The Last Karankawas(71)
They stand for a moment, the two of them, looking at the ship bobbing lightly in the water. She—Pete thinks of it as a she, of course—has a long white frame, rose-tinted wood gleaming richly in the afternoon sun, her prow like a swordfish’s spear casting a long, thin shadow across the water. There is a light breeze, and her nineteen sails flutter half-heartedly, but Pete imagines them in full sail, plumped out and pure white. Elissa flying across the Gulf, dolphins leaping to guide her way, the rocking red deck beneath his feet.
In a few minutes the men will part, as swiftly as the idea to meet up in Galveston came together (a series of texts the day before, about the timing of Pete’s arrival and Schafer’s two-hour drive from Beaumont, meeting for burgers and beers at a place called the Sand Crab). When he leaves, Pete will head to the apartment on Whiting where his sister and her boyfriend live. He will leave his things in the living room corner she has fixed up as a second bedroom for him, complete with a privacy screen Pierre dug out of a Texas City thrift store. Kristin will secure him a job at her nursing home driving the shuttle bus, ferrying patients to their doctors’ appointments. “Stable,” she will say, “simple.” And Pete will do it, for a time—sleep on his sister’s couch and store his boxers, socks, and pot in the cloth bins she has purchased for him, drive the shuttle bus and flirt with wheelchair-bound old women, down Crown and Cokes with Pierre at bars on the Seawall.
Schafer will return to the refinery in Beaumont, working beside men with blistered hands, and one in particular who used to be a wildcatter near Devine and says there’s still potential out there, that the brambled, thorny sweep of South Texas is an untapped oasis for a man with vision. In six weeks Schafer will call Pete and say there is room for one more in their truck, and Pete will consider for only a heartbeat, loading up his things that night while his sister watches, dry-eyed, while he pictures himself squinting up at an oil derrick or riding fence on a dappled Appaloosa.
But for now, Pete likes the look of this island—the way the oleander trees shimmy their blossoms in the salt wind, the pink and green and teal homes on the alphabet avenues, the Victorian buildings that lean and tip beneath the weight of history. And the Elissa. He sees its appeal to the people who over centuries have been drawn to it like a song, people like Schafer, his sister, and her Filipino boyfriend. Pete sees the tragedy, the potential, and the promise of Galveston. He likes to think he’s the only one who can.
hurricane
An extremely large, powerful, and destructive weather occurrence with strong winds that occurs especially in the western part of the Atlantic Ocean.
On Galveston, interchangeable with “storm.”
Storm: a. The Great Storm: Hurricane that struck Galveston on September 8, 1900. Estimated winds of 145 miles per hour, making it a Category 4 occurrence. Loss of life estimated at roughly eight thousand, or up to ten thousand. Deadliest hurricane in US history.
b. Ike: Hurricane that struck Galveston on September 13, 2008. Estimated winds of 110 miles per hour, making it a Category 2 occurrence. Loss of life estimated at 103. Responsible for largest search and rescue operation in Texas history.
A weather occurrence with the potential to seriously damage, cause harm or even death. A storm one should not take lightly. Island residents in its path should heed warnings, prepare homes, and head for the causeway. Island residents should evacuate to well within mainland. (Editor’s note: This is a false definition.)
Part of island life. Board up.
Karankawas, the
Carancahuas, Carancaquas, Capoques, Kohanis, Kopanes. Dog-lovers, dog-raisers, keepers of coyotes and foxes. Eaters of fish, shellfish, and turtles; not-eaters of human flesh, or perhaps only in ritual. Nomads, migrants, navigators of the shifting seasons between the barrier islands and the Texas mainland.
Mercedes turns more pages. She should be studying—she has a psychology exam in two days, and this is her only day off from the Crab—but since Jess dropped off the library book on the Karankawas she hasn’t been able to put it down. He found it while he was doing research for Se?ora Castillo, for the scrapbook Carly is helping her compile. (La se?ora called it a family history when Mercedes asked her about it the other day; Carly rolled her eyes when she did.)
“You’ll like it,” Jess said that morning, leaning out of his truck to hand it to her—he and Carly had a meeting with the insurance adjustors—and he was right.
Hunters, fishers, gatherers, she learns. Crafters of baaks, portable wigwams, baskets and pottery lined with the asphaltum tar coughed up on Gulf beaches. Shapers of red cedar bows. Bearers of tattoos, Spanish moss skirts, deerskin breechclouts, cane shards through their lips and nipples, shark-and alligator-greased shoulders. Smoke signalers. Family units. Movers, leavers.
Karankawa Kadla, she reads in one part. Mixed descendants.
The illustration shows the Karankawas standing on a beach that could be the one just down the road from her. She is strong, tall like them, skin brown as theirs. She has come alive in water, too, sleek as an eel. Carly would sigh, but Mercedes smiles at the idea. Perhaps this is what Se?ora Castillo holds on to, why she clings to what she has always believed about her family. To belong here, Mercedes thinks: What a thing that would be.
live oak, Southern
Quercus virginiana. Evergreen (Editor’s note: This is questionable) tree of the family Fagaceae, native to the southeastern US. Grows wild across Galveston. Survives in a maritime climate. Outlasts wind-borne salt spray. And yet not immune to hurricane surge. This last pointed out by Genevieve Macaraeg to her cat, Winifred, December 2008, as she drives them down Broadway on her way to the vet: “Hay nako, Winnie, look at those trees.”