by Karen White
I took the Biloxi exit off of Interstate 10 and onto Interstate 110, and the GPS showed the van on a narrow strip of road and surrounded by water on both sides as we crossed the Back Bay of Biloxi toward the peninsula nestled between the bay and the Mississippi Sound. I felt hot despite the air-conditioning, my heart pumping a little faster as it suddenly occurred to me the enormity of what I was doing. Heading into the unknown with a five-year-old child no longer seemed like the sanctuary I’d at first imagined as I’d sat in the lawyer’s office on Lexington Avenue as he’d handed me a set of house keys, and the name and address of a woman with the unusual name of Ray Von Williams. From twelve hundred miles away, it had all seemed so much more promising than the bleakness of my current situation. Death and loss, they plague you. I sighed, finally beginning to understand what Monica had meant.
The September sun skipped and danced over the water as the road rumbled under the minivan’s tires, the constant rhythm doing nothing to dissipate my increased heart rate. The chipper voice of the GPS, whom Beau had named Gertie, instructed me to exit onto Beach Boulevard, the Mississippi Sound running parallel to the road.
High-rises and casinos dominated the landscape to the east. Driving west, I passed the hotels and restaurants with empty parking lots, owing, I assumed, to the time of year. A wide apron of sand banded the sound to my left as I continued west, where on the right side of the road empty lots with only stunted trees and steps leading to nowhere sat next door to houses with new roofs and brightly flowered hedges. The garish colors looked defiant against the scrubby grass yards and plywood windows of their neighbors. A tall, white lighthouse sat nestled between the opposing traffic lanes of the highway, leaning slightly inland.
I recalled a photo of Monica, her brother, and assorted cousins gathered in a pyramid in front of the base. A photo that could belong in any family’s album—any family’s except for my own.
Nervously, I watched the flag on the GPS show that I was nearing my destination on the right, my thoughts confirmed by Gertie’s enthusiastic voice. Flipping on my turn signal, I turned blindly into a driveway and stopped. We had arrived.
I blinked through the windshield, trying to comprehend what I was seeing; trying to understand if the bare boards of wall frames were brand-new, or the hollowed-out guts of a house that had once stood on the site, its porch columns like welcoming arms.
Without looking down, I reached inside my purse for the piece of notepaper where I’d written down the address for the house, to make sure I’d plugged the right one into the GPS: 1100 Beach Boulevard.
Trying to quell my panic, I turned around to face Beau with a forced smile. “I need to check on something. Can you watch the van for me for a minute?”
He hesitated for only a second before nodding. Removing his thumb from his mouth, he said, “I still need to go pee-pee.”
I patted his jeans-clad knee. “I know. I’ll hurry, okay?”
Leaving the van running, I climbed out onto the crushed-shell drive and slammed the door behind me a little too hard. I smelled the water, then: salty and something else, too, that I couldn’t quite identify. Something that reminded me of my own desperation.
Sending Beau a reassuring smile, I walked to the spot where the drive met the road, looking for a mailbox, a painted number—anything that might tell me that this wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Not that I hadn’t had that exact thought about one hundred times since climbing into the van in New York the day before.
There was an empty lot next door, with short cement steps leading up to nothing but air, and a For Sale sign swinging in the barren and sand-swept yard. On the other side of it sat a modest yellow clapboard cottage with new grass and a freshly swept front walk. More important, it had a mailbox at the end of the driveway. Walking quickly, I stuck to the side of the road, squinting until I could read the house number: 1105.
Using my hand to shield my eyes, I counted off the lots to make sure I’d really found number 1100. I stole a glance across the street that ran perpendicular to Beach Boulevard and noticed the For Sale signs on empty rectangles of land nestled alongside midcentury homes with thinning trees and new porches. An empty lot near the corner had brick pilings sticking out of the sandy soil like grave markers, casting shadows on the landscape.
Staring back across the street to where I’d left the van, I spotted the old oak, the ancient tree of Monica’s stories and paintings. There had once been a tire swing hanging from its thick limbs, leafy branches granting shade on hot Mississippi afternoons. It still stood, but its arms were shorn and stunted, the sparse leaves making the tree look like the balding pate of a man too vain to shave his hair all the way off.
I stumbled back to the car, the enormity of my situation colliding with the pent-up grief and the years spent searching for all I’d lost. I was blinded by it, could barely see the door handle, and fumbled three times before I was finally able to open the door and pull myself into the driver’s seat. I grasped the steering wheel, oddly relieved to find something solid beneath my hands, wondering—and hoping—that I might pass out and wake up anywhere else but here.
“Julie?” the little voice called out from the backseat. “I don’t need to go pee-pee anymore.”
I smelled it then, the sickly tart smell of urine as it saturated the small space inside the van. I sat in shocked silence for a long moment, and then I began to laugh, because it was the only thing I could think of to do.
CHAPTER 2
Landfall: The intersection of the surface center of a tropical cyclone with a coastline.
—NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER
After using nearly a full box of hand wipes to clean the seat and Beau, and then putting a clean pair of pants on him while apologizing for not taking him to the bathroom when he’d first told me that he needed to go, I had calmed down enough to think. I handed the little boy a juice box and a bag of Goldfish crackers, then scrambled in my purse and found the notepaper again with Ray Von’s name and address on it. I wished there had been a phone number, too, since showing up at a stranger’s front door unannounced with a little boy in tow wasn’t something my New England upbringing had prepared me to do.
As I plugged the address into the GPS, I thought again of how very far from home I really was, and how doing what I’d previously considered unthinkable had become an option only because there was no plan B.
I pulled the van back onto the road and drove east as mapped out on the GPS, Gertie’s chirpy voice making me grit my teeth. There was a lot of new construction on this side, mostly of what looked like highend condos mixed in with the large casinos, and I wondered what had happened to all the houses that had once sat here by the water before gambling had become legal and before the storm.
I took a left onto Bellman Street and the area became residential again, with as many houses as vacant lots lining both sides of the road. At Gertie’s direction, I found myself in front of a tiny but neat pale pink house, its single front door painted a glowing yellow and covered by a shingled portico held up by wrought-iron posts. A wreath of green, gold, and purple flowers graced the front door, giving the small house a touch of grandeur. Pots of bright blooms I couldn’t name spilled over planters and window boxes. It relaxed me somewhat; I figured that anybody who could do such beautiful things with flowers had to be the kind of person who didn’t mind strangers asking for help.
I helped Beau out of his seat and spent a few minutes wiping orange cracker crumbs off of his face and shirt before combing his hair. I wet my thumb as I’d seen Monica do a thousand times and used it to clean green Magic Marker from his chin. I knew better than to ask him to leave the red hat in the van and instead held out my hand for him to take as I led us to the front door.
I stood still for a long moment, feeling the warm September air that seemed saturated with the scent of salt water and damp vegetation. I couldn’t find a doorbell, so I gave a brief knock on the yellow wood and waited. A loud meow caught my attention, and I turned my head t
o see a fat black cat perched on one of the flowerpots, staring at us with calculating green eyes.
“Kitty cat,” Beau said around his thumb.
The cat regarded him silently before leaping from his perch, pausing to brush against Beau’s legs before darting off to the side of the house.
“You shouldn’t let a black cat cross your path.”
Beau and I turned at the sound of the clipped voice with perfect diction, spotting an old woman with skin the color of ash standing in the open doorway. From her hunched back and sticklike arms and legs that were more sinew than flesh, she had to be at least ninety years old. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been an old black woman who didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.
I placed my arm around Beau’s narrow shoulders, feeling protective. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Ray Von Williams.”
The old woman didn’t seem to hear me. She was looking at Beau so intently that the little boy pressed his face against my leg, covering his cheek with the hat.
The woman’s eyes sharpened, but her voice was soft when she spoke. “That boy’s a Guidry.” She touched Beau on the shoulder and he shrank back.
Even though he was way too tall and heavy, I bent down and scooped him up. “Are you Ray Von?”
The woman looked steadily at me with eyes that reminded me of clear green marbles. “Yes, I am.” She squinted, leaning forward. “Are you Julie Holt?”
I started as unexpected relief settled on me: relief at knowing that I wasn’t alone in this empty place of leveled lots and real estate signs. Relief at knowing that somebody knew who I was. It didn’t even occur to me to wonder or care how the old woman knew my name. “Yes. Yes, I am. And this is Monica’s son, Beau.”
The woman smiled, white dentures showing between her lips. “I got something for you.” Without another word, she turned into the little house, leaving the door open. Not really having any other options, I squeezed Beau against me and followed Ray Von inside.
I closed the door behind us and we entered a small living room where a soap opera played on the television and a collection of papiermâché masks covered the wall next to the large front window. As I followed the older woman to the back of the house, I paused for a moment, not able to name what was missing.
The next room was the kitchen, with a row of gleaming pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, along with bunches of dried herbs, grasses, and flowers. Something bubbled on the stove, the smell reminding me of Sunday afternoons in Monica’s apartment. My stomach grumbled, calling to mind that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that Beau would need more than crackers and juice.
Ray Von was already stacking telephone books in a sturdy wooden chair at the table, her movements swift and strong, belying her years. “You put Miss Monica’s boy here, and I’ll get you some red beans and rice.”
I placed Beau in the chair after reassuring him that I’d stay next to him, then sat down at the table. Everything seemed so surreal, but I felt myself giving into it as I relaxed against the back of my chair, letting slide the weight of responsibilities and uncertainties, and allowed myself to be taken care of, if only for a short while.
Ray Von stood at the stove using a large ladle to pour red beans over beds of rice she’d already heaped on two plates. When she placed them on the table in front of Beau and me, I noticed that Beau’s plate was an old plastic one showing faded images of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, and I suddenly realized what had been missing from the living room: family photos. I stared at the plate for a long moment, the cartoon characters at odds with the rustic kitchen and the old woman with no family photographs.
Ray Von filled two plastic tumblers with water from a watercooler by the door and placed them by our plates. “Blow on it first, you hear? I’ll be right back.”
My stomach rumbling loudly now, I leaned over and stirred Beau’s quickly and blew on it, trying not to smell too deeply the heavily scented steam that rose from the plate, because it would make me even hungrier than I already was. After testing Beau’s to make sure it was okay to eat, I stuck a fork in my own plate and ate quickly, burning my tongue and having to take a gulp of water to cool it off. But it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
When Ray Von returned, both of us had nearly empty plates. After leaning a brown-paper-wrapped rectangular package about the size of a place mat against a low cabinet, Ray Von retrieved our plates and scooped second helpings onto them before returning them to the table.
Ray Von sat and folded her hands. “Why are you here with her boy but without Miss Monica?”
My last bite of red beans and rice lodged somewhere in the back of my throat. Slowly, I took a drink from my glass, taking my time to form an answer. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have to tell the story again. I glanced over at Beau, who had finished eating and was drifting to sleep in his chair, his finger working a hole into the red hat.
I took a deep breath, letting the air fill the space where grief and loss had taken up residence so long ago, then let it out again. “Monica died almost three months ago.”
Something flickered in Ray Von’s eyes, but she didn’t look away. Finally, she said, “I suspect it was her heart.”
I looked at her in surprise. “How did you know that?”
Her face remained impassive, but her bottom lip trembled. “She was dying from the moment she was born. I suppose we all are, but some of us are scheduled from the start.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She was always delicate that way. They called it ‘congenital heart disease,’ and it’s not the first time that family’s seen it.”
I sat back in my chair, my breath coming so fast that I felt light-headed again. “So she knew she had a weak heart? And didn’t do anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know if she knew, but I did. I was there when she was born, and I could see it even though the doctors couldn’t. Her mama had her tested, too, to be sure, and those doctors still couldn’t see anything.”
Ray Von stood and took their dirty plates to the sink before she continued. “Some, they can tell when they’re born. But others, they don’t find out until they’re older, and then the heart is so damaged that they need a new one. I’m thinking Miss Monica didn’t get her new one in time.”
I thought of the last year of Monica’s life, of how weak and frail she’d become, of the wait for a new heart. Of how she’d gone to sleep one afternoon and never woke up. But Monica had known long before that, I could see now. She had known and not told me until she couldn’t hide it anymore.
Glancing at the wrapped package, I was struck by a thought. “How did you know my name?”
A thin eyebrow went up. “Miss Monica sent it to me with a note. She said the package was for Julie Holt and asked me to hold on to it until you could come and pick it up.”
Laughter shouted at us from the television in the other room. “When did she send it?”
Ray Von turned to face me, her back against the sink, her head bobbing in her effort to hold it up high despite her hunched shoulders. “This past February. I hadn’t heard one word from that girl for ten years, and then this package arrives with a note that I’m not to open it, and that Julie Holt might come by sometime to pick it up.”
I slid my chair back. “Can I see what it is?”
Without answering, Ray Von moved to Beau’s chair, where his head had fallen back in sleep, his mouth slightly open. Gently, she smoothed the hair from his forehead. “I loved his granddaddy like he was my own, and then his mama and her brother, too. Hardheaded people, but I loved them. Especially Miss Monica, who was more hardheaded than the rest. She had a sense of right and wrong that would have put a saint to shame. She didn’t give a second chance to anybody who didn’t live up to her high moral standards.” She picked up my glass and moved to the watercooler to refill it. “Especially to those she loved the most.”
She kept her back to me for a moment, as if t
rying to decide whether to tell me anything more, then turned around and placed the tumbler on the table before sitting.
I closed my eyes, trying to corral all the questions that were flitting through my mind, too many to count. “Monica told me stories about her family. About you. They were all happy stories, good memories. They helped me forget. . . .” I shook my head, not wanting to veer down the old path. “But she never told me why she left and never came back. Or why she broke off contact from everyone.”
Ray Von was silent for a moment, and I waited, hoping for an answer that would at least explain why I’d driven so far to find something that no longer existed. Instead, Ray Von said, “She used to paint. At first it was just the Guidrys’ house here, and the beach and the lighthouse. And then she started painting people—anybody who’d sit still long enough for her. Don’t know what happened to all those paintings.”
I swallowed, remembering all the landscapes and portraits Monica had painted from memory, like illustrations for her stories. “I think she was on the verge of breaking out. She was scheduled for a big show at a major gallery in New York when she got sick. They had to cancel it.” I took a sip of water, needing to wash down the loss that clung to the back of my throat. “We both loved art. That’s how we met, actually, at an exhibit of early-twentieth-century American portraitists. My great-grandfather, Abe Holt, was one of the featured artists, and he was one of Monica’s favorites.” Smiling at the memory, I continued. “I was on an awful blind date, and she came up and spilled her drink on him.” A small laugh burbled in my throat. “She reminded me so much of my little sister, so petite that her clothes hung on her. I sort of adopted her right then, because she looked like somebody needed to take care of her.”
