by Karen White
I dragged the desk chair down the hallway and used it to prop open the attic door. It had a propensity to close and latch on its own, and I had no intention of being locked in the attic until somebody came to find me. Brittle light showed at the top of the stairs from the attic window as I carefully climbed the narrow, steep steps.
The heat sat in the enclosed area like a living entity, the force of it hitting me in the face as I stood on the top step. I hardly recognized the attic—it looked completely different from the last time I had been there. Most of the boxes and furniture had been moved to one side of the room, leaving a large empty space in front of the window. A pillow and some blankets were stacked against the wall, the bottom panes of the window wiped clean.
I looked around, wondering if I would be able to find the portrait. I spotted an old armoire and noticed the top drawer was cracked open. Out of curiosity, I walked over to it and slid it open. A bright yellow flashlight rolled toward me, and I picked it up and flicked it on, surprised at the strong beam it shone on the wall.
After replacing the flashlight, I continued to glance around the attic, looking for discards Gary and I could use in our apartment. Gary’s mother had attempted to redecorate parts of the house in the new, modern style of bright colors and chrome, placing priceless antiques up in the attic. I made a mental note to ask my father-in-law about some of the pieces I spotted gathering dust.
I walked around the perimeter of the room, searching through various framed artwork leaning against the walls and furniture. I’d almost given up when I discovered an old desk in the far corner, with a rolled-up rug in front of it. After shoving aside the rug, I began opening the desk drawers, finding them filled with old photographs and papers. When I got to the largest drawer on the bottom, I tugged on the pull, but something inside caught, preventing me from opening it. Carefully, I reached my hand inside and felt the corner of something hard, like wood. Excited that I might have found what I was looking for, I pressed down on the edge of the picture frame and gently pulled the drawer open.
My heart thudded as I found myself staring into the face of Caroline Guidry, looking exactly as she had when I’d last seen her nearly seven years before. The alligator pendant pinned to her breast glittered, almost succeeding in taking over the focus of the portrait. But a look into Caroline’s eyes convinced me that she would never have allowed herself to be upstaged.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs spun me around, and I saw Mr. Guidry, a soft smile on his lips.
“Aimee—what a delightful surprise to find you here. Since you and Gary moved across town, we hardly seem to see you.” He glanced at the portrait I held, his smile dimming. “What’s that?”
Despite having known him all of my life, and even being married to his son, I felt uncomfortable around my father-in-law, like waking up each morning to find yourself in the wrong bed. “I was looking for a birthday gift for Gary. I remembered this portrait of his mother, and if he wanted it, I was going to ask your permission to hang it on the wall in our apartment.”
He stared at the portrait, but didn’t move to take it from me. “I should have destroyed it years ago. I don’t know what made me keep it.”
“I’m glad you did. I think Gary would like to have it.”
He turned his back on me and walked to the window, facing out. “I’m sorry, Aimee, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. You realize, of course, how delicate Gary’s health is. Seeing this reminder of his mother and her abandonment could only put stress on him. Stress that he doesn’t need right now.” He faced me again, his face dark. “I’m sure you understand.”
I swallowed, the oppressive air weighing heavily on me and making me sweat. I forced a smile. “I really don’t think—”
“Dad? Are you up here?”
We both turned at the sound of Wes’s voice and watched him approach. “Hello, Aimee. I saw your car outside and knew you were here somewhere.” His eyes softened as he looked at me, and I hoped Mr. Guidry didn’t notice.
I smiled. “Hi, Wes.”
He looked at the portrait in my hands and immediately frowned. “What are you doing with that?”
Surprised at his reaction, I said, “I thought Gary might like it for his birthday.”
He was shaking his head before I even finished speaking. “It’s out of the question.”
Mr. Guidry stepped forward and took the portrait from me. I wanted to resist but realized my efforts would be futile. “That’s what I was trying to tell her. How it wouldn’t be good for Gary to be reminded of his mother’s abandonment every time he saw it.” A glance I couldn’t decipher passed between them.
Wes nodded. “He’s right, Aimee. We have to think of Gary.” He moved to take my arm, leading me toward the stairs. “Let’s go downstairs. Gary’s been mentioning how he’d like a new satchel for school. The straps on his old one are just about worn through.”
Knowing I couldn’t argue with both of them, I headed toward the stairs.
“Did you find anything else? Anything else that belonged to my wife?” Mr. Guidry asked as he stood next to the desk where I’d found the portrait.
I shook my head. “No. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“No. I just try to ensure that Gary doesn’t run into unpleasant reminders of his mother. It’s best that he forgets her. That we all forget her.”
I watched as he placed the portrait into the drawer and I caught a last glance of her blue cat eyes. I continued down the stairs, unaware of Wes’s hand on my back and anything else besides what other reasons Wes and his father could have for wanting to forget Caroline Guidry.
“Happy birthday, handsome.” I leaned over Gary and kissed his still-sleeping lips.
He groaned, shielding his eyes from the open window with a bedsheet.
“Time to rise and shine, Gary. We’ve got birthday plans.”
Without warning, he reached up and grabbed me, pulling me back into the bed. “So do I, Mrs. Guidry—so do I.” He nuzzled my neck, his sleep-warmed body radiating heat.
“But I’m already dressed.”
His lips vibrated with a throaty chuckle as he nipped at my jawbone. “That can be fixed pretty quick.” He slipped his hand to the zipper of my skirt, then stopped. “Ow.” He sat up, rubbing his arm. “My arm’s killing me; I can hardly move it.”
I sat up with alarm. “What’s wrong with it?”
He continued to rub it, his fingers kneading it like unresponsive dough. “It’s nothing. I must have slept on it funny. It’ll go away.” He slid his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, his need to undress me forgotten. “I’ll go take my shower now.”
“And I’ll go and make you a breakfast to knock your pants off.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Always trying to seduce me, aren’t you?”
I threw a pillow at him, then admired his retreating backside as he walked to the bathroom, still rubbing his arm.
He picked at his breakfast, barely touching the grillades and grits I had so painstakingly prepared for him. He excused himself to lie down for a while and I loaded the car.
I stood in the doorway, car keys dangling from my fingers, and watched him try to find the energy to pull himself off the sofa. “Gary, when was the last time you went to see your heart doctor?”
He sent me an apologetic grin. “I’ve just been so busy lately, I’ve missed a couple of appointments. I promise I’ll call next week.”
“I’m thinking we shouldn’t go away this weekend. Is there any way you can schedule an appointment today?”
He pushed himself off the armrest and stood, a bit shakily. “No way. It’s Friday. They’re out golfing.” He walked toward me and kissed me on the cheek. “Look, I’ve got my medicine to get me through the weekend. A few days of rest and relaxation are probably all I need anyway, but I promise I’ll call on Monday. I’m fine—really.”
He kissed me again, this time on the lips, and led me out to the car. He slid into the passenger seat
, and I drove the hour and a half to Biloxi. We spent the rest of the day lying in the hammocks on the front porch and playing cards. I got up occasionally to fix drinks or bring snacks from the kitchen, but mostly we stayed in the cocoon of the wide front porch overlooking the sound, watching the white gulls and skimmers.
I didn’t realize when darkness fell, and when I moved to stand, Gary stood, too. A cool breeze danced off the sound and waltzed with the bushes up against the house. “Come on,” he said, holding his fingers out to me.
I clutched his hand, following him across the sandy lawn. I gazed warily at the hazy moon, wondering whether it would extinguish its light and throw us in complete darkness.
Gary stopped on the sandy bar running alongside the water, then lay down with the surf lapping at his feet. Hesitantly, I joined him, heedless of the wet sand in my hair. We stared up at the black sky, at the moon and her stars, and let the breeze caress our cheeks. The water was warm on our feet, seductive as it licked our skin, and as soothing as a lullaby.
“Do you know what the Eskimos say about the stars?”
He turned his face toward me and I shook my head.
“They say they’re openings to heaven. The love of our lost ones pours through them and shines down upon us to let us know they’re happy.”
I reached for his hand, all gritty and wet, and squeezed it. “I like that. It makes me think of my mother, that she isn’t truly lost to me.”
He didn’t answer, but turned his face back toward the sky. After a while, he said, “Wes still loves you, Aimee.”
I propped myself up on my elbow, watching the blue cast of his skin deepen as a wisp of cloud drifted in front of the moon. “Please don’t, Gary.”
Almost as if he hadn’t heard me, he continued. “I think he knows the biggest mistake he ever made in his life was letting you go. And I still don’t know why. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I still can’t figure it out.”
“I don’t want to talk about it—none of it matters anymore.”
He sat up and faced me. “But it does, Aimee. It matters very much. You and Wes have sacrificed so much for others’ happiness—including my own. I hope the time will come when you two will be able to put what you want first.”
“You’re scaring me, Gary—what are you saying? That you don’t want to be married to me?”
He touched my face, his fingers as gentle as the warm breeze. “Oh, no. Being married to you has been the best part of my life.” He looked out into the sound for a moment, then turned back to me. “I just want you to be prepared. If something should happen, I want you to go for what you want for a change.”
“But it’s you I want. We’re married, remember? Till death do us part and all that. I won’t leave you—ever.”
I couldn’t read his expression, but he leaned forward and kissed me. “Let’s go sit on the pier.”
He rubbed his arm again as we walked up the pier, the wood timbers dry and grainy under my bare feet.
We sat in lawn chairs at the edge of the pier, our hands entwined between us. We watched the moon hover on the horizon and climb slowly in the night sky.
“I’m thirsty.” His voice sounded strained and brittle.
“I’ll go get us some hot tea with lemon—I’ll be right back.”
I stood to leave, but his hand pulled me back. The moon illuminated his grin. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”
I bent to give him a small kiss, but felt his hand on the back of my head pressing me into a deeper one. I kissed him back, then lifted my head. “I’ll hurry,” I said.
I walked down the pier and heard him call after me, “I love you, Aimee.”
Stopping, I turned around. “I love you, too.” I waved, then jogged the rest of the way to the house.
In the cozy kitchen, I bustled about making a tea tray. I filled the kettle with water and stuck it on the stove, then arranged an assortment of cookies on a plate. The water seemed to take forever to boil, and I reminded myself of the old adage that a watched teapot never boils. To make the waiting time productive, I ran upstairs and began unpacking our suitcase. I carefully folded everything in the drawers and arranged our toiletries in the bathroom, our toothbrushes touching in the toothbrush holder. Feeling romantic, I drew a heart on the mirror with toothpaste, our initials inside.
I bounded down the stairs, surprised I hadn’t heard the kettle yet. It steamed and rocked on the burner, telling me the water inside was boiling. With a hot pad, I lifted the pot and placed it in the middle of the tray, then loaded two cups and saucers. Balancing it carefully in one hand, I opened the door and very gingerly picked my way across the lawn and road to the pier.
As I reached the base of the pier I called out, “Gary—I’m back. Could you give me a hand? Sorry it took so long, but I think the little knob on the kettle might be broken and I got distracted waiting for it to whistle.”
He didn’t turn around. I stopped and called again. “Gary!”
His name evaporated in the night air, like tiny droplets from a crashing wave. The water lapped at the pier, its rhythm smooth under my restless feet. I watched Gary, the breeze lifting his hair slightly, his hand, the one I had been holding, motionless beside him.
“Gary, I could use some help here. . . .” My breath caught as I remembered something about heaven and stars.
My scream echoed off the water, through the darkness under the pier and all around me. The tray slid from my hands, the china breaking in a thousand pieces, the kettle bouncing on the pier and spraying my legs with scalding splashes of water. I stepped on the broken china as I ran to him, the sharp edges tearing at the tender skin of my feet. But I felt nothing—nothing except the cold, inky darkness that had suddenly thrown its black cloak around me, consuming me completely.
CHAPTER 26
Strike: For any particular location, a hurricane strike occurs if that location passes within the hurricane’s strike circle, a circle of 125 nautical miles diameter, centered 12.5 nautical miles to the right of the hurricane center.
—NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER
Julie
Trey drove us to Biloxi, Aimee beside him and me in the back with an exuberant Beau bouncing up and down in his seat. I hadn’t taken him to any of the New Orleans parades, still uncomfortable with the thought of losing him in a crowd. Beau had begged to go next year. I’d evaded answering him, unable to imagine myself here or anywhere in a year’s time, and hoping that watching today’s parade in the confined space of Walker King’s balcony would be enough.
Trey had to drop off a repaired air compressor at the work site in the Ninth Ward neighborhood on our way out of town. As we drove through the city, so many of the sights were new to me yet seemed familiar, too. In my time spent here, I’d discovered that New Orleans was a city of contrasts: of decay and luminescence, of tradition and the unexpected. It was a European city with a tropical climate, English gardens filled with banana trees and roses. The more time I spent in the city of Carnival and floods, gumbo and Sazeracs, debutante queens and transvestites, the more I realized that Monica’s stories had ceased to be hers; they were becoming mine, too.
As we waited in the truck while Trey and two men moved the air compressor, I got a good look at the neighborhood that had received so much attention following Katrina. It reminded me a lot of what I’d seen in Biloxi: empty lots, concrete slabs, houses with patchwork repairs, doors still with the orange paint markings. But like Biloxi, too, I saw the signs of renewal—new homes with small grass lawns, porches with rocking chairs and children’s toys, thin tree saplings, long and spindly like adolescents. The sound of hammering and the fresh smell of lumber filled the air, making me think of River Song as it rose like a phoenix out of the sandy grass.
Trey motioned to me as he approached the truck with an attractive black woman in her late twenties wearing a T-shirt with the words MAKE IT RIGHT Stamped over the number nine. I stepped out of the truck as Aimee rolled down her window and called out to them.
“Good morning, Ms. LeBlanc. You’re making good progress.” She indicated the frame of the house in front of us, the foundation raised on tall pilings, a recurring theme I was beginning to recognize along the Gulf Coast.
The young woman smiled broadly, revealing large white teeth. “Yes, ma’am. My sister and her husband have been working on the house just as hard as me. I guess they’re tired of me and my children camping out in their living room.” She laughed loudly, the sound contagious as we found ourselves laughing, too.
Trey introduced us. “Carmen, I want you to meet Julie Holt. She’s the one who’s been bossing around the workers in the Biloxi house and who I’ve been trying to get down here to lend us a hand. Julie, this is Carmen, an Iraq War vet. She came home to a bit of a surprise. Her house had to be demolished because of all the water damage.”
“Luckily, my kids were living with their aunt and uncle out in Metairie while I was deployed, so they were safe. Lost everything, though.” She laughed again, and it was genuine, with no trace of bitterness. “Sometimes I guess you need to lose everything before you realize what’s really important. My mama actually calls it a blessing.” She rolled her eyes like a teenager instead of the war veteran she was, and I found myself smiling.
She shook my hand in a firm grasp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Next time I’m in Biloxi, I want to come see your house, though I feel like I’ve been in it, with how much Trey talks about it. About you, too. The man can’t stop talking about you and how you saved his sister’s house and how much he’s learned from you about dedication.” She shook her head. “It’s one thing to want to rebuild and work hard at it; it’s a whole different kind of faith when you rebuild while thinking you’re doing something temporary until the next storm.”