The Uncertain Season

by Ann Howard Creel

Later in my room I rolled her comments around in my head like dirty coins. How could anyone view me as lonely when my mother kept me occupied and under constant scrutiny? All my life I’d been the focus of something my mother was carefully crafting and shaping, like a centerpiece.

  And yet tonight her concern had been for Etta, and I had borne her scorn, which crusted inside me like rust. And why would Etta mention the Hardys to my mother? Was Viola correct in her assessment of Etta as a human variation of a feral cat? Had I just suffered the first tiny scratch from one of her claws?

  But I quickly dismissed the notion. Etta had been nothing but open and honest with me. She had shown not one ounce of ill will. Unless her complaint to Mother had indeed been intended to slight me. I simply didn’t know . . .

  I looked out beyond my window. Hilliards before us had lived on Galveston Island for three generations. But my father’s parents had died early, and my father had been an only child, so I had no family on my paternal side. I remembered little of my father beyond big hands, a soft laugh, and smiles that came at unexpected times. In my blurred memories, I sensed his gentleness. And a vague recall of his charms—he would get down and frolic on the lawn with me as if he were a playmate.

  But my mother? She was normally a most perceptive person, but concerning the party this evening she had been incorrect in her assessment of my behavior. I had been gracious, observant, and certainly not negligent. Yes, I had been a bit undone by Etta’s charms and her attractiveness, and Jonathan had indeed hurt my feelings. But I had still wanted Etta to mingle well, and it had been a perfectly glorious evening. So why did I feel like I needed a good cry? Why did I suddenly feel like hurling something across my room?

  A tiny idea came to me then, just the tiniest idea.

  After my maid, Dolly, helped me out of my party attire, I asked her to help me comb out my hair. And as I sat before my dressing table, letting her bring the comb all the way to the ends, the tiny idea I’d had earlier took shape and form, color and dimension. I could envision lips moving. I could hear the whispers. And although she was Clorinda’s oldest daughter and a fine and steadfast employee of ours, Dolly didn’t own one ounce of the discretion that her mother did.

  I made a foolish decision that would change everything. “Etta had a good evening, I think.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “After what she has been through . . .” I shook my head. “She deserves a little enjoyment.”

  Enjoyment. How ironic that I had managed to use Etta’s very own word.

  “Yes’m.”

  I lifted my chin and fixed my eyes on Dolly’s reflection in the mirror. “Have you ever known anyone who worked for the circus?”

  Dolly’s eyes widened, but she never looked up from my hair. I admired her restraint. “No’m. Cain’t say as I have.”

  “It’s a wonder Etta met him at all.”

  That was all I had to say. Dolly knew all the servants everywhere.

  Chapter Six

  ETTA

  After her introductory party at the Hilliard home, Etta attended the opera, a party aboard a ship in port, and numerous day excursions, mostly in the company of Grace and her closest friends, among them a black-haired girl named Larke, who had an annoying habit of giggling, and a smarter one named Viola, who was, unfortunately, ugly.

  Many evenings came and went in the company of Grace and Jonathan. After his graduation, Etta could imagine that he and Grace would have a most auspicious life ahead of them. Jonathan’s daddy would most likely pay for him to continue his studies in science or engineering or set him up in some type of business with offices downtown or on The Strand.

  But Etta would do nothing to try to sever the ties between Grace and her fiancé, as that would doom her here, and despite the fact that Jonathan undoubtedly found her attractive, he wasn’t complex enough for her. Too much complaining about duties forced upon him by his father, without any evidence he’d ever stood up to him or anyone else. He had tried to portray himself as a little on the wild side, but there was no evidence he had a truly rebellious streak. No, Etta thought. Someone more interesting would crop up.

  She found it ever so easy to get invitations, and more importantly, she could effortlessly amuse the crowd into which she’d fallen. Many members of the circle, including some of the younger ones, were so stiff Etta thought that if she talked or laughed too loud, they might blow over like walls made of paper. They were friendly but not particularly amusing or exciting. She found them blue-blooded and thin-skinned. But surprisingly, they seemed to admire her contrasting characteristics. Etta found that when she let little select pieces of her differences show, they found her even more enticing, and her invitations piled up.

  Every day brought something new. Etta went roller skating and was learning to play tennis. She visited the racetrack and the velodrome, went to card parties, and took strolls at the Garten Verein. She attended a ballet and a debutante ball organized by the Artillery Company.

  And it was only the beginning. Etta was told that winter would bring the bona fide social season. Until then, Galveston lay in wait, shuddering under the heat, steaming. If only she could draw out this stay. She would have to make sure to be no bother to her hosts, and perhaps even endear herself to them.

  One afternoon, Grace’s friends took her on a ride up and down Postoffice Street to see the red-light district, with its gambling houses, saloons, and prostitutes, as if this forbidden drive would demonstrate their defiance and free spirits. If Bernadette had known, she would’ve been mortified. Her aunt directed the behavior of others like an orchestra conductor. She inspected the servants’ white gloves to ensure they were spotless and made unexpected checks of the kitchen for cleanliness. Frequently she told Grace, “Hold your shoulders back, please,” and “Please don’t clack the silverware,” and so on.

  One Saturday, they took a picnic to a place that islanders called the Three Trees. Grace and Jonathan had organized the excursion down West Beach, and in the morning Jonathan showed up in his father’s automobile, explaining that his father had taught him to drive the day before. He offered to show their little group the advantages of automobile transportation. Before they left, Bernadette looked over the car and asked about its safety and reliability prior to giving her permission for Grace and Etta to ride. Larke and her brother, Wallace, were coming along, too, so the group would also have to take a carriage and take turns in the motorcar.

  When it was Etta’s turn in the Oldsmobile, she sighed but made no comment. She supposed she should be impressed, and she had to admit that the automobile did provide a more comfortable journey. Travel was faster and more sanitary, too, without the smell of horses, without nearly so many flies and mosquitoes buzzing about, but she simply sat quietly and let Jonathan ramble on about the interior comforts and the sophistication of the machinery.

  He drove out of the city on a deserted dirt road, explaining that it was an old stage route that once connected Galveston and the port of Velasco. A long strip of sand with small dunes lay on one side of the road, and low grass-covered flats lay on the other, and as the time passed, Etta realized that much of West Beach would no doubt be the same way—nearly flat, dry except in low, marshy spots spiked with cattails, grasses, and weeds, and utterly treeless. Away from the city the island looked like prairie.

  She remembered the tart smell of yellow pine, the feel of wet pine needles and decaying leaves underfoot. As a girl, she had often searched the woods for the darkest, most secret place to hide and then remained there until hunger called her home. Etta missed her familiar hometown and the gently rolling, sharecropped fields rowed out with cotton plants. But she missed them for only a moment.

  The west end of the island was only about a mile or two wide, but they would’ve had to drive for hours along its length to reach San Luis Pass at its end. Etta began to doubt that any clump of trees existed on these salt marshes and tidal flats.

  She closed her eyes. Jonathan was explaining the reason for this excu
rsion: In Cabeza de Vaca’s diary he had written of an Indian camp beside a grove of trees on a high point of the island. Indians had once fought a battle in the same spot with Jean Lafitte’s pirates, and rumor had it that Lafitte had buried his treasure beneath the trees before he left the island for the last time. But what Etta found most interesting was the description of the legendary Lafitte himself, said to be over six feet tall, dark, handsome, with long side whiskers and deep-set hazel eyes.

  Jonathan was saying, “People have been digging for years, searching for the gold. At one point there was so much digging they formed a trench.” Jonathan looked over at her then, and she flinched. His attention was subtle, but it could be noticeable.

  Etta found the long journey hardly worthwhile for such folly as digging for treasure. But she knew better than to show it. She needed to use each day as an opportunity to fit in and further endear herself. Her stance for this day was to be intrepid and interested but veiled. Now she pretended to be entertained. “Has anything been recovered?”

  Jonathan answered, “Only a few coppers and doubloons, but nothing of value.”

  She gazed to her left and spotted the white curls of waves and glittering sand. “Might we stop at the beach for a few moments?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He turned toward the gulf, and those in the carriage behind followed.

  At the beach, after it was explained that Etta had wanted to walk, everyone paced about, the young ladies under their parasols, the gentlemen helping them walk in the soft sand. Some seemed a bit annoyed about the detour, but Etta suddenly felt unrestrained for the first time since she’d arrived. While the others stood about and looked at the sea, she tore off her shoes and stockings, swept up her skirt, and strode to the water’s edge. When the surf chuffed in, she pulled back from the surging seawater and then ran farther away from the group. She cared not a whit if running down the beach barefoot was considered unladylike.

  Finally she could breathe for a few moments. With her back to them and the empty beach in front of her, she slowed down to a brisk walk but knew she shouldn’t go far. Even so, in this tiny moment she could let down her guard; she could be herself. She deeply breathed in the moment and then let it go.

  She didn’t want to annoy anyone further and soon returned to the group, her cheeks flushed from her run, her chest heaving, and her mouth smiling. Her little escape had been worth it. She could carry on with the outing now. It couldn’t hurt that she’d had a chance to show off a little leg while running, too.

  Her female companions appeared confused, and Larke asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of hurting your feet?”

  Etta shook her head.

  The other women looked at her a bit disapprovingly, and Grace’s face showed dismay, but the two men—why, they seemed positively mesmerized.

  Back on course and at the ten-mile road, Jonathan turned toward the bay. They rode onto a ranch that was privately owned, but Jonathan explained that he knew the owners and therefore didn’t hesitate to trespass. He stopped the motorcar near a fence. Beyond it, a small, murky pond and a grove of old oaks could be seen.

  “What did I tell you?” exclaimed Jonathan and pointed. “We come to the trees.” But Etta had to force a smile.

  Wallace and Jonathan carried the picnic baskets, packed by the maids at the Hilliard house, and then the young men helped the women over the fence. Jonathan wove his fingers together to make a hand step, and when Etta put her foot there, she could have sworn that he blushed.

  Soon they had walked around the pond and were standing in the middle of a grove of about fifteen oaks with gnarled, rough-barked limbs and glossy dark-green leaves that shimmered in the sunlight. For a moment, Etta remembered her hometown, where on Mound Street a single oak tree grew out of a mound said to be an ancient Caddo Indian burial site.

  Grace said, “I thought we were to expect only three trees.”

  Jonathan answered, “The others are probably offshoots from the originals.”

  As Etta watched the exchange between her cousin and her fiancé, she once again had that same feeling about them. There was no friction to light the match. No fire there.

  Turning to the others, Jonathan asked, “Shall we eat first or dig?”

  Grace seemed pleased, but Etta considered it a silly notion, this digging. If treasure were to be had here, someone else, someone hungrier than the members of this bunch, would have found it by now. The ground was pockmarked with holes dug by many other foolish boys. Everyone except for Etta sniffed around for a bit, but she stood her ground and waited. The contrast between this almost-barren land and the finery of the clothes around her was somewhat disturbing.

  The group agreed to eat first. Grace unfolded a quilt and spread it on the dry ground between two of the largest trees. They ate finger sandwiches, pickled eggs, Spanish olives, peaches, and plums, and then drank cold tea poured from a crockery jug. The talk was all very typical, but what were those little glances shot between Grace and Viola?

  They sat for an hour to let their meals settle, and then Jonathan jumped back over the fence and returned with two shovels. After he handed one to Wallace, Jonathan rolled up his shirtsleeves, letting the ladies see his arms, then began digging.

  The men dug for nearly an hour for something that would not be there. As they pitched dirt, Etta sent cursory glances their way from time to time but didn’t relish the sight of their reddened faces, foreheads and upper lips glistening with sweat in this, the hottest hour of the day.

  With bemused eyes, Wallace said, “Etta won’t watch.”

  She sniggered. “I always leave the dirty work to the men.”

  Everyone else laughed, but Wallace stood his ground, leaning on the shovel handle, smiling down at her, a quizzical look in his eyes, his round cheeks already reddened from heat and effort. “I frequently have the feeling that you are far away from us, Etta, lost in thoughts you won’t share.”

  Grace caught Etta’s eye and then darted her eyes askance. Odd.

  “Hmm,” murmured Etta. “Yes, my mind is full of weighty things.”

  “You confound us, that’s all. What are you thinking?”

  Etta shrugged. Her plan was to keep them guessing. But Wallace was more impressive than she had imagined. Yes, he had a good future before him as an architect here in Galveston, but that wasn’t all that Etta saw in him. He would take his time. He would be persistent.

  Wallace jammed the shovel into the ground again. “I’ll make it simple. Let’s start with some easy questions. Which do you prefer, night or day? Sunrise or sunset?”

  Grace answered instead. “I would choose the sunrise.”

  And then Larke, “The sunset.”

  “And you, Etta?” Wallace insisted.

  She paused for a minute. He would wait until she answered. She gazed up at him now. She did not find him handsome, but there was an interesting look about him, and at least he could hold a conversation that held her interest momentarily. Of course, his appeal had much to do with wealth and the fact that his life had prepared him to do just about anything he wanted.

  The sun was behind him; she couldn’t quite read his face anymore. Finally she answered, “I couldn’t choose. How to prefer one to the other? It makes no sense. The beginning of light, and the beginning of darkness. Both must exist.”

  “Ah,” said Wallace. “A good answer. I would have expected no less.”

  “But so biblical,” said Jonathan.

  Etta stiffened. “I didn’t mean for it to be.”

  Larke, the silly creature, giggled and twisted her hair. She didn’t have the intelligence of her brother. But Wallace, apparently satisfied for now, went back to digging.

  Then Jonathan piped in with a question he addressed to everyone. “Which would you choose—a grand love or a deep faith?”

  “Love,” answered Grace after only brief consideration, and Etta wasn’t surprised.

  Larke answered, “But love can be fleeting, whereas faith has the fa
cility to sustain a person through adversity.”

  Jonathan turned to Etta. “As usual, Etta, you haven’t answered.”

  “Well,” she said, picking at a loose thread in the fabric of her skirt, “why only those two choices? You haven’t offered me the option of power, or adventure, or unusual talent.”

  “All right then,” said Wallace, looking even more impressed. “Of all those mentioned, which would you choose?”

  Etta smoothed her skirt against her lap. “Ah yes, let’s see if I can remember them all.” She counted on her long, outstretched fingers. “We have love and faith, then power, adventure, and talent. But I still can’t choose. I’m afraid the question is far too limiting, because I would take some of them all.”

  “Another good answer,” said Wallace, now glowing from the heat, or was it from admiration?

  “Yes, I’d take everything,” Etta said.

  “And why not?” asked Larke, her question hanging in the air unanswered.

  Wallace dug again and then stopped. “What would you do with the treasure, Etta, should we find it?”

  She gazed at him from beneath her eyelashes and tried to smile. “I would give it to a museum.”

  “Ah, for posterity, for the enjoyment of the masses.”

  “Something such as that.”

  “Are you a philanthropist?”

  Etta said, “No.”

  “A reformer?”

  “No again.”

  The heat was horrendous. Etta found herself growing anxious and even a bit nauseous. The waistband of her dress was digging into her, and she was beginning to sweat. On the verge of fainting, she didn’t hear Wallace’s next question or anyone’s answers. She blinked hard and took a few deep breaths, until her head cleared.

  Then she felt Wallace’s eyes on her, and the light in them had changed. “Are we boring you, Etta?” he asked.

  “Are you all right?” asked Grace.

  “I’m fine.” Etta fanned herself and hated how her entire body was becoming damp. How did these other young women do it? Did they have no sweat glands? “It’s just that the day is growing long. This is a fruitless endeavor.” She was surprised by the venom in her voice. The heat was wearing away her façade.