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

by Janice Thompson

  Gillian strained to see through the crowded lobby of the train station. They must have some word for me today, Lord. If he doesn’t come back soon I don’t know what I’ll do. She held her lace handkerchief over her nose, trying to distract herself from the stench that hung like a cadaver in the air as she made her way to the familiar counter.

  “Can I helps you Miz Murphy?”

  She turned to face Daniel, a small colored man who worked as a porter for the GH&H. He had served as mediator for the past few days as she quizzed anyone and everyone about her husband’s whereabouts.

  “Is there any word yet?” she asked breathlessly.

  “We received a telegraph just this morning,” he said with a smile. “From the conductor on your husband’s run. Said they ran into trouble trying to get back on the island the night of the storm, so they backed it up all the way to Texas City. They’ve been put up at the station on that end for a week, from what I hear – but there’s word they’re sending them over by boat, now that the bodies…” Here he paused, looking down. “Um, now that the debris has been cleared from the bay and the piers have been rebuilt.”

  “So they’re… they’re…” Gillian could hardly speak, for fear the words would curse the outcome.

  “Now, we don’t have no specifics, Ma’am,” Daniel said hesitantly.

  “But I have every reason to hope…”

  “Oh, yes, Ma’am.” He smiled broadly, showing off large white teeth. “Praise God! We all has reason to hope – even in the middle of this mess.” Daniel turned to respond to another woman, a nervous-looking young woman clutching a child at her side.

  Gillian muttered a quick “Thank you” before heading out of the station. As she walked in the direction of the Villa, her heart soared. Is it possible, Lord? Have You already answered my prayer? Her spirit sang as she made her way through the mud-caked filth toward home. For the first time in ages, she actually felt some sense of relief. The last few days had been unbelievably difficult, but Gillian had borne them well.

  Most of her houseguests had left this morning, many opting to head to the mainland, now that the journey could be made without fear of peril. Still others had decided to return to the remains of their homes, hoping to rebuild. A handful remained at the Murphy home, but they planned to move on soon. Gillian’s life would soon return to normal.

  Oh, but I dread that! I’ll simply die if things go back to the way they were. I’m not the person I was – or the person I thought I was, at any rate. Over the past several days Gillian had come to know herself – not as the woman others in society perceived her to be, but as the compassionate woman she had become. I like who I really am. Now, if only Douglas would return. I would be completely whole again.

  ***

  Saturday, September 15th, 3:34 p.m. Galveston Island

  Everett made his way up The Strand, taking inventory. The Confectionary window is out. Tables and chairs have all but disappeared. That one will take a lot of work. Hope they’re up for the task – those who are left, anyway.

  He knew for a fact that several of the Confectionary employees had lost their lives in the storm. Others were badly injured and would not be able to return to work for some time. Who would help them rebuild? For that matter, who would help any of these businesses get back on their feet again?

  Everett worked his way down to the Emporium, relieved to see they were back up and running. Large sheets of lumber replaced the massive windows that once lined the front of the store. The door stood propped open. People drifted in and out, most carrying cleaning supplies and the like. Others sat outside, calling out the names of lost loved ones – still looking, still hoping. Everett’s heart broke with each name called.

  He turned his attention to the street itself. The bodies had all been moved now, thank the Lord. They had, for some time, been piled on the west side of the street, awaiting burial. Though they had been removed, an unbelievable stench remained. Everett fought to keep his stomach in check as he made his way past the corner folks had taken to calling ‘the morgue.’

  His eyes drifted to the diner, which had opened for business just this morning. Like most of the businesses in this district, they had managed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get back to work.

  “That’s what this Island needs,” he said aloud, trying to convince himself. “To get back to work. It takes courage. Tenacity. We’ve got plenty of that in us.”

  Though he spoke of courage, Everett felt little as he made his way toward Market Street to Frankie Dolan’s Barbershop. His heart twisted with anxiety. Will it still be there? I haven’t heard from Frankie since the day of the storm.

  He rounded the corner onto Market, then shook his head with disbelief as his gaze rested on the shop in question. A new sign adorned a shattered front window, but through it he could clearly see the answer to his question – and it caused his heart to jump for joy.

  ***

  Saturday, September 15th, 5:02 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent returned home from a long day of helping with the seemingly never-ending disposal of bodies. His gut had wrenched at the sights and smells the day had offered him, but a long bath had served to wash most of it away. Now he stood clean and refreshed on the front porch, pacing anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the spot where Emma should arrive shortly. For some reason his heart would not calm itself until she arrived.

  “Brent, what are you doing out here?” Sadie’s gentle voice brought him back to his senses.

  “I, uh… I was just…”

  “Enjoying the view?” She forced a smile.

  “Obviously not.”

  “Well what then?” she asked. “You’ve been out here for nearly half an hour looking up and down the street for something – or should I say someone.”

  “Sadie, stop it.”

  “Admit it,” she said with a laugh. “You’re sweet on my sister.”

  “That’s crazy. We hardly know each other.” Had it really only been a week? It seemed more like a lifetime. Every moment with Emma had been precious, and he found himself looking forward to seeing her more with each passing day.

  Sadie spoke knowingly, a glimmer in her youth eyes. “She’s sweet on you.”

  “How do you know?” Did I respond too quickly? Give myself away?

  “Girls talk.” She erupted into a fit of laughter. “But I’ve said too much already.”

  “No, tell me more,” he urged her.

  Sadie shook her head, pointing off in the distance. “Not right now.” She turned back toward the house with a grin. “Looks like you’re about to have company.”

  Brent’s gaze fell on Emma as he turned. His spirits lifted immediately. “She’s here,” he whispered, and then headed down the stairs to greet her.

  ***

  Saturday, September 15th, 9:15 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Emma meandered out onto the front porch of the Murphy home for a few moments of quiet reflection before heading off to bed. The smell out here was still far too strong to remain for any length of time, but she gritted her teeth and held out for a few minutes of peace and quiet. The others inside the spacious Murphy home had all drifted off to sleep, a couple of them crying softly as their heads dropped onto borrowed pillows. They grieved quietly, these people. She had done her fair share of grieving, as well – though she kept her tears to herself as much as possible. No need upsetting the others, especially Sadie.

  She smiled as she thought about her younger sister. What an amazing you woman she had turned out to be. Had it really only been a week since the two of them had argued over who was the better sister?

  Clearly, Sadie was the better sister.

  Emma allowed herself to remember that night at home – such a short time ago. She and Sadie had tossed pillows at one another. Their excited voices had awakened sleeping parents.

  Live parents.

  The tears tumbled freely as Emma thought about her beautiful mother. After a few minutes, she dried her eyes and tried to shi
ft her thoughts to happier things. A few more moments out here would give Emma the chance she needed to think, to break away from the madness of all that had happened. Secretly she had hoped Brent would join her, but he had fallen asleep a few minutes earlier.

  “Just as well,” she said aloud. Spending time with a young man, any young man, is the absolute last thing on earth I need to be doing right now. What I need is a plan – a plan that will provide enough money to rent a small house on the Island. The Murphy’s have been wonderful so far, but surely they didn’t mean that we should stay on here forever. Most of the others had parted, headed for relatives or the mainland. Emma’s heart raced as she contemplated the reality set before her. It’s just a matter of time before Sadie and I will be expected to move on, as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sunday, September 16th, 6:37 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent awoke, thinking of Emma. The touch of his hand against her cheek, the scent of her hair as he had comforted her. He rolled over in the bed, hoping not to lose the last of his dream. It had been amazing—amazing because it centered around her.

  Emma had a physical beauty that could not be denied, but her inner strength, her fortitude, seemed equally as appealing. She was sweet and gentle – delicate, really—but stronger than any women he had laid eyes on. Soft brown curls cascaded down over confident shoulders – shoulders held high in spite of tragedy. Her brilliant eyes still shone with a fervor, though she had lost so much. Could he ever understand or appreciate such a loss?

  Emma was a woman who loved deeply – that much he had learned in just a few short days. Her love for Sadie was evident. Clearly, it had kept them both going. Their parents had done a great job raising both of them. What a shame to realize he would never know them, never be able to tell them what remarkable daughters they had.

  But he could tell Emma and Sadie. Today, Brent resolved, would be the day he would begin to pour into their lives. He would make sure their physical needs were met, but he would also begin to invest the time and effort to care for their emotional needs, as well.

  He would take the time to care for them – as he hoped, someday, someone would care for him.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 6:40 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Emma awoke, thinking of Brent. Her dream had been an odd mix of sadness and joy. The faces of her parents still haunted her, and the ache remained in her chest. But there was something wonderful about the dream too, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  Brent.

  Brent had been in the dream. He had been the one who had rescued her from darkness, from death. He had been the one to comfort and console. He had raced into her life most unexpectedly and she had nearly pushed him away.

  No. That isn’t a dream.

  That’s reality.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 9:21 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian moved through the house, doing what she could to clean up. Days of houseguests had left her beautiful home in less than perfect shape, but she really didn’t mind. It’s been worth every bit of work. And now, with Pearl gone off to church, she could finally set her sights on getting things in order once again.

  Church. Several years had passed since Gillian had visited a church, though she had often considered joining one to increase her status on the island. Until recently, her only need for such a gathering would have been purely social. Now…

  Now Gillian considered how it would feel to enter a building where God’s people met together to worship Him. Would she feel His presence like she had that night in the closet? Would she be changed, transformed, as so many often spoke of? Did she want to experience such a change?

  Had she, already?

  The large bells of a nearby congregation rang out, signifying hope, in spite of the week of horror the island had faced. They stopped her in her tracks and she listened with new resolve.

  People in church had hope. That much was clear, simply from watching Pearl. If, for no other reason than that, she went to church – it would be worth it. She needed hope.

  As Gillian made her way through the large parlor, she picked up blankets and pillows. A loud knock at the door distracted her. The knock was forceful, almost demanding. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” She brushed her loose, mussed hair behind her ears and wiped the flour off of her hands using the torn dishcloth, which draped her waist. “Be patient!”

  Gillian pulled the door open, prepared to face another potential houseguest, another wayfaring stranger. What she found on the other side was nearly enough to knock the very breath out of her.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 9:58 a.m. The Courier

  “Here’s how this is going to work.” Everett addressed a room full of young reporters. “We’re going to try a whole new approach to journalism.”

  “What do you mean?” Brent asked curiously. Everett couldn’t help but notice the look of concern on his face and the faces of the others in the room.

  “I mean, we help each other out,” Everett said firmly. “We work for the good of the people. No more, no less.”

  “Are you kidding, Everett?” Nathan asked nervously. “I mean, remind me if I’m wrong, but isn’t journalism about beating the other guy to the punch?”

  “Maybe that’s the way it’s worked in the past,” Everett said, shaking his head. “And maybe that’s the way to sell papers. I don’t know. I just know that it doesn’t work for me anymore.”

  “What are you saying, Everett?” Nathan asked. “Are you saying we shouldn’t find stories?”

  “Of course not. We’re still all about stories,” Everett responded. “But we’ve got to be careful not to cross any lines – not to step on anyone to get those stories.” That was the part he couldn’t stand—reporters rushing here and there, trampling over anyone and everyone to get the latest tidbit. It sickened him.

  “I also want The Courier to be the first paper on the island to adequately cover the building of the new orphanage.”

  “New orphanage?” Brent sat up straight in his chair.

  “Yep. That’s the plan.” Everett smiled in Brent’s direction. “As most of you know, Clara Barton is here, along with a team from The World. We’re going to link arms with them to get the necessary provisions for this orphanage. In other words, we’re going to use this paper for the good of the Island, and especially the Island’s children.”

  “How, exactly?” Nathan still looked worried.

  “The Red Cross has come up with a plan,” Everett answered. “They’re going to raise money by selling photographs of the storm’s devastation.”

  Nathan lifted his Kodak in the air proudly. “I’ve got plenty of those,” he practically shouted.

  “Yes, but are you willing to part with them?” Everett asked. “I mean – are you willing to give them away?”

  “I, uh… I suppose,” Nathan said, somewhat less enthusiastically.

  “We’ve got to be bold here, because the need is so great,” Everett continued. “And that’s Pulitzer’s plan too, I might add.” He looked in Brent’s direction.

  “You mean to tell me The World is going to become a benefactor to the Island?” Brent asked incredulously.

  “That’s right,” Everett responded. “They’ve made an agreement with the Red Cross to donate any contributions they receive to that organization.

  “Wow.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t some sort of publicity stunt?” Nathan’s question was an honest one.

  “I don’t think so,” Everett said. “I really don’t. Mrs. Barton is seventy-eight years old. But she’s come, in spite of her age. She’s never been one to shirk her responsibilities, especially when people are hurting.”

  “That’s true.” Brent said. “I did a piece on Clara Barton when I was at The World.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Everett said with a smile, “which is exactly why I’m going to be looking to you for some great stories. I want you to tra
vel with her – go where she goes, talk to her, get to know her. She’s asked for you specifically, Brent.”

  “Are you sure?” Brent looked around the room. “I’ve only been back a few days, and you’ve got a room full of other guys here waiting for a chance to…”

  “I’m sure,” Everett said in the firmest voice he could muster. “You’re just the man for this job, Brent. Now get out there and get to work.”

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 10:30 a.m. The Academy

  “This may be a bit awkward,” Henrietta said, “but I believe we should hold a service this morning.”

  “With all of these people?” Abigail asked. “How in the world…?”

  “Let’s gather them all together in the courtyard, and go from there.”

  “But who will speak?” Abigail looked shocked. “We haven’t got a priest, or a minister of any sort, for that matter.”

  “I think I’ve got just the man for the job,” Henri said with a smile. “If he’s willing, that is.”

  Yes. Big John would be just the right one for the job.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, Noon The Murphy Villa

  Gillian listened carefully as Douglas spoke. “We tried to cross over on Saturday night, but the winds were too strong. On Monday, after the storm passed over, we tried again. The train hadn’t quite reached the Bay Shore – about six miles out – when we got the answer to our question. The prairie was littered with debris and dead bodies. Hundreds of bodies. They lay there – so still and quiet – most stripped of all clothing, all dignity. What we saw horrified us. We had no way of knowing if our own loved ones might be among the deceased.”

  Here Douglas broke. His voice quivered with an undeniable passion. “I have to tell you, my heart just broke. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.” He reached over and pulled Gillian to himself. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. I just kept praying, ‘Lord, protect my family. Keep them safe.’”