The Edge of the Gulf

by Hadley Hury

  I thought about e-mailing you, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for this communication and, besides, I never have really gotten the hang of it. The last note I sent someone I discovered two weeks later was unsent; apparently I’d hit the wrong icon. Even though I’ll see you in a few weeks and we can talk more at length, I wanted to say these things to you now. I am sending this letter by certified mail and no doubt you will want to burn it when you have read it.

  In closing just let me say that I think your idea of leaving Chaz your beautiful home seems ideal to me. And sharing your intention with him soon, yourself, rather than letting him hear it read from a sheaf of documents years from now, is characteristic of you. Very warm and very thoughtful. Some of Chaz’s happiest memories are of our times in Laurel.

  I am delighted as well that you feel you have the right team now to take on the 26-A and the Blue Bar. I know that for you they are far more than businesses and that you want to place them, too, into caring hands.

  Feel wonderful about your decisions! You deserve to. They are not only wise, they are right and good. I know that you’ll work out the details with your attorney there; Dan is a great guy. But, of course, as you suggested, we can go over some options when I’m down if you want. Thank you again for having entrusted me all these years with what you, so characteristically, consider a profound trust of your own. I join you with every fiber of my being in preserving it. If anyone can be nearly as happy as you to see, in his lifetime, that tract of land saved, you know who it is.

  And let me say how honored I am to have a man like you as my only brother in this world. What brother could have honored me more, not just for the past fifteen years but for over six decades, with such true intimacy, generosity, and confidence? My life is immeasurably enriched by your integrity and your love.

  Always,

  Peter

  Although Peter Cullen did not get his wish about seeing in his lifetime the eighty-five acres of land just east of Seagrove become a wilderness preserve, he did get his wish about not growing too old. He had been discovered by a friend who had dropped by early on the morning of February seventeenth for coffee and to return a book. Not rousing Peter, the friend had walked around to the back to see him, one hand still clutching a hose, his robe drenched with the spewing water, sprawled close to the long bed of roses to which his wife had been so devoted. His face was free of pain and his physician later said that the coronary had, in all probability, killed him instantaneously.

  ***

  As the plane began its descent, Chaz looked over from his Bloody Mary and crossword at the letter in Sydney’s lap. “Should you have that with you?”

  “I don’t think Uncle Charlie’s going to go through my purse or bag. Besides,” she smiled, “it holds a sort of talismanic effect for me.”

  She nestled into his chest, and kissed him.

  Chapter 19

  Hudson slept well, was up by seven, and went for a run on the beach with Moon.

  Over breakfast he decided that the work of the day would be reading, that he’d get back to the reviews tomorrow.

  He tackled the project that interested him least, in order to get it out of the way: Heart of Darkness, a rough spot in the senior curriculum about which he continued to have questions. But for now, he had to work it up and there was no way around it but through it. He appreciated Joseph Conrad, he just didn’t particularly like reading him.

  At least that was the flippant assessment he currently held. More truthfully, it wasn’t the author’s alternating ham-handedness and opacity that rankled him, it was the novella’s very effective delving into questionable motive and moral ambivalence that disconcerted him now more than ever. By one-thirty the weight of the story had pinned him to the sofa; he was slowly inching his way through the African interior, with Olive riding on his chest and a notepad at his side, when the phone rang.

  “Hudson?”

  “This is he.”

  “Well, I just wanna know this, is this the goodlookin’ Hudson DeForest who makes me laugh?” The voice—pure old Memphis, rich, mature, deliberate and deep, almost a man’s except for its distinctly feminine grace—poured into his ear like a commingled breath of cigarettes and bourbon. “The one whom I simply cannot wait to see?”

  “Libby!”

  “Well, I have to call to see how you’re doing, because of course I know you’ve been here for a week and I guess we just haven’t made it onto your social calendar and I really don’t intend to wait much longer.” Libby punctuated only rarely with full stops; implied commas and sinuously sustained run-on sentences, imbedded with dramatic emphases, sly one-liners, and droll parenthetical asides, were her forte.

  “Five days. I was going to call you two tonight. I swear it.”

  “How are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I think so. What kind of trouble are you into this summer?”

  “Not a damn thing that I know of and I wish I did! That old fool husband of mine has gone fishing up at that lodge in Montana with his card-playing geezer buddies and none of my girlfriends are here right now and I’m right lonely. Charlie says you all had a marvelous visit Saturday evening.”

  “It was, indeed. So good to be with him again.”

  “Bradford won’t be back for two weeks. I know I’ll see you for dinner next week with the young cousin and his bride. But I don’t wanna wait to see you and I’m just sitting here reading….”

  “So am I. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.”

  “Well, aren’t we fun? I mean I know you must have your schoolwork and all—oh, and I wanna hear about your book—but I was just wondering if you might like to get together for a drink and just talk some trash, I have to see for myself if what Charlie says is true.”

  “And that would be…?”

  “That you just look great.” She said it in that Southern sense that translates as “You seem to be getting by okay.”

  ***

  At seven o’clock Hudson mounted the wide steps of the big shingled house that Brad and Libby Lee called home seven or eight months of the year. They had owned the large saltbox at the end of Alexandria Lane, a cul-de-sac on the north edge of town shaded by large live oaks and myrtles, for more than thirty years. At first they came only a few weeks a year, renting the house out otherwise, but eventually they found themselves spending more and more time in Laurel. A few years back, on the occasion of Brad’s third and final retirement from the brokerage, they had sold their home in Memphis, returning now only in late spring or at Christmas for visits with friends, Libby’s brother, or Brad’s sister.

  The big Laurel house was now made available only to closest family and friends, and even then, at times, only with short notice. “I like to come and go when I want to,” as Libby put it. In the past few years, Libby had come and gone—with Brad, alone, or with friends—to New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, British Columbia, Toronto, Nantucket, Tuscany, Lake Como, Austria, London, a ten-day hike along Kau’ai’s Na Pali and a two-week biking tour of southern Scotland.

  “Come in this house,” she growled, swinging wide the door and throwing out her free arm for a hug. Libby’s physical qualities uncannily matched her voice; she was an elegant voluptuary clearing a path to seventy with slyly vigorous humor, good breeding not heir to pretension, exceptional cheekbones, thick honey and gray hair, and watery blue eyes so penetrating that they would be almost disconcerting were they not also so ineffably inviting and sympathetic.

  Hudson embraced her, producing from behind his back a rough bouquet of mustard yellow lantana he had snatched as he left the cottage. “Poor things, but mine own.”

  “No, they’re beautiful, but let’s go get ’em some water, they wilt so fast you know—you know I had a pretty good bush myself around back, it had grown up nice and tall, and then of course the workmen just decimated it when they extended that screened porch awhile back. It’s just sort of pitiful now, hardly blooms.”<
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  She led the way down the wide dog-trot hall to the large, glassy kitchen, to search for a vase and situate the flowers, sustaining all the while a deceptively languid commentary that ranged from flowers (“You will be forced to look at my flower photos from the hike in Kau’ai”) and local workmen (“They call the shots and you can just take it or leave it”) to the big and fairly tacky house that had recently risen at the other end of her street (“The best thing I can say about it is that, thank God, they had the common decency to leave that stand of oaks and that big magnolia along the road so that I don’t have to see most of it”); the afternoon’s reading, a novel, from which she had sought relief(“So many people have told me ‘You must read this book,’ but I don’t know—am I missing something?—I can’t keep my eyes open, just duller than dishwater and so predictable, by the time something finally happens you feel like you’ve already read that it already happened”); an upcoming trip (“Brad has finally realized I guess that I’m not going to shut up about that Norwegian cruise, we’re going in September”); and her volunteer gig at the child abuse center in Panama City (“I have to make myself go but then of course I’m always glad I did…”).

  Over drinks, she subsided: “I’m just babbling I’m so glad to see you.” She leveled her dancing crystal eyes at him with unswerving focus, and said: “I mean really see you. In Memphis Christmas before last you seemed all right but I couldn’t help but feel you were just acting like we’re supposed to.”

  “Maybe that’s why I very rudely kept our visit to a minimum. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fool you. I was so grateful you came to see me, but also I couldn’t wait for you to go back to Laurel or leave for Europe or wherever you were headed.”

  “Oh, honey, I understand, and that’s why I’ve steered a wide berth and not bothered you. But we were worried about you. And you know you can talk to me any time of the day or night now or next year or any time at all or not talk to me one bit, I just want you to know we love you and we’re pullin’ for you.”

  She paused. “And I do just have to say, because it’s true, that you really do look marvelous. You know, every time I see you after a long time you’re even better looking than I remembered. That auburn hair with just a touch of distinguishing gray, and those green, green eyes. Those little girls at Elliott must absolutely swoon.”

  “And you, as always, are a woman of impeccable taste.”

  They laughed, and Libby reached over and gripped his hand for a moment. “I sure as hell am, and I’ll tell you what. Now, this may be importunate, but I promise you it’ll be my last unsolicited observation, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “That superb woman, Kate, wants you to live, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, I know that and I feel that. And I’m trying. And I’m trying not to try too hard.” Hudson exhaled mightily. “It’s hard. I’m doing it.”

  “Good for you. Are you still seeing Alex?”

  “Just cut from once a week to twice a month a few weeks before I came down. He is a very wise, very compassionate taskmaster. I will probably be playing tapes of his voice in my brain for the rest of my life—I think of him as my voice of sanity. Kate, of course, is my voice of strength. She cuts me no slack. When I’m up against it, I think what he might say, what she would say. I trade on his rationalism, his emotional truth, and I trade on her strength. And when I’ve considered their perspectives, I force myself to make my own decision and get on with it.”

  Libby patted his hand and winked at him. “Bring your drink and let’s go back on the porch—with the overhead, it’s cool enough—and while you look at my Kau’ai flowers, you really won’t believe them, I’m going to have just one little cigarette.”

  “How are you doing with that?”

  “This will be my first of the day—never more than three a day, sometimes only two, and I think that’s pretty good.” They went through the French doors out onto the long screened porch, its wicker Adirondacks and ottomans lighted only by a couple of low table lamps. All around, the thick darkness beyond undulated with the interwoven rhythms of cicadas and tree toads and the evensong of birds.

  ***

  In the summer months, even Monday nights were fairly busy at the Blue Bar. Hudson and Libby sat in a corner booth in the back room, watching through the windows the ebb and flow of the deck bar crowd.

  As she cased the joint, Libby filled him in on all the local gossip. “I have my role in Laurel society down to a fine science. I’m here just enough to know what I want to know about what’s goin’ on and I’m gone just enough not to have to deal with whatever I don’t want to deal with.”

  Their talk soon turned to Charlie.

  “What do you suppose this celebration, this announcement, is a week from Saturday?” Hudson asked.

  “Intriguing, isn’t it? But then one reason we’ve been friends all these years is that we share a high regard for privacy. I mean, we’re as close as we can be, and we’re not secretive, but we keep our own counsel, you know—Brad always says ‘Charlie’ll tell us when he’s ready to’—and God knows I sort of go my own way. All I can think of is that maybe he’s doing something wonderful as a wedding gift. You know, that boy’s the only blood family he’s got, and Charlie loved his father just like a brother.” She paused. “Peter was a good man.”

  “Do you know Chaz?”

  “Not really, haven’t seen him in years—he was probably just graduating from high school and I believe Charlie said he’s thirty-five, so, what? Seventeen, eighteen years? You know he’s been down a couple of times since his father died, but we were away—in April, wasn’t it?—I remember because we were still in Memphis the first time and then Hawaii.”

  “Charlie says he was a handful but that he’s gotten his act together.”

  “He seems to be very proud of him. Apparently has a thriving little art and antiques business in Buckhead and apparently madly in love with this Sydney. I think she does something with some video production group or something like that—Charlie offered to do a big wedding party here, but their work schedules wouldn’t allow it….”

  “Sounds like her family would’ve been a lot to contend with, too.”

  “Smart girl, and besides I just love the idea of elopement. Brad wanted to, you know—wanted to come down here—but I wouldn’t hear of it.” She shook her head. “One of the best ideas he ever had.”

  “Charlie seems pretty happy about the marriage.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think it’s all part of his being pleased that Chaz finally settled down and straightened himself out. He told me he knew how much Chaz loved her from the way he talked about her.”

  “I had the feeling the other night that Charlie may be putting his house in order. He’s the same as ever. Energetic. Happy enough, I think. Glad to have divested himself of most of his holdings, and having a good time with 26-A and this—” he gestured. “But—I don’t know—I sensed that somehow he may feel in need of some investment, some stake, in the future.”

  “Just a little bit lonely?”

  Hudson nodded.

  “That’s why if he’s finding pleasure in Chaz and Sydney, I’m all for it. If something makes Charlie happy, I’m happy for him.” She reached over and squeezed Hudson’s hand. “And, need I add, you gorgeous man, that goes for you, too.” She straightened her neck and lifted her head imperiously, fixing him with a wry stare. “It goes for all of us. We’re all a little bit lonely and we all need to help one another. God knows I’m not getting any younger.”

  Neither of them had noticed the figure suddenly approaching from around the high back of the booth. “Who’s not getting any younger?”

  “Charlie!”

  “Libby, you know you’re one of the youngest people any of us knows.”

  “You’re a liar but you’re cute,” Libby said, looking around. “Have you all been here long? We just demolished two of those divine shrimp salads. And where are the newlyweds?”

  “Out th
ere,” Charlie said, nodding at the window. “We just had a drink and I had to go up front to talk with Terry. They’re waiting for me—we’re about to walk on back to the house for a sandwich.”

  Hudson laughed. “I’ve just been watching them, thinking what an attractive couple they are!”

  Libby twisted around and followed their gaze. “Tall, chestnut hair with the broad white headband? Nice-looking gal, and look at Chaz….” She trailed off in the memory of a gawky, sullen adolescent, shaking her head. “Mnh, mnh, mnh. I cannot believe it. Aren’t they a handsome pair?”

  Charlie beamed. “They are, aren’t they? Come on out!”

  ***

  They seemed to Hudson the sort of couple whose complementary strengths and exchange of mutual support were immediately apparent, beginning with their physical appearances.

  Chaz was about Charlie’s height, just under six feet, and rakishly thin, not unhealthily, but in a rather aesthetic way. His bearing might almost be described as languid or willowy, except for the restless energy that seemed to bring his frame to alert, erect attention now and then, and to pulse behind the large, dark, watchful eyes, wide-set in a very fair face. His mouth’s expression, seemed, too, to have a life of its own, now upturning the entire face with a sudden, brilliant smile, now falling into a line of distracted repose. His hair, dark, shiny, almost black, was not long, but it curled cherubically around his face. His brow was high. Something almost Byronic about the guy, Hudson thought. Something at once easy and potentially volatile.

  Her voice was arresting, measured, low but lilting. In fact, everything about Sydney was artfully modulated, yet seemingly genuine and spontaneous. Hudson thought her blue-grey eyes teemed with intelligence and was bemused at how the fine carefulness of her demeanor occasionally erupted into high-spirited humor. Of medium height, she seemed taller: slim, long legs, full breasts, a long oval face with the chin carried at a proud angle. She wore only light makeup, and her rich brown hair was pulled back from her face with the white headband; she was dressed simply but strikingly in a short lilac sundress. Sexy in a cool way, Hudson thought, and a conscious, but not self-conscious, sense of style.