by Karen White
“I wouldn’t go that far. Monica sent the portrait of your great-grandmother to Ray Von for safekeeping. She included a note to Ray Von telling her that I would come to retrieve it at some point. I was hoping that she’d kept the note, that there might be something written that wouldn’t make sense to Ray Von but might to me.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Let me know if you find anything.”
I hesitated to disturb the odd little truce we seemed to have forged over our conversation over the blueprints, but I knew I had to be frank. “You do realize that I’m trying to determine why Monica left. You might not like what I find.”
His expression was inscrutable, and I wondered if they taught that at law school. “The answers we seek aren’t always the answers we want, are they? But knowing the truth is what helps us sleep at night.”
I thought of my search for Chelsea, and his for Monica, and knew he was right. I just couldn’t acknowledge it. I wanted only one outcome and I’d never really stopped to consider an alternate truth. I turned back to the table, seeing Trey’s notes again. Reading aloud, I said, “ ‘Two ceiling fans and not three on sleeping porch. Beamed ceiling in den. Front walkway to beach is brick.’ ” They were small changes, but they were in keeping with the old River Song, and it touched me that he’d remembered the details as well as Monica had, and I wondered if that offered him the same comfort it gave me.
Changing the subject, Trey said, “On your way to Biloxi, would you mind taking Aimee to see my grandfather? I usually take her a couple times a week but I’ve been swamped.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Your grandfather is still alive? I thought . . .” I stopped myself, realizing that Aimee had never told me otherwise.
“Yes, he’s alive, but he’s been in a nursing home for almost ten years now. He had a stroke that paralyzed his right side and left him without the ability to speak. He has some dementia, too.”
“I’m sorry. I’d be happy to take her.” I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. “Which brother did she marry, Wes or Gary?”
He turned his back to me and began stacking the pages of the blueprints so that their edges met. “I think she wants to tell you.” A smile had crept back into his words.
“Seriously? I’m fascinated by her story, but I’m only getting little snippets at a time. I’m dying to know. I could just start digging on the Internet and get the answer myself.”
He reached for the pull cord on a floor lamp by the table and yanked it, throwing the house plans into shadow. “You could. But you won’t.” Trey stood still as he waited for me to answer.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re good at waiting for answers. Because you’re not sure whether the answer you’re going to get is the one you want to hear, so you wait just a little longer.”
A flash of anger burned behind my eyes, but I didn’t say anything, because I was afraid that what he said was true.
Quietly, he asked, “Who paid for Monica’s burial?”
“I did.”
“Funerals aren’t cheap.”
“She deserved to have a decent burial, and a marker. I didn’t think to ask her family, because I knew she hadn’t been in contact for a decade.” I remembered scraping together the money, selling my small collection of sixteenth-century sterling snuff boxes that I’d started when I first went to work for the auction house. They were beautiful pieces, and I’d loved them, but they were as easily sold as I had purchased them, admired but not desperately wanted.
He nodded, his face in shadow. “I’ve started the bureaucratic paperwork to bring her body home. I hope you’ll be here for the funeral.”
I started to ask him why he thought I might not be, but stopped. I’d been honest with him about my opinion of people who built houses in a flaky climate, and I supposed that was his way of being honest with me about his opinion of people who had no home, or roots, at all.
“I hope so,” I replied, seeing again the sawdust and paint splatters, the work boots. His eyebrows shot up as he noticed my perusal, and I waited a moment for him to offer an explanation. He must have been waiting for me to ask him about it, because neither one of us said anything. I wanted to roll my eyes at the two of us, but turned to leave instead. “Good night, Trey.”
“Good night, Julie.” His words definitely carried a smile in them, but I ducked my head and left the room before he could see me smile back.
CHAPTER 11
It is easier to pull down than to build up.
—LATIN PROVERB
I awoke several days later to the sun streaming through the slats in my blinds. I looked at my bedside clock, alarmed to see that it was past nine. I’d told Aimee the night before that I’d drive us both to Biloxi and knew she must be waiting for me. She was an early riser, preferring to visit her garden before the noon sun became too warm.
Grabbing clothes from my dresser and closet, I threw them on the bathroom counter, then moved to close the adjoining bathroom door so I wouldn’t awaken Beau. I peeked into his room, past the LEGO castle that he and Trey were in the process of building in the middle of the room, my gaze pausing when I saw the empty bed.
I thought for a moment that he must be with Aimee or Kathy, and that I should go ahead and shower and dress, but years of guilt wouldn’t allow me to go anywhere until I knew where he was. I threw on a pair of sweats, then ran downstairs, calling Beau’s name as I walked from room to room, my steps quickening as I found only an empty house.
When I reached the kitchen, I stopped short, a familiar nausea creeping into my throat. Monica’s red hat, inseparable from Beau since the day of her funeral, sat in the middle of the kitchen table, nestled between the ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like giant red beans. I picked it up, wanting it to feel warm, to know that Beau was near, but there was nothing there in the red, pilled knit to remind me of Beau.
I jerked around, looking for the phone to call 911, realizing even as I did so how irrational I was being. My gaze settled on the back door leading into the garden, and my heart slowed slightly. Of course. He’d be in the garden with Aimee.
I practically flew through the door and into the garden, feeling as if I’d suddenly time-traveled to another world—or at least into another season. It was almost November, yet colors shouted from hedges and pots, and a miniature topiary of small animals paraded around a brass sundial sunk into the brick walkway.
I opened my mouth to shout Beau’s name again, but stopped when I saw a flash of movement near a small toolshed nearly hidden by the heavy limbs of a giant magnolia tree. Beau and Xavier were squatting down together, examining different gardening tools laid out in a neat row on the brick walkway in front of the shed. Xavier’s straw hat covered most of his face, but I could still see the tight and mottled scarring on his jaw and neck. Beau was speaking animatedly to him as if he saw no scars at all.
“Beau!” I called, rushing to his side. “I was worried about you when I didn’t find you in your bed. You know you’re not supposed to go anywhere without me.”
They both stood, Xavier facing me while Beau hugged me. “Xavier’s gonna help me make a LEGO tooprary. Isn’t that cool?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice weak with relief. “That’s very cool. But where’re Miss Aimee and Kathy?”
Xavier spoke, the tenor pitch of his voice surprising me again. “Miss Aimee took her morning walk with Kathy and asked me to watch Beau.” His green eye remained blank, but I sensed a rebuke in his voice. “This is Miss Aimee’s grandbaby. I won’t let anything happen to him.”
I made myself smile. “Yes, you’re right. I know that. It’s just . . . well, I get a little nervous when I don’t know where he is, that’s all.” With all the emotional strength that I could muster, I kissed the top of Beau’s head and took a step back. “Thanks, Xavier. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on him for just a little longer, I’m going to go shower and dress so I’m ready to take Miss Aimee to Biloxi when she gets back from her walk. Is that
all right?”
He didn’t return my smile, but continued to stare back at me with his odd, light green eye. “I’ll take good care of him, just like I take good care of Miss Aimee. And I won’t let anybody hurt her—or this baby boy, because he’s Miss Monica’s boy.”
The skin on the back of my neck tightened, and I looked closely at him to see whether his face conveyed the thinly veiled threat I thought I’d detected in his words. Instead, he just stared back at me, his expression inscrutable.
“Thank you,” I said again, watching as they bent down to select tools before I raced back into the house to take my shower as quickly as I could.
Clouds had begun to gather by the time Aimee, Beau, and I left for Biloxi. After a brief stop at the nursing home in Metairie where Beau and I waited downstairs in a reception room, I pointed the van toward the interstate. The house plans for River Song were rolled up in the backseat next to Beau, but the notes and my résumé—at Aimee’s request—were in the front seat so she could look at them while I drove.
She laughed, and I looked over at her, wondering what she could find amusing in either document. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
She quoted, “ ‘The second, ninth, and twelfth steps creak when stepped on.’ ” She looked at me over the top of her reading glasses. “That’s something old houses do naturally, you know. From years of people stepping on them.”
“I know. But I was hoping that the builder could re-create some of that, so that it doesn’t seem so new.”
She continued to look at me.
“What?”
“You and Trey are so much alike. That’s probably why Monica took to you so quickly.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I know he’s your grandson, and I don’t mean to offend, but I find him officious, overbearing, and suspicious to a fault. How is that like me?”
Aimee threw her head back and laughed. “All very true—and add ‘observant’ to your list of traits. But he’s also loyal, compassionate, and generous with friends and strangers alike. The two of you are just so busy pretending you’re none of the above that you don’t see it in yourselves or each other.”
I bit my bottom lip. “And I don’t think either one of us is overly loyal, compassionate, or generous. We’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one, okay?”
“That’s fine, dear,” she said as she returned to the list. “ ‘Two ceiling fans and not three. Three over three windowpanes in the front windows. Living room ceiling tall enough for twelve-foot Christmas tree.’ ” She rested her head on the back of the seat and laughed softly. “The two of you are going to enormous lengths to make sure the house is Monica’s house the way she loved it. Yet Trey has neither the time nor the interest, and you think people rebuilding their houses in a hurricane zone are ‘shortsighted and somewhat egotistical.’ ”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that about you.”
“Yes, you did. But that’s all right. I don’t take it personally, and you’re certainly not the only person in the country who thinks that. I just prefer to think that I’m a restorer of humanity.”
I squinted at the haze, trying hard to think of rebuilding River Song as anything more than rebuilding a house. “What do you mean?”
“After a hurricane, when everything is in such disarray, you look up at the sky and see that everything’s clear up there, the sky’s blue, and the birds are stretching out their wings and rebuilding their nests. And it’s up to those who can bear to look down again who are left with the responsibility of restoring life down here. If you could see the destruction of a hurricane you’d understand why so many prefer not to look down.”
I focused on the road in front of me, and I think a part of me understood. I’d lived through a different kind of devastation, and watched as each member of my family, except for my mother and me, refused to look anywhere else except at the wreckage. But I couldn’t help but believe that looking down again also meant accepting your vulnerabilities.
We pulled off the interstate and made our way to Ray Von’s. I knew I wouldn’t find Carol Sue there, as she was visiting her sister in Vicksburg, but we’d made plans to meet the following week to look at apartments and get the children together again.
The same cat I’d seen on my previous two visits sat in his usual perch on the front steps, meowing at us as we approached, before running away. Beau was back to clutching his red hat and clung to it with one hand and my jeans with the other. I climbed the three steps to the door and knocked. I could hear the television set inside, so I knew she was there, but I didn’t hear shuffling steps until after I knocked the second time.
The door opened slowly and Ray Von’s face appeared, taking in me and then Beau before finally settling on Aimee. She held a tissue to her nose, then sniffed. “I’m feeling poorly today, or I’d invite you in.”
Aimee climbed up the three steps to the door. “We won’t intrude, then. Just wanted to let you know that Xavier is doing well. He and Beau are getting along, and Xavier’s teaching him everything he knows about gardening.” She handed Ray Von the sack that we’d brought. “It’s late in the season, but Xavier thought you’d like them.”
What might have been a smile crossed Ray Von’s face as she took the bag. “Thank you, Miss Aimee. I appreciate you looking after my boy.”
Aimee reached up and squeezed Ray Von’s hand. “You know that it’s the least I can do.”
A glance that I couldn’t decipher passed between them before Ray Von turned to Beau. “You being a good boy, Mr. Beau, and listening to your grandmama?”
Beau hesitated for a moment, then nodded, sucking hard on his thumb.
“You look just like your mama. I hope you listen better than she did.”
I cleared my throat. “Ray Von—remember how you said that Monica sent you a note with the painting? Do you still have it?”
She studied me for a long moment. “I think I threw it away. But I told you before, all it said was that you would be coming for the package. That’s it.”
I nodded, disappointed. “Well, if you do find it, could you please let me know? I’d like to see it, just in case you might have missed something.”
Ray Von’s lips pressed together tightly. “I’ll do that.” She stepped back from the door. “Thanks for stopping by,” she said before closing the door gently in our faces.
I led Aimee and Beau back to the van and waited for everyone to get settled, staring at the freshly painted house with new windows and mowed grass. As I put the van into gear, I asked, “How was Ray Von able to afford to rebuild her house and keep it so well maintained?”
Aimee smiled without looking at me. “I call it part of her ‘retirement’ package. She worked for the Guidrys for so long that making sure she’s taken care of in her old age is a responsibility that I take very seriously. We owe Ray Von so much that can never be repaid.”
I was about to ask her what she meant when Aimee leaned forward and pointed at a street. “Let’s make a little detour. There’s something I want to show you.”
Following her directions, I took a right on Beach Boulevard then another quick right, finding street parking where Aimee indicated. I locked the van door, then allowed Aimee to slip her hand into the crook of my arm while I held on to Beau with my other hand and walked a block back toward the beach.
We stopped across the street from where the Hard Rock Café’s bright orange-and-brown oversize guitar sat like a misplaced toy. The water of the sound under heavy clouds was now the color of slate, as if the waves had swallowed all the shadows.
“When I was a girl, there wasn’t a sandy beach like you see now. It was just a seawall with steps leading down into the water. Gary, Wes, and I would sit on the steps and go crabbing.”
“Crabbing?” Beau looked up at her, his neatly combed hair now swirled by the wind, and I wondered if he remembered his mother telling him about crabbing with her brother and cousins, and how Trey would chase her down the beach with the largest one he coul
d find.
Aimee put her arm around Beau. “It’s an acquired taste that I’m sure you’ll get used to. I’m hoping that this oil spill will be cleaned up in time so that I can show you how. I was the best, you know. Had ‘the touch.’ Always caught more than the boys.” She smiled to herself, and I imagined her picturing a Biloxi between hurricanes and before oil spills. But all I could see in front of me was the empty beach and the water heavy with shadows, as deceptive as a lounging leopard.
We turned and passed under a large archway with the word “Biloxi” spelled out in lit capital letters above two rock pillars, and entered a large town green. Directly across from us was what appeared to be a monument with a flagpole in the center, the flag waving wildly in the storm-scented air. “It’s going to rain, Miss Aimee. Do you want to go back to the car?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.” She led me forward on a brick path, Beau racing on ahead toward the monument. Large oaks, most with patches of missing bark, stunted limbs, and uneven growth, dotted the green like wounded guardians. When we got closer to the memorial I could see a curved cement wall with a mosaic wave in the center of it rolling from one end to the other. At the far end sat a taller wall of black granite, columns of names marching in block letters under the word KATRINA and the date August 29, 2005. A glass case filled with small objects protruded from the marble wall, its base filled with empty oyster shells.
“What is this?” I asked, leaning forward to study the sun-bleached artifacts: a broken china plate, a ceramic angel, a trophy, a police badge, an American flag folded neatly as if unaware of its position over a pile of rubble.
“That’s debris found after the hurricane. And see the slab of white granite on top of the black granite?” She pointed to the black wall. “It’s twelve feet high, which was the height of the water here on the Town Green during the storm.”
I looked around, mentally extending a line over everything I could see: the palm trees, the bruised oaks, the grass, the buildings, the cars. The people. All of that water. All of that destruction. I felt heavy with the thought of it, felt the weight of the water pushing me under.
