Part 4 (2/2)

”Granddaddy,” I said, my voice quavering, ”what if ... what if it was some other kind of bird? What if I'm wrong?” The hives spread to my chest.

”Calpurnia, do you or do you not believe in your own powers of observation?”

”Well ... yes. But.”

”But what?”

”I guess I need to know ... do you believe in them?”

”Have I taught you nothing?”

”No, sir, you've taught me plenty. It's just...”

”Just what?”

I struggled to hold back my tears. The burden thrust upon me was too great. Then, just as despair was about to overwhelm me, we turned the bend in the road-and there stood the gull, in our own drive. We stopped in our tracks. The gull opened its beak and laughed at us, Ha-Ha-Haaaah, a jeering, abrasive, unearthly cry, even worse than Jay's. Then it ponderously flapped away. I looked up at Granddaddy with a palpitating heart.

He said, ”Do you see why they call it the laughing gull? Once heard, never forgotten.”

Relief flooded through me, and my welts subsided. I slipped my hand into his and took comfort in the huge rough palm. ”I see,” I said shakily. ”I do see.”

The wind picked up and s.h.i.+fted to the east. Despite the freshening breeze, the air felt strangely thicker, if that were possible.

We went into the library, where he peered at the barometer again. ”The mercury is still falling. It's time to batten down the hatches.”

”We have hatches?”

”It is a nautical expression, and I am speaking metaphorically. Sailors secure the hatches on the s.h.i.+p's deck in preparation for a storm.”

”Oh.”

”We should have further discussions about weather in general, but now is not the proper time.” He crossed the hall into the parlor, where Mother sat working out of her mending basket.

I crept to the parlor door. It wasn't exactly eavesdropping, was it? I mean, if they'd wanted a private conversation, they'd have closed the door, wouldn't they?

Mother's voice rose: ”Because of a bird? You would spread fear through half the state because of a bird?”

My hives resurged. I clawed savagely at my neck.

Granddaddy's voice remained calm. ”Margaret, the seagull and the falling barometer are cause for serious concern. We disregard these signs at our peril.”

At that moment Sul Ross and Jim Bowie burst through the front door, and I jumped like a scalded cat. I ran upstairs to my room before they could reveal my presence with their pestering questions about why I looked so guilty and what I had heard.

MOTHER WAS QUIET at lunch, casting apprehensive glances from Granddaddy to the window, back and forth, back and forth. She then went to the telephone office at his insistence and placed a long-distance call to Galveston, an unprecedented extravagance that cost three whole dollars (!) and required the relaying services of four separate operators, all of whom no doubt listened in. The connection was bad, but in a minor miracle, Mother had actually talked to her sister Sophronia Finch, who shouted down the line that, yes, they were already experiencing high winds, but not to worry, they were used to such things, and Gus was at that very moment outside in his rubber boots securing the shutters on the house. Plus, the Weather Bureau, the government's own experts, did not seem overly alarmed.

After dinner, we sat on the porch and looked in vain for fireflies. Their season was coming to an end, or perhaps they were cowering in the long gra.s.s, battening down their own tiny hatches. The air was still and oppressive, but my younger brothers raced one another across the lawn and turned cartwheels and fell into wrestling piles that formed and broke apart and re-formed again in fleeting combinations of foes and allies.

I sat at Granddaddy's feet as he slowly rocked back and forth in his old wicker rocker and smoked his cigar, the tip glowing in the dark like the biggest, reddest firefly of all. He said, ”The barometer is still dropping. I can feel it in my bones.”

”How can that be?”

But before he could answer, Mother called, ”Bedtime.”

I whispered, ”Good night, Granddaddy,” and gave him a kiss. He didn't seem to notice. I left him slowly rocking, staring off to the east, his face now in shadow.

That night Idabelle prowled up and down the stairs, meowing all the while in a most irritating manner. I scooped her up and took her to bed with me, where I quieted her with soothing pats and honeyed words until she finally settled down. Was her uneasiness also a warning? Question for the Notebook: Wouldn't you expect cats to be especially sensitive to such things, with their fur and whiskers picking up strange vibrations and such? I imagined that if I were so equipped, I'd be able to pick up lots of distant signals of strange events. I fell asleep and dreamed I was a cat.

I woke up once in the middle of the night. The temperature had fallen, and there was no sign of Idabelle. Rain lashed my window. The gla.s.s s.h.i.+vered in its frame; its nervous rattling rhythm set my teeth on edge. I hauled up my quilt and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep, this time filled with strange birds and whistling winds.

The next day, Father reported that all the lines to Galveston Island were down. There was no news going in. And no news coming out.

CHAPTER 6.

A CITY DROWNED.

[D]uring the previous night hail as large as small apples, and extremely hard, had fallen with such violence as to kill the greater number of the wild animals.

ALL NEXT DAY, the gusting winds spat intermittent rain. The newspaper reported that the city of Galveston lay silent, but that a mighty storm had lashed the coast, and the few survivors who had reached the mainland reported catastrophic destruction.

We walked to the Methodist church under a clutch of dripping black umbrellas. Reverend Barker offered up a special prayer for the people of Galveston, and the choir sang ”Nearer My G.o.d to Thee.” Everyone either had friends or family there or knew someone who did. Several of the adults sobbed openly; the others looked drawn and spoke in hushed tones. Tears rolled down Mother's face; Father put his arm around her shoulder and held her tight.

When we got home, Mother retired to her room after dosing herself with a headache powder and Lydia Pinkham's tonic. She'd forgotten to make me do my piano practice, and I, the soul of consideration, did not bother to remind her, reckoning that she had more than enough to worry about.

Next day there were whispers of water six feet deep in the streets, of whole families drowned, of the city washed away. Somber clothes marked the somber mood in our town. Some of the men wore black armbands; some of the women wore black veils. The whole town-no, the whole State-seemed to hold its breath while we waited for the downed telegraph and telephone wires to be restored. s.h.i.+ps all the way from Brownsville to New Orleans were steaming to the ruined city at that very moment, loaded with food and water and tents and tools. And coffins.

I went looking for Harry and finally tracked him down in the storehouse off the barn, where he was taking an inventory.

”Harry, what's going on?”

”Shh. Seven, eight, nine barrels of flour.” He made a checkmark on a list.

”Harry.”

”Go away. Beans, coffee, sugar. Let's see, bacon, lard, powdered milk.”

”Harry, tell me.”

”Sardines. Go away.”

”Harry.”

”Look, we're going to Galveston. But Father said not a word to the others.”

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