by Karen White
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked, my words scattered by the wind.
“Before River Song is rebuilt, I wanted you to understand a little more about the people who live here in Biloxi. This memorial was dedicated to the citizens here, to remind everybody of a horrible tragedy. We have the names of the dead written on the wall, and cherished belongings in a glass case.” She wrapped her arms around her chest, the wind turning cold. “I wanted you to understand that moving on doesn’t mean forgetting.”
My eyes stung and I turned away, noticing another Katrina tree nearby on the green. It had a large and sturdy trunk, with a green loggerhead turtle climbing down one side of it, a yellow-and-green fish swimming up one limb. A magnificent blue marlin erupted from the trunk into the air, its mouth open as it strained up toward the sky, poised forever on the brink of reaching what it sought.
I stared at it for a long time, wanting to understand something that continued to elude me. I noticed again the bruised oaks nearby, and their gallant attempts to flourish as if their scars didn’t exist. “Why did some of the oaks die and some survive?”
Aimee gave me an elegant one-shoulder shrug. “Why do some people stay after a hurricane and why do some never come back?” She looked at me, her eyes measuring. “Why do some people continue to search for the missing, and others give up? I don’t know. But I think sometimes a person has to be forced underwater to see if they’re going to drown or swim.”
I looked away, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “It’s going to rain soon. We should go.” I called to Beau, who was trying to climb on the base of the flagpole, as Aimee placed her hand in the crook of my arm and we began to walk back toward the arch.
We’d almost reached the car when she spoke again. “I haven’t thanked you for seeing to Monica’s burial, and for taking care of her when she was sick. Those are things for which I’ll never be able to repay you. So please don’t mention paying me for rent or board or anything else. I’m already in your debt.”
I wanted to protest, to say that Monica would have done the same for me, but Aimee placed her hand on my arm. “Don’t say anything. Just agree, because I don’t want to hear about it again.” Her eyes were moist and she blinked them quickly. “You have a generous heart, Julie. But don’t forget to save some of it for yourself.”
I opened the passenger side of the van for Aimee, then helped Beau in, wanting to disagree, to say that circumstances had shaped all of my choices, and that I’d done nothing but follow the only path I could see. But I remained quiet as I started the van, following Aimee’s directions to the museum office, to drop off my résumé in person, then to Reynoir Street to take the blueprints and discuss the next steps in River Song’s resurrection.
Steve Kenney smiled when he saw some of our notations, but agreed they were all doable and that he would have the revised plans ready by the end of the week. When he asked which number he should call, I gave him mine, remembering what Aimee had told me about how rebuilding River Song wasn’t fitting into Trey’s agenda.
As we climbed back into the van one last time before heading back to New Orleans, Aimee said, “Let’s go by River Song. I think I can stand to see it again now.”
We headed down Beach Boulevard, past the now familiar empty lots, the fresh-painted houses, the boarded-up houses, the spray-painted boards in front of sandy grass and cement-slab foundations. Aimee lowered her window and the three of us looked at the vacant lot, the oak in front waving its leaves in the wind as if shaking with great expectation.
Aimee let go a heavy sigh. “So many memories here.” Her knuckles were white where they rested on the door. “Most of them good.” She pointed to the oak. “There used to be a shoofly there built around the tree. That’s one of those raised porches with steps. It would keep the bugs off you, and it was big enough to dance on. It’s been gone since before Monica’s time, but she always wanted to rebuild it. Now maybe we can.” She was silent, studying the empty lot.
I remembered what Aimee had said about her visit here with the Guidrys and wondered if that was what she was thinking about, too. “Why was Mrs. Guidry crying, Aimee, when you walked in on them? Did you ever find out?”
She shook her head. “Not really. There were rumors . . . Well, I suppose there are always rumors about people in society who don’t conform. But I think a part of me didn’t want to know. I had enough drama in my life without digging too much into theirs.” She continued to look out at the bare lot, but I imagined she was seeing a white house with tall columns and rocking chairs, and two young men waiting inside. Eventually, she sat back in her seat, ending the discussion. “Let’s go home now.”
By the time we turned back down Beach Boulevard toward the interstate, the sky had shifted from gray to black, a subtle transference of power. I noticed Aimee’s hands clenched in her lap, and I lifted my foot a little off the gas pedal. “I’ll drive slowly, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I reassured her.
She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. “It’s not the storm I’m afraid of. I just don’t like the dark. I haven’t since I was a little girl.” She paused and I waited for her to tell me why, watching as the palms along the beach bent and swayed at the wind’s whim.
Aimee continued. “It’s not so bad anymore, but on days like this, when I dredge up old memories, it comes back to me.”
I remembered what Trey had told me about her mother’s death, and I couldn’t ask Aimee why the dark held a hidden terror for her, believing that I already knew.
Feeling we both needed a change in the conversation, I asked, “Miss Aimee, are you ever going to tell me which brother you married?”
A wan smile softened her face. “We haven’t gotten to that part yet, have we? We will, I promise.” Her smile broadened. “We have an hour and a half in the car right now. But first you tell me a little more about your life in New York with Monica. About her work. And then I’ll tell you a little more about mine.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, as the first fat fists of rain hit the windshield, and the sky began to weep.
CHAPTER 12
Storm surge: An abnormal rise in sea level accompanying a hurricane or other intense storm, and whose height is the difference between the observed level of the sea surface and the level that would have occurred in the absence of the cyclone.
—NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER
Aimee
FALL 1955
My fingers scraped along the inside of the mailbox to retrieve the single letter in the back. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but my heart hiccuped when I saw the New Orleans postmark.
Dear Aimee,
I hope you don’t mind me writing you. I’m finding a rare free moment this afternoon and my thoughts have turned to you. I suppose it’s because I spent the day with Gary yesterday and we talked mostly of you. I probably shouldn’t be spoiling the surprise, but Gary is planning on asking you down here next February for the Mystick Krewe of Comus Ball. Invitations are very hard to come by, but my father has a business connection. Not that you need an added incentive to come. It would mean the world to Gary—to us—to have you here, so please say yes.
Gary showed me your senior picture. Wow! I hardly recognized you. (I guess I didn’t word that the way I wanted to!) You’ll certainly be the belle of the ball (I can see you blushing as you read this, by the way—it’s your most endearing trait).
I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the next four years—Gary told me you’d been accepted at Newcomb College. Congratulations! I hope you’ll allow me to take you to Commander’s for lunch to celebrate your accomplishment.
All right—I think I’ve procrastinated enough. Back to work. I actually love the research and writing (which is good if I want to be a lawyer), but there are too many distractions living in an apartment with three other law students. I guess I’ll head for the library.
Warm regards,
Wes
P. S. Please tell Gary yes—I don’t
think I could stand to see his disappointment.
I stared at the scrawled signature, my palms sweaty. I kept reading a single sentence over and over—I hope you’ll allow me to take you to Commander’s for lunch. Absently, I wondered if he included Lacy as one of his distractions.
This marked the beginning of a correspondence between Wes and me. As our pens scrawled across paper, Wes and I became equals with no age or family barriers. On paper, I was as safe to him as a confessional. I kept all of his letters in a shoe box under my bed, tied together with a pink hair ribbon, and would read and reread them until the folds began to tear.
I didn’t question the reasons he continued writing to me, afraid that his letters meant much more to me than he’d intended. For the same reason, I didn’t ask whether Gary was aware of it. But I couldn’t help but hope that his memories of the girl from the levee, as he frequently called me, had changed and that he considered me a woman now—a woman who shared not only a love of his home city, but also a deep loneliness invisible on the outside, but a beacon to those who shared a similar absence.
Dear Aimee,
I was pleasantly surprised to receive your letter—it really brightened my day. I’m thrilled you’re coming for Mardi Gras. And as a further incentive to keep you here, I’ve enclosed a Mardi Gras King Cake from McKenzie’s. Be careful when you bite into it, because I’ve instructed the bakery to put a tiny plastic baby in each section. If you’re not aware, the person who gets the baby has to buy the King Cake for the following year and throw a party. Looks like you’re stuck with us, Aimee.
That letter had grease spots and green confectioner’s sugar all over it from the King Cake, and I would smile every time I read the letter, remembering the sixteen babies I had pulled from the cake. I kept them, too, nestled in among the letters.
I’m sorry if you think I’m out to sabotage your figure with King Cake. From what I remember of you in a bathing suit last summer, your figure is doing just fine. I don’t think I’ll see the need to “harpoon you on the beach,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.
Thanks for all of your comments on my rants about law school. Just knowing you’re there to listen is a tremendous help to my mental health. What did I ever do before you?
He never mentioned Lacy, but I knew from Gary’s letters that they were still dating. But his omission let me daydream. And in his letters, I held his undivided attention.
Did I ever tell you that your handwriting resembles a spiderweb after a good rain? You should be a doctor—it’s really that bad! Actually, I think it’s just another fascinating facet of your personality. I imagine it gives your grandmother fits, but I love it.
Thanks for asking about my mother. She stays the same, drinking and smoking—and no longer tries to hide it. I think it’s progress, but Gary thinks our father has just given up. According to our father (and your grandmother), she dresses too outrageously and seeks the company of those she shouldn’t. I love my mother, as does Gary, and I know she loves us back, but she is unreachable to us. It wasn’t always this way. I sometimes wish we’d never returned to New Orleans, but how can I say that if it would mean we would have never met you?
Ray Von stays by Mother’s side—and thank goodness for that. My father stays at the office as much as possible, leaving Mother to her own devices. God only knows what she’d be doing without Ray Von to curb her behavior.
I know my parents love each other—but it’s not the kind of healthy love there should be between a man and a woman. I sometimes get the feeling that they each know something about the other that nobody else does, sort of like insurance so one will never leave the other. There’s something unhealthy there, Aimee, but they won’t allow me to get close enough to really see it. I’m not sure I want to.
I, too, took the opportunity to use our letters as a confessional, and began to reach out to him about my nightmares: nightmares from childhood that had suddenly resumed after a long hiatus. I never remembered anything about them when I awoke, only that in the dream I’d awakened from a heavy sleep in a darkened room, the coppery taste of blood on my tongue, the horrible and certain knowledge that I wasn’t alone. Fear would settle on my skin like a sheet, and I’d awaken almost choking on the pungent smell of sweat and something so familiar yet nameless, its identity as fleeting as my mother’s kiss.
The nightmares brought back memories of my mother, the few I had of her, and I began to question what I knew of her, and what I remembered of her death—questions my father wouldn’t answer, and ones I could not. My memory of the night my mother died was like a black box, shut tightly and locked, the key hidden.
I don’t know if I ever told you, but I remember your mother. I was a little boy—we were still living with my father then. She came over to bring us some tomatoes she had grown in her garden. She was beautiful. And that glorious red hair—just like yours, Aimee. But most of all I can recall her voice. It was sweet and high-pitched and it made everybody smile. We would sit in the pew behind your parents at Holy Name on Sundays and listen to her sing. My mother stopped coming to Mass with us because of it.
I think it bothered her a great deal that your mother was perfect in all the ways that she was not. I suspect that is one of her reasons she has embraced nonconformity now, feeling that if she couldn’t fit in anywhere, she might as well emphasize her differences.
I’m not an expert on these sorts of things, but I have to believe that your nightmares are due to the fact that nobody knows who killed your mother, or why. Or why you were spared. It must be unsettling and unnerving, and I suspect the uncertainty is manifesting itself in your dreams.
If it would help you in any way, I will look into the police reports from the night your mother died, to see if there was anything that might have been overlooked, or should be reinvestigated. I have connections in the legal system and in the police department. I’ll ask my father, too, since he was a good friend of your parents’ and stayed by your father’s side during the investigation and afterward.
In a different way I, too, know the loss of a mother. Perhaps it’s this thing we have in common that seems to pull us together. I have never shared so much of myself with anyone, Aimee. I feel almost silly knowing that we have never spoken in person to such depths, but instead have relegated all our thoughts to paper. I hope we can continue this face-to-face when we see each other again.
On a much lighter note, Gary wrecked his car again. He’s okay, but I don’t think his car is going to make it. My father’s furious. Remember how you once told us you hoped our balls would fall off on our wedding nights? I don’t think Gary’s will make it that far.
As February approached, I began to prepare for my trip down to New Orleans. I didn’t think much about Gary. All I could think of was seeing Wes again. I had seen him the previous summer, but I knew I had changed a great deal in the intervening months. My father had taken to making comments about how he was going to have to beat the boys away with a stick. Not that there was much of a chance of that happening, since I rarely met boys my age. I couldn’t wait to see Wes’s expression when he saw me again.
Standing in my hat and gloves with my baggage at the New Orleans Moisant Field airport, I craned my neck searching for a familiar face. Grandmother was on her yearly European cruise, so I would be staying with the Guidrys. She’d been appalled at the idea, but for once my father intervened and worked it out with his mother and Mr. and Mrs. Guidry.
I assumed Gary would be picking me up. I folded my garment bag carefully over my arm, not wanting to crush, wrinkle, or obscure in any way the simple beauty of my ball gown. My father had surprised me by taking me to New York to shop and hadn’t even blinked twice at the price tag.
“Aimee.”
I started at the deep, familiar voice. Wes stepped in front of me and easily lifted my suitcase from the ground beside me.
“Welcome back.” Wes leaned down and kissed me on the cheek, then stood back as if to get a good look. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks
as he examined me. The awkwardness floated between us as we both recalled the intimate thoughts of our letters.
He finally broke the silence. “It’s a good thing you’re blushing or I would have had to check the ID tag on your suitcase to make sure it was you!”
His blue eyes flashed, and I couldn’t help but smile back at him.
“Hi, Wes.” He wore a suit and a hat, and for a moment I thought that we both looked like children playing adults. I glanced behind his broad shoulders. “Where’s Gary?”
A small flicker passed behind his eyes. “He stayed up all last night studying for a trigonometry test. He was exhausted.”
I felt a pang of guilt for being glad of his absence.
“Believe me—he wanted to come. Ray Von practically had to tie him to his bed.” He maneuvered us toward the exit of the large, hangarlike structure. “I know I promised you lunch at Commander’s.”
I felt a flush of pleasure. “I thought you would have forgotten all about that.”
“Of course not. But you’re going to have to take a rain check. Gary is too eager to see you to wait.”
