The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  Wes shook his head almost imperceptibly, his voice very soft. “No. She wanted to leave, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop her even if I wanted to.”

  My breath stuck in my throat, and there was nothing more to say. He led me back to the couch and pulled me into his embrace while we listened to the storm rage, the two of us an island in the middle of it all. Eventually, I got up to close the front door and turn on a light to chase the darkness out of the corners. I flipped the switch but nothing happened.

  “The electricity and phones always go out during a storm—and usually for a couple of days. Nobody’s ever in much of a hurry down here to get it fixed.”

  I walked over to the phone and picked it up to hear only silence. When I sat down again, his hands immediately touched me. “We need to tell your father, Wes—and Gary. He’s worried sick. We’ve even called in the police.”

  He laid his head back against the couch and covered his eyes. “I figured as much. I’ve been such a coward, hiding out down here. I guess I was trying to spare Gary this.” He lowered his hands and looked at me. “Finding out that Mother has left us will just about kill him.”

  I held his face in my hands and kissed his lips softly. I seemed to pull courage from the air, the storm, the old tree outside. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I love you, Wes. I have since that first moment I saw you on the levee. I won’t let you do this by yourself.”

  His eyes darkened, and he kissed me again before putting me away from him. He jumped up and ran his hands over his stubble. I had never seen him so agitated. Even when his mother was on one of her binges, Wes was always so cool and in control. He turned to face me, his expression finally calm.

  Reluctantly, I sat up. His voice held a new energy. “You need to get back to New Orleans before they realize you’ve been here. I don’t want you involved in the police investigation—it will be bad enough with me, my father, and Gary involved. But I want you out of it. Leave now, and I will follow you later this evening or tomorrow morning. I’ll find a ride somehow. Don’t tell anybody you’ve been here.”

  “Can’t we do this together—wouldn’t it be easier for you if I were by your side when you went to the police?”

  He shook his head, his mouth clenched tight. “No—it will be easier for me if I know you’re not involved. And easier for Gary, too. You and me . . . we’ll have to wait a while, okay?” His mouth tilted up at the corner in an effort to smile as he lifted his hand and smoothed the hair off my face. “We’ll get through this. We all will—you’ll see. Just go back to New Orleans as if you’ve never been here and spoken to me. I’ll call you after I leave the police station.”

  The light at the windows brightened and I realized the storm had subsided, leaving only dripping eaves and sodden sand. Wes walked me out the back door and we strolled toward the side of the house with his arm around me. He seemed shocked for a moment to see his mother’s car, then realized that I’d driven it. He opened the car door and I slid in. Leaning in the window, he kissed me. I smiled at him and put the car in reverse. He stood in the drive watching me as I pulled out onto the road, still standing, watching, until I could no longer see him in my rearview mirror.

  I saw Lacy’s car as I approached the house on First Street. I was parking Mrs. Guidry’s car behind it as she came running down the front steps, blond hair flying. “Where have you been?” she screamed at me as I stepped out of the car. Too shocked to answer, I stood mute.

  She approached and grabbed each of my arms and shook me. “Where have you been?” she shouted again, close enough for me to feel her hot breath on my face. She clenched her teeth. “Were you with Wes?”

  Angry now, I shrugged her hands off of me. “It’s none of your business, Lacy. Why are you here?”

  She crossed her arms across her chest. “Mr. Guidry called me. Gary’s in the hospital—he’s had a heart attack.”

  I felt the air leave my lungs. “What? How is that possible? He’s only seventeen, for God’s sake!”

  “He’s at Ochsner and he’s been asking for you. Mr. Guidry called me to see if I could find you.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said, my mind spinning, wondering what to do next. I sat down heavily on the bottom step. “I need to tell Wes. . . .”

  “No. You need to get to the hospital. I’ll tell Wes.”

  I looked up at her, noting the perfect precision of her bones, the clearness of her eyes. “You can’t. . . . The phones aren’t working.”

  She leaned down close to me and spoke quietly. “Then tell me where he is and I’ll go get him.”

  I smelled her perfume, musky and exotic. “He’s at River Song.”

  A look of triumph passed over her face. “I’ll get him. You go to the hospital—Gary needs you.”

  Numbly, I nodded and watched her get behind the wheel of her car. I walked to the Cadillac, my legs rubbery, and tried to stick the key in the ignition, missing it twice. Too stunned to cry, I backed the car out of the driveway. As I gave it gas, a movement from the garden caught my eye. I turned my head in time to see a face peering from behind the fence amid the frost-pinched elephant ears, the one good eye staring at me. The face slid from sight as I raced down the street, seeing Gary’s smile and feeling Wes’s kiss.

  CHAPTER 18

  Live so that you tempt not the sea relentless

  Neither press too close on the shore forbidding . . .

  Thus in stormy days be of heart courageous

  And when waves are calm, and the danger over,

  Wise man, trim your sails when a gale too prosp’rous

  Swells out the canvas.

  —HORACE

  Julie

  The week before Thanksgiving and, I soon learned, the week before fishing season ended, I stood on the beach in front of River Song, its walls now outlined in two-by-fours, its roof still a hollowed shell allowing in the sunlight that settled onto the new raised foundation like a blessing. The old oak in the front yard, proudly wearing all of its scars, sat patiently as yet another house rose from the sandy earth. I found myself wondering if it ever got tired of watching people trying to build on an unforgiving landscape.

  I looked up as a strong breeze lifted my hair and caused the oak’s leaves to slap at the wind like a thousand hands clapping in approval. The wind pushed at me, forcing me to view the house again, its framed steel-enforced support columns no longer resembling the warm arms of Monica’s description, but seeming instead to be more like defiant shields.

  Tilting my head, I continued to regard the house, wondering how, with all of our meticulous planning, it looked so different to me—but not so much in the wood and cement and structure. It was almost as if the house no longer represented a promise delivered, or even the shortsighted folly I’d accused Trey of building. But what had remained the same was the spirit of the place, present here since even before Aimee had known it: a spirit of survival that had nothing to do with the building at all. I placed my hand on the scarred bark of the tree as if I could mend it, then drew my hand away, somehow knowing that I wasn’t there to make the scars disappear.

  Taking a sip from my fast-food coffee, I turned and watched Aimee stroll down the deserted beach with her cane as Beau ran, dipped, and swayed, mimicking the skimmers out on the sound searching for their breakfast. He had changed so much in the three months since we’d arrived. The clinginess and babyish behavior were slowly dissipating, and he seemed to grow more and more into boyhood each day. I knew Aimee’s love and attention accounted for a lot of it, but so did Trey’s influence. Still, I couldn’t help but see the lost little boy he’d been after his mother’s death, and I found it very difficult to let go of our mutual need for each other, or to fully relax whenever he was out of my sight.

  A doglike bark brought my attention to the water, where a black skimmer cruised low over the waves sleek and fast like the fish it hunted. On our frequent inspections of the building site, Trey had begun to teach me the names of the shore birds, and how to recognize them. Som
e, like the great blue heron, were yearlong Gulf Coast residents. Others, like the orange-billed royal tern, were winter visitors, seeking the warmer waters and air of the gulf. They were all exotic and beautiful to me, and it thrilled me to see them regardless of how I tried to hide it from Trey.

  Footsteps approached and I turned to see Trey, bundled in a flannel jacket, standing next to me nursing his own coffee. “They said that the oil spill would keep a lot of the birds away.” He took a sip from his cup. “They said the same thing about Katrina, too. Guess they were wrong.” My eyes met his and I saw the challenge in them.

  We began to walk slowly down the beach toward Aimee and Beau. Trey continued. “I was at the Back Bay yesterday and saw two white ibises. You ever seen one?”

  I shook my head.

  “Beautiful birds, and they’re here year-round. They have the distinction of never having been on an endangered species list.”

  I glanced up at him, squinting into the sun, knowing that he wouldn’t tell me any more unless I asked. “Why?”

  After a dramatic pause, he said, “When an old habitat is washed away by a storm, or gets coated in oil, they find another one that’s just as good.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Guess they figured it was worth the trouble to stay here, and a heck of a lot easier than packing up and moving to California.”

  Shading my eyes with my flattened hand, I looked at him, wondering if he expected me to laugh, but saw that his face was serious.

  As if summoned, a pair of black skimmers swooped close to shore, barking loudly as they chased the waves onto the beach as if to prove to unbelievers that returning home was more than just instinct but a necessity of survival.

  We faced the water and stared out at the blur of Ship Island in the distance, the waves lapping near our feet. Two shrimp boats slowly made their way out toward the gulf, dark blobs on the horizon and in the corners of my memory. This was Monica’s favorite time of day while in Biloxi, a time alone with the water and the birds and the fish, a room of her own where her parents’ fighting could never reach her. I took a deep breath of the crisp, salty air, the newness of it that seemed full of possibilities, and thought I understood a little bit more of why she had loved this place so much.

  “Do you swim?”

  I looked up at Trey, bringing me back to the present. “No.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he took another sip of coffee. “It’s too cold now, but when the water warms up, we’ll have to fix that. Same with Beau. Monica’s son should know how to swim.” I found myself nodding, unsure where the fear had gone. Maybe because I was sure I wouldn’t be here long enough to immerse myself into warm waters, my bare feet stepping out into the unknown.

  “Look,” Trey said, pointing down the beach.

  My gaze followed and I watched as a tall snowy egret, its plumed head waving regally as it moved, walked down a dilapidated dock as if the broken and splintered wood were a red carpet. Beau stopped to watch, keeping very still, as Trey had taught him. He looked at Aimee and put his finger to his lips, making me want to laugh out loud.

  The bird stopped and stared at Beau as if in mutual admiration, then looked around at its environment like a king surveying his domain. Then, with a quick snap of its long and elegant wings, it shot into the cerulean sky.

  But my focus was on Beau, whose head remained tilted back, facing the sky, until long after the bird disappeared. His cheeks were pinkened, his mouth open in joy, and his arms stretched wide as if to encompass the birds, the sand, the water, the people. The house. I no longer felt the cool wind slide up my sleeves or tease my hair. I saw only Monica’s dream, and for the first time since I’d brought Beau on the long trip from New York, I began to believe that maybe I really had done the right thing.

  A horn beeped from the road behind us and we turned to see Walker King in a silver pickup truck hauling a boat on a trailer pull into the driveway in front of River Song. Before Walker had opened his door, Charlie Thibodeaux flew out of the passenger side and ran to the edge of the road, waving wildly at Beau. She waited until Walker caught up to her and took her hand, and then, after checking both ways, crossed the road, pausing in the median to check again before crossing to the beach.

  Charlie and Beau raced toward each other, then hugged like they hadn’t seen each other in years instead of the day before. Walker sauntered over to us with a smile. “Carol Sue says they’re already talking about getting married. I suggested that we should encourage them to take it slower, and wait until they’re at least out of kindergarten.”

  Walker and Trey shook hands. Walker leaned down and surprised me by kissing Aimee on both cheeks. “Good to see you, Miss Aimee.”

  “You too, Walker. You taking good care of our Carol Sue and Charlie?”

  “Yes, ma’am. As much as they let me.”

  “And how’s your mama and daddy?”

  “Just fine, Miss Aimee. Thank you for asking. Mama goes on and on about your garden clippings. Says you are solely responsible for restoring half the gardens in Biloxi ruined by Katrina. She’s even finally admitting that her garden now might even be nicer than the one she had five years ago.”

  I turned to look at the boat behind the truck, feeling the first twinges of trepidation. “Are the four of you really going to fit on that?”

  Walker tried to look offended. “That boat has reeled in more fish than you’ve probably ever eaten in your entire life. I know it’s nothing fancy—just some seats and a motor, and a place for our fishing poles. Cooler for the fish we catch is already stored under one of the seats.”

  I frowned. “What about life jackets?”

  “They’re in the bed of the truck. I’ve got four—and two of them are made for children. They’re not in the boat because I insist that everybody has one on before we get near the water.”

  Trying to smile, I said, “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  He stopped me. “No need to apologize. I understand completely. Trey and I will take real good care of these children. I promise. And I promise that they’ll have a great time, too.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding and trying to convince myself.

  “What’s been biting this season?” Trey asked.

  “Oh, a bunch of speckled trout, some cobia and redfish. And Bucky Elmore caught a twenty-four-pound tripletail near Gulfport Harbor. Hope there’s something left for us, seeing as how the season closes next week.”

  We walked back to the house, Beau’s hand in mine, his other holding Charlie’s, while he kept up a constant chatter about how he was going in a boat and how Uncle Trey was going to show him how to set up a plastic jig to catch trout. I had no idea what he was talking about, and could only hope that whatever it was wasn’t dangerous.

  We strapped the children into the back of the double-cab truck, and right before Trey got in, he gently squeezed my arm. “He’ll be fine, Julie. Monica loved fishing, and was never shy about announcing to the world that she always caught bigger fish than me. I’m sure Beau would love to do the same thing. I’ve already told him that I would bark like a skimmer if he caught a bigger fish than me. That might be worth seeing.”

  I stepped back as he climbed into the truck, feeling slightly better. “Yeah. It sure would,” I said, as I tried not to smile at the mental image of Trey Guidry barking like a bird.

  Aimee and I waved as they pulled away, reconfirming the time we would meet them back at Carol Sue’s for an anticipated fish dinner.

  As the truck disappeared from sight, I saw that Aimee was holding Monica’s red hat. “Oh, no! Beau forgot the hat.” I started digging in my purse for the keys to my van, but stopped when Aimee rested her hand on my arm.

  “I think he’ll be all right without it.” Her smile was warm, her touch firm.

  I looked back at where the truck had long since disappeared, seeing Beau’s happy face as he’d waved good-bye. Still, I couldn’t yet forget the pale and sad boy who would wake up each morning asking for his mother long after I’d tol
d him that she was gone.

  “I hope so.”

  She nodded without speaking, her gaze focused on the house rising from ground. “This,” she said, indicating the framed walls and roof, “is a good thing. For a long time I didn’t think it would happen. Trey swore that he wouldn’t rebuild it without Monica.” Her eyes were troubled as they met mine. “And I was afraid that meant it would never be rebuilt.”

  She began to walk toward the house, where temporary wooden steps had replaced the old cement ones. “Call it a grandmother’s intuition, but I knew Monica wasn’t coming back. I hadn’t always felt that way, but last year I began to feel that she was gone from us forever. I tried to tell Trey, but he insisted that until he knew for sure, he wasn’t rebuilding.”

  Gulls shrieked behind us as they dipped over the sun-drenched water, searching for something only they could see, reminding me of the Katrina tree. Aimee hugged her arms to her chest, but I didn’t think it was from the cold. “I don’t know,” she said. “It seems to me that if everybody lived with the philosophy of certain knowledge before proceeding, this part of the world would never have been settled.” A soft smile touched her lips as she looked up to the skeleton roof as if seeking an answer. “After all, what’re a few storms, pestilence, and wars? I think the uncertainties build character.”

  I opened my mouth to argue before realizing that I didn’t know how. Instead, I touched her elbow. “Come around to the back. They’ve framed the sleeping porch on the second floor.”

  Carefully, I led her across plywood walkways to the backyard. I pointed up toward the back of the building. “Does it look like you remember?”

  “Not yet. But from what I see of the ceiling, it looks like they’re doing it right so far.”

  I smiled, pleased. “Steve Kenney has forbidden me from looking at it one more time until he’s finished with the drywall. I’ve had him change it at least twice and Trey once. It’s important that it’s the same, I think. I want Beau and any other child who lives here to believe this house has always been here.”