by Karen White
I had accompanied Gary and his parents to River Song every summer since we were twelve. We would always make sure we were there the last week in July to celebrate Gary’s birthday. He made a big deal of his birthday being before mine. I was a December baby and was envious of Gary celebrating his birthday at the beach—but I never let him forget that I was seven months older.
I loved River Song. It seemed to cast a spell over anyone who slept under its roof; even Mr. and Mrs. Guidry weren’t immune, and their moods shifted to quiet amiability as soon as we left the outskirts of New Orleans. I was never sure if for them, though, it was merely their escape from the city, and not their destination, that allowed them to lay their animosities aside. It was as if something hovered in the air over their house on First Street, poisoning them.
River Song had been in the Guidry family for three generations, a stubborn wood-frame two-story. It had withstood the Gulf Coast hurricane of 1947, although it had lost its roof and most of its top story. Clinging tenaciously to the shifting sand of its foundation, it weathered the storm, to be rebuilt and used by future Guidrys. It became my home away from home, and I looked forward each summer to our visit, where I could escape for several weeks from Grandmother’s scrutiny.
For this trip, we took two cars: Gary, me in the middle, and Ray Von in the back of Mr. Guidry’s Cadillac—Mr. and Mrs. Guidry in the front seat. Both of them stared straight ahead, never talking to each other, but sometimes I would catch a glance as it passed between them, and I would know that whatever poisoned cloud hovered over them in New Orleans had been lifted.
Wes drove his own car, a brand-new Oldsmobile 98 Fiesta convertible coupe with blond ornament in the passenger side. Lacy Boudreaux was a Sacred Heart girl—a neat little package with her stiletto heels and perfect nose. She was petite, perky, and infinitely annoying in her very short shorts and bared midriff. I hated her on sight. I hated her even more when Wes rested his arm casually over the back of her seat as they sped alongside our car onto Highway 90, her pink silk chiffon scarf trailing in the wind behind her. Ray Von caught me staring at them out the window and gave me a knowing look. I turned my attention to Gary and forced myself to ignore the flash of the blue-and-white Oldsmobile for the rest of the trip.
I loved the drive on U.S. 90 along the beach through Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, and Gulfport, the water reminding me of what I had to look forward to in the weeks ahead. People called it the Route 66 of the South, and although I’d never seen Route 66, I’d seen pictures in magazines and figured that the string of restaurants, hotels, and brightly colored lit signs certainly made it seem so. As we passed under the huge arch and overpass of the Sun ’n’ Sand Hotel Court in Gulfport, I knew we were near and turned to Gary with a big smile, surprised to find him looking at me instead of the scenery.
In previous summers, Gary and I had slept on cots on the second-floor sleeping porch, with its pitched ceiling and acoustical anomaly that allowed a person to whisper something in one corner and have it be heard loud and clear on the other side—a real boon for children who were supposed to be sleeping. Somehow I knew things were different this summer. Perhaps it was the obvious physical signs of maturity. Or maybe it was the way Wes was looking at Lacy. But it was decided that Lacy and I would share one of the two upstairs bedrooms, and Gary and Wes would share the one across the hall.
Lacy immediately grabbed the bed closest to the windows and dumped her suitcase on top to stake her claim. She shimmied out of her shorts and blouse and stood in her two-piece bathing suit, rifling through her suitcase until she found what she was looking for. One of Wes’s Tulane fraternity shirts slid over her head before she pulled her long blond hair into a high ponytail. The shirt fell almost to her knees, making her seem more petite and adorable than usual. I hated her even more.
“I’m going to catch some sun. I’ll see you.” Hefting a beach bag over her shoulder, she left the room in a flurry of swinging blond hair.
Slowly, I dressed in my one-piece bathing suit—something my grandmother had insisted on—and caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror behind the closet door. Unlike Lacy’s tawny skin, mine was pale white, with patches of peeling sunburn. I was all legs and arms, my saving glory my newly acquired bust. My snow-colored skin glared under the severe black of my suit. I slid one of my father’s old undershirts over my head, promising myself I would not remove it if Lacy were anywhere near me.
The door burst open and Gary stood in his dark green bathing suit, his skin almost as white as mine, and wearing a white T-shirt, holding a bag of potato chips and a rolled-up beach towel. “Come on, Aimee. Aren’t you ready yet?”
“Gary! You’re supposed to knock. What if I had been naked?” I flipped my hair behind my shoulders with a grunt of disgust and threw my baby oil and comb in my beach bag. I looked up, expecting to see Gary smirking at me. Instead, his face had gone an unnatural shade of pink and his jaw hung open like a fish on a line. I suddenly remembered my conversation with Wes about Gary. Knowing I needed to wipe all such thoughts from his head, I took my beach bag off the bed and tossed it at him.
“Think fast!” I called, watching him fumble with it in the air.
“I’m not carrying your bag,” he said, tossing it back to me.
“Suit yourself.” I broke into a run and sprinted down the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “I get the chaise longue!”
I’d reached the pier before I realized he wasn’t behind me. Thinking he was playing a trick, I cautiously tiptoed back to the front door to peer through the screen. Heavy dread settled on me as I saw Gary sitting on the bottom step, his head between his knees and Ray Von beside him. I threw my bag down and raced inside.
“Gary! Are you all right?”
He looked up, his face the color of flour. “I’m fine.”
Ray Von slowly shook her head. “You didn’t take your pills today, did you, Garrick?”
Gary dipped his head, not acknowledging her question.
Looking directly at her, I asked, “Will he be okay?”
“He needs to rest right now and stay out of the sun. You go on.” She squeezed his arms, trying to lift him to his feet.
Gary shrugged out of her grasp and stood. “I’m fine—I’m going to the pier with Aimee.” His knees buckled, and he slid down onto the step again. I lunged for him, grabbing his head before it hit the wall of the stairwell.
Ray Von looked at me with calming eyes. “Go get Mr. Guidry. I need him to help me carry Garrick to his room.” I hesitated, not wanting to leave Gary. “Go ahead, girl. He’ll be all right. I can help him. Go get Mr. Guidry.”
I raced back up the stairs past them until I reached the closed door of the Guidrys’ bedroom. Without thinking, I threw the door open. Mr. and Mrs. Guidry’s naked bodies tumbled to a paralyzed stop on the bed. Their skin shone with slick sweat, the sheets and bedspread pooled on the floor. Mr. Guidry covered most of his wife, but I could hear her sobbing like a mewling kitten.
“Leave, Aimee.”
I hardly recognized Mr. Guidry’s voice. This wasn’t the same quiet man I had known. This man had hardened, somehow, like a thick layer on pudding that had been sitting out too long. Too stunned to be embarrassed, I blurted, “Gary’s sick and Ray Von needs your help.”
I swung the door shut with a thud, letting go of the doorknob as if it would scald my hand. Then I ran down the kitchen stairs and waited there until I heard Mr. Guidry head down the front stairs; then I dashed through the door before I saw anybody else.
Lacy and Wes were nowhere in sight, so I walked to the end of the pier and sat down. My feet dangled over the edge, the chipped pink toenail polish glowing in the fading sunlight. I sat for a long time, watching the sun bleed into the Mississippi Sound, and thinking of ways to avoid Mr. and Mrs. Guidry for the rest of my life. Why had she been crying? What had he done to hurt her? And somewhere, under all the teenage angst, lay my biggest worry—Gary. I saw his pasty face and felt real fear for the second time in my
life.
A board creaked behind me, startling the thoughts from my head. Wes, tall and tanned, approached from the other end of the pier. I toyed briefly with the idea of plunging into the water and swimming to shore, but I didn’t want to call any more attention to myself.
“Hi, Aimee.”
I averted my head, resting my chin on my raised knee as the warmth flooded my cheeks.
“Mind if I join you?”
I shook my head without looking at him as he stretched out beside me. We sat for a while in silence, listening to the soft drone of a distant motorboat. A woman in a two-piece and a bathing cap skied behind the boat, trailing white water tracks. After a while she let go of the rope, softly sinking into the water.
“I hope you haven’t been avoiding me, Aimee. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought you’d rather hear it from me than the mailman.”
I kept my chin on my knees, not looking at him. “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.” I was thankful for the fading sun hiding the shades of red on my face.
“Sure. But you can stop pretending I have the plague now, okay?”
I lifted my head. “I didn’t think you’d noticed. Lacy seems to keep you pretty busy.”
He frowned, his brow line forming a deep vee, then threw a stick into the water, where it landed with a soft plop. “She certainly tries to.”
Not wanting to continue a conversation about Lacy, I changed the subject to the one person who was occupying the other half of my thoughts. “Wes, how sick is Gary?”
He took a deep breath before answering. “He could be very sick—but we seem to have it under control.” His gaze flickered over my face as if to judge whether I was qualified to hear the rest. Wes continued. “Garrick was born with a bad heart. As long as he takes care of himself and takes his medicine, he can lead a pretty normal life, although it might not be as long as we’d all like.”
I waved away a swarm of gnats flitting about my face. “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Wes rose suddenly and offered his hand. Pulling me up, he said, “It’s getting dark and they’ll be waiting on us for supper.” He let go of my hand when I stood, then walked with me toward the house.
Wes stopped in front of the door. “I’ve got to get something from my car—you go on in.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I’m glad you’re here. You’re different, Aimee. Like a bright light. I’m glad Gary has you.” I turned my face to tell him that Gary didn’t have me, and as I did he leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. Instead, our lips touched for longer than an accidental kiss should have been. He pulled away, his eyes avoiding mine, then headed for the driveway.
My hand went to my lips, feeling the lingering moisture from his kiss. I heard a movement and turned to see Gary through the screen door, his face illuminated by the outside light. His eyes were narrowed as he looked past me and in the direction Wes had gone. His gaze traveled back to me, and I recognized the look on his face as the one he wore when he was out of breath and struggling for air.
“Gary . . .”
It was too late. My voice evaporated into the dusk air as he turned and disappeared inside.
Julie
I crept down the stairs, admiring the way the streetlights outside bled through the stained-glass window on the landing, pooling jewel-colored light on the stairwell. When I reached the bottom step I noticed that the hall table lamp was on, as was a light in Trey’s study.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning, and as I walked to the door I hoped that the lights had been left on by accident, since I was dressed in only my long New York Yankees T-shirt that hit me a little higher than midthigh.
I poked my head around the doorframe and saw to my relief that the desk was empty and the computer already turned off. I stepped inside, then froze. Trey stood on the far side of the room, where he’d pulled out a table to lay out River Song’s blueprints. Both hands were braced on the table as he studied the prints in front of him.
For the first time since I’d met him, he wasn’t immaculately dressed in pressed pants and a button-down shirt. Instead, he wore work boots, paint-splattered cargo shorts, and a dark green T-shirt covered in what looked like sawdust.
I started to back out of the room.
“You can come in.” Trey didn’t turn around to look at me.
“I’m not really dressed for company.”
This time he did turn around, and I saw that his shirt had TULANE emblazoned in light blue letters across the front, and that his hair was matted with sweat and more sawdust. He held out his arms, his lips quirked up in one corner as he took in the shirt and bare legs. “Neither am I.” He turned back to the table. “I was wondering what you thought about the house plans.”
I walked toward the table, so surprised about his soliciting my opinion that I didn’t think to ask him why he was dressed that way at one o’clock in the morning, or to be embarrassed that I was wearing a T-shirt and barely anything else. I stopped next to him and looked down at Monica’s memories rendered in blue and white. The notepad that I’d placed next to the prints was filled with notes and comments I had jotted down when I’d studied them, and I noticed that the list had been continued in an unfamiliar, masculine handwriting. “I didn’t think you were all that interested in them.”
He sent me a sidelong glance. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, you were too busy to go to Biloxi and look at them with the builder, and Aimee told me that you’re tied up all week and that I have to go back to the builder by myself with any of our changes.”
He pursed his lips. “I have other commitments that occupy my time. I’m sorry. Rebuilding River Song wasn’t exactly on my agenda right now. Things should open up in a couple of months.”
“A couple of months?” I faced him, not trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.
“Yeah, a couple of months.” His words were clipped. “Unless you’re planning on working a bulldozer, there’s not a lot you and I can do at this point, anyway.”
I crossed my arms, prepared to argue, before I realized that he was probably right. Instead, I turned my attention to the house plans, remembering why I’d been unable to sleep and had come downstairs in the first place. “Can I move this?” I asked as I lifted the first page showing the front elevation of the house.
Trey nodded, then stepped back.
I flipped through the large sheets until I found the one showing the back of the house and what had once been the sleeping porch. Something Aimee had said tugged on my memory, as I recalled stories Monica had related about summer nights spent with her cousins, brother, and friends on the sleeping porch listening to the tree frogs and crickets, their whispered confidences shared only with the high rafters and cedar walls.
I placed the page on top of the others and spread them with my hands. “I want to make sure the builders know how to re-create that acoustical anomaly Monica told me about. Even Aimee remembers it and must have deliberately rebuilt it after Camille to duplicate the effect. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
When he didn’t say anything, I faced him and found that he was smiling with both sides of his mouth in the first real smile I’d seen since we’d met. “Of course,” he said, still grinning.
Uncomfortable, I asked, “What’s so funny?”
He shook his head, his smile dimming only slightly. “Nothing, really. I’m just... oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just happy to know that Monica remembered that. That she cherished it enough to share it with somebody who’d never been there, but who remembers that it was important enough to my sister to make sure it’s re-created in the house for her son.”
I blushed. “You really have Monica to thank for that. It was her ability to create such strong visuals with her stories that is responsible for my being here. It’s not like I just jumped in a van with a five-year-old boy seeking an adventure.”
Still smiling, he turned back to the prints. “Whatever. I still appreciate
it.” He leaned closer to examine something on the sketch of the back porch roof. “I spoke with Carol Sue today. She said she suggested that you apply for a job at the George Ohr museum.”
I wondered how often they spoke, and what else she might have said, and then chastised myself for even caring. “I think it’s a good idea. I’d like to put as much of the money from the sale of the painting as I can into a savings account for Beau. If I get a job, I can try to live off of my paycheck. And if I’m working in Biloxi, I’ll be near River Song to keep an eye on things.”
He looked up at me, amusement still in his eyes, but turned back to the table without saying anything.
Uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about your friend Charles. It’s hard losing a friend.”
Trey straightened, his eyes darkening as he regarded me, reminding me of how Monica’s eyes betrayed her emotions, too. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“And a sister,” I added, although I wasn’t sure why.
He nodded. “It seems we have a lot in common.”
I gave a weak laugh, trying to dispel the tension in the room. “Yeah, and none of it good.”
He raised an eyebrow and I had the impression that he might actually smile again. He didn’t. “When are you heading back to Biloxi?”
“Probably in the next couple of days. I figured we’d need a few days to look at the plans to make sure that we’ve thought of everything before I bring them back. Why?”
“Aimee’s only been back once since Katrina, and she’d like to see Ray Von. I was hoping you’d be willing to take her.”
“Of course. I actually wanted to see Ray Von, too.”
He raised both eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”