The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes shifting to Charlie as I made a simple calculation. “Then . . .”

  Lowering her voice so the children wouldn’t overhear, she said, “Charlie never met her daddy. She was born in Hattiesburg, where we evacuated with my parents during the storm.”

  I stared at her, wondering how a person should respond to that. “I’m sorry,” I stammered.

  She bent to retrieve two garden trowels, then faced me. “Thank you. But we’re doing all right. I’ve got my parents and my friends and we’re doing fine.”

  I should have let it go at that, but despite my New England upbringing, my years in New York wouldn’t let me hold back the obvious question. “Your husband didn’t evacuate with you?”

  Using the back of her gardening glove, she began to brush dirt off of the trowels. “We had a house in uptown New Orleans—on Broadway. I evacuated early, because I was so near my due date, but Charles stayed a few extra days to make sure the house was boarded up, furniture moved to the upper floor and attic, things like that that I couldn’t help him with.”

  She took a deep breath, and I could tell she was pushing away the emotion to be able to tell me all the facts that led to the point where her life was forever and irrevocably changed. If I’d been raised a proper Southerner, I probably would have made her stop.

  Carol Sue continued. “Part of the reason Trey and Charles started their own firm was that they wanted to donate a set number of hours for pro bono work. Charles had been working hard on a foreclosure case for a ninety-year-old client in the Ninth Ward. The old man lived there with his handicapped granddaughter and her four children and was refusing to evacuate. Charles went down there with our SUV the day before the hurricane hit, after the mayor issued an immediate evacuation order, ready to evacuate them himself.”

  “But they wouldn’t go?” I asked, my throat dry.

  Carol Sue shook her head. “They wouldn’t leave. They said the house was the only thing they had, and they weren’t going to leave it behind. And they wouldn’t let Charles take the children. He called me to say that he was going to stay a little longer to see if he could convince them to leave, and then he’d come to Hattiesburg whether they were with him or not.” She looked at me and her eyes were bleak. “I’d started having my pains, and I told him to hurry.” She bit her lip. “He called me one more time to tell me his cell battery was low but that he was about to leave, because he wanted to be here to see his baby being born. That was the last time I heard from him.” Her hands twisted the gloves, smearing dirt and mud. “I wasn’t worried at first, because the news was that Katrina had missed New Orleans.”

  “I don’t understand. Katrina was the big disaster for New Orleans.”

  “That’s what most people think. Katrina actually made landfall here on the gulf in Waveland, just a few miles down the beach from here. But in New Orleans it was the surge from Lake Pontchartrain afterward that overwhelmed the levees, and the city flooded. We had a storm surge here, but we’re twelve feet above sea level, so there was a place for the water to go. But New Orleans is a bowl below sea level, and it just kept on filling and filling.”

  Her voice had gone very soft.

  I touched her arm. “You don’t need to tell me any more.”

  She gave me a grateful smile. “So I lost my husband, and Trey lost his best friend and business partner. And I don’t think anything’s been the same for us ever since.”

  I looked around the garden, the sun feeling warm on my back. “So why are you here? I would think you’d want to be as far away from a hurricane zone as possible.”

  She looked at me as if I’d just suggested streaking down the beach. It took her a moment to answer. “Because this is home.” She waited to see if the words registered with me, but I just looked back at her, not understanding at all.

  After a deep breath, she looked up at a tall oak tree beyond the garden, its leaves still green against the early October sky, the limbs now thick with foliage. “Because the water recedes, and the sun comes out, and the trees grow back. Because”—she spread her hands, indicated the garden and the tree and, I imagined, the entire peninsula of Biloxi—“because we’ve learned that great tragedy gives us opportunities for great kindness. It’s like a needed reminder that the human spirit is alive and well despite all evidence to the contrary.” She lowered her hands to her sides. “I figured I wasn’t dead, so I must not be done.”

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” My mouth twisted into an uneven grin.

  Carol Sue smiled at me, the sun turning her hair gold, and I realized how beautiful she must have once been, how beautiful she still was if you didn’t look too closely into her eyes. “I don’t know your story yet, Julie, but I’m just so glad you’re rebuilding River Song. We need that. All of us.” She swept her arm out again, and this time I was pretty sure she was talking about all of Biloxi.

  “I’m still not so sure, but thanks for your vote of confidence.” I looked at my watch. “I have to go. I need to pick up the blueprints for River Song and then head back to New Orleans. It’s been great meeting you. I hope I get to see you again.”

  “Same here.” She indicated Beau and Charlie, who were now playing a makeshift game of hopscotch. “And it looks like the children have found a friend. We’ll need to get them together soon, although I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you while River Song is being built. Where will you be staying?”

  I looked at her, my mind drawing a blank. It was the first time that I’d thought about the logistics of supervising the construction of a house. I guess I’d imagined living in New Orleans for the duration, but I suddenly realized the impracticality of it. I shook my head. “To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about it. I guess I’ll need to get a place here during the week, especially since it looks like Trey stays pretty busy in New Orleans and somebody should be here. I’ll bring Beau back to New Orleans to spend time with Aimee during the weekends.” I rubbed my hands over my face. Planning for the future wasn’t something I was used to. “I suppose I should think about getting a job, too.”

  She walked to the back door, where her purse sat on the step, then dug into it until she pulled out a card. Handing it to me, she said, “This is all of my contact info. I’m a licensed Realtor, so I have a lot of connections. I’m sure I can set you up in a rental. Don’t know about a job, though. What did you do before you came here?”

  “I was an executive assistant for the director of an auction house. I have a BA in art history, and it was a great foot-in-the-door position. Didn’t really think about where it might lead, but I liked it.”

  “And now you’re here.”

  “And now I’m here.”

  She nodded, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized me. “You’ve heard about the Ohr-O’Keefe Museum of Art, I’m sure.”

  “No, actually, I haven’t. Where is it?”

  “Here in Biloxi. George Ohr’s from here, you know. The museum was near completion when Katrina hit. They built it to withstand one-hundred-and-fifty-mile-per-hour hurricane winds, but they didn’t think to protect it from casino barges—which is what demolished it during the storm surge. So they had to raise the money all over again, and it’s set to open in November. Five years late, but better late than never. I’m sure they’re looking for people, and Mama has been really involved in the fund-raising. She might be able to point you in the right direction.”

  She took out another card from her purse and flipped it over. “Give me your cell number so I can reach you.”

  I gave her the number and she jotted it down. “Charlie, we have to go pick up Ray Von now. Say good-bye to Beau.” She turned to me. “Do you want me to tell Ray Von that you stopped by?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. And I’ve got a bag of tomatoes from her son, Xavier; if you can give them to her I’d appreciate it. Please tell her that I’ll call her later. I just need to ask her about something.”

  Carol Sue laughed. “Good luck with that. She rar
ely answers her phone. Figures if she wanted to talk with somebody she’d go talk to them. So of course she doesn’t have a cell phone, either. Which is why one of us in the Ladies Auxiliary stops by once a day to check on her or to take her where she needs to be. Her son sends money so that she always has something to buy her groceries, but you can never call her to set up a time. She’s just always ready when you show up.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well, I guess I’ll just stop by another time. Looks like I’m going to be here on a fairly regular basis.” I waved her business card. “I’ll be in touch about a rental property. And thank you. You’ve been more than helpful.”

  She shrugged. “It’s just what we do.” She glanced over at Beau and Charlie, who were hugging each other good-bye.

  We headed to our vehicles, and after I handed her the bag of tomatoes, we waved good-bye and headed in opposite directions. I stopped by the offices of Kenney-Moise Homebuilders on Reynoir Street to pick up the blueprints. Steve and Julia Kenney offered to show them to me on one of the large tables in the back room, but I declined. I wanted to look at the blueprints the first time with Trey, to see them through his eyes, and Monica’s eyes, to make sure that every detail was right.

  It was around four thirty by the time we headed to the van, the early autumn sun already beginning its descent. I drove the van to the interstate, in a hurry to get back to New Orleans, remembering Aimee’s promise to tell me more of her story. As the water of the bay slipped beneath us, I thought of the pelicans carved from a dead tree, their necks stretched as if trying to see the sky. And I wondered why they reminded me of a woman who’d lost so much but who could tend to someone else’s garden, and who could remember that storm waters recede and leaves grow again on empty trees.

  CHAPTER 10

  Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

  —EDWARD YOUNG

  Aimee

  1954

  For the remainder of my adolescence, I spent the yellow-hued Philadelphia autumns pining for the sultry air of the Crescent City and the creaking floors and salt breezes of River Song. All through the biting winters and chilly springs, I anticipated my summer trip down south, to a world so completely foreign to my own that it could have been another planet.

  I checked the mailbox every day after school to see if I had a letter from Gary. We wrote often—he more than I, really. Sometimes it was just a two-line joke. Other times it would be about school and his unfulfilled wishes to try out for the baseball team. A few times he wrote about his mother, and how my grandmother was the only neighbor who still spoke to her, and how that was probably only because of the friendship she maintained with Gary’s father. Mrs. Guidry had taken to dressing in the new “beatnik” style (according to Gary) and inviting black musicians and artists into her home for big parties, even seating them at her own dining table, which caused a lot of scandal. Gary’s father would be conspicuously absent during these events, and for that Gary called his father the biggest coward. Gary made a point to stay downstairs as long as his mother allowed, the music and laughter going on long after he’d gone to bed.

  Gary mentioned Wes a lot, and how Wes was now at Tulane, and his plans to eventually go to law school there. He even wrote about the lizards and flowers in his garden. But, aside from the cowardice, he rarely mentioned his father.

  He always rode with Grandmother to pick me up at the airport, and when he was finally allowed to drive, he surprised me by showing up by himself. He told me about girls, and I made up stories about boys. I went to an all-girls Catholic school, where there were very few opportunities to mix with boys, but I hated for our conversations about the opposite sex to be solely one-sided.

  I asked him once about the boy I had seen in the attic window. Gary gave me a strange look, then, with a dismissive smirk, told me I was either crazy or I must have seen a ghost. Chastised, I dropped the subject and forgot all about it—until much later.

  I didn’t see a lot of Wes during my visits. He seemed to want to spend as much time away from home as possible and spent most of his school holidays with friends and their families. I didn’t blame him. The atmosphere in the Guidry household was claustrophobic. Mrs. Guidry spent days on end in her room, shouting at people from behind her closed door. Ray Von was the only person allowed to see her, bringing her trays of food and Mrs. Guidry’s flask. And it was Ray Von who cleaned her up and made her come out of her room, beautiful and vibrant once more, the glittering alligator brooch at her breast. Whenever I saw it, it always made me think of my mother and what Mrs. Guidry had said about alligators the first time I’d complimented her on the brooch. They remind me of me, I suppose—often misunderstood.

  Mr. Guidry spent a lot of his time at his law offices on Poydras, but I always knew when he came home. Their shouting could be heard all the way inside my grandmother’s house. Gary ate more dinners at our house than his own. Wes just stayed away altogether. Even during the school year, according to Gary, Wes lived on Tulane’s campus, just a few miles away.

  The summer of my sixteenth year, Wes surprised us all by coming home for the last three weeks of vacation. He’d been in Boston all summer, working in a law firm where a friend’s father practiced. He spent most weekends on Cape Cod, and sent postcards to Gary every week that he would reluctantly share with me, and only after he blackmailed me into bringing over contraband food.

  I was lounging on a chaise in the side yard, trying to get my skin to do more than just burn. Grandmother was playing bridge at a friend’s house, or she never would have allowed it. I don’t know if she were more offended by suntans or two-piece bathing suits, but either way I was sinning grievously. She called girls with tanned skin who showed their bellies “fast,” a name I almost wish I deserved.

  My brand-new transistor radio was set to WNOE, and I was singing along with Patti Page about a doggie in the window when the iron gate creaked. Startled, I looked up from my Seventeen magazine, quickly throwing a towel over it in case it was my grandmother, who insisted I read literature or history books to keep my mind exercised during school breaks.

  My sunglasses had slipped in sweat to the bottom of my nose, and I pushed them back up in time to see Wes walking toward me.

  “Hi, Aimee.” He stood directly next to me, blocking the sun. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I sat up and crossed my arms in front of me and tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Hi, Wes. I didn’t know you were coming home.”

  “I didn’t know it myself until two days ago. It was sort of last-minute.” He wore cream-colored slacks with penny loafers and a blue plaid shirt he’d left untucked. Despite the casual clothes and going to a Southern school, he looked very much the Ivy Leaguer. He sat down on my spare towel in the grass, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His blue eyes stood out in his tanned face, and his feet moved back and forth in constant motion. This nervous energy reminded me so much of his brother. But whereas Gary’s incessant movements seemed more like a nervous habit, Wes’s were restrained energy.

  He reached for the radio, where the song had disintegrated into static. “Why aren’t you listening to the news? Little Mo might be winning at Wimbledon right now.”

  I shrugged, trying to pretend I knew what he was talking about. “I like listening to music. And this is the only place I can listen to it, since Grandmother won’t let me play my radio inside the house.”

  “Hope you don’t mind me interrupting your sunbathing session, but I saw you from an upstairs window and wanted some company. Nobody’s home. Thought a one-person welcoming committee would be better than an empty house.” He smiled up at me, and I felt the familiar tightening in my throat.

  Besides Gary and my father, I had never been in such close proximity with a member of the opposite sex. I felt the blush creep up from my neck and pushed the glasses back on my nose as a distraction. “Welcome home, then. Gary will be thrilled you’re back.”

  “Really? From his letters, I thought Gary
was happy not having to share your company.”

  “Huh?”

  He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs. “You and Gary—you’re an item, aren’t you?”

  “What? You mean like girlfriend-boyfriend? Not quite! I mean, we’re friends and all—but that’s it.” I hoped I had gotten sunburned, because I really needed something to hide the hideous red I was sure my face had become.

  He held up his hand and laughed. “Sorry, Aimee. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s just that from Gary’s letters, I thought that you two were jacketed.”

  I stood, speechless and beyond embarrassed. He stood, too, facing me, his face suddenly serious.

  “Put your towel on, Aimee.” He reached behind me and grabbed my towel from the chaise longue and held it out to me.

  “Why? I don’t need it—it’s hot out. And what did you mean about Gary and me?”

  “Put your towel on. Really.” He threw it over my shoulder so that it hung down the front of me, covering my pale yellow bathing suit.

  The constrained look on his face forced me to comply. I hung it over my shoulders, clutching it together in front of me. “Why am I doing this?”

  He cleared his throat. “Your top . . .” He paused, as if waiting for me to finish his sentence.

  “Yes?”

  “I think you need to fix the strap.”

  I opened the towel slightly and looked down to find that the strap that tied behind my neck had come lose and had flopped down to my waist, exposing my entire chest. I must have opened my mouth to say something, but could not seem to make my lips form words. I tightened the towel around my shoulders, and then, with as much dignity as I could muster, I strode into the house without looking back.

  With no desire to relive my mortification, I planned to avoid him for the rest of my summer vacation and was thrilled to be invited again to River Song in Biloxi. Until I found out Wes would be going, too. As only a sixteen-year-old could think such a thing was possible, I made up my mind I wouldn’t even look in Wes’s direction for the entire three weeks we’d be there.