by Paul Boor
“No, not ice. I mean the business of us, Renée. You and me.”
What is he saying? she thought as she broke free and took a step closer to the broken balustrade.
He keeps talking so seriously of the future. Our future. What could the man be thinking? He’s daffy from the fever. In two or three months he’ll be on a northbound train if his convalescence goes well, and if it doesn’t . . .Well, she didn’t want to consider that hideous possibility.
No, she had to ignore this emotional tie growing between them. She would allow herself only the faintest hope it might someday re-form, like a chemical bond, an attraction of elements that could not be kept apart. Unseen forces acting between two bodies. Thermodynamics. That would be a test, wouldn’t it? A test of their chemistry, their thermodynamics.
It was all a daydream, this kind of thinking. A foolish girl’s daydream. She was a grown woman; she had her science, her life’s work. Years from now, in their separate lives, they’d look back at this brief interlude as a wonderful mistake . . . and nothing more.
“Oh, you dreamer,” she said. “You, sir, are a born Northerner. You’ll be back at your lake soon enough.”
“You just said I’m to stay for weeks. Doctor’s orders.”
“Well, yes, follow my prescriptions and rest. Remember, Nick, the fever damaged your liver. I’m afraid there’ll be no whiskey for you, sir.”
“I can live without whiskey, but I can’t live without you, Renée.”
She took him firmly by the shoulders and looked into his eyes.
“Nick—you’re my favorite patient.”
The morning Madame La Porte came to visit, after offering the customary pleasantries and well wishes, she stepped into the slats of light near the shuttered window and drew the collar of her blouse aside. “Look here,” she said. “See what he did.”
A reddish discoloration ran like a healing gash down the right side of her neck.
“It’s the exit site, you see, of your visitant’s preternatural ectoplasm. You summoned a powerful thing, Mr. Van Horne,” she said. “His was a soul heavy with misdeeds.”
“I’m sure he’s paying the price, madame.”
Nicolas watched springtime unfold from his broken balcony high above the housetops: the redbud trees’ glorious foliage pulsed like blood, the scent of honeysuckle filled the early morning stillness, and the evenings were redolent with night-blooming jasmine.
Basil Prangoulis, the jolly gent, visited at midday. He carried a jug of a sturdy soup, a “Prangoulis specialty” of shrimp and crab, with a color as bright vermilion as the redbud blossoms.
“I’ve learned much from my Russian friends,” he said as he set the jug of soup and a spoon on a tray. “Such horrid dealings, these children on the docks.”
“Thank heavens it’s coming to an end.”
“Naturally, I’ve dwelled on this from a religious viewpoint. Our commandments—yours and mine both—forbid taking a life, but to enslave is to take a life also, is it not?”
“Wisely stated, Basil.”
“And to enslave children, even worse, eh? . . . Now eat your soup.”
One tepid spring evening, quite late after supper, Renée tapped unexpectedly at the door.
“May I?”
“But it’s late.”
“I’ve spoken to the nurse. She’ll not be around tonight.”
There was a congenial visit, then a gentle kiss in the balmy evening, and another; promises for the next evening. A long embrace. She stayed. Smooth arms entwined, a touch, and Nicolas’s heart swelled with returning strength, and love for this woman.
“At last I have you.”
“And I have you.”
93
Appointment at Myer's Shop
Once he was fully on his feet, Nicolas ventured downtown to the offices of Hutchinson Sealy & Son. Galveston’s financial district seemed far too frenetic for a convalescing man, and the smells of Restaurant Row were not enticing. Nicolas’s weight had suffered with his illness; one saw it in his sallow, fleshless cheeks and how his trousers hung like drapes on his hips. He availed himself of the Cotton Exchange’s new electric lift to reach the upper floor and was quickly ushered into Sealy’s inner office.
“You’ve heard that Trey remains . . . vanished,” Sealy said.
“Yes.”
“No sign whatsoever. I had no idea about his involvement, you know. Oh, I warned him years ago that cheap, unskilled labor never pays. Still, I never surmised . . . those mere boys . . . until the night of the fire.”
“But surely he fell in with that crowd some time ago.”
“I believe it began when he acquired holdings in the Sugar Land plantation, just across the bay. A massive operation, and highly profitable; I recall the unusually young crews he imported to cut cane and boil molasses. But when his associates tried to bring them onto the docks—”
“They ran into your other son.”
“And to think, all these years I fought to keep him a secret.”
“You have one good son, Hutch, and the wharves firmly in Sealy hands. What more could you ask for, eh?”
“I realize that, Nicolas. I truly do . . . Be sure to keep me posted on progress at the college, now. Remember, my purse is open to them.”
Nicolas took the long marble stairs of the Cotton Exchange slowly. For a bit of light exercise he ambled nearly the length of the Strand to the shop of Mr. Myer, supplier of fine men’s clothing, where Renée had promised to assist with the purchase of attire more fitting for the tropical climate. She was quick with her selections.
“I think this summer wool’s perfect on you,” she said, smoothing the jacket over his gaunt shoulders.
Mr. Myer, doting over his new customers, agreed. “At Myer’s,” he said, “we employ the finest tailors from Europe. A proper and comfortable fit is assured.”
“That’s good,” Renée said, turning to Nicolas. “Because we must fatten you up, my dear. With luck, you’ll be needing alterations in a few weeks’ time.”
“I believe the walk has piqued my appetite.”
“Well, then, let’s get you to Trudeau’s.”
“Will there be champagne?”
“Perhaps a glass, no more.”
“We’ll make it a French one, then.”
94
A Daughter's Letter
21 June 1890
Galveston, Texas
Dearest Abigail,
I am quickly becoming the happiest man in the world, sweet daughter, & to think that just a few months ago I stood at the doorstep of Death. I’m sure you’ve been reading the newspapers as they trumpet “Child Slaves Exposed,” “Russki Ring Broken,” etc. etc. The latest news in the Boston Globe was most welcome & I’m grateful they’ve kept us out of it, so far at least.
Presently I busy myself with matters at the college; Schuyler departs for NYC in the coming week to pursue his youthful schemes & I’ve come to realize I’ve delayed for too long the urgent request I now put to you, dearest Abby—I wish to pass you the reins of the Van Horne business, including the ice harvest & all related matters. Foremost among these matters, as we’ve discussed, is the salvation of whatever orphaned youths you can put to honest labor on the ice of Upper Spy. The alliances you’ve forged with the ladies in Chicago should serve you well there.
I have the utmost confidence you will succeed in this, Abby. Your fortitude & determination, even in a man’s world, are beyond question. I shall provide guidance, but from afar, for I intend to remain in Galveston with my new love. Imagine! Your father, a tropical gentleman! (I’ll be needing an entire new wardrobe.)
Do not think this a foolhardy decision, dear daughter. I am assured of its wisdom whenever I set eyes upon my sweet Renée. She works tirelessly to defeat the growing epidemic & with her uncle’s failing health, I know that I am doing the right thing by supporting her noble endeavor. I cannot wait for you to meet my dear Renée. You are two accomplished women who enjoy many lovely attributes in comm
on.
I confess my hope that Renée & I will someday marry. For now, her researches consume her & she prevaricates, yet my persistence in this matter of the heart shall not waver. My fondest dream is that you & Schuyler will someday see us wed, and what a glorious event it will be. Saratoga in August would be perfect.
As you see, our plans are not yet firm & my time is largely taken up by the new program to gather cadavers. (The professors tell me this is surely the better word.) Now my task is to travel to Austin, their capital city, to change the laws to allow for legal donation of one’s body for scientific purpose. It is a battle I shall win & all my energy will be spent in the name of it.
All the best to you, sweet daughter, & to your dear friend Hilda I extend my warmest wishes for health & happiness. God willing, we will all be together at a future wedding.
Yrs affectionately,
Father
95
Pier 28
Nicolas thought it best to hand-carry his meticulously sealed letter to the main postal office in the railway station, thus ensuring its expeditious departure from the island on the earliest U.S. Mail Express.
“I’ll accompany,” Renée said, hanging her black rubber apron on its hook.
“You deserve a change of scenery,” Nicolas said.
It was late afternoon and no carriages were to be found near the medical college, so the couple hiked posthaste down the harborside. As Pier 28 came into view, Nicolas’s soul swelled with pride at the sight of the icehouse so expertly executed by Schuyler. The VAN HORNE & SON in three-foot-high red letters on its side remained crisp and bright after these many months in the sea air—indeed the building still appeared new.
Then, a disconcerting thought struck the merchant of ice, and he halted on the spot. “No, this just won’t do,” he muttered to himself.
“What is it?”
“I must speak to Schuyler about a good painter.”
The incongruity between the lettering on the icehouse and the letter in his jacket pocket was too great. It wouldn’t be right to remove “& Son”—not after Schuyler’s superb effort, even though the boy would soon be pounding the ivories in some New York gin mill. And how could he give Abigail her due? He’d never seen an enterprise labeled “& daughter.”
After a few moments’ thought, Nicolas decided on “Van Horne Family’s Famous Northern Ice.” That would do nicely. Surely Abby would approve. Schuyler, too.
With a prideful grin back on his face, he whisked Renée down the street, doffing his new homburg to passersby and acquaintances as he went: the corner grocer; a dry-goods man he’d dealt with; a milliner whose fashionable work Renée admired. And who was this just ahead? They were about to overtake the Galveston postmaster himself! Now here was a stroke of good fortune.
“Say, sir!” Nicolas rushed to catch up. “A good evening to you.” A brief exchange ensued and the postmaster, who was on his way to man the late shift at the main postal office, tucked Nicolas’s letter into his pocket—along with the pennies for postage.
“It’s a very important communication,” Nicolas explained, “and somewhat complicated.”
“Well, then, trust it to me,” replied the postmaster. “Good evening, sir . . . miss.”
They turned back to the college, but, on a whim, Nicolas persuaded Renée to divert onto Pier 28 for a few moments. He strode onto the dock, pulling his key ring from his pants pocket to search for the icehouse key; his key ring had gathered so many recent additions. Once they’d stepped into the icehouse, Nicolas was forced to light a lamp, so tight were the siding and roof of Schuyler’s construction. He slid the door shut on its rails and, taking Renée’s hand, wove down the familiar canyons of ice to the heart of the mammoth icehouse, where blocks of ice reached nearly to the ceiling. The only sound in the bone-chilling hush was the tap of their boots on the hardwood, and even that was muffled by sawdust.
“Magnificent,” he muttered.
“I’ve always said it’s gorgeous ice, Nick . . . but I’m cold.”
“Just a moment more.”
As he locked the icehouse door behind them, Nicolas was hit with the briny heat of a June day on the docks. It was near dusk and commerce was winding down. Ships were made fast at their berths; only a few longshoremen lingered, leaning on ships’ ropes, smoking, passing a bottle.
Nicolas and Renée strolled to the end of the pier where the berth left empty by a paddle wheeler steaming off gave a full view of Galveston Bay. Nicolas settled onto a wooden tea crate; Renée stood behind, her hands on his shoulders. Together, they watched two brown pelicans glide by, their great wings beating soundlessly as they skimmed within inches of the salty, opalescent water.
“How elegant,” she said.
The birds were headed north, toward the mainland, hunting up supper. They were big, heavy Texas birds; Nicolas thought pelicans such clumsy, lumbering buffoons on land, yet so full of grace and power once launched into an evening sky that, too, seemed bigger in Texas.
The tangy salt air, the sultry gusts off the water, and the red blaze gathering on the horizon hit Nicolas with a pang of wonder, and doubt. Would he never again smell the cool balsam scent of summer or set foot on the frozen expanse of Upper Spy Lake in the stillness of a winter morning?
Cutting ice was Nicolas’s life; he already pined for Upper Spy, even as he strove to put his Yankee ways to use on this tropical island. Galveston boasted newly bricked thoroughfares, modern trolleys, an electricity plant—Nicolas had even heard talk of crossing the bay with a roadway for carriages and a public water line—but it wasn’t her streets or architecture that drew Nicolas Van Horne, ice merchant, to this thriving city. It was the strength and goodwill of her citizens . . . and a very special woman.
The pelicans doubled back, cutting a straight line to their nest in the island’s wetlands . . . big birds, winging their way south under a big Texas sky.
“We must get back, Nick.”
Nicolas glanced over his shoulder. Renée’s wry smile told him that the love of his life was already in her laboratory, wrapping herself in black rubber.
“We’ll go soon enough, my dear.”
Nicolas allowed himself a last, long look at Galveston Bay. Its salty surface, rippled to a pinkish, fluorescent sheen, gleamed like the sides of a North Country trout as it leapt into the last of the day’s sunlight. Galveston Bay. Lovely water, really. Still . . . it was lovely water that would never, ever, turn to ice.
“Let’s go,” he said, offering his arm. “There’s much to be done.”
