Isaac's Storm (28 page)

Throughout
the
city,
children
danced
in
the
waters,
built
rafts,
teased
pets
into
leaping
off
porches.
They
converged
on
the
beach.
The
surf
rocketing
into
the
sky
off
the
streetcar
tresde
was
easily
as
good
as
a
fireworks
display.
That
morning
Mrs.
Charles
Vidor
got
a
call
from
her
cousin,
excitedly
telling
her
of
the
marvelous
sights
and
urging
her
to
bring
her
son
down
for
a
look.
The
boy
had
the
lofty
name
of
King.
Later,
after
he
had
become
one
of
Hollywood's
most
important
directors,
King
Vidor
wrote
a
fictional
account
of
a
hurricane
for
Esquire
magazine
grounded
on
his
experience
in
Galveston.
"I
remember
now
that
it
seemed
as
if
we
were
in
a
bowl
looking
up
toward
the
level
of
the
sea.
As
we
stood
there
in
the
sandy
street,
my
mother
and
I,
I
wanted
to
take
my
mother's
hand
and
hurry
her
away.
I
felt
as
if
the
sea
was
going
to
break
over
the
edge
of
the
bowl
and
come
pouring
down
upon
us."

LOUISE
HOPKINS
WAS
just
seven
years
old,
and
found
double
delight
in
Saturday
morning.
It
had
been
such
a
hard
week.
School
had
started.
Having
just
turned
seven,
she
had
become
eligible
for
first
grade,
a
prospect
that
had
excited
her
no
end
but
also
gave
her
nightmares
and
made
sleeping
next
to
impossible.
Not
that
anyone
could
ever
sleep
well
with
all
that
heat
and
the
huge
mosquitoes
that
blew
in
through
the
open
windows
in
clouds
as
thick
as
dust.
The
first
day
of
school
had
been
the
worst
of
all.
"I
left
home,
nervously
holding
the
hand
of
my
big
sister,
my
brand
new
lunch
basket
and
a
second-hand
first-grade
reader
in
the
other."
But
now
that
particular
nightmare
was
behind
her.
It
was
Saturday.
No
school.
The
weekend.
And
what
a
weekend
it
was
shaping
up
to
be.
There
was
the
delicious
threat
of
a
storm.
The
wind
was
up.
Best
of
all,
the
air
was
cool
—
almost
chilly.
It
felt
so
good
after
the
long,
murderously
hot
summer.
She
had
heard
talk
from
her
mother
and
from
the
medical
students
who
boarded
at
her
house
of
children
in
other
places
who
had
actually
died
from
the
heat.

Rain
threatened.
She
raced
to
her
closet
and
threw
on
her
"Saturday"
dress
—
the
one
that
could
become
dirty
without
bringing
down
buckets
of
trouble.
From
her
porch
she
bellowed
for
her
best-ever
friend,
Martha,
across
the
street,
and
soon,
like
magic,
Martha
did
emerge,
clothed
in
her
own
rough-time
dress.
Louise's
mother
emerged
too,
scowling,
shushing
Louise
lest
her
shrieking
wake
the
herd
of
young
doctors
who
had
just
moved
in
upstairs
for
the
start
of
the
new
year
of
medical
school.

Louise
did
not
know
what
to
think
about
the
doctors.
There
were
so
many
of
them.
Sometimes
they
made
the
dining
room
as
crowded
as
the
train
station
on
Sunday
morning.
At
times
she
counted
as
many
as
twenty
of
them
at
the
breakfast
table,
including
medical
students
who
came
just
for
the
meals.
They
talked
of
such
strange
things
and
always
looked
at
you
like
if
you
did
something
wrong
you
would
end
up
in
one
of
those
little
funny-smelling
jars
they
kept
in
their
rooms
with
those
mushy
red-and-pink
things
floating
around
like
little
dead
frogs
only
without
the
skin.
Some
days
the
doctors
smelled
just
like
the
botdes.

Louise's
father
had
died
when
she
was
a
baby
and
her
mother
had
not
remarried.
Louise
had
two
brothers,
John
and
Mason,
and
a
sister,
Lois,
who
was
one
year
older
than
she.
Their
mother
had
added
a
second
floor
to
the
house,
full
of
rental
rooms
so
that
she
could
earn
an
income
at
home
without
leaving
the
children.
The
house
was
perfectly
located,
near
the
University
of
Texas
Medical
School
and
two
hospitals.
Mrs.
Hopkins
filled
the
kitchen
with
huge
sacks
of
green
coffee,
which
she
roasted
and
ground
herself.
She
kept
great
drums
of
lard.
"Our
home
was
not
only
a
home,"
Louise
said,
"but
a
living."

It
was
not
insured.

"Martha
was
as
glad
as
I
to
enjoy
the
cool
windy
day,"
Louise
said.
"We
were
not
concerned
the
wind
was
stronger
and
the
clouds
darker
than
usual
and
as
far
as
I
knew
neither
was
my
mother,
busy
in
the
house
as
she
always
was."

They
played
in
the
yard
for
as
long
as
the
rain
let
them.
It
came
in
fits,
and
gave
them
fits.
With
each
fresh
squall,
they
leaped
laughing
onto
the
porch.
When
the
rain
stopped,
they
plunged
back
into
the
yard.
Mud
clotted
their
shoes.
Their
dresses
were
soaked.
This
was
heaven.

The
high
curbs
along
the
street
formed
a
shallow
canyon
through
which
the
water
ran
like
a
broad
brown
river,
full
of
all
kinds
of
interesting
things.
Ragged
squares
of
wood.
Boards.
Trinkets.
A
signboard
with
lettering.
Even
an
occasional
snake.
Toads
were
everywhere,
climbing
into
the
yard
to
escape
the
water.

"As
we
watched
from
the
porch
we
were
amazed
and
delighted
to
see
the
water
from
the
Gulf
flowing
down
the
street.
'Good,'
we
thought,
'there
would
be
no
need
to
walk
the
few
blocks
to
play
at
the
beach,
it
was
right
at
our
front
gate.'"

THE
ENRAGED
SEA
drew
adults
by
the
hundreds.
A
great
crowd
gathered
at
the
Midway,
a
ten-block
stretch
along
the
beach
with
cheap
restaurants
that
sold
beer
and
boiled
clams,
and
with
ramshackle
stores
that
peddled
souvenirs,
candy,
seashells,
and
stereoscopic
postcards.
The
adults
came
by
streetcar,
hoping
maybe
to
ride
it
out
over
the
waves,
but
found
the
car
had
to
stop
well
before
the
beach.
They
walked
the
rest
of
the
way
through
pools
of
water.
Many
described
the
spectacle
as
"grand"
and
"beautiful."
The
rain
struck
like
pebbles.
The
wind
flayed
umbrellas
to
their
metal
spines.
Men
and
women
facing
the
sea
found
their
backs
soaked,
their
fronts
mostly
dry.
One
witness
reported
that
a
few
people,
"with
abundant
foresight,
appeared
on
the
scene
in
bathing
suits
and
of
course
were
right
in
it
from
the
jump."

Walter
W.
Davis,
who
had
come
to
town
on
business
from
Scranton,
Pennsylvania,
was
in
his
hotel
Saturday
morning
about
eleven
o'clock
when
he
heard
people
talking
about
how
the
breakers
in
the
Gulf
had
become
so
huge
they
were
now
destroying
the
small
shops
of
the
Midway.

Davis
did
not
see
much
of
the
ocean
in
Scranton.
This
he
had
to
see
for
himself.

He
took
one
of
the
trolleys.
The
tresde,
he
saw,
ran
out
over
the
wild
surf,
but
no
cars
ran
on
it
now.
The
waves
crashed
against
the
rails.
Big
combers
rolled
right
into
the
Midway
itself.
"The
sight
was
grand
at
the
time.
I
watched
the
waves
wash
out
and
break
all
those
shell
houses,
theaters
and
lunch
rooms,
until
I
saw
that
the
waves
were
coming
too
close
for
comfort."

He
turned
around
and
headed
back
to
his
hotel.
It
was
about
12:30
now.
He
discovered
that
the
streetcars
had
stopped
running
altogether.
He
had
to
walk
back,
at
times
wading
through
water
up
to
his
knees.
The
rain
"felt
like
hail
when
it
struck
my
face."

But
the
storm
still
held
a
powerful
attraction
for
him.
When
he
reached
his
hotel,
he
did
not
change
his
clothes.
He
had
lunch
in
the
hotel
dining
room,
then
set
out
for
the
bay
side
of
the
island.

Here
too
water
flowed
onto
the
city
streets,
but
this
water
came
from
the
bay.
Blown
by
the
north
wind,
it
climbed
over
the
piers
and
onto
the
Strand.
Water
raced
in
from
the
Gulf
and
from
the
bay,
the
former
propelled
by
the
sea,
the
latter
by
the
powerful
north
wind.
It
seemed
as
if
Galveston
were
a
gigantic
ship
sinking
beneath
the
sea.

Davis
stood
on
a
high
sidewalk.
The
water
came
in
so
fast
he
could
actually
see
it
rise.
It
flowed
below
him
like
a
spring
creek,
and
raised
translucent
fins
of
water
behind
the
legs
of
horses.
Clumps
of
horse
excrement
splashed
into
the
current
and
spiraled
down
the
block.
The
hulls
of
great
ships
elevated
by
the
extreme
tide
now
towered
above
the
warehouses
of
the
wharf.
All
the
ships
were
tightly
moored,
many
with
anchors
dropped
and
chains
reinforcing
the
thick
rope
hawsers
that
tied
them
to
the
piers.
All
seemed
to
have
started
their
boilers.
Smoke
blew
from
their
funnels
in
jagged
black
clouds
that
tore
south
over
the
Strand.

A
crate
drifted
past.
The
wood
paving
began
to
float.
A
man
fell,
laughing,
and
let
the
current
sweep
him
half
a
block.

Davis
watched,
transfixed,
until
he
realized
the
water
had
topped
the
sidewalk
itself
and
was
now
rippling
past
the
soles
of
his
shoes.
It
was
then,
he
wrote
in
his
unschooled
way,
"I
became
to
be
nervous."

.
.
.

DOWNTOWN,
IT
WAS
business
as
usual.
Women
seemed
to
understand
that
something
exceptional
was
occurring,
but
the
men
of
Galveston
went
to
great
lengths
to
deny
the
strange
feel
of
the
day.
They
dressed
as
they
always
did,
sat
down
to
breakfast
as
always,
drank
the
usual
cup
or
two
of
coffee,
read
the
morning
paper,
then
set
off
for
work
and
walked
the
same
routes
as
always,
the
only
difference
being
that
they
were
forced
to
hold
their
hats
against
the
strong
northerly
breeze.
On
the
way
they
saw
nothing
out
of
place
—
provided
they
chose
to
overlook
the
twelve
inches
of
water
that
filled
every
street,
and
the
occasional
boy
floating
past
on
a
homemade
raft.
Cabs
and
drays
moved
among
the
avenues
as
if
such
flooding
were
a
daily
occurrence.
As
always,
the
immense
fifteen-passenger
bus
owned
by
the
Tremont
Hotel
went
to
the
Santa
Fe
depot
to
pick
up
the
morning's
first
arrivals.
It
would
be
there
even
when
the
last
train
from
the
mainland
finally
reached
the
station,
despite
water
that
by
then
caressed
the
bellies
of
its
horses.