Where the River Runs

by Patti Callahan Henry

  She placed her hand on my cheek. “Well, if you need to talk about anything, you know I’m here.”

  I nodded. “I do.” I glanced over at Tim, who sat in his truck waiting for me—he’d said he wanted to show me one more thing.

  Cate nodded toward the truck. “You two have a very . . . unique relationship.”

  “I’ve known him since . . . I don’t remember not knowing him.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes, I am. I have you.” I hugged her again and she climbed into her car, waved out the window until she rounded the bend at the end of our driveway. I jogged over to Tim’s truck, climbed in the passenger seat. “Okay, let’s go. Where you taking me this time?”

  Tim’s truck pulled up into his driveway. “Your house? You wanted to show me your house?” I opened the passenger door.

  “One of the things . . .”

  We walked up to the front porch and stood in front of Tim’s double front doors. I ran my hand across the carved wood. In the top right of the door, a dolphin curled around the corner, pointing his nose to the sky. If I could have reached to touch it, I would have, but Tim’s doors were at least nine feet tall. I pointed to the dolphin. “Did you carve that?”

  “Yep. Remember . . . when all three of us threatened to get dolphin tattoos after we found out that a Celtic dolphin stood for the power of water?”

  “We snuck out that night and drove to Savannah—to that tattoo parlor. My God, what were we thinking?”

  “Well, I think it was Danny who finally pushed us out of the tattoo parlor. So I made y’all a box with the dolphin instead.”

  His boyish eyes were still open wide, as if he was always ready for something good. “You remember that?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I sure do. You probably lost that thing by now.”

  “Not entirely . . . come on, show me this gorgeous home.”

  Tim pointed out the heart-of-pine floors, hand-carved banister, twelve-inch molding, until we stood in the kitchen. A window as large as the wall opened out to the sea. Bloated clouds sat motionless, waiting for direction from the wind. The top halves of the clouds were bleached and puffed cotton, the bases gray and expectant.

  “It’s like you live outside but inside,” I said.

  “That was the idea.”

  “You know”—I took a deep breath—“you’re the only one who did exactly what you said you’d do—build houses.”

  “No one does exactly what they said they’d do. I never said I’d get a divorce. I never said I’d live on Mom and Dad’s property taking care of them, barely scraping by—life just happens.”

  “Okay, Mr. Philosophy.” I held my hands up in surrender. “Where else did you want to take me today?”

  Rain skidded across the tin roof of the Keeper’s Cottage and broke into shattered drops denting the sand. I didn’t shield my eyes or wind-whipped hair from the downpour, which the latent clouds had released along with the stinging sand whipping my legs. In the late-evening light, I stared at the Keeper’s Cottage or actually at an exact replica of the cottage that the town had built two miles inland. The porch was missing, the tower gone; only the left side was painted. I stared at a building that might be a half-finished dream or nightmare.

  “You okay?” Tim touched my back.

  “Yes . . .” I turned to him, stared at him through my own memory of that horrid night. He’d been thinner. His hair had touched his shoulders, despite his father’s disapproval. His mouth had been fuller but with the same smile. “Why are they doing this?” I squinted at the cottage; it really was quite miraculous. “It’s like traveling back in time. Why are they trying so hard to reconstruct it?”

  “They started the reconstruction about a year ago, then ran out of money. There are a lot of reasons to build it, but mainly because it is a historic landmark for our humble town. There are also a couple families who actually had ancestors in the Civil War who died while disassembling the lighthouse so the Union troops couldn’t use it. Those soldiers took the Fresnel lens out and buried it in the sand a few miles away. They were shot coming home, so the families want the cottage as a tribute. Also it is, or was, the oldest Keeper’s Cottage in South Carolina. . . .”

  “None of this . . . restoration is a tribute to the fire, is it? To Danny?”

  He closed his eyes, let out a long sigh before he opened them again. “The fire is only one more tragedy associated with the cottage. There are quite a few of them. I even heard about a time in the early 1900s when a plantation owner gave huge parties here for hunters’ escapades. One of his guests got drunk and fell off the tower. There’s more. But this committee seems to think that restoring it or saving it is more of a tribute to the people who survived than to those who didn’t. I agree.”

  “So do I.”

  “I wanted to show it to you before you went home. I knew you hadn’t seen it. Let’s get out of the rain.”

  I ignored his suggestion. “Can we go inside?” I pointed to all the yellow caution tape surrounding the cottage.

  “No, the floors haven’t been reinforced yet.”

  “Will they put the tower back on?” I pointed to the roof. “Where the light was, where he fell off?”

  “Yes.” Tim took a deep breath. “God, I should have gone up there with him.” He groaned, dropped his head. “I ran with Karen, tried to help her out. I ran toward the woods, away from my best friend. I wish I knew what happened to him . . . you know?”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “I mean, did he get trapped? How exactly did he . . . die?” Tim didn’t look at me as he spoke, as though he spoke to the regret and sadness surrounding the cottage.

  “I used to lie in bed at Mawmaw’s and stare out the window at the mountains and use them as a backdrop like a movie screen to picture the different ways Danny could’ve died. I saw him flying through the air. I saw him collapse on the tower. I saw him try to swim and be pulled under.” I closed my eyes. “But I think he died from the fall . . . I don’t know why I think that. It was just what I saw most in those days when I’d try to . . . imagine him.”

  “I guess we’ll never know.”

  “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” I said.

  “Or maybe it does because maybe I could have stopped it.”

  “No, you couldn’t have. You had no idea the tower would collapse. . . . I passed out on him. I left him alone too. I’m the coward—I never returned, never faced any of it.”

  “Damn, Meridy, there is enough blame to go around. None of it goes to you.”

  “Yes, oh, yes, it does.” I kicked at the sand. “Hell, yes, it does.”

  Tim threw back his head and rain scattered across his face. “Did little Miss Perfect just curse?”

  “Did you just call me ‘perfect’?” My mouth dropped open. “That’s what Alexis called me. What are you people talking about? I’m a jumbled mess of a woman right now.”

  “A perfect jumbled mess.” Tim leaned down and kissed my forehead, as if I had a fever. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Promising talk don’t cook rice.”

  —GULLAH PROVERB

  The Seaboro Common Square was empty in the hushed morning as Mother and I parked the car in front of the antiquated library, which now held the Seaboro Historical Society. The grass was low and newly mowed, the fountain gurgling in a lonely echo across the lawn. Together, Mother and I walked into the building and toward the last room at the end of the hall. The structure carried an odor of all old buildings in Seaboro—a mix of mildew and sea, moist and human. Everyone greeted us as we sat down at a cedar conference table, crafted from a tree that had fallen in a hurricane and blown through the side windows in the early eighties.

  The mayor had appointed the ten seated men and women to the society. Mr. Cragg seemed as old as the historic building itself. “Now, everyone.” He clapped his hands together once. “Meridy McFadden . . . Dresden has come to our meeting with an
idea I think is fabulous. Meridy?” He lifted his palm and motioned toward me. “What would you like to say?”

  In the largest voice I could muster, I told the society about my idea for an arts festival to raise money for the Keeper’s Cottage.

  “Now, Meridy,” Mr. Cragg said, “this fund-raising idea has much merit, but why do we need to do this when it appears that Tim Oliver will donate the money?”

  I stood, a million wings fluttering against my ribs. “I think it would be more . . . beneficial to both the city and the reputation of the cottage to have an arts festival.” I leaned forward, placed my palms on the table and looked each person in the eyes. “Listen, you are constantly trying to get the outside world to notice Seaboro’s merits, of which there are many. Bringing in artists from all over the Lowcountry would seem to accomplish a dual purpose. The Oliver family has already lost so much; Tim has finally built his business. Forcing someone to pay for the renovations seems to affect the . . . spirit of the building.” I took a deep breath. I’d practiced that speech.

  A few men and women cleared their throats; Charlotte Hamlon leaned back in her chair. “I think it’s a waste of time—we could never raise that much money at a festival. And that Tim needs to pay for what he did.”

  Mr. Everett, my old history teacher, stood. “Well, I think Ms. Dresden has a valid point. It’s as much a tourist and reputation issue as a money issue. The PR for something like this would be great for the city and county.” He winked at me. Ever since I’d built a Roman city out of Popsicle sticks, he’d been on my side.

  “I’ve held an arts festival five years in a row for our private school at home,” I said. “I could help you get it organized, show you how, and . . . you could have it on the Fourth of July, when you have so many visitors already. My voice vibrated in the room; I was talking too loudly, the way a child does when trying to talk parents into something they’ve already said no to.

  Lansing Manning, an old friend of Mother’s, tossed her head as if she still had shoulder-length curls. Now a scarf surrounded her head—the only indication of the cancer she fought. “I want to head up this project.” She nodded toward me. “This is a magnificent idea for our town. The arts and the Keeper’s Cottage together—we can bring in every kind of artist: writers, storytellers, sweetgrass basket weavers. It is a fabulous idea.”

  Then voices overlapped, caught up in the excitement. Yes, now we could make the lists, assign the duties, and I could stop thinking about the past. I could once again forget, if I wanted to.

  Mother reached under the table and patted my leg, indicating I should sit. I smiled at her and obeyed.

  Charlotte Hamlon stood. “I think this is a ridiculous idea. How in the world will we get that many artists to come in under a month?”

  I straightened in my chair. “It would have to be for next year.”

  “See, it’s a ridiculous idea. We’re not willing to wait that long to make a few bucks when we could do all of it right now,” Charlotte said.

  “You’ve already waited twenty-six years. Surely another year of planning won’t harm the cottage,” I said.

  “Humph,” Charlotte muttered, but had nothing else to say.

  “Now, I can’t head this up,” I said, “but I can tell Mrs. Manning how to do it. And I’ll always be available by phone for consultation. I have an entire notebook on how to organize, run and set up an arts festival.” I motioned toward Lansing Manning.

  Mrs. Manning clapped her hands together. “This is so wonderful.”

  “Should we take a vote?” Mr. Cragg stood.

  The historic society’s voices rose in nine ayes, and one nay from Charlotte Hamlon, who then stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

  I thought Mother stifled a laugh, but the buzz of conversation overwhelmed the sound and I wasn’t quite sure.

  The afternoon after the historical society meeting, I made two more phone calls to home. When the answering machine came on—again—and Beau’s secretary told me he was unavailable—again—I realized I needed to go home. I must leave and discover what it was I was avoiding with Beau. I couldn’t hide here. I left a message on Beau’s voice mail: I was coming home in the morning.

  My suitcase lay open on the bed. Clean clothes were stacked around it, ready to be packed. I sat down on the mattress and it tilted under my weight. Beau knew I was coming. B.J. had decided to stay in Nashville for the weekend as usual—he loved it there. I was headed home without understanding how I felt about Beau at all, understanding only how I felt being here—more alive and open. Maybe I could find what I’d lost and bring it home with me.

  I sighed and walked downstairs—I definitely knew I couldn’t fly down now. I was grounded in my responsibilities and commitments.

  The arts festival committees were being formed under the direction of Lansing Manning; the curriculum was almost done. There was nothing left for me to do here. I stood on the back porch, the wood warm on my bare feet, the breeze a caress on my cheeks. This was the place where my memories gathered: this house, this beach, this sea-soaked air. These memories frolicked and talked to each other, passed stories and secrets. I felt they were just beginning to whisper to me, tell me their mysteries. Long ago, I’d left them all here and I would do so again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “If you hold your anger, it will kill all your happiness.”

  —GULLAH PROVERB

  I belonged here. In my very marrow I understood I belonged here: in our kitchen, cooking Beau’s dinner, folding the laundry, organizing the calendar for the family and addressing correspondence. I didn’t need to be diving in the sea, tramping through the woods, lifting my face to the wind with the bow of a boat cutting through the water.

  I ran my hand across the kitchen counter and then leafed through the pile of mail on my desk. Beau had divided the mail into piles of magazines, bills, personal mail and junk mail. I had once told him to never throw away junk mail; his idea of junk and mine weren’t quite the same.

  I hadn’t decided, until this moment, what a fool I was for thinking I could stay away. This was my home and my husband and my family. The past and Tim could take care of themselves. I lifted a picture of Beau, B.J. and me standing in front of the house posing for a Christmas card three years ago.

  The hum of the garage door slid into the kitchen; I smiled and waited for Beau to walk in. He sprang into the kitchen calling my name.

  “I’m right here,” I said.

  He held out his arms. I went to him. “I’m so glad you’re home.” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me so tightly the air squeezed out of me.

  I laughed. “Beau, let go.”

  “Never. Don’t you ever go leaving me like that again.”

  I stepped back and stared at him. The stress of the trial lay on his face in dark circles under his eyes. His hair fell back as he smiled, leaned in for a kiss. I closed my eyes and tasted this kiss, the one I’d known for twenty years but hadn’t really tasted in a long time. He pulled back from me. “You look great, honey. Tell me everything about the trip. How’s your mother? Sissy?” He walked toward the wine storage and pulled down a bottle of Merlot.

  “It was really great, Beau. I missed you.” Then the words rushed out that I’d kept tucked under my heart with hope. “Maybe we could go back together . . . in a few weeks or so. They’re organizing an arts festival I’d like to help with and I love the beach and the tides and I saw old friends I’d like you to meet—”

  He held up his hand. “Whoa.”

  “Well, Mother just seems so lonely and Sissy and Penn are coming to visit and . . . I’d like to see Tulu one more time—”

  “Who is Tulu?”

  I sat down at the kitchen bar and reached for the glass of wine he’d just poured me, let the liquid run warm to my middle. “She’s our old housekeeper, the one I’ve been interviewing, and I’d love it if you’d go with me, Beau. I’ve been very . . . empty here and there is some unfinished business there . . .
”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing more than what I just said.”

  “Are you unhappy with us? With me?” He made a pouty face and sat next to me at the bar.

  “To be unhappy, you have to feel something. I’ve just been kind of . . . empty. At least until I got there.”

  “I don’t understand.” He took a long swallow of his wine.

  “I don’t either. I’m trying to talk to you about it.” I leaned forward. “I keep thinking if maybe I talk about it—with you—I’ll come to understand how I feel, what I want. Don’t you feel like something is gone? Like we’re not really here or that everything is fake or just ridiculous? Like we don’t notice anything anymore?”

  “I’m too busy to feel any of those things. . . .” He shook his head at me as if I had way too much free time on my hands, as if I were worrying about something as trivial as what color sandals to wear to the garden party.

  I picked up my wineglass in perfect synchronicity with the ringing phone. Beau rose and picked up the handset. I was stunned by his action—I was in the middle of trying to tell him how I felt. I tamped down my anger, hoping that Beau would understand—help me breach this distance between us.

  After his brief hello, he looked at me and motioned for me to pick up the other line. “What?” I mouthed.

  He shooed his hand toward the library, where the other portable phone was. I ran and picked it up.

  “. . . my friends posted bail . . . ,” my son’s voice said.

  I walked back into the kitchen with the phone to my ear and heard Beau’s voice in the room and over the phone line. “How long did they keep you?” Beau motioned for me to be quiet with a finger over his lips.

  “Overnight. Dad, it was so terrible. God, I am so sorry. I’ve ruined everything. If Coach finds out, he’ll suspend me from the team. If the school finds out, I’ll lose my scholarship. I’ve screwed up good this time.” His voice caught. “I swear, Dad, I drove because I was the most sober. . . .”