The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  To my surprise, she took my arm, allowing me to lead the way. As we walked slowly up the path, I said, “We found a box of Monica’s things that had been stored in the attic before Katrina.”

  She leaned heavily against my arm. “Did you find anything?”

  “We’re not sure. Folded inside a sketchbook we found a piece of paper with her handwriting. It was a drawing of my family tree, starting with Abe Holt, my great-grandfather.”

  She stopped and looked at me, her blue eyes clear behind her glasses. “Why do you think she would have that?”

  “Trey and I couldn’t figure it out. Trey thought that maybe she was such a huge fan of Abe Holt’s that she wanted to know if any of his descendants were artists, too. But then why would she have never mentioned it to me?” A cold breeze blew at our backs, pushing us forward.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we never will.” She paused for a moment as she reached the top step. “If you see Trey, please tell him I’ll be right out.”

  I walked back to the bench slowly, something small but insistent tugging at my brain. Pushing it aside, I turned my attention back to Beau and Xavier. Beau was focused on collecting leaves from the ground as Xavier continued down the row of crape myrtles, their once leaf- and flower-filled branches now reduced to stunted limbs. They were in contrast to the rest of the still-lush garden, like a stark reminder of the approaching long sleep of winter.

  “It makes them grow better in the spring,” Xavier said without turning around, and I realized that I must have been staring for some time. “Sometimes you got to put up with a whole bunch of ugly so you can appreciate a little bit of beautiful.”

  “Oh, thanks. I was wondering.” I watched as his arms, still as strong and muscular as a young man’s, continued to clip off thick branches. “Did your mother teach you that?”

  He didn’t turn around, but I saw the side of his face crease in a smile. “Yeah. Sure did.”

  I watched as Beau bent to pick up a single leaf, pressing it delicately into his other hand, where he held more leaves. Monica’s red hat hung from the back of his elastic waistband, forgotten for now. As I turned back to Xavier, a sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you remember Miss Aimee’s mother?”

  I imagined I saw his neck muscles tighten. He lowered the shears and faced me. “Yes, I remember her. Not too much, though. I was only nine when she got killed. But she sure was pretty—a lot like Miss Aimee when she was younger. And kind, too. She’d bring me one of those Doberge cakes from McKenzie’s for me on my birthday, and would treat me like I didn’t have this scar on my face.” He glanced up at me, and I felt ashamed knowing that I’d made assumptions about his appearance.

  “So you were living here with Ray Von when Mrs. Mercier was killed?”

  He lifted the large shears and pinched a thick branch and I watched as he yanked it harder than appeared necessary, shaking loose dozens of spent leaves. “For a time. Mama and I lived in the carriage house where Mr. Trey lives now. But Mr. Guidry said I needed schooling and sent me away not too long after Mrs. Mercier was killed.”

  I recalled the scene in the hallway that Aimee had recounted to me, how she’d found Xavier in the hallway, crying. “What do you remember about Mrs. Guidry?”

  His movements became jerky as he attacked the tree, the popping sound made by each severed limb loud in the silent garden. A bird twittered from somewhere behind me as a squirrel skittered under the toolshed. I looked back at Xavier as I realized that he’d stopped.

  He turned toward me. As if he hadn’t heard my question, he said, “People disappear all the time. Some get found, and some don’t. And some it’s just better that they stay gone.”

  I thought of Chelsea and all the other faces of the missing I’d found on the Internet since my search for my sister had started, and I wanted to shout at him, tell him that everyone deserved to be found.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “And there’s those like Miss Monica, who stay gone no matter how much their families want them back. And waiting for them to come back’s just as useful as sitting in your house and waiting for a hurricane to go someplace else.”

  My fingers pressed into my knees, my fingertips turning white. “Did your mother tell you that, too?”

  When he didn’t respond, I looked up at him. His face was void of all expression, his words matter-of-fact. “No, ma’am. I learned that one all by myself.” He hoisted the shears again and began to hack away at the remaining crape myrtles.

  Trey’s truck pulled up to the curb in front of the house. He wore a rumpled shirt with rolled-up cuffs, no tie, suit pants, and dark shoes. It struck me how much more comfortably he seemed to wear his T-shirts and construction boots.

  He came through the gate and stood next to me. “Looking good, Xavier. This weekend I’ll help you clean out the shed and paint it. We’re not supposed to have any rain.”

  Xavier stopped clipping. Turning slowly, he said, “I might be old but I’m not feeble. I can do it myself without anybody’s help. Don’t like anybody messing with my things.”

  “It’s a big job, Xavier. I don’t mind helping.”

  “I know that. But I can do it myself.”

  “All right. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

  Beau ran to me, his hands gently cradling the leaves he’d carefully selected. “Julie, I made another collection for you.” Very slowly, he laid out each leaf on my lap, each brilliantly colored edge fitted neatly into its neighbor like an autumn puzzle. It was so unexpected and creative, and reminded me so much of something his mother would have done, that I leaned down and kissed his lowered head. He looked up at me with his mother’s eyes and smiled. “Why’d you do that for?”

  “Because you’re great,” I said without thinking. “And because you remembered that I like to collect things and spent a lot of time gathering leaves you thought I’d like. It’s like a birthday present even though it’s not my birthday.”

  Trey crossed his arms. “I didn’t take you for a collector. Thought you were a ‘less is more’ kind of person.”

  I stared down at the pattern of foliage on my lap, at the delicate veins bisecting the leaves like a road map leading to nowhere in particular. “I guess I inherited it from my mother. She was what we called a weekend warrior—heading out to all the estate sales and coming back with teaspoons, or thimbles, or old hats for her various collections. I still have them in a storage unit in New Jersey.”

  Unused to sharing anything personal, I felt myself blushing. I wanted to tell him that I continued collecting things after my mother’s death not just because they reminded me of her, but because they were something permanent in a transitory life filled with temporary possessions that held no meaning. But when I looked up and met his eyes, I could tell that he already knew that about me. Just as through the planning of River Song I had learned that permanence, home, and family were as essential to him as breathing.

  Beau giggled, and my attention was drawn to the movement of one of the leaves. A fat worm slithered from underneath a crimson leaf in the shape of a teardrop, and I tried very hard not to cringe.

  “Look, Julie—a worm!”

  “I know,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Why don’t you pick him up and stick him under a tree?”

  Beau shook his head. “Uh-uh. I don’t want to touch him.”

  I looked at Xavier, but his back was still toward us as he worked on the last of the crape myrtles. Reluctantly, I eyed Trey, who held up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t like them either.”

  I frowned at him as I recalled the stories Monica had told me about how as a child he loved to chase her with anything he found crawling on six legs. “All right then,” I said to Beau. “Why don’t you go find me a stick, and I’ll pick him up with that?”

  Beau ran off and quickly found a stick about five inches long. I would have rather had more space between my hand and the worm, but it had begun to creep toward me. Swallowing heavily, I stuck the stick under th
e body of the worm and lifted it, then had to wait patiently as it dangled five inches from my hand as Beau carefully regathered the leaves from my lap.

  After depositing the worm in its new home, I stood and brushed off my hands as Xavier turned, revealing what I swore was a smile. “They’re not pretty to look at, but a garden can’t grow without them.” His smile faded quickly, as if he were recalling other necessary evils.

  The front door opened and Aimee stepped outside. Trey said, “I’ve got to drive Miss Aimee to her meeting. Beau, you and me at the Creole Creamery for ice cream when I get back, right?”

  “Right,” Beau shouted, high-fiving his uncle.

  I crossed my arms, and Trey looked at me. “You’re welcome to come, too, if you like.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I really just want Beau to eat something healthy first, all right?”

  “Sure.” He shook his head. “You’re just like Monica, you know. She was always a health nut. Must have been the first person in New Orleans to eat tofu.”

  I smiled, remembering the girl who’d been so careful with what she fed her body but had died young anyway. I took a breath and spoke before I was even sure what I was going to say. “Definitely come get me when you get back. I haven’t had ice cream in a long time.”

  “Will do.” With a wave, he headed toward his grandmother, too late for me to tell him that I’d figured out what had been troubling me about my conversation with Aimee.

  I waved back, then retrieved my leaf collection from Beau. Then I watched as Trey escorted his grandmother to her car while I wondered why she hadn’t been surprised when I told her that Monica had drawn my family tree the year before she disappeared.

  Aimee

  FEBRUARY 1956

  The last day of my stay in New Orleans seemed almost normal except for the eerie quietness of the house. I stood in the kitchen and noticed that the coffee hadn’t yet been made and dishes from the previous evening were still in the sink. It was the beginning of Lent, and I usually gave up coffee, but now it seemed like such a frivolous thing. Perhaps if I gave up Wes instead, Mrs. Guidry would come back and everything would be back the way things had always been.

  I closed my eyes. Wes, where are you? When I opened my eyes again, my gaze rested on the key rack on the wall with the keys to Mrs. Guidry’s Cadillac, the red leather case highlighted against the pale cream wall. I remembered something Wes had written to me in one of his letters, something about how he would escape to River Song when he needed time to think.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I took the keys off the hook, then scribbled a note to Gary telling him I had taken his mother’s car and would be gone for most of the day and not to worry. Then I stuck it under the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Without a second thought I grabbed my purse and let myself out the back door, closing it quietly behind me.

  I blared the radio as I headed down the highway to Biloxi, not wanting to think about what I would say if I found Wes or his mother. I hoped the relief of finding them would make easy words flow to my lips.

  The city disappeared behind me as the highway became a lone ribbon through tall trees. Bugs exploded on the windshield, speckling the glass like polka dots. Seeking the windshield wiper, I fiddled with the unfamiliar knobs and dials in the car. The hum of the tires changed as I ran onto the shoulder and jerked back onto the road.

  River Song reflected the dim morning sun, the tall oak in the yard creating a large splotch of shadow across the front. The car rumbled over the rutted crushed-shell drive, and I lurched back and forth on the seat. A gull shrieked over the water as I stepped out onto the sandy soil and slammed the car door. I leaned against it and listened to the cicadas whir in the trees behind the house. My heart fell when I realized Wes’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  Slowly walking up the front path, I looked up at the windows, hoping to see a face or some sign of occupancy. Closed shutters and dusty screens stared back at me. I reached inside the flowerpot on the front step, the plant itself long dead, with tired, brittle stems, and pulled the door key from the dirt. A dark shadow passed over the door, and I turned to see a large cloud as it crept over the sun. The distant horizon lay dark and fuzzy, the waves near the beach already whipped to a frenzy. A storm was coming.

  The hinges squeaked as I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The screen door banged behind me, making me jump. I laughed nervously and moved into the large front room. Rugs had been rolled up for the season and pushed against the walls, curtains flipped over rods in an attempt to keep off accumulated dust. Dust sheets lay over most of the furniture except for the couch. The house was different without the sounds of voices, like an empty oyster shell whose occupant was long since gone. My footsteps echoed on the bare wood floors as I walked into the room.

  A floral sheet lay in a crumpled heap under the coffee table, the table itself covered with beer bottles. I walked over, lifted one up, and turned it over. Warm beer slid into my hand, dripped through my fingers, and landed on the side of an overturned bottle. I sneezed in acknowledgment of the dust motes flitting through the shaft of light from the open door.

  A floor creaked upstairs, and I froze, a bottle in my hand. “Wes? Mrs. Guidry?”

  A hard wind blew rain across the porch and through the screen door, sprinkling the floor mat with water. The floor creaked again.

  “Hello?” I walked back into the foyer and stared at the stairwell, the first three steps visible until the fourth step disappeared around a corner. “Wes?”

  A shadow crept up the wall of the stairwell as footsteps descended. I held the empty beer bottle in front of me as I backed up to the screen door, my other hand reaching for the knob. A tall figure emerged around the corner. The beer bottle slid through my fingers, breaking as it hit the wood floor.

  “Hello, Aimee.” Wes stood on the bottom step, barefoot and shirtless. A dark shadow of beard covered his cheeks and chin in a strangely appealing way. His eyes were sunken inside dark rings, his hair wet and slicked back as if he had just showered.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked, suddenly struck stupid.

  “I couldn’t find it—I think it might have been stolen. A friend dropped me off.”

  He started to smile but faltered halfway. Stumbling over the last step, he walked toward me. I flinched as I recognized the look in his eyes—I had seen it in his mother’s eyes many times. He reached for me, and I allowed myself to be enfolded in his arms.

  We stood like that for a long time, listening to the wind and rain hit the house. Splinters of water from the screen door splashed my bare legs, but I didn’t move. Wes started to shake, and I realized he was crying. I put my arms around him and led him to the sofa.

  We sat, and he pulled away from me, hiding his face and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “God, Aimee. I don’t want you to see me like this. But there’s no one . . .”

  I touched his shoulder, knowing there was nothing I could say.

  A loud thunder roll shook the panes in the windows as Wes looked at me. His eyes were dark and dangerous, the space between us volatile. He leaned toward me and pressed his lips against mine. My kissing experience was severely limited to a few brazen boys from the neighboring boys’ school. Kissing them had been like kissing my pillow, except that my pillow was more pliable. But Wes was different. His lips were soft as he nudged mine open. He tasted them, nibbling on the lower one and moving leisurely to the top one. Slowly, he moved over me, pushing me down onto the couch. I smelled soap and the musty cushions, but all I could think of was the unnerving weight of his body pressing me into the couch and his warm lips on mine, tasting of mint toothpaste and salty tears.

  My skin seemed to shrink tight over my bones, bringing every nerve ending to the surface. I was swimming underwater with no need for air. His lips moved to my eyes, then cheeks, then neck, his warm breath causing an eruption of goose bumps down the length of my body. The rain outside became more forceful, driving itself against the house.


  Another roll of thunder crashed above us, but I hardly heard it. Wes did and he stopped. He raised himself up on his hands and looked down at me, as if really seeing me for the first time. He pulled himself off of me and sat down, his head in his hands. “Oh, God, Aimee. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I . . . I didn’t mean to do that.”

  I got up on my knees and moved next to him, my hands on his arm. “Don’t be, Wes. I’m not sorry.”

  He looked at me, his eyes hooded. “No—but you would be if . . .” He stopped. “There’s too much between us right now—things that need to be resolved before we complicate our lives even more.”

  I breathed in deeply, feeling my skin tighten over my ribs. “Is this about your mother?”

  He let out a sigh and sat back on the couch, reaching for me. I rested in the cradle of his arm, feeling the beat of his heart under my hand as he spoke. “Yes. It has everything to do with Mother.”

  I sat up to look into his face. He wouldn’t look at me. “Where is she, Wes? Is she all right?”

  Wes pulled me back to him and I felt his chest rise and fall. “No . . . I mean, I don’t know.” He slipped out from behind me and stood up and moved to the door, his hands pressed against the screen. “She’s gone, Aimee. She won’t be back.”

  I rose and stood next to him, but he still wouldn’t face me. The hair on the back of my neck rose. “What do you mean, Wes? Where did she go?”

  Droplets of rainwater sprinkled his skin, but he didn’t blink as they continued to blow on him. His jaw clenched. “She . . . I saw her get into a car with another man. She went willingly.”

  The prickling sensation continued up the base of my skull. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I touched his arm and he looked at me, but his eyes were dark with hidden secrets. “Did you try to stop her?”