The Beach Trees

by Karen White

  A mischievous grin lit his face. “Maybe. As long as Aimee wasn’t watching. She’d tan my hide for sure if she caught me, but I know that she used to do the same thing, with Wes and Gary egging her on.”

  I pictured Aimee as a young girl with flaming red hair and long limbs, and could see it all so clearly. I threw back my head and laughed, but stopped abruptly when I caught Trey looking at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Picking up his oar, he shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that before.”

  I sobered quickly and picked up my own oar. “I’ve never rowed a kayak, so you’re going to have to take it slowly and explain what I’m supposed to do.” I looked over the edge of the boat. “How deep is this water, anyway?”

  “Deep enough,” he said as he dug his oar into the water and we slid away from the dock. “Just do exactly what I do with my oars. To go left, use the right oar; to go right, use the left. And to go straight, do a series of both.”

  “Sounds pretty easy,” I said, concentrating on pushing my oar through the water.

  “I’ll ask you how easy it was when we get there,” he said behind me, and I heard the grin in his voice again.

  We rowed in silence as I focused on the rowing, my arm muscles unaccustomed to any kind of a workout. I could only hope that I’d be able to raise them over my head the next day, or unbutton my blouse without too much pain.

  The water’s surface rippled gently, like feathers on a bird, for which I was grateful, and I tried not to think too hard about what might be swimming beneath our small boat. The distance wasn’t that far, but by the time we reached the shallow water near the shore of Deer Island, I felt like I’d been rowing for days.

  Trey beached the kayak and I climbed out onto the sand, managing to keep Carol Sue’s sneakers mostly dry. Trey followed me and pulled the kayak out of the surf. I stood, suddenly emerged in a different world: a place of stillness and quiet that I hadn’t visited since the day I’d watched clouds with my sister and she disappeared from my life. I turned my back toward the mainland, where the towering condos and casinos dominated the landscape, and faced instead the tall pines and verdant foliage.

  “Where are the deer?” I asked, moving ahead, wanting to capture the stillness, to envelop myself in the green quiet.

  Trey’s footsteps followed behind me. “Haven’t been deer on Deer Island for a few hundred years at least. They called it that when the Choctaw lived here and the deer would swim across the sound to get away from their hunters.”

  I continued to move forward, eager to make civilization disappear behind me, Trey following. “It’s so silent.”

  “Because it’s winter. It’s my favorite time here. Monica’s, too. We’d come here around this time and play cowboys and Indians, or just sit on logs and watch. No tourists or fishing charters. Just this.” He raised his arms, indicating the tiny bird tracks in the sand, the tall pines, the weathered gray driftwood log with bark hewn from water and wind, beautiful now because of its journey.

  Trey continued. “You need to come back in the spring. There’s a blue heron rookery on the other side of the island, and a colony of brown pelicans, too. Not too far from here, on the eastern side, is the trunk of a dead oak tree with an osprey nest in the fork of the two branches. I’ve been coming here for a long time, and the ospreys are here every year.”

  I leaned against the trunk of a pine and closed my eyes, imagining the calls of hundreds of birds, the flapping of so many wings. But the space around me was hushed and I could hear myself breathe, feel the soft, cool air brush at my cheeks. I looked up through the pine branches and saw the glow of pink in the sky, the echo of sun in its last hours of day. Something fluttered to my right, and I watched as a blue heron, startled by our presence, shot out into the rosy-tinted sky, reminding me of the birds in the Katrina tree, their long, sculpted necks stretched in endless searching.

  Slowly, I came out of the thicket and onto the sandy shore again, where sea grasses stood tall and swayed with the rhythm of the waves. I turned and walked eastward, keeping my gaze focused away from shore and signs of civilization, unsure of where I was heading. Trey followed but didn’t speak. Without turning, I said, “Can you walk all the way around?”

  “Not without getting your feet wet. And the winds and waves get pretty brutal on the gulf side. Not to mention the critters you might run into. There’s a bayou right in the middle of the island. Beautiful to go see if you’re prepared.”

  “Critters?”

  “Yeah. Alligators, cottonmouths, that kind of thing. I’m pretty sure they hibernate during the winter months. Still, the bayou is its own little ecosystem and something you should see. Like I said, you need to be prepared first.”

  I watched as a crab scuffled sideways through sand ridges, making its way to the thicker brush to hide. “What was this place like after Katrina?”

  “Brown. Lots of dead pines, no wildlife whatsoever. A large trench had been cut through the middle—and recently filled thanks to a fourteen-million-dollar restoration project.”

  I recalled the blue heron and the osprey nest and listened to the waves lap at the shore. “But they all came back.”

  “Yeah, they did. Even after the oil spill. There might be fewer numbers of blue crabs and other kinds of fish, but they’ll come back. It’s not like the gulf has never faced a hurricane or spill before.”

  Facing him, I said, “Makes me think of Monica, and how she always said she would come back.”

  He regarded me, his face unreadable. “She must have been waiting for something. And I can’t help but think that Aimee knows more than she thinks she does.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re here to talk with Aimee. I know that hearing about Monica before she got sick has been really good for Aimee. And you’ve managed to uncover more than I was able to in the ten years I spent searching for my sister.”

  I raised my eyebrows, surprised that he’d concede that much. It also made me feel like I had an ally. “Thank you,” I said. “There’s one thing that’s been bugging me, that I’m wondering if you’d be able to help with.”

  “I can try. What is it?” He leaned down and picked up a shell, then used his thumbs to dig out the wet sand encrusted in its scalloped palm.

  “The last time I spoke with Aimee, she told me that Wes had looked into her mother’s case file and hadn’t been able to find anything. I’m pretty sure that none of it is related to Monica or my great-grandfather, but it’s just one more unanswered question. If you know anybody in the NOPD, I was wondering if maybe you could take a look. There might be some saved evidence that modern techniques can do something with. I don’t know. I guess it’s a place to start.”

  Pulling back his arm, he threw the shell as far as he could into the water, where it landed with a soft plop. “Sure. No harm in that, I guess. I know that Aimee would appreciate it.”

  He picked up another shell and I continued to walk, following bird tracks until they disappeared near what looked like yellow-flowered heather. It was strange to see color in winter, the brightness of the yellow almost garish against the neutrals of the sand and shells. My gaze traveled to the shallow water near the shore, where stumps of trees protruded like tombstones.

  I pointed. “What are those?”

  “Old dock pilings. Or pine trees. Hurricanes and erosion keep fighting with the forest for ownership. I never stop wondering who’s going to give up first.”

  I watched him, noticing how the shade of blue left in the sky matched the blue part of his eyes. “What about you, Trey? Have you ever wanted to throw in the towel? Leave? After you lost River Song, and your house, and your best friend, didn’t you feel like you’d had enough?”

  He kicked a large piece of driftwood before sitting down on it. “I did at first. I remember coming down here right after Katrina. You can’t imagine what it looked like. And there I was, stomping around what was left of River Song, trying to see whethe
r there was anything I could salvage and feeling pretty sorry for myself. And then I saw one of our neighbors, Mrs. Anderson, and she was crying as she sifted through the rubble of her house. When I asked her if there was anything I could do, she told me about her daughter, who had died the year before, and all she wanted to find was a picture of her, because she didn’t have one. They’d all been in that house. And a funny thing happened. I just didn’t feel sorry for myself anymore.” He stood, tossing the shell back in the sand where it had come from. “Somebody has to be left standing to put the pieces back together.”

  The sun had begun to sink, and the air was cooler on my skin. I rubbed my hands over my arms, hearing old voices I never expected to revisit. “My mom said that, too. After Chelsea was taken. My dad couldn’t cope, and my brother just sort of checked out. She said she had to stick it out for as long as it took until Chelsea came home so we could all be a family together again. That’s all she really wanted.”

  Trey’s eyes met mine. “Then she died, and you took over. And you’re still waiting for Chelsea to come home, so you can put your family back together.”

  His voice was matter-of-fact, his words seeming to have been spoken about somebody else. “Pretty much. And now I’m here.”

  We continued to regard each other before Trey looked away. “Come on,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  I nodded and followed him back the way we’d come. As we moved toward the kayak, something thick and heavy splashed in the graysmudged water ahead of us. I looked up just in time to see a dorsal fin vanish below the surface. I stopped, my heart beating fast. “Was that a shark?”

  I could tell that Trey was trying not to smile. “No. That would be a dolphin.”

  I’d never seen a dolphin outside of an aquarium, remembering Chelsea and me with our noses pressed against the glass, thinking the dolphins were grinning just for us, and wishing we could swim so we could jump inside and touch their smooth, gray bodies.

  “Are there lots of them in the gulf?” I asked, walking carefully to the edge of the surf, staring at the place where I’d seen the fin.

  “Quite a few. It’s always good fishing for them here, even in the winter.”

  I stayed still, as if by not moving I could force the dolphin to break the surface again. Then, about fifteen feet from where I’d first spotted him, the dolphin emerged from the water, close enough that I could see his eye and the perpetual grin, his skin gleaming and wet, reflecting the endless pink sky before sliding beneath the waves one last time.

  I pressed my hand over my mouth, still not moving, and wondered why I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I looked at Trey and recognized that I’d been wrong about something: about how I had once thought how much he and Monica resembled each other. But now I realized that when looking into Monica’s eyes, I’d seen only what was lost to her. Trey’s eyes were still full of all that had been lost and yet regained, all that was old but new again. His eyes were full of the hope and possibilities that were missing in Monica long before I knew her.

  I spoke quietly, as if to the air, and the water, and the dolphin swimming in the darkened depths where I couldn’t find him. “If I’d known this place, I would have brought her back.”

  Trey touched my arm. “I know.” He began to lead me to the kayak. “Come on, Julie. The sun’s beginning to set.”

  Trey helped me into the kayak and then launched us into the sound. I dug in with my oar, all the time looking for the telltale ripples on the surface of the pink-tinted water. “I would have brought her back,” I said again to no one but the empty sky and silent waves and all that swam below unseen.

  CHAPTER 20

  Flowers never emit so sweet and strong a fragrance as before a storm.

  —JEAN PAUL RICHTER

  Aimee

  1960

  I stayed away from New Orleans for four years, missing her peculiar scent, the accents of her people, and the heavy air that always made my hair twist and tighten. I missed the water, too, and wondered if my lethargy was mostly because of that: because I’d grown used to a place surrounded by water and its always present threat that seemed to lend the city its desperate joie de vivre.

  I met new people, started new hobbies, but I could never forget. Wes stayed in my dreams, never far from me. And in the mornings I would push him aside and throw myself into my studies, safe again until nightfall.

  Gary wrote and called every week. He was a biology major at Tulane, hoping to one day go to medical school, but he still found time to call. I listened to his soft accent and gentle laughter and I wanted to be there with him again. I wanted to race our bikes on the levee and tell ghost stories in my grandmother’s tall attic turret. But we had left our childhood behind, and the burdens of growing up had found us. There was no turning back.

  Wes wrote a few times, but I returned his letters unopened. And when the wedding invitation arrived, and, a year later, one for a baby shower for Lacy, I threw them away.

  I stayed with my father in Philadelphia each summer and Christmas, working at Wanamaker’s downtown as a shopgirl in the china, crystal, and silver department to earn spending money and to distract me from my thoughts that were never far away from New Orleans and Wes and Gary. But it was Ray Von who eventually lured me back.

  A few weeks before graduating from Bryn Mawr with a degree in English, I received a letter with a New Orleans postmark with unfamiliar, yet distinctly feminine, writing on the front. For one brief moment, I thought it might be from Mrs. Guidry, and I quickly ripped into the letter. There was no salutation, just a single paragraph.

  I love Gary like he was my own son and that’s the only reason I’m writing you. His heart is not strong and he will not live to be an old man. He misses you so much it makes him sick, but he would never tell you so I am. Come back to him. Love comes in many shades—just don’t throw it away because it’s not red-hot. Sometimes all that is needed are glowing embers to start the fire. Ray Von Williams

  I was worried, wondering what had prompted her to send me the letter, knowing that if Gary had been sick he would never tell me. Ray Von liked being in charge of her own domain without interference in either her duties or sphere of influence. For her to summon me back into her orbit meant something very serious.

  I held on to the letter for a week, the paper soft and wrinkled from being read so many times. And then I received a letter from Mr. Guidry, on his business stationery, asking me to help him throw a graduation party for Gary, and it suddenly seemed to me that the universe had conspired against me to bring me back to a place I loved as much as I hated.

  After my decision to return to New Orleans, things moved very quickly for me, much as I imagined the sucking pull of a storm surge gathered everything in its wake. I graduated, packed up my few possessions, and even procured a job in an antiques gallery on Conti Street in the Quarter. My grandmother sounded welcoming and even excited when I spoke with her on the phone, and plans were made for me to return to the city of my birth.

  I made the long drive by myself in the red Chevy Corvair my father had bought for me for graduation. I arrived in the middle of the afternoon, having spent the night in a motel near Chattanooga, Tennessee. My grandmother was out, so I had time to examine my surroundings, including the bedroom I’d had since I was a little girl. It hadn’t been changed at all. Then I began moving my suitcases and boxes from the trunk and backseat in the sweltering heat, having already waved away any help from Aunt Roseanne, who seemed to be suffering from the heat even more than I was. I had just come down to close the trunk after delivering my last load upstairs when I heard my name.

  “Aimee?”

  The front gate clanged and I turned in surprise, wiping at the perspiration on my forehead with the back of my hand. “Gary! You said you and your friends were spending the week after finals at River Song.”

  He gave me a reproachful look. “Like I would allow you to come back without a welcoming committee.”

  I stared at him,
a grin tugging at my cheeks. He had grown in the past four years—and now seemed to have caught up to Wes’s height and stood well over six feet. He’d also gained a much-needed twenty or so pounds, and it filled out his frame nicely. His hair was tousled, as if he had just climbed out of bed and thrown on his clothes. It was what separated him from his brother’s always meticulous appearance, and I realized that it was one of the things that I loved about Gary.

  I ran to him and threw myself into his outstretched arms, feeling them tighten around me as he swung me in a circle, and I was glad my grandmother wasn’t home to see.

  He kissed my neck and then pretended to gag. “Yuck! You’re all sweaty. Couldn’t you take a shower first before coming to see me?”

  Our arms still encircled each other, and my face hurt from the wide grin. “It’s so good to see you, Gary. It’s been a long time.” My hands slid down to his shoulders and biceps and squeezed. “You’ve gotten so big!”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Why, thank you, ma’am.” His blue-gray eyes bored into mine, and I knew his feelings for me had not changed.

  I gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “You haven’t changed a bit, Gary. Good.”

  He placed his hands on either side of my head and kissed me, his lips soft and lingering. We stared at each other in surprise, not sure what to say next.

  A throat clearing turned our attention back to the gate. “Sorry to interrupt. Gary was supposed to be helping me move, and he disappeared.” Wes smiled, his eyes dark. “Welcome home, Aimee.”

  Gary kept his arm draped over my shoulder. “I guess your balls really did fall off on your wedding night, Wes.”

  Wes raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  Gary looked at me, and I grinned back at him, remembering my prepubescent insult on the levee the first time I had met Wes.