Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads

by Janice Thompson

  That is, the angels and a very nice looking young man named Brent Murphy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, September 9th, 6:22 a.m. The Courier

  Everett Maxwell pulled the newspaper off of his face and yawned. He had slept only a handful of hours, but they were enough—probably too much, all things considered. Through the broken window he beheld an extraordinary sky. The sun had risen over Galveston Island with an unparalleled brilliance. It cast ribbons of pink and purple over the twisted rooftops – an interesting contrast to the preceding night

  “Well look at that.” He stretched and moved toward the broken glass for a closer look. Beyond the dawn lay the most amazing sky Everett had ever seen. He stared up at it, forgetting the magnitude of the night, resting in the assurance all was well.

  Then he looked down.

  Nothing could have prepared him for what lay below. All of his years in the newspaper business hadn’t equipped him, though he had certainly seen his share of disasters. Everett’s heart ached with a sudden fierceness he had never before experienced. The Strand lay torn to shreds. Much of the water had drained off, leaving a trail of debris—everything from telephone poles to pieces of buildings to bodies.

  Bodies everywhere.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 6:53 a.m. Galveston Island

  Henrietta awoke to a groggy sky. For a moment, she forget where she was—where they were. Just as suddenly, she did remember. She trembled uncontrollably and tried to gain control of her senses, to think clearly.

  She and Lilly Mae remained pinned against a chimney, atop a house. This brick haven had saved them from certain death, at least in the night. But now, with the shades of dawn, it all seemed a distant memory, a faded photograph of someone else’s tragedy – not her own.

  And yet, an amazing sky gave her new hope. From her perch, Henrietta could see the gulf coast, waters still rocking. But what lined the coast set her hair on edge. Along several miles of shore lay mounds of wreckage. Buggies, streetcar rails, bodies, lumber – these all formed a momentous semicircle around the business district. Buildings were down all over the place. Rubble replaced what had been a lovely, well-kept city. Milling through the rubble, people.

  Henrietta fought to catch her breath as she turned to look in the opposite direction. People everywhere. Many of them stumbled about naked, or nearly so. They crawled in and through the water and debris, searching, calling out names of loved ones. Even from this height she could hear the faint cries of those who had been buried alive beneath it all.

  “Dear God!” Henrietta cried as tears flowed in torrents down her cheeks. “Help them.” She fought the temptation to leap from her perch to help them herself, but fear wouldn’t allow it. She would stay in this spot forever. She wouldn’t move. She couldn’t.

  But she must. Someone depended on her – someone who could not care for herself. Leaning down, Henri groped for the child. “Lilly Mae?”

  No answer came.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 7:04 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian Murphy threw the front door of her Broadway home open, determined to make the journey to the train station. Douglas, I need you. I can’t do this without you. She quickly surveyed what had once been Broadway, realizing the futility of her mission. She slammed the door shut. “Pearl!”

  “What, Miz Gillian?”

  “Forget the wagon. We’ll have to try it on foot.”

  “But what about all these people? Who’s gonna take care of them? They need food and...” The older woman’s face was set, determined.

  “Pearl!” Gillian knew her voice sounded stern, but didn’t care. “I don’t care whether or not these people have a hot breakfast. I do care whether or not my husband is alive and well.” She immediately regretted her words, especially in light of all that had transpired in the night. But her heart told her she must attempt to locate Douglas. She would never forgive herself if…

  No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think like that. Right now, Gillian didn’t have time for an argument. “No buts. I don’t care how improbable or how impractical it sounds. You and I are going to that train station. These folks will be fine until we return. Now please come with me before I lose my temper.”

  Pearl’s mouth remained open, but she didn’t speak a word in reproach. Instead, she reached for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders. Gillian softened as she watched her. “I’m so sorry, Pearl. It’s just that I…”

  “It’s alright, Miz Gillian.” Pearl took a couple of gaspy breaths as they made their way down the stairs. “We’re gonna find that husband ‘o yours, then we gonna git on back here to care for these folks. That’s the way of it.”

  “Yes, honey,” Gillian said with a smile. “That’s the way of it.”

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 7:17 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  Brent awoke, stiff and sore, after sleeping only a couple of hours. The hospital sat in an odd silence. Only the occasional whimpering of a child stirred the morning. He rose quietly, dreading the task ahead, yet knowing he must face the inevitable.

  He must go home.

  Brent made his way downstairs, relieved to find the water lines lower. Much lower. He stepped outside and gazed up at the heavens. Dawn had broken; the distant sky shone bright with anticipation of a new day, a good day. The water had clearly receded, a welcome piece of news. He smiled and yawned as he looked up.

  Then his eyes shifted downward. Nothing in all of his years in journalism could have prepared him for the scene that contrasted against the warm glow of the sunrise.

  Bodies. Bodies everywhere. A mangled, twisted mess.

  “Dear God!” Brent clutched his stomach, afraid for a moment he would lose its contents. In a state of shock, he turned toward Broadway and began to run. He closed his eyes to the madness and ran against the torrent of people that countered him. For what seemed like an eternity, he ran. He stopped only long enough to catch his breath as he hit the familiar stretch along north Broadway.

  And yet, nothing about this street looked familiar today. While most of the houses remained intact, masonry, telephone poles, and wheels from coaches filled the streets. Few bodies here. That’s good news.

  He rounded the corner and picked up the pace once again. There, in the distance, loomed the home he had avoided only hours before.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 10:15 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  “Have you heard anything yet?” Emma clutched Dr. Weston’s arm.

  “No, honey. I’ll let you know the minute I do.”

  “Don’t call me honey.” His choice of words nauseated her, especially at a time like this.

  He shuffled off, obviously ignoring her comment. She shouldn’t have asked him. But he had ventured out into the madness an hour or so earlier, hoping to get news of his own family. His visit to the outside world had been short-lived. He had returned with stories she, as of yet, refused to believe.

  Surely his tales of destruction were exaggerated. Nothing could be as bad as all that. She made her way to a window and peered outside. A tree had fallen and blocked her view. She shifted to the right a little and strained to see what lay beyond the fallen branches. Just as quickly as she saw, she wished she hadn’t – wished she could take it all back again.

  But she couldn’t. Suddenly the room began to spin. Everything faded to black as Emma’s knees buckled.

  “Miss, are you all right?” A child’s voice rang out, reverberating around the hollow shell of a room.

  “I, uh…” She clutched at the wall, trying to hold herself upright. “I’m fine.”

  She took several deep breaths, until the dizziness stopped. I won’t go down. I won’t! Madness surrounded her on every side, and yet Emma fought to be strong. Someone had to be there to help the hurting, crying, grieving. She would be that someone.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 7:52 a.m. The Courier

  Everett Maxwell work
ed alongside the others at The Courier to clean out what had once been a perfectly respectable newspaper office. The early morning heat set in, which made the task even more unbearable. But he couldn’t seem to keep his mind on the work. His thoughts shifted continually to his family. If only he could have gone to check on them himself. But the pain in his leg wouldn’t allow it. He could barely make it across the room, let alone across town.

  Nathan Potter stormed into the office, soaked from head to toe. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out there,” he exclaimed. “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about.”

  Everett turned to face him. “Well,” he asked impatiently, “What’s the word? Were you able to get to my family?” He feared the young man’s response, but had to know.

  “Found ‘em, high and dry,” Nathan said. “There’s been some physical damage to the house—a few windows out and a hole in the roof over your kitchen. “

  He refused to believe the best, even now. His confused heart and mind wouldn’t allow it. “But Maggie and the kids, they’re...?”

  “They’re fine,” Nathan assured him. “A few minor bumps and bruises, that’s all.”

  “Thank God,” Everett whispered, finally able to relax a little. “Thank God.” They were alive. They were safe.

  “You’ll be happy to know that you now have a houseful of guests,” Nathan added.

  “Guests? How many?” Everett thought about their modest home.

  “I’d say forty or fifty, easily.”

  “Forty or fifty? Are you kidding me?” How in the world could Maggie -

  “I’m not kidding. And there are plenty more out on the streets looking for a place to stay. I just came from the mayor’s place. He says we’re probably looking at seven thousand or more displaced.”

  Everett had to sit down. “How many do you think are...”

  “No way of knowing yet,” Nathan said. “Probably pretty close to that number.”

  “We only have thirty seven thousand on the island to begin with,” Everett mumbled. “That’s a third of the island dead or homeless. We’re completely dependent on help from the mainland now.”

  “Mainland?” Nathan echoed. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. We’re shut off completely, you know.”

  “Shut off.” Everett pondered the words. Being disconnected from the mainland meant several things—in particular, getting food and medical supplies to the people on Galveston Island would be a nightmare. There must be something he could do, but what?

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 10: 26 a.m. Galveston Island

  Gillian trudged along Broadway, sickened by the sights and smells. She forced herself not to look at the debris. This is too horrifying, too awful.

  “Horrible. Horrible.” She pressed a handkerchief against her face and fought off a wave of nausea as she tried to think clearly. Douglas hadn’t been at the train station… Hopefully he remained safely behind in Houston, but how could she know for sure? She had no peace. Her mind moved constantly as she imagined every possible scenario. Was there nothing she could do in the meantime?

  The storm had tested all boundaries of human endurance. How could she, one lone woman, make a difference? Thankfully, her home had been spared – so she had a roof over her head. Others weren’t so lucky. Closer to shore, houses had been placed back to back. Sediment from the gulf filled the streets and smelled almost as bad as the unbelievable stench coming from those who had perished.

  Those who remained weren’t in much better shape, as she observed along the way. They often cried out—praying for death. Devastated people lurked on every side. They screamed in panic as they searched for loved ones. Little waifs, starving and half clad, wandered the streets looking for mothers and fathers who would not reappear. She refused to focus on them, half afraid to see their pain, half afraid to face her own.

  What would become of these poor folks? Who would care for them – both in the short term and the long term? Who would feed them, offer them warm clothes? Who would give them a place to rest from this madness? Who would protect them from the human vultures pilfering and looting up and down the shoreline?

  As if reading her mind, Pearl spoke. “It’s about time you let the Lord use you, Miss Gillian.” The older woman’s voice resounded against the cacophony ringing in her ears.

  “Use me? What do you mean ‘use me’?”

  “To reach out to others,” Pearl said firmly. “To be a blessing to someone.”

  “Be a blessing?” Those were strange and unfamiliar words. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “We all have a responsibility to help our fellow man as much as we are able.” Pearl stopped and looked her squarely in the eye.

  Gillian began to walk once more. “I help my fellow man, Pearl,” she argued as she trudged along. “I’m very charitable. You, of all people, should know that. Didn’t I take you in when your husband passed on? Haven’t I always been good to you?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” the older woman continued. “Yes ma’am. It’s just ...”

  “What?”

  “Well,” Pearl stammered, “Those folks at the house. They ain’t your garden party set, but they’s gonna need a place to stay for awhile.”

  “What are you getting at?” She knew, of course, but refused to believe it. Surely Pearl couldn’t mean she should…

  “I just been thinking. It’s such a big house, and the storm hardly touched it. You shore could puts lots of those folks up for a few days.”

  “Douglas wouldn’t hear of it,” Gillian said, horrified. Why, the very thought!

  “How do you know, ma’am?”

  “Well, I—” Truth be told, she didn’t know.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, September 9th, 10:30 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent paced around the house, nearly frantic. The large home burst at the seams with people, none of them familiar. They seemed to have taken over. He found them in the parlor, the dining room, the kitchen and even milling around down in the servant’s quarters.

  Oddly, his parents were nowhere to be seen.

  “What time did they leave?” he asked a young woman who had made herself at home in the kitchen.

  “Que?”

  “What time—? Ah, never mind.”

  Brent made his way through the house, looking for any clues. The dining room stood cluttered with trash, no doubt washed in through broken windows in the night. Everything from the waist down looked terrible. Everything from the waist up remained the same. How ironic to see his mother’s beautiful china spread out across the dining room table, as if in preparation for some great event.

  The silverware, on the other hand, seemed to be disappearing before his very eyes. Is that little boy slipping forks into his pocket? He took a closer look, wanting to be absolutely sure before making any sort of accusation. Sure enough, silver handles protruded – clearly visible.

  “Let me have those!” Brent emptied the boy’s pockets and found a sure sight more than just a few pieces of silverware. He would have to empty this house – and the sooner, the better. If his mother arrived home and found these people here, no telling what she might do. And his father…

  He couldn’t think about that right now.

  “I need all of you to leave now.” He glanced around the room, dismayed at their lack of response. “Do you hear me?”

  “But sir,” an older woman spoke with a strong Irish accent. “The lady... she said we could stay until the water went down.” Her eyes conveyed her plight. Brent couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, but he knew his mother far too well to believe her words.

  “Please sir. Please don’t make us go. We’ve got no place. No one. And the lady said we were welcome to stay on a bit.”

  Brent shook his head in disbelief. What a ludicrous thought. His mother—inviting strangers in off of the street? A total and complete impossibility. “The water’s down,” he said. “And I’m saying it’s time for you to go.”

  He pu
lled the door open, completely unprepared for what met him on the other side.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 10:35 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  “Brent?” Gillian’s heart leaped for joy. The boy who stood before her was her son. And yet she didn’t appear to be looking at a boy. The face staring back at her belonged to a man. Her arms instinctively flew around his neck. “Brent. Oh, Brent.”

  Was this a dream? Could she possibly be imagining this, or had God really answered her prayer – her song in the night? No, thankfully. Brent stood before her, arms now wrapping her waist. She felt his tears and knew he had prayed for this moment as long as she had.

  “Brent, you’ll never know…”

  Her son did not respond, though his grip around her waist seemed to intensify. His silence seemed to speak more than words ever could. They held each other for what seemed like an eternity. When he did speak, his words sent a lump to her throat. “I love you, Mother. I’ve missed you so much.”

  She planted a series of kisses on his cheeks.

  “Praise be to the Lord!” Pearl reached around the pair to grab Brent by the neck. “Oh, praise Him!”

  “I will, Pearl,” Gillian said, “just as soon as you give me a chance.” She backed up and looked at her son carefully. For the first time she noticed his torn clothing and bruises. While she had spent the night carefully tucked away in a closet, he had clearly braved the storm and lived to tell about it. Thanks be to God. “Come inside, son.” She ushered him through the door. “After some food and a little rest, I’m sure we’ll have much to talk about.”

  “I’m afraid you’re in for a shock, Mother,” he said, as he gestured to the people inside. “You’ve got a few guests.”