Where the River Ends

by Charles Martin

  Folks who live on the river usually ask two questions before building a home: where is the hundred-year flood plain and how do I build above it? Given that no insurance company in its right mind will write flood insurance for the St. Marys Basin, most homes are built on stilts.

  Even the churches.

  Despite this, the banks are dotted with homes, fish camps, swimming holes, marinas, rope swings, zip lines, whiskey stills, mud bogs and even one well-hidden nudist colony. Activity bustles along the banks like ants beneath the surface of their hill. From headwaters to sound, she is one of the last virgin landscapes in the South.

  THE RAIN HAD SLOWED ME to a crawl so I pulled off beneath an overpass and pushed the stick into neutral. Abbie lay in the back, half asleep. Every few minutes she’d mumble something in her sleep that I couldn’t understand.

  The treatments are the worst. They whittle away at your core, strip you of everything and leave you with fleeting memories. She’d tried so hard for so long to hold on, but like water, it had slipped through her fingers.

  I crawled into the back of the Jeep and lay down next to Abbie. She curled inward toward me. I pulled the plastic bag holding the yellowed and wrinkled newspaper article from my shirt pocket. I’d learned a few years ago to use whatever I could to stoke her hopes—keep her thinking out beyond the present moment. Because if she concentrated on the here and now, she’d spiral down fast. It was how I’d learned to get here from there to here.

  Her eyes cracked long enough to recognize it. She smiled and nodded—meaning she’d play along. “I’d like to…” The whisper was hoarse and distant. It was the drugs. Her pain threshold was rather high. She’d had a lot of practice. Her face told me she was fending it off as best she could.

  Abbie had always suffered with migraines. She internalized most everything, and in her case the tension had to go somewhere. Maybe her dad had something to do with it. They came on quickly and left slowly. By the time we met, she’d tried a dozen different medicines, yoga, acupuncture and deep-tissue massage, but all with little to no relief.

  When we were alone, she’d place my index finger just above her ear. That was Abbie-speak for “Trace me.” From her temple, my fingertips followed the lines of her ears and neck, her collarbone, the rise and fall of her breast, her arms, wrist, fingertips, the mound of her hips, the descent of her thigh, the little knot on her knee, the curve of her calf and the arch of her foot. Often, she’d fall asleep and when she woke the migraine was gone.

  I traced her. “Number one?”

  She swallowed. “Ride an antique carousel.”

  I prodded, “Number two.”

  She read the list off the backs of her eyelids: “Do a loopty-loop in an old plane.”

  The items were printed in no particular order. When one didn’t make sense to him, he’d inquire and she’d explain. To keep the simplicity of her list, he printed it the way she said it, but the clarification became a parenthetical note in his article. “I just love the way you say ‘loopty-loop.’ Say it again. One more time.”

  She licked her lips. Her tongue was cottony white. The first l stuck to the top of her mouth. “Loopty-loop.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Sip wine on the beach.”

  “We’re not even halfway.” She placed her head on my chest and breathed deeply. “Number four.”

  She paused. “I’ve forgotten.”

  It was good to know she’d not lost her sense of humor. “I highly doubt it.” She almost laughed. I shook the ziplock bag holding the article. “Still waiting.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Go skinny-dipping.”

  “And number five?”

  The vein on her right temple had appeared blue and bulging. Meaning her head was throbbing. She pressed her palm to her forehead and held it there.

  I asked, “Scale of one to ten?”

  “Yes.”

  That meant nine point eight. I flipped open both the latches on the Pelican case and dug through the contents. River guides call them “otter boxes.” They’re watertight, they float and are crash proof. Chances are good you could load it with your mother’s china dinnerware, fling it off Niagara Falls and when you found it at the bottom, you could eat dinner off the plates. I found what I needed, popped the safety tip on the syringe, squeezed out the air and injected the dexamethasone into her arm. She didn’t even flinch. After four years, I was better than a lot of nurses at giving Abbie her shots.

  Minutes passed. Slowly, she spoke, “Swim with dolphins.”

  “Keep going. You’re on a roll.”

  “Wet a line.”

  “Number seven.”

  “Pose.” She chuckled.

  “Number eight.”

  She spoke without reading. “Dance with my husband.”

  “Two to go.”

  “Laugh so hard it hurts.”

  “And? Last but not least.” I mimed a drum roll with my fingers and made a trill sound with my tongue.

  “Ride the river…all the way from Moniac.”

  She pushed my hat back. It was felt. Called a Banjo Patterson hat. Made in Australia by Akubra. A 41/2'' crown, 23/4'' brim. I bought it about eight years ago because I thought it made me look like Indiana Jones. Now it was faded, the brim rose and fell like a roller-coaster track and my thumbs had worn a hole where I pinched the crown. As much as I wanted to look dashing and heroic, my reflection looked more like Jed Clampett.

  “You’re not gonna actually wear that silly-looking hat, are you?”

  I nodded. “My head spent five years just breaking it in.”

  She laughed, “It’s broken alright.”

  The problem with a wish list was what it told you about the person who wrote it. If it’s honest, it’s a rock-bottom, barebones, clear shot all the way to someone’s soul.

  Hats can do the same thing.

  3

  Most said it was a match made in heaven. Those who didn’t were just jealous.

  William Barclay Coleman had been born with “presence.” Tall, handsome, well-spoken, he commanded attention and even those envious of him treated him like E. F. Hutton. His gentleman’s pedigree was flawless. The Citadel, Harvard Law, European summers abroad. A young political up-and-comer, he grew up with a speaker’s gavel in his hand and was the youngest candidate ever elected to the South Carolina legislature. But that was just the beginning.

  Ellen Victoria Shaw was the poster child for Emily Post and Gloria Vanderbilt. A fifth-generation Charlestonian, she attended Ashley Hall and then, as a freshman at Randolph-Macon women’s college, no less than eight suitors asked her to accompany them to Fancy Dress—Washington and Lee’s annual formal. By her junior year, most every Kappa Alpha in a hundred-mile radius invited her to the Confederate-themed Old South Ball where the whispers and jealous mutters of the Hollins, Sweet Briar and Mary Baldwin girls voted her the unofficial belle of the ball.

  She graduated—a double in French and Art History—returned home and then a chance meeting at the Hibernia Society ball.

  He was twenty-five. She, barely twenty-two. They courted, appropriately, for nine months and then married in a wedding that shook most of Charleston with jealousy and unending speculation and gossip. For a wedding gift, he gave her a convertible Mercedes 450 SL Coupe.

  After an Austrian alpine honeymoon topped off with a Tanzanian safari and a trek up the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro, they returned to his family home on the Battery in Charleston where he strategized for a run at the governor’s mansion. Eighteen months later, she bore him a daughter, Abigail Grace Eliot Coleman—the sixth generation. During the inauguration ceremony the following January, Abigail Grace smiled through her bonnet at every camera flash and drank up the attention like chocolate. Even then she had a knack.

  But life took a turn.

  Abigail turned two, and Ellen fell ill. Bruises that wouldn’t go away. Tests confirmed ovarian cancer run rampant. It didn’t take long. The widowed father placed Abigail Grace in Miss Olivia’s arms,
put the car in cold storage, hid his mourning and focused his aim. He gave himself to “the people,” and after two terms as governor, he ran for Senate—where’s he’s been ever since.

  When Abigail was ten, the then junior senator remarried. Like her predecessor, Katherine Hampton was everything Charleston. She could trace her lineage to one of the founders of Charleston and signers of the Declaration. In his search, he had done the unimaginable—he had found a woman who could dance on glass. She was strong enough to step out of Ellen’s shadow while not dishonoring her memory.

  ABBIE GREW UP A DEBUTANTE, a graduate of Ashley Hall, the only daughter of the senator from South Carolina and the poster girl for the social elite. She had more class in five minutes than I had all day. Or all week. While I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, stepped in dog crap or spilled mustard across my white button-down, she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lacy napkin, made friends with stray dogs and levitated down sidewalks like Mary Poppins. We were as different as two people could be, and why she chose me is still a mystery. If you could see me, I’m scratching my head.

  Christmas break my freshman year at the College of Charleston. I was working the late shift at the Charleston Place Hotel bar, located just off the Gone With the Wind double staircase that led upstairs. It was near midnight, I was bussing a table and four girls walked in. Everything about them said “Charleston.” Their walk, their clothes, the way they held their mouths. It’s not a snobbish thing, it’s upbringing. Sure, it could get snobbish, but in that moment, it was a seamless fusion of culture and class.

  They ordered cappuccinos, lattes and a sampler plate of finger desserts. I screwed up the espresso, burned the milk with the steamer and squirted runny whipped cream across the top of their cups only to have the canister erupt and splatter my apron—which at the end of the day is a pretty good description of me.

  They whispered and laughed ’til nearly 1 a.m. It used to be that when I saw a group of girls like that, my mind would sort of lump them all together. I’d see the group while no one person really stood out.

  Except her.

  She was one part Julie Andrews and two parts Grace Kelly. She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen, and trust me, I’ve spent some time studying pretty faces. With her, it wasn’t the high cheeks, the lips, chin or nose. It was her eyes—and something behind them.

  At Charleston Place, we catered to a lot of famous people. From Arab sheiks to Hollywood A-listers, the only thing uncommon is the absence of commonality. I knew she was famous, I knew I’d seen her face before, but I’d been on my feet for fourteen hours and things were a little fuzzy.

  Finally, the most giggly girl in the group waved me to the table. I tried to act all waiterly, refilled their water glasses and stood back, towel hanging across my forearm. Her friend, Elizabeth I would later learn, raised both eyebrows and said, “You keep looking, and I’m gonna charge admission.”

  Busted.

  I stammered, “Do I…do we…have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said quietly, “but sometimes I’m mistaken for someone else.”

  I should’ve quit before I shoved my foot down my throat. I nodded, tried not to smirk, couldn’t and walked back to the bar where I wiped it down—again. They left cash on the table and walked out into the lobby of the hotel.

  I thought to myself, I know her from somewhere.

  When the four of them walked past the Scarlett stairwell, she ran up the stairs—her long legs covering two at a time—and then straddled the railing like a horse and flew down on her butt. It was as out of place as McDonald’s in Japan, yet as I watched her, I witnessed a rarity—a woman who had taken what she wanted of Charleston, and not let it take her.

  They disappeared out the front door under the amused chuckle of the doorman. His white-gloved hand tipping his hat, he said, “Night, Miss Coleman.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Night, Mr. George.”

  I leaned on the bar and poured myself some club soda. Ten seconds later, George sauntered into the bar, palmed off a table and said without looking at me, “Don’t even think about it.”

  I pointed. “Who was…”

  He shook his head and turned his back on me. “You’re not even in the same universe.”

  He was right. But that’s just the thing about those stars that light up the universe. They reach you wherever you are.

  4

  JUNE 1, 4 A.M.

  The rain let up so I stuffed the article back into my pocket, climbed back into the driver’s seat and eased off the clutch. At 4 a.m. we pulled into the parking lot of the St. Marys Sportsman—a combination pawnshop and river supply store for every paddler, fisher, skier and hunter in a sixty-square-mile area. Gus wouldn’t open for a couple of hours but chances were good that my key still fit the gate and warehouse, so we pulled around back and I left the car running. Gus, the owner and my former boss, had told me to make myself at home whenever I came back to town, so that’s what I intended to do.

  One of the great things about small South Georgia–Norman Rockwell towns was how little things actually changed from decade to decade. Gus had never been too big on alarms or changing locks because the crime rate in St. George was usually limited to cow-tipping kids or truckers attempting to avoid agricultural inspection stations, so I slid my key into the lock and turned it, unlocking the gate.

  I grew up in a trailer park not far from here. From midway through the eighth grade to the year I left for college, I worked and guided for Gus. Conservative estimates would suggest that I logged more than three thousand kayak or canoe miles on the St. Marys—more than anyone I ever knew or heard of. Including Gus.

  I decided I’d try the honest approach. I knocked on the door of Gus’s trailer. A few seconds later the light clicked on and Gus cracked the door. One eye was shut, the other barely open. “Hey, Doss.”

  “Hey.”

  “Gimme a second.”

  Gus was maybe fifty now. Sun-battered and river-weary but he was fitter than most college kids. He stepped out looking more weathered and pruney, yet his smile was unchanged. Gus knew me, my story and had been the first to sign his name to the documents that got me through high school. I extended my hand, said, “Gus, I need to do some shopping.”

  He glanced at the car. “You want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatever you need. Make yourself at home.”

  I backed up to the door—the engine running—while Gus unlocked the bolt and rolled open the door above me. I pulled down two eighteen-foot Mad River canoes—one tan and one mango-colored—off the rental racks, three paddles and a couple of life vests and we tied them to the roof racks atop the Jeep. Gus noticed Abbie asleep inside but said nothing. I walked through the warehouse cramming a duffel bag with whatever I thought I needed.

  Inside the store, I threw some food and canned goods into a cooler, along with a stove and some small green propane tanks, two large blue tarps, a tent, a spinning reel along with a few Beetle Spins, and whatever else I could carry. Opening the glass of the display case, I lifted a small waterproof handheld Garmin GPS unit. The GPS used satellites to locate position. I didn’t grab it to tell me where I was, although it would do that within about three feet. I knew the river well enough. But I needed it to tell me how far we’d traveled and distance to future points. It would help me plan breaks, overnights and help me anticipate shelter. The problem with the river, even for someone like me, is that it is constantly changing. And in changing, it can look different with little notice. Also, with the tidal influence we’d encounter at Trader’s Hill, it would be nearly impossible to judge how fast we were traveling and, as a result, how far we’d traveled. Two miles an hour makes a world of difference. Lastly, the more tired I became, and I was sure I would, the less I’d be able to judge speed or distance. The GPS would guard against that.

  Gus picked up on my shop
ping and began laying a few things on the countertop that he thought I might need. He scratched his chin. “You going to the sound?”

  I nodded.

  “You going alone?”

  I looked at the car and shrugged.

  About that time, somebody knocked on the front door. Gus frowned, and spoke to himself. “It’s the middle of the night.” He stared through the door and saw two men standing in the shadows. He hollered through the glass, “We’re closed.”

  The first man spoke up. “Don’t look like it.”

  Gus smiled. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? We’re doing inventory.”

  The second man pressed his face to the glass. “We’re going gigging and just needed a few things. Wondered if you could help us out.”

  Gus glanced at the computer screen where the radar showed Annie swirling herself into a spinning red mess. He looked at me. “If they knew what they were doing, it’d be a good time to go gigging, with the change in the barometer and all, but I got a feeling these guys don’t know the first thing about gigging.” He shrugged and waved. “Sorry fellows. I just work here. Good luck to you.”

  Gus turned and walked into his office. One fellow gave him the finger while the other limped to their Tahoe. When he opened the door and stepped into the driver’s seat, it looked like two other guys sat in the backseat. We were entering hurricane season and it would not be uncommon for four down-on-their-luck losers to see opportunity in the aftermath of a hurricane.

  They disappeared out the drive while Gus reappeared from his office. He laid two items on the counter. Gus had never been an alarmist, but he’d lived in these woods a long time. This was not his first rodeo. He was a realist, and as a result, I suppose I was, too. “You’re liable to bump into more than just snakes out there.” The first was a Smith & Wesson model 22-4. A revolver with fixed sights, chambered in .45 ACP. The second was a Remington 870 twelve gauge with an eighteen-inch barrel. Which needed no explanation. I grabbed both along with a few boxes of shells.