Everett thought about the possibilities, and felt the gravity of the situation. He quickly pushed all fears aside. The island had suffered storms in the past. She could brave another one. “Thanks for the news, Nathan. Good job.”
“From what I hear, it’s a big one.” The younger man inhaled deeply.
“Really?” Everett’s heart began to pound with the usual zest at an incoming story. “A big one, eh?”
“They, uh... They’ve already reported it in The Daily.”
“Great. I should have guessed.” The Galveston Daily News always seemed to beat them to the punch. What they missed, The Tribune picked up. The Courier – well, the Courier rarely topped the two big guys. Never would be more like it. “Where are they predicting landfall?”
“Don’t rightly know -”
“Well, let’s see if we can’t nail this one,” Everett said. “People on the island take these storms far too lightly. Poor attitude equals more fatalities, that’s my thinking.”
Nathan shrugged. “You know how these islanders are, Sir.”
“Yes, I know. Complacent,” Everett agreed. “But I’ve said for years that Galveston is completely unprepared for the big one.”
“It’s just a storm. We’ve been hit by some mighty hard ones before. Remember the big one back in ‘86?”
“Yes, well...” Everett said. “Let’s just hope this isn’t like that one.” He shook his head, as he allowed himself to remember the horrible, vivid details. The storm of ’86 had been catastrophic. One hundred and fifty lives had been lost, in all. The island hadn’t taken a direct hit, but Indianola, a near neighbor, had been destroyed.
No, Texans weren’t interested in another storm like that, story or no story.
Everett left the office abruptly, walking out into the bright sunshine of The Strand. Everett made his way to Market St., to one of his favorite spots—Frankie Dolan’s Barbershop. There he could sit and swap stories with the guys about everything from sports to medicine to weather. The Courier’s lifeline, that’s what he called it. And maybe, just maybe today would be his lucky day. Today, maybe Mickey would be there.
Mickey O’Brien never claimed to be a professional meteorologist- not by any stretch. He worked as a shrimper in Galveston Bay. But he sure liked to try his hand at forecasting the weather. If anyone would know about this storm, Mickey would.
Everett made his way along Market Street, nodding impatiently at those passing by. A storm brewed in his mind. He needed a story – one that would save The Courier. He entered the barbershop breathlessly. “Hey, Frankie, how’s it going?”
Frankie looked up with the usual grin. “Good, Everett. But it looks like you’re getting a little shaggy around the ears. If you had as much hair on top of your head as you do on the sides, I could make you look like a real gentleman.”
“Very funny,” Everett responded. But I could use a shave.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
“Try telling that to my wife.” Everett settled back into the chair, ready to enjoy the moments of peace that lathering up brought with it.
“Guess you heard about the big one,” Frankie said.
“Big one?” he spoke through the lather.
“Mickey says we’ve got a big one brewing out there.”
“Yeah, well, he’s said that before,” Everett said.
“Hold still, or I’ll cut your lips off,” Frankie reached for the razor. The sharp blade began to move across Everett’s face, creating a smooth rhythm—back and forth, back and forth. Frankie continued to talk as he worked, relaying all of the news available.
“Surf’s up today, did you know?”
Everett didn’t answer, for fear of losing a lip.
“Well, it is,” Frankie continued. “Sure sign of a storm. Mickey’s right about this one. I can feel it.”
Everett nodded numbly.
“You know how he is. He drew up a chart of sorts to track the storm out there. Says it’s moving northeast from Yucatan, and it’ gonna strike to the east of the island.”
“Where, exactly?” Everett said, sitting up.
“Well, now you’ve gone and done it!”
Everett tasted the salty dribble of blood run across his teeth, mixed with the minty lather.
“Just lay back now. It’s not a deep one, but it will need some tending to.” Frankie wiped the rest of the lather off and placed a towel across Everett’s lip, which made it impossible for him to speak.
But he had to speak. One question still remained fresh on his mind. Through the towel, he mumbled the words—“What does Cline say?” Isaac Cline, the island’s chief meteorologist, was skilled in weather prediction. The locals took his word seriously.
“Ah, you know how it is,” Frankie said. “When Cline walks out of doors with an umbrella on his arm, the whole island gets ready for a downpour.”
“No one is right all the time. Still, he is a good man.”
“True,” Frankie said. “But if I had to place any bets, I’d put my money on Mickey.”
Chapter Five
Thursday, September 6th, 9:37 a.m. At the Shore
A brisk morning breeze blew across the bay, attracting tourists and locals, anyone who wished to trade the mediocrity of the day for a trip to the Pagoda Bath House. Its octagonal pavilions were full of frolicking children, too young for school, with scolding parents at their sides.
Seagulls, white with gray wings, swooped and rose. They dove into the water for any bit of food they might find. Ripples in the water lulled dreamers to dream their dreams, encouraged lovers to clasp hands and enjoy the moment in quiet solitude. Nothing could disturb the sea. Not the rattle of a mother’s voice raised in consternation. Not a brisk, unexpected wind or a ship setting out on its course.
What is it about this place?” Brent asked himself. “I thought it was out of my blood – gone forever. How does it pull me back, when I’ve struggled so hard to keep it away?”
A cotton steamer made its way off in the distance, leaving a trail of white water lingering in its absence—a gentle reminder that not all is destined to remain ashore.
“The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” ran through Brent’s head suddenly… “Water, water everywhere – and not a drop to drink.” How inviting, and how completely void of life.
Brent scribbled, his nerves wound tighter than the seaweed surrounding him.
I sit at the ocean’s side—more observer than friend. There is a certain picturesque serenity here that captivates the imagination. Was there ever a sky so blue in the big city? Would I have noticed it at all? Here the clouds beckon one to relax, to rest in the sand and give heed to the music of the ocean. The clamorous waves, a choir against the composition of the bustling city, still roll in and out, as always. They lap the shoreline with an eagerness that energizes even the most casual spectator.
I’ve never quite forgiven the waves for nearly taking my life as a young boy. They were restless then, and restless they remain.
The whole island is abuzz these days—electric lights humming, telephone wires tapping, horn-blasts from the boats offshore. I catch the scent of fish, a familiar odor. Shrimpers pull in their catch, which provides them with a meager income. They seem poor, compared to the upscale folks along Broadway. However, I’ve learned that, in many ways, they have a richness about them—a knowledge of the gulf, of the currents, and of the sadness of lives lost in an instant. I find no standoffishness in them. There isn’t the time or the energy for it. Any glassy stares are usually directed at them, not from them.
A seagull, perhaps a bit too friendly, dove down to Brent’s side in search of food. Startled, he turned his attention to the tiny creature. It remained quietly as he continued to write, a noiseless observer.
Some things are sure and certain—the tide continues to pull in and out at will. The sun rises and sets according to its own clock. The seasons roll by unhindered. My father is much the same. He is a constant in my life. He is, and will always be,
my foe. His fingerprints press into my back until I ache with the pain of it.
I am his biggest disappointment.
Brent laid his pen down and gave himself a moment to contemplate the wonder and majesty of the ocean waves. Their white-capped peaks rose above the rocky shore, then fell back again in utter defeat. He felt equally as defeated.
***
Thursday, September 6th, 11:35 a.m. Along the Strand
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
Gillian looked into the eyes of the young man at the Confectionary counter.
“Thank you, yes.” She pointed a gloved finger at a display of sugary delights. “I’ll be needing some chocolates delivered for our gala Saturday night. And some taffies too, I suppose.”
“Would you like a soda while you’re here?” He wiped his hands on a crisp white apron.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, as she seated herself at the tall marble counter. “I’ll have a Cherry Phosphate.”
“Cherry Phosphate it is.” He turned to prepare her drink.
Gillian looked around the large Confectionary. Even as a child she had loved this place with it taffy machine and flavorful smells. She watched, transfixed, as the sticky white mound of sugar pulled back and forth, back and forth, stretched to unreasonable limits. She wasn’t so different, really. Life had pulled at her over the years, but she had come through it all triumphantly.
“Ma’am, your drink.” The young man placed the large glass down in front of her. Gillian took a sip, the bubbles teasing her nose a bit. She sighed deeply. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through this very morning. Those ridiculous immigrants are swallowing up the island. Why, I saw two of them haggling over the price of avocadoes out on the street. I tell you, it’s absolutely disgraceful!”
The young man cleared his throat, a frown crossing his lips. Only then did Gillian realize his olive skin and deep black eyes. How very embarrassing.
“Of course, I didn’t mean... It’s not as if all of you, I mean all of them...” Better stop while before things got any worse. “You know, I saw the most amusing thing!” She attempted to change the direction of the conversation.
“Ma’am?”
“Just now, out on the Strand. I saw a man with a monkey. Can you imagine that? He played an accordion. The man, I mean. Not the monkey.”
“Oh, that’s Mr. Miracel,” the young man explained. “He’s only just arrived from Greece. The monkey’s name is Kita.”
“Kita. How very interesting.”
The young man placed the soda glass down on the counter and turned to wait on another customer. Gillian was certainly glad to be rid of him, at least for the moment. Her mind shifted to the upcoming party.
She would be the belle of the ball, no doubt about that. Just this morning her gown had arrived. An ivory princess cut with Valencienne lace overlay, it was exquisitely embroidered. The square neckline, covered in delicate trim, was a daring risk, and the full sleeves employed yards of fabric. Appliqués adorned her cinched waist, which she often bragged to be a mere nineteen inches about. Her cream colored petticoat, a rich taffeta, created a swishing sound as she moved in it. She could hardly wait to wear it.
“Tomorrow night.” She giggled, just thinking about Millicent’s eyes popping right out of her head. Far more conservative, Millicent was sure to turn up in a wool piece with high neckline and smaller sleeves.
“Mrs. Murphy?”
Gillian turned abruptly and found herself face to face with Kevin Porter, one of Brent’s old chums from high school.
“Why, hello Kevin. I never expected to see you here.”
“I’m here most every day.” He smiled. “Becky Ann and I are engaged. Kevin pointed to a young woman cleaning tables.
“Oh, is that so,” Gillian said. She would never have guessed it. The Porters were such a nice family—and from such a lovely home. Why in the world would Kevin marry a girl like that? She was so… common.
“So how is Brent this fine day?” Kevin asked.
What a ridiculous question. Surely everyone knew Brent was away. “Posh!” she said, then took a sip of her drink, “He’s all the way up in New York City. Remember? He’s a big-time reporter for The World. In fact, he dines with Pulitzer regularly. Why, I got a letter from him just this very morning.” She hadn’t spoken the truth, but bragging about her son had become more than just a passing fancy. Over the last few years, she had turned it into an art.
“But Mrs. Murphy. Brent was ...”
“Was what?”
“Um... never mind,” he said, turning suddenly to walk away.
“What an odd young man. And to think, he used to be quite nice.”
***
Thursday, September 6th, 11:56 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
Henrietta read the letter slowly, savoring each and every word:
“My dear Henrietta, We miss you terribly, though we pray that this letter finds you content in our Blessed Savior’s arms. We are so proud of our little girl—for the courage you’ve shown in so many areas of your life. Of course, you are not a little girl any longer, are you! You are woman of God and we are so thrilled you have heard His voice and responded to His call.
We pray for you daily—and send our love. Remember the words from the book of Psalms as you carry forth his message, “I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Papa sends his love—as does little Katie. She asks about you daily. Love and kisses—Mama.
Henri clutched the letter tightly in her hand as tears of shame washed down her cheeks. To be honest, she hadn’t been seeking the Lord. She had been angry with Him—angry because He had sent her here. How could she possibly reconcile those feelings with her mother’s words? The call that had seemed so clear just months ago, was now nothing but a blur – a stamp in a passport.
Her mother’s words were laced with years of wisdom. How clear they seemed. How right. Henrietta had barely given herself time to adjust, after all. Thee weeks should have been spent in prayer and reflection. They should have provided her with answers. She had prayed. But her prayers had been greatly hindered by her anxiety, her discomfort. Her time in Galveston, no matter how long, would determine if she was, indeed, fit for a life of service. Her resolve would be tested, surely, but she could handle that. Surely.
Henri wiped away warm tears with the back of her hand and tried to comfort herself with a familiar scripture: “Lo, I am with you always…” God would always be with her, wherever she went, whatever obstacles befell her.
She fought desperately to push thoughts of her family out of her mind. Galveston was her home now, like it or not. Ironically, right now the only place she dreamed of going, the only place that felt right was home.
She couldn’t escape the inevitable conflict. A war raged inside her. Would she ever find peace in the middle of this storm?
***
Thursday, September 6th, 11:42 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
Emma left John Sealy Hospital at the corner of Eighth and Market in utter darkness. She had struggled through the second in a succession of unbearably long days at the hospital. Her shift was supposed to end much earlier, but she was always so far behind. She seemed to spend many hours just playing catch-up.
Her days were spent wiping fevered brows and cleaning up after sick patients. She didn’t mind that part. Spending time with the people who needed her most gave her a sense of purpose. She was making a difference in their lives and that felt good.
It was the other part that irritated her – all of the paperwork and dirty work, to be precise. Emma documented information on charts. Lots of charts. She changed bed sheets by the dozens and bedpans by the hundreds. The people, she could handle. The other things – well, they were a little harder. And her superiors weren’t making things any easier. They pressured her constantly and nothing she ever did was good enough.
In such a short time Emm
a had faced undeniable changes, and found the work far more humbling than expected. She routinely bathed and dressed patients, caring for their most basic needs. At first she had struggled with embarrassment, but it had quickly dissolved aside as the importance of her role began to sink in.
These people needed her. They depended on her. And, in spite of exhaustion, she would give them her very best. Even if it meant extra hours.
Darkness blanketed the island, making the walk home difficult. Her family probably slept by now. She turned for one last look at the hospital, its impressive white structure standing out against the shadows of the night. All of her hopes, her visions of what nursing would be like had vanished. Within hours of entering John Sealy Hospital just two days ago, everything had changed.
Two days. It seemed more like two years.
***
Thursday, September 6th, 3:56 P.M. The Murphy Villa
Gillian wiped the perspiration from her brow as she climbed the front steps to the house. The ample front porch, which she lovingly called her gallery, beckoned to her with its cool breeze. Unfortunately, there was no time to stop and enjoy it now. Packages loaded down the carriage, and she desperately needed assistance.
“Pearl, Pearl, come here!” She called out loudly.
The large woman with the cocoa colored skin who had become more family than servant entered the front hallway. Flour covered her from head to toe.
“Pearl, you look a sight,” Gillian said with a huff. “What are you doing in there, after all?”
“Baking, Miz Gillian.”
“Well, come on and help me, now.” She stepped toward the carriage, anxious to unload her purchases.
Pearl took short, gaspy breaths as she joined her. “I had another one of them sinking spells this morning, Miz Gillian. You know how they be.”
“You really must let a doctor look at you,” Gillian muttered. “I’m so very tired of discussing this same thing day in and day out.”