of his second floor office.

  “The east wall of the Opera House has collapsed,” Nathan said. “But a host of people are taking up refuge there, anyway. Refugees are everywhere.”

  After a full day of working on the street below, Everett knew this first-hand. “Looting? It’s inevitable, I suppose.” In fact, the view from his window had convinced him the lowest forms of life were already doing their seedy work on the streets below.

  “Of course. But the police are out in force—as many as can be, that is.”

  “I’ll be out, myself—as soon as this place is back in some kind of working order.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Nathan said, “I don’t think you need to be going anywhere with your leg in such bad shape.”

  “It’s not so bad, really,” Everett said. He knew he needed medical attention, but there were far more pressing matters at hand. Besides, his wife would give him enough coddling when he got home —if he ever got home. “I’ll have it looked at when I’m able. What’s the story on the train station?”

  “People in droves, trying to get off the island. But it’s impossible with the bridge down.”

  “Anything else I should know? Any good news at all?”

  “A strange story, if you’re looking to print something a little bizarre.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s a child out on the east end who’s alive because her mother nailed her hand to the wall.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s true. Seems it kept her from being washed away. Saved her life.”

  “Amazing. Anything else?”

  Nathan looked down, biting his lip. “The orphanage is gone.”

  Everett’s heart sank. “St. Mary’s Asylum? What’s become of the children?”

  “It’s too soon to tell, sir. I know that at least one or two of the boys have survived, but I’ve not got any news on the girls yet.”

  “And the Infirmary?” Everett knew full well the ramifications of losing the Infirmary. Next to John Sealy, it was the only hospital on the Island.

  “Still standing, but not functional,” Nathan said breathlessly. “The patients have been moved upstairs, but there’s no telling what kind of shape they’re in. My guess is they’ll need to be transported to John Sealy as soon as possible. Could be there are some orphans among them; I don’t know.”

  “Well, get yourself down there and see if there’s any sign of them anywhere. We can’t sit on this story.”

  “But Everett, my own family is needing me. I have to get home.”

  “Get home? Kid, we’re in the middle of the story of a lifetime. There’s no time to go home now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday, September 9th, 1:47 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  “How long has father been gone?” Brent asked the question hesitantly—half-afraid of the answer his mother might give.

  “Since Tuesday.”

  Tuesday—the same day he had come to the island. They could very well have passed right by each other at the train station and not even known it. The crowd that afternoon had been particularly high.

  Dear God! Please let him be all right. Please let him… Brent tried to turn his thoug
hts to his mother, who sat across from him, paler than he had noticed before.

  “Mother, what are you going to do about all of these people?”

  “Pearl is in there now cooking up a storm,” Gillian looked nervously about. “But after that... I just don’t know. She says that we should let them stay here.”

  “Stay here? That’s crazy. Father would never allow it.”

  “I know,” Gillian said, eyes constantly moving. “But he’s not here right now, and we are. We have to begin to make some decisions without him.”

  She sounded fiercely independent for a change. Brent wondered at such a thing. His father wouldn’t like it, certainly. And yet... He looked around, his eyes finally coming to rest on a little boy no older than two or three, curled up in a weary mother’s lap in the corner, sound asleep. There had been a time in his life when he had needed help. His mother had been there then. It made sense that would now offer to help these people.

  Yes. It suddenly made perfect sense.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 3:45 p.m. John Sealy Hospital

  “Sister?”

  Henri felt the gentle hand of the nurse rousing her from sleep. She had been enjoying the most wonderful dream. She and Lilly Mae swam at a west-end beach. They playfully jumped the waves, enjoying the pull of the water together as Lilly sang gleefully. Her song had resounded against the roar of the waves and brought great comfort. The melody captivated each of her senses, and she seemed to come alive as never before.

  But the dream ended abruptly. Henri shook herself awake. Where am I? Why am I here? She glanced down at her gown—a hospital gown. For the life of her, she couldn’t seem to remember why she wore it. The garb seemed to swallow her up. Henrietta forced herself to look into the eyes of the young nurse, who attempted to speak to her.

  “I’m so sorry, Sister. The little girl... the one you brought in with you...”

  “Lilly Mae?”

  “Yes, Lilly Mae...”

  Henrietta’s heart began to pound wildly. Don’t say it!

  “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but…” The nurse spoke with compassion, tears streaming down her own cheeks. An intense pain, greater than anything she had ever experienced, suddenly gripped Henrietta’s chest.

  “No!” The word shot out, instinctively. “No!

  “I’m so sorry,” the young nurse said quietly. “We did everything we could.”

  The sobs that overtook Henrietta were as sudden and intense as the storm, itself.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 3:56 p.m. Galveston Island

  Emma raced from the hospital with tears streaming down her cheeks. She had been the bearer of bad news more times than she could count over the last day and a half. Enough is enough. I just want to go home. Mother will be there, waiting. She has to be there. And Papa. He’ll be sitting on the sofa, reading the morning paper. Strong and steady, he would mend the broken pieces of their lives, putting them all back together again. That’s what he did. That’s what she counted on.

  Help me, please! She prayed as she ran.

  Less than a block away Emma suddenly found herself lost in a maze of bodies and rubble. This way is east, and that’s west. She stood, staring, hoping to read the sun for direction. I’m headed toward the beach—at least I think so. “Which way is the beach?” she called out.

  “To your right. But I wouldn’t attempt it, Miss,” a large man with tattoos on his bare chest responded. “There’s not much left in that direction, anyway.”

  “I have to get home!” She pressed through the debris toward home. Toward safety.

  On she ran, the tears nearly blinding her at times. Fighting them was easier than seeing clearly. She wouldn’t see clearly. She couldn’t. The smell alone overpowered her.

  “Miss! You shouldn’t be going that way, now!” A young immigrant with a strong Italian accent called out. “Nothing but death and destruction down there.”

  But I have to. Emma fought her way past the young man, past his words of defeat. I’m getting closer now. I’m nearly home. A large pile of debris appeared before as she made the turn onto what had once been her street. Rubble. Rubble everywhere. A piano, completely intact, lay on its side in the street. Dead, swollen bodies of people lay scattered about like trash. Her home, what remained of it anyway, stood as a hollow shell, a reminder of yesterday. Of countless yesterdays.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 4:36 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian stood alongside Pearl and diligently scrubbed dishes. The tears flowed down her face—tears of exhaustion, tears of relief for a son lost no more, tears of anguish for a husband whose presence remained a mystery.

  “Could I be of some help to you, Missus?” Gillian turned to see a woman about her age in tattered dress. She spoke with a thick Irish brogue.

  “I... I don’t know.” Gillian quickly brushed tears aside, not knowing whether or not to trust her good dishes to this woman – a total stranger. Heaven only knew what she might do.

  “We can always use two more hands,” Pearl said, matter-of-factly. “Just you come on over here, missy.”

  Gillian turned her attention back to the sink as Pearl tied an apron around the woman’s thin waist. She took a dishtowel in hand, and began to dry each dish as it came her way. Gillian couldn’t help but wonder about her. She seemed quite pleasant, but obviously ill-bred. Her intolerable accent, crude as it was, served as a source of irritation, and her clothes were, well, they were nothing short of awful.

  Yet there was something inviting about her, something Gillian couldn’t quite put her finger on. “How long have you lived on the island?” she asked, as her courage finally surfaced.

  “Ah, yes. I came over in ‘96 with my husband and our son,” the woman said.

  “What’s yer name, dearie?” Pearl asked.

  Gillian looked at the older woman in disbelief, ever curious. Wonderful Pearl. Always making everyone feel welcome and special. How does she do it? I wish I could lay down my opinions long enough to see people the way she does.

  “Me name is Brinna O’Shea,” the woman answered. “My husband, God rest his soul, was named Kieren. Our son is sleeping in there—in your parlor. His name is Michael.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Soon to be nine,” Brinna said proudly. “And he’s the spittin’ image of his father, that one...”

  “I’ll bet you’re mighty proud of him,” Pearl said.

  “You’ve a son, haven’t you?” Brinna asked, looking at Gillian. “The young man who stopped by earlier…?”

  She nodded lamely.

  “Well then, you know the love of a mother as well as I do.”

  “Yes.” She knew that love.

  A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

  “I’ll get it, Miss Gillian,” Pearl said, reaching to pull her apron off.

  “No thank you, Pearl,” she said, quickly drying her hands. It might be Brent—or possibly even Douglas. She wanted to be the one to answer it. Gillian made her way to the door, dodging children and mothers on every side. She anxiously pulled the door open. On the other side...

  “I don’t believe it! I simply don’t believe it!” The ever-familiar voice of Millicent Reeves shattered her illusions of reconciliation.

  “Millicent.”

  “I just had to come by and see for myself,” the older woman said.

  “See what?” Gillian knew, but needed to hear the words herself.

  “Well, the rumor is all up and down Broadway that you’ve taken in refugees. I’ve told simply everyone that it’s not possible—that the Gillian I know would never...”

  At this Millicent’s voice stopped abruptly. A toddler pulled at Gillian’s skirt, and babbled in a language unknown to both women. Gillian reached down to pick him up, and pulled him close to protect him from Millicent’s curious glances.

  Gillian suddenly felt a burst of courage rise within her. It didn’t matter anymore—about
the Opera Society, about her standing in society—anything. Nothing mattered but doing the right thing. And that’s exactly what she would continue to do. “Millicent, what you have heard is in every way true.” She smiled broadly.

  “Why, I simply don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” Gillian said. “And, truth be told, you and the others should be just as charitable with your own homes. You’ve plenty of room.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “No, I don’t suppose you’ve ever,” Gillian said with a smile, “But Millicent, it’s a wonderful feeling to help your fellow man.”

  “I do believe this storm has thrown your mind into a tizzy,” Millicent said. “But I’m sure the Opera Society will have a few words to say about this.”

  “Let them talk.” Gillian suddenly realized that it didn’t matter what anyone thought. “Let them all talk. In the meantime, I’ll be here – singing my own song.”

  And at that she promptly shut the door.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 5:00 p.m. The Courier

  Everett worked diligently throughout the afternoon to help others on The Strand care for the wounded and dying. The offices upstairs at The Courier remained full, though many of his overnight guests had moved on to locate loved ones. He worked until his bones ached with a weariness he had not known before. He also fought against the continual pain in his leg and the temptation to lose the contents of his stomach at the gruesome sights he faced.

  A losing battle.

  Everett slipped back into the office on occasion to swallow down cups of weak coffee or sleep a few moments. Then he headed back out to work alongside the hundreds of men who tried to do what they could to help those in worse shape than themselves.

  He worried continually about his family, but never allowed himself to believe they were actually safe, despite Nathan’s words of assurance. He would get home as quickly as possible and see for himself. If only the workload would lessen.