The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  I think I stopped breathing. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, including my mother. I felt a little guilty at the thought, but Mrs. Guidry smiled at me, erasing all thoughts from my head. She had black hair, and blue cat’s eyes that seemed to miss nothing, and her acknowledging smile made me feel as if I’d just been chosen. For what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I wanted to be a part of it.

  A boy about my age linked his arm with hers. As they walked into the room, I realized how frail he looked. His cheekbones jutted out from sunburned cheeks, and each step fell slow and purposeful, as if each one were counted. He stumbled, and his mother caught him. He angrily brushed her hand aside, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes—the wary eyes of a wild animal caught in a cage. Blue-gray eyes, fringed with black lashes and full of fire. I recognized something within him, and I smiled.

  Grandmother stood and walked over to them. “Caroline, Garrick, allow me to present to you my granddaughter, Aimee Mercier.”

  Caroline Guidry smiled at me again with her cat’s eyes, looking at me as if she already knew me. She took my fingertips and squeezed them. “Aren’t you a precious thing? And the spitting image of your mother.”

  She smelled of cigarette smoke and heavy perfume. Shalimar. The same perfume my mother had worn. I knew that because of the old bottle on the dressing table in my father’s room. The liquid had long since turned a golden orange, but I still smelled it on her clothes in my father’s closet. I tilted my head to the side. “You knew my mother?”

  She raised an elegant dark brow. “We were the best of friends.” Her eyes darted away as she moved to the chair next to where my grandmother had been seated. She sat down and crossed her legs at the ankles, exposing her needlelike stiletto heels that I’m sure my grandmother didn’t approve of.

  I noticed then the brooch on the bodice of her dress in the shape of an alligator, its eyes red rubies and its scales flashing with enamel and jewels. Its tail ended in a sharp triangular point. “I like your pin, Mrs. Guidry.”

  Her gloved hand squeezed it briefly, as if she were touching a good-luck charm or something. “Thank you, dear. Your mother gave it to me, and I call it my signature piece. I love alligators, you see. They remind me of me, I suppose—often misunderstood.” She glanced up at my grandmother, but my grandmother was focused on pouring tea into her prized Hungarian porcelain cups.

  My mother. I wanted to ask Caroline Guidry more about it, and why my mother had given it to her, but the boy next to her bowed slightly in greeting, his face serious.

  “How do you do?” I said, in a highly practiced tone that had been drilled into me the night before by Grandmother. In fact, it was so highly practiced that it came out with an English accent thick enough that the queen herself would have been proud.

  The boy smirked, and I smirked back. Patting the chair next to me, I said, “Garrick can sit here.”

  As he sat, I slid my plate over to him. “Have a pastry.” I wasn’t saying it to be rude, but Grandmother was always banishing such things from my plate so I wouldn’t get fat. And getting fat was something this boy sorely needed.

  He picked it up and bit it, the white cream oozing out the back of the flaky crust, plopping onto his navy blue jacket. Surprised blue-gray eyes looked up at me.

  It was more his expression than the blob of cream on his jacket that made me laugh, and I held my hand over my mouth so Grandmother wouldn’t see. Still looking at me, Garrick scraped off the white blob with his finger, then promptly wiped it on the front of my lace dress.

  I looked down at the smeared puff of cream and stared in surprise as it slowly slid down the front of my dress, then fell to my lap. I raised my eyes to his, and he smiled. I smiled back and laughed. Soon we were doubled over with laughter, giving each other shoves on the shoulder. Until I fell off the sofa.

  Grandmother pinched my upper arms as she hoisted me up. Garrick stopped laughing. “Aimee! Aren’t you a little old to be acting this way?”

  I stood in front of her, my laughter silenced.

  She leaned toward me and said very quietly, “Go clean yourself up. And when you return, I expect to see a mature young lady.”

  She released me quickly, and I felt the bruising on my arms.

  Grandmother looked expectantly at Mrs. Guidry, who appeared to be attempting to hide a smile. A mask seemed to drop over her face, and she gave Garrick a stern look. “And, Garrick, I expect you to act like a young gentleman.”

  I slunk up the stairs, stealing a backward glance. Mrs. Guidry and Garrick were looking up at me. Mrs. Guidry winked, reminding me of a cat slowly waking up after a long sleep.

  Gary and I were inseparable after that—spending all our afternoons together in the long New Orleans summer until I had to go back to school in Philadelphia. Most days we rode our bicycles down St. Charles Avenue—slowly, so Gary wouldn’t get too worn-out—and through Audubon Park, crossing Magazine and the railroad tracks to the levee to see what we could find floating in the river. On days when the rain tore at the live oak trees on St. Charles, we climbed to the topmost corner of Grandmother’s house to spook each other with ghost stories. We sat in the dark with a platter of pralines and Coca-Colas, brought up the steep, narrow stairs by Aunt Roseanne.

  Aunt Roseanne had worked for Grandmother long before I was born and was as much a fixture at Grandmother’s house as were the trademark leaded-glass windows. We called her Aunt Roseanne, although I never knew whose aunt she was. Her skin was as black as the eyes on my Raggedy Ann doll. Placing the tray between us with a scrutinizing gaze, she would warn us about conjuring ghosts. I wanted her to explain, to tell me how to conjure ghosts so I could talk to my mother again, to understand her death. But Aunt Roseanne would shake her head and cross herself and leave me with all of my unanswered questions.

  On an afternoon a week before I was to leave, Gary came over to see if I wanted to race our bikes to the levee. We’d both received Schwinn Phantoms for our birthdays, his red and mine black, since Grandmother thought the red too flashy for a girl, and we’d ridden them everywhere all summer. She’d even given me permission to buy a pair of blue jeans, since she figured those were more decent than a skirt when riding a bicycle.

  Reluctantly, I opened the door. In a failed attempt to make myself look like my favorite movie star, Rita Hayworth, I’d cut my own hair. It never occurred to me that naturally curly red hair wouldn’t look quite the same as hers.

  Gary stood in front of me in shocked silence, his mouth open, but speechless for the first time since I had met him, his eyes focused on my hair. I slammed the door in his face before he could think of something to say and walked away from it. He opened the door, his voice full of laughter. “Gee whiz, Aimee. I didn’t mean to stare. You just look kinda . . . different.”

  My feelings were hurt. His mother’s hair looked just like Rita Hayworth’s except for the color, and I had wanted my hair to look like hers. But whereas hers fell in ink black waves around her face, mine resembled a clown’s wig.

  Unable to escape him in my own home, I ran past him and out the door. I grabbed my bike, jumped on it, and flew out into the street, pedaling as quickly as I could to get to the levee. Gary followed me in hot pursuit, coughing and laughing. I was glad to hear him cough. I hoped he’d choke to death.

  I jumped the curb on my bike and rode over the sparse grass of the park area, clenching my teeth to prevent them from breaking. As I neared the steep rise, I leaped off my bike, letting it crash to the ground. Furiously, I stomped off in the direction of the river, climbing the incline of the levee until I reached the top.

  A bloated cat lay on its side, its fur matted with mud, and flies creating a halo over it. Its cloudy feline eyes were open, staring sightlessly out into the summer day. I walked slowly toward it and bent over, my hands resting on my sweaty knees. Flies buzzed hungrily around its face, the open mouth stuck in a permanent cat smile.

  Gary shuffled toward me, pushing his bike, his breathing labored. He stopped
, attempting to pull in a deep breath. “Aimee . . .”

  I could still hear the laughter in his voice, and an idea of revenge danced gleefully in my head. Without a second thought, I reached down and grabbed the cat by its two front paws. With a soft grunt, I hoisted it in the air and swung around, letting go as soon as I had made half an arc in the air with it. It pelted Gary in the stomach, and his eyes opened wide, oddly resembling the dead cat’s.

  Gary dropped his bike and staggered backward, his arms flailing like a windmill, a slimy smear staining the front of his blue-and-white-striped shirt. He teetered on the edge of the levee, his arms pumping wildly, then slid down the rocky slope toward the water. He lay on his back where he’d stopped, staring up at the sky—laughing.

  “Shut up!”

  He didn’t. I hoisted his bike, scrambled down the rocks and chicken wire, then threw it into the water. Gary sat up, finally silenced.

  “What in the hell did you do that for?” He pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly, watching the handlebars slowly sink into the murky water, the rear wheel still visible.

  All the anger had gone out of me, and I swallowed the knowledge of the awful thing I had just done. “Gary—I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you—somehow. I’ll give you mine.” The bike pitched forward, rear wheel somersaulting over the front as it headed toward deeper water. A large tree branch protruded from the water like an avenging hand, and grabbed the front wheel spokes, halting the bike’s progression down the fast-moving river.

  Gary stepped forward onto the large rocks, the water reaching his ankles.

  “Don’t, Gary! It’s deep out there—and the current’s real bad.”

  He glared at me. “I can swim. And it’s not that far.” He took another step forward, sinking down to his knees. I couldn’t see his feet anymore.

  “Please stop—no one can swim in that current.”

  He ignored my pleas and continued into the water. When it was up to his neck, he kicked out to swim to the bike.

  The river immediately propelled him off course. As he was pushed past the bike, he shot out a hand and grabbed a part of the branch, its dark, slick skin sticking out from the brown water. His head disappeared under the surface, then reappeared with pieces of debris sticking in his hair from the polluted water. The racing water formed whitecaps around Gary and the bike. If he tried to fight the river and swim back to the levee, the river would win.

  Footsteps pounded on the levee behind me, and I turned to see a boy of about seventeen running toward us. Relief made my knees sag, and I stumbled, barely catching myself before I joined Gary in the water. The older boy must have seen what had happened, because he brushed by me and went directly to the edge of the levee.

  “Garrick! Hold tight! I’ll get you out of there!”

  The boy turned around, his arms at his sides, his hands opening and closing as he scanned the area for anything that could help pull Gary out of the water. Without a second thought, I unbuttoned my blouse, my sweaty fingers slipping on the plastic buttons. The older boy stared at me; then his eyes widened in understanding. I didn’t even think to be embarrassed. I was a late bloomer, and my white cotton training bra was for encouragement purposes only.

  Shrugging out of a button-down shirt, he took my blouse and tied the two articles of clothing together. Without pausing, he undid his belt and slipped out of his pants, adding them to make one long rope.

  Anchoring his feet on the rocks, he pitched the impromptu lifeline into the water. I stood next to him on the slippery rocks, heedless of the water rushing into my shoes. I saw my blouse under the surface of the water, inching its way to Gary like a pale river snake. His pallid fingers clutched the branch, and his head had fallen back into the water to keep his mouth open. His eyes were closed, and the first tremors of panic hit me.

  “Gary! Open your eyes! Now’s not the time to take a nap!” My voice caught in midshout.

  He cracked his eyes open, and he gave me a weak smile. I let out a deep breath.

  The older boy spoke again. “Garrick, I want you to grab that blouse. But don’t let go of the branch before you’ve got a good hold on the rope first, you hear?”

  Gary nodded, his eyes only slits, a blue tinge around his mouth.

  His hand reached out for the blouse and missed it, his arm splashing aimlessly in the water.

  I shook all over, making my voice warble. “Gary. You need to push yourself up so you can see the blouse. Give it all you’ve got! I’ll even let you hit me when you get out of there, okay? Just try.”

  His head popped out of the water enough for his shoulders to clear the surface for a brief moment. He spied the arm of the blouse, grabbed it with one hand, then let go of the branch. His head disappeared into the murky water, and I scrambled to my feet.

  “Gary!” My stomach churned. I threw a sidelong glance at the boy next to me and decided I would rather die than further disgrace myself by throwing up.

  Gary’s head reappeared, and I garbled a silent Hail Mary before moving to the older boy’s side to assist him in hauling Gary out. The two of us grunted in unison as we pulled. He was much heavier than he should have been. Gary was small and probably weighed only eighty pounds soaking wet with his shoes on. Then I noticed his other hand was gripping the bike.

  I shouted, “Drop the bike, Gary—it’ll be easier.”

  He shook his head and kicked his legs near the surface, but he continued to clutch the handlebar of the bike. Holding the improvised rope, we started backing up as Gary came closer to the side of the levee. The older boy turned to me; his eyes narrowed.

  “Can you stand here and hang on to this? I’m going to get a bit closer.”

  I nodded, defying my body to fumble. My shoulders were pulled forward as he let go, causing my sneakered feet to skid on the slick rocks and chicken wire, but I held my ground. The boy began to pull the line in with Gary dangling on the end. I heard a shout of triumph as he grabbed Gary’s shirt.

  The older boy lifted Gary and the bike and half carried and half dragged them up the rocky slope to the top of the levee. He tossed the bike aside and laid Gary down where the dead cat had been. Gary’s eyes were closed, and he was racked with uncontrollable coughs, gulping for air. I crawled over to him and rolled him onto his side. I sat back as dribbles of murky water eased out the corner of his mouth.

  The older boy was busy trying to untie his sodden pants from the makeshift rope. He sat in his boxers and white shirt, his wet black hair forming a vee on his forehead. Through my half-closed eyes, he looked like pictures I’d seen of Bela Lugosi in the movie Dracula. I don’t know if this was a natural reaction to shock, but staring at a vampire sitting on the levee in his underwear suddenly hit me as uproariously funny.

  The first giggle came out like a bubble; then the rest spilled out. I couldn’t breathe, so I lay back on the asphalt next to Gary, the sun baking my skin. The puddle of water forming around him seeped toward me and nudged me in the seat, saturating my blue jeans. Still laughing, I turned to face Gary. His eyes remained shut, but I could see the shadow of a grin on his lips.

  “What in the hell are you laughing at? You could have killed my brother!”

  The word “brother” soaked up my laughter like a sponge. I sat up, looking at the foreboding shadow hovering over me as the older boy stood. He had managed to pull on his wet pants and sweep his hair back off his forehead, obliterating all thoughts of bloodsuckers. I stared, dumbfounded. This was Gary’s older brother, Wesley, who was due back today from his prep school up north. The same brother Gary spoke about with such awe, and who I was half convinced didn’t exist, despite the fact that the Guidrys’ house was full of pictures of him.

  But the boy in front of me didn’t resemble the one in the flat, one-dimensional photographs. Wesley in the flesh was truly something to look at. At only seventeen, he towered well over six feet, with broad shoulders and well-muscled legs. I could see a tuft of dark hair peeking out from the collar of his undershirt, an
d his voice was as deep as my daddy’s. I blinked twice, thinking about how much he looked like the movie stars Aunt Roseanne was always talking about in Life magazine.

  “Here.” He thrust my sodden blouse toward me.

  I grabbed it and scrambled to my feet, feeling the telltale prickles around my eyes. Grandmother always told me I looked like Frankenstein when I cried, and I wasn’t about to let him see me like that. I swallowed deeply before speaking, turning around and thrusting my arms into the wet shirt. “What do you mean? He’s the one who was stupid enough to jump in the river.” I sent a worried glance at Gary. “Holy cow, Gary—how could you be so dumb?” I knelt down next to him.

  Gary had managed to sit up and was hugging his knees. He put his forehead on them and said in a weak voice, “Honest, Wes, it’s my fault. Please don’t get her in trouble.” He took a deep breath, grinning broadly. “Besides, I got my bike.”

  Wes looked at me, then back at Gary. “I still think we need to tell her parents.” His eyes strayed to my flat chest. “She’s not too old to get a good whipping, I wouldn’t think.”

  Defiantly, I stuck out my chin. “You can’t tell my parents. They don’t live here. And I’m practically twelve.”

  Gary looked up. “That’s right. She’s staying with her grandmother—Mrs. Mercier from next door.”

  “Gary!” I shot him a dirty look.

  He put his head back on his knees. “Sorry.” His voice sounded muffled.

  Wes looked back at me, bright blue eyes under dark brows. His wet eyelashes came to little points above his eyes, like a crown. A smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. “You sure don’t look twelve.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear an image. “All right. But you have to promise me you’ll be more careful with him. He’s, well, he’s delicate.”

  “I am not!” Gary raised his head, and I was relieved to see bright spots of color on his cheeks. “I just get tired sometimes—it’s not like I have the plague.”