Isaac's Storm (29 page)

"My
family
pleaded
with
me
to
remain
at
home,"
said
A.
R.
Wolfram,
a
Galveston
shopkeeper,
"but
I
was
determined
to
go
to
town.
I
tried
to
reassure
them
and
promised
that
at
the
first
signs
of
the
storm's
approach,
I
would
return
home."
He
did
go
home,
for
lunch,
but
left
again
to
return
to
work,
"despite
the
tearful
pleadings
of
my
wife
and
children."

Ike
Kempner,
one
of
Galveston's
richest
men,
walked
into
town
for
a
meeting
with
two
out-of-town
businessmen,
Joseph
A.
Kemp
and
Henry
Sayles,
to
discuss
an
irrigation
contract.
Joseph
Kemp
was
visibly
concerned
about
the
weather.
Ike
tried
to
reassure
him.
"We
have
had
storms
before,"
he
said.
"Most
of
our
homes
are
built
on
high
stilts
and
the
water
has
never
come
up
into
them.
Then,
too,
Commodore
Maury,
the
famed
oceanographer,
had
recendy
issued
a
statement
to
the
effect
that
storms
originating
in
the
West
Indies
would
not
place
Galveston
in
their
natural
paths."

The
meeting
continued.

.
.
.

JUDSON
PALMER,
SECRETARY
of
the
Galveston
YMCA,
a
centerpiece
of
the
city's
social
life,
also
walked
to
work
at
his
usual
time.
He
and
Isaac
Cline
knew
each
other.
Palmer
taught
the
adult
Sunday
school
at
the
First
Baptist
Church,
where
Isaac
taught
the
young
men's
class.
Palmer
lived
at
2320
P1/2
Street,
three
blocks
from
Isaac's
house.

On
Saturday
morning,
Palmer's
wife,
Mae,
occupied
herself
doing
the
baking
for
Sunday
dinner,
while
their
six-year-old
son,
Lee,
played
with
his
beloved
dog,
Youno.

Most
days
Palmer
went
home
for
lunch,
but
by
noon
the
rain
was
gushing
from
the
sky.
Palmer
decided
to
stay
downtown.

At
one
o'clock,
Mae
called
him.
She
told
him
their
yard
was
now
underwater.
What's
more,
she
had
stuck
her
finger
in
the
water
and
tasted
it.
It
was
salt
water.
She
had
tried
calling
him
from
the
telephone
in
their
house,
but
found
it
was
no
longer
operating.
She
walked
to
a
neighbor's
place
and
phoned
from
there.
Come
home,
she
said.
Please.
She
was
starting
to
get
scared.

Palmer
stayed
at
work.
He
joked
with
his
coworkers,
the
"boys,"
about
"frightened
women."
Soon,
though,
he
did
leave
for
home,
and
quickly
understood
why
his
wife
had
sounded
so
anxious.
This
was
nothing
like
the
other
storms
he
had
experienced
in
Galveston.
The
wind
was
blowing
at
about
fifty
miles
an
hour,
he
guessed.
Water
covered
every
street.
He
caught
a
ride
on
a
passing
delivery
wagon.

Mae
fell
into
his
arms.
She
did
not
want
to
stay
in
the
house.
She
saw
danger.
They
should
all
go
downtown,
she
urged,
and
stay
in
the
YMCA
building
until
the
storm
passed.
The
building
was
strong,
stronger
certainly
than
their
house.
It
was
three
stories
of
brick
and
stone.

Judson
agreed.
The
building
would
make
a
safe
haven
—
for
Mae
and
Lee.
He,
however,
would
stay
at
the
house
and
look
after
it
during
the
storm.

Mae
objected.
He
had
to
come.
It
wasn't
safe
to
stay
this
close
to
the
beach.
Powerful
gusts
of
wind
punctuated
her
remarks.
Rain
slapped
the
broad
wood
shutters
she
had
closed
to
protect
the
windows.
He
simply
had
to
come.

Judson
was
adamant.

She
looked
at
him,
heartbroken.
But
she
would
not
leave
him.
If
he
stayed,
they
would
all
stay.

LOUISA
ROLLFING
SHARED
Mae
Palmer's
fear,
but
had
the
same
trouble
convincing
her
husband
of
the
danger.

The
elder
August
had
left
home
at
about
7:30
Saturday
morning,
his
usual
time.
He
walked
downtown
where
his
crew
was
finishing
work
on
the
Trust
Building.

Louisa
had
not
yet
grown
concerned
about
the
storm.
Like
her
children,
she
at
first
found
the
storm
exciting,
and
she
reveled
in
the
coolness
of
the
morning.
Everyone
seemed
to
be
out
enjoying
the
breeze
and
watching
the
water
that
flowed
between
the
high
curbs
of
the
street.
"For
a
while
even
ladies
were
wading
in
the
water,
thinking
it
was
fun,''''
she
said.
"The
children
had
a
grand
time,
picking
up
driftwood
and
other
things
that
floated
down
the
street."

After
breakfast,
the
two
oldest
Rollfing
children,
Helen
and
August,
went
to
the
beach
for
a
closer
look.
They
returned
with
stories
of
how
the
surf
had
grown
so
immense
it
was
now
breaking
apart
the
big
bathhouses.

A
chill
moved
through
Louisa.
She
had
been
to
the
bathhouses
many
times.
She
had
walked
their
wooden
decks
high
above
the
Gulf.
These
were
immense
structures
on
big
thick
timbers.
They
had
been
there
forever.
No
one
would
have
dared
build
such
things
into
the
North
Sea
off
the
island
of
her
childhood.
But
the
Gulf
was
far
more
peaceful.
More
like
a
very
big
lake,
really,
than
a
mighty
ocean.

Her
children
were
joking.
It
was
just
the
kind
of
big
story
their
father
would
tell
until
his
face
broke
in
that
wonderful
smile.

But
Helen
and
little
August
insisted
it
was
all
true.
They
had
seen
everything
—
big
boards
flying
through
the
air,
pieces
of
the
bathhouses
simply
falling
into
the
sea.

Now
Louisa
believed
them.
"Then
it
wasn't
fun
anymore."
She
sent
her
son
downtown
by
trolley
to
the
Trust
Building
with
orders
to
find
his
father
and
bring
him
home.
The
water,
she
saw,
was
rising
quickly
and
soon
would
reach
the
front
door.
She
wanted
to
move
to
the
center
of
the
city,
but
she
wanted
her
husband
home.
She
was
afraid
now.
She
wanted
all
the
family
together.

August
found
his
father.
"Mama
says
to
come
home,"
he
said.
"She
wants
to
move."

His
father
laughed,
and
gave
the
boy
a
message.

Young
August
returned
home.
His
mother
watched
him
wade
up
the
front
walk,
alone.

Louisa
glared.

The
boy
cleared
his
throat,
maybe
scuffed
his
heel
against
the
floor.
"Papa
says
you
must
be
crazy,
he
will
come
home
for
dinner."

The
water
continued
to
rise.
Louisa
saw
neighbors
begin
to
leave
their
homes.

At
last
her
husband
did
arrive
—
"And
was
surprised
there
wasn't
any
dinner."

She
did
not
kill
him,
but
it
is
likely
the
thought
crossed
her
mind.
Dinner.
She
had
not
even
thought
about
cooking.

She
was
furious.

He
was
furious.

She
was
being
such
a
woman.
What
was
there
to
be
afraid
of?
This

was
nothing
special.
Some
wind,
some
water.
So
what?
He
shouted
that

she
should
go
upstairs
with
the
children,
that
he
was
going
back
to
town

to
pay
his
men,
and
would
then
—
and
only
then
—
return
to
the
house.

"That
was
more
than
I
could
stand,"
Louisa
said.
"I
stamped
my
foot
and
said
some
terrible
thing:
I
told
him,
if
he
didn't
go
immediately
and
get
a
carriage
to
take
us
away,
and
we
in
the
meantime
drowned,
it
would
be
his
fault
and
he
would
never
have
any
peace."

Which
made
him
angrier.

August
went
back
downtown.

RABBI
HENRY
COHEN
said
his
last
good-byes
to
the
members
of
his
congregation
and
headed
for
home,
on
foot.
Most
days
he
rode
his
bicycle
—
a
new
"Cleveland"
model
—
but
never
on
the
Sabbath.
When
he
turned
the
corner
onto
Broadway,
he
stopped,
startled
by
what
he
saw,
half
expecting
to
hear
the
sound
of
distant
cannon.

Rabbi
Cohen,
his
wife,
Mollie,
and
their
children
lived
about
a
mile
from
the
Gulf
in
a
comfortable
gray
house
raised
twelve
feet
off
the
ground.
It
had
plaster
walls
and
a
long
central
hall,
or
"hog
run,"
that
cut
the
house
in
half.
On
the
left
were
the
bedrooms
and
bath,
on
the
right
the
dining
room,
parlor,
and
Cohen's
library,
walled
with
books.
A
narrow
gallery
ran
across
the
front
of
the
house,
facing
Broadway.

Cohen
was
known
throughout
Galveston
as
a
kind
of
psychotherapist,
although
the
term
and
profession
were
not
yet
common.
People
of
all
religions
and
both
sexes
came
to
him
to
discuss
troubles
they
felt
they
could
disclose
only
to
him,
including
problems
with
their
sex
lives.
Everyone
knew
the
rabbi
and
the
stories
that
had
given
him
near-legendary
stature
—
the
scar
on
his
head
delivered
under
unclear
circumstances
by
a
rifle
butt
during
a
Zulu
uprising
in
Africa,
the
story
of
how
he
had
barged
alone
into
one
of
the
city's
most
unsavory
bordellos
to
rescue
a
young
woman
held
captive
within,
throwing
her
over
his
shoulder
and
bolting
back
into
the
night.

He
stood
now
on
Broadway
as
a
long
line
of
people
struggled
past
him
toward
the
city.
He
saw
whole
families
and
noticed
many
carrying
hampers
of
clothing
and
food
and
stained-glass
lamps
and
framed
photographs,
like
refugees
from
a
military
bombardment
—
except
that
the
children
all
seemed
delighted.
And
very
muddy.

A
lushly
planted
esplanade
of
oleander,
live
oak,
and
Mexican
dagger
divided
Broadway,
but
the
heavy
rains
of
the
past
month
and
the
fresh
downpours
of
the
morning
had
turned
the
esplanade
into
a
wonderfully
slippery
flume
of
mud,
through
which
the
children
stomped
and
slid
despite
stern
shouts
from
parents
on
the
adjacent
sidewalks.