Deep River Burning

by Donelle Dreese

  The next day, she woke up again to the sound of the waves, but this time she was in a warm, soft bed. She had fallen asleep with the deck door open, and the morning salt air gently filtered into her room as she heard kids outside playing near the pool. When she looked out on to the beach, she saw just a few people walking slowly picking up shells, and one woman was sitting under a large beach umbrella reading a book. She showered, went downstairs for breakfast, which consisted of instant oatmeal and a banana, and then she started walking.

  Isabel Beach was a small town, which suited her just fine. She wasn’t looking for a party. She really didn’t know yet what she was looking for, but after about an hour of crossing streets and breathing the ocean air, she came across a rental shop that rented beach supplies and bikes. She hadn’t been on a bike in a while, and she decided that this was as good a time as any to get back on one.

  She pedaled and soared along streets and sidewalks, frequently turning off onto public beach access areas where she would stop and watch the sun slowly inch across the rippled water. She felt lucky and very grateful to Father Allen and Iris for their housing suggestions. Technically, she was no longer homeless. She even had an address, 463 Topsail Avenue, Isabel Beach, North Carolina. Yes, she could live with that. And she couldn’t wait to send her new address to Helena.

  The following day, she took her time enjoying the morning and checked out of the hotel just before lunch. She went back to see Iris to ask if she could volunteer to help at the sanctuary since she and Father Allen had been so kind to her. She was also very interested in learning more about the beach. She walked to the wildlife sanctuary and entered through the front door where she was greeted by a woman named Twyla who claimed to be the sanctuary’s administrative assistant. Iris, who was the director as well as a veterinarian, had stepped out to purchase supplies, according to Twyla, but Denver was invited to look around and to ask if she had any questions.

  “Well actually,” Denver said, “I was interested in doing some volunteer work for the sanctuary. I’m willing to do anything.”

  “Oh, great! Let me add your name to our list. I don’t know what we would do without the support from volunteers. We would really appreciate your help.”

  “Do you have a lot of volunteers?”

  “We have some, but never enough considering all of the work that has to be done. Father Allen has been such a blessing to the sanctuary because he has been able to organize members of his parish to participate in volunteer events for us. A few of the people he has inspired to get involved have stayed involved, but we could always use a few more hands. There are only three of us that work as staff members . . . myself, Iris, and Jimmie, who is the education supervisor who conducts many of the workshops and tours.”

  “I’ll be glad to help in any way that I can. I’ll take a look around and see what I can find. Thanks for your help,” said Denver.

  “Thank you! Let me know if you need anything. You’re welcome to take any of the pamphlets with you, if you like.”

  Denver took her time milling about the room reading the displays and studying photographs that were tastefully arranged on the walls at eye level. She picked up a copy of all of the pamphlets that were on a long table by the door without looking to see what they were about. She knew she would need something to do in her new apartment, and she always loved to read and learn new things. As she walked out the front door and onto the steps leading down to the beach, she saw Father Allen walking toward her on his way to the sanctuary.

  “Hello, Denver!”

  “Hello.”

  “Are you having any luck finding an apartment?”

  “Yes. I will be picking up a key from Mrs. Denkins later today. I just came by to thank you and Iris for your help the other day, and I signed up to do some volunteer work here.”

  “Great! And it looks like you picked up some reading material. I can help you with some of that information,” Father Allen offered.

  “Yes, I’d appreciate that.”

  “Here, let me take your bags in to Twyla, and we can take a walk down the beach.”

  Father Allen returned from speaking to Twyla and motioned for Denver to follow him as they began to walk north on the beach.

  “Do you have any friends or family here in North Carolina, Denver?”

  “No.”

  “So, you are here by yourself?”

  “Yes. Is that so strange?”

  “In a way, yes it is. You didn’t come for a job, or for friends or family. You’re not simply on vacation.”

  “I’m starting over,” she said.

  “I see,” Father Allen said.

  “How long have you lived here?” Denver asked.

  “Oh, about fifteen years or so. I came here for college and then never left. I attended the seminary in Wilmington after college. Do you see that bird over there? That’s a piping plover. You will see terns, loons, egrets, herons, snow geese, pelicans, oystercatchers, skimmers, irises, painted buntings, and different species of gulls and so many other beautiful birds on the coast. You might also be interested in exploring the pine savannahs filled with wiregrass and longleaf pines. The southeast coast used to be blanketed in longleaf pines until they were logged at a rampant rate for their resin, which was used to make tar and turpentine. There’s so much to see if you are curious about ecosystems and wildlife. Right now the biggest concern for many of the birds is the loss of habitat. It’s hard to find an undisturbed beach these days and the beach-nesting birds are declining in numbers because of it. Clearing and draining land for agriculture or commercial development continues to occur at an alarming rate,” Father Allen said as he picked up a piece of seaglass and handed it to Denver. Then he continued. “There are also swamps and forests that are home to bald cypress trees over a thousand years old. It’s a wonder that they escaped the logging industry, but they did, and now they are protected.”

  “My Aunt Rosemary mailed me a postcard once from North Carolina that had a photo of a loggerhead turtle on it.”

  “Ah, so you do have an aunt out there somewhere,” Father Allen said laughing. “Yes,” he continued, “the loggerhead turtles are endangered. I’ve seen them over on Bear Island. As with many sea creatures, pollution and shrimp trawling are a problem. Shrimp might taste good, but so many other species are killed in the process of fishing for them. And it’s a perilous life for the turtle eggs once they are laid to keep from being eaten by predators. Then, when they hatch, the tiny turtles need to make their way to the sea. Keeping the beaches clean is critical because sometimes, adult turtles swallow discarded plastic bags and then they die. That’s why an important mission of the sanctuary is education so that others can learn how to help protect the wildlife in the area.”

  “Twyla said that you have been able to inspire your parishioners to volunteer for the sanctuary.”

  “It is my belief that it’s our responsibility to care for all of God’s creatures, not just each other. The thing is, if we take care of our environment, then we are taking care of each other. It’s all connected and I can’t think of a better way to serve God. Being close to the wildlife helps me to feel closer to God,” Father Allen said in a more serious tone. “Did you attend a church of any kind back in Pennsylvania?”

  “No, but I was raised Lutheran. You’re not going to try to convert me are you?” she said in jest.

  “Well, no, but would that be such a bad thing?”

  “I’ll never become Catholic,” she replied without hesitation.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because women aren’t allowed to become priests.”

  “Ah ha . . . that is one of the better reasons I have heard. Even though I have no chance of converting you, Denver, you are welcome in my parish any time,” Father Allen said smiling at her. “But speaking of which, I really need to get back
to the church. I have a mass to prepare for. Do you mind going back to get your bags without me?”

  “No, not at all. Thank you for the talk.”

  “Anytime, but I’m afraid I really wasn’t that informative,” he said as he turned away. “I’ll see you soon. We’re neighbors now.”

  She walked back to the sanctuary to retrieve her bags. On her way to her apartment, she passed Father Allen’s church, Community of Hope Catholic Church, and a small food store. She received her key from Mrs. Denkins and opened the door to her new apartment. She needed to find a few chairs and a mattress. She didn’t want to get too much furniture because she didn’t know how long she would be there. The carpet was still slightly damp but the windows were open and the breeze dried the carpet by nightfall. She walked to the food store and bought a sandwich for dinner and a box of oatmeal and a bag of apples for breakfast. She only had one small pot for boiling water and some plastic utensils so she would need to get kitchen supplies.

  She turned on the overhead light in the living room and closed the blinds when darkness began to still the world around her. She made a pillow with her duffel bag and sipped from a bottle of water. She began reading the pamphlets from the sanctuary, but she had to keep rereading the paragraphs because she couldn’t remember anything she read. The words ran together, and at that moment, the information didn’t matter because the walls began to close in, and the silence became unbearable and the words blurred through full, swollen eyes and the light glared when it bounced off the stark white walls, bright white, snow white walls, and there were no sounds from the other apartments, and she didn’t want to go outside and walk because she was afraid she would get lost, and after a while it began to rain. She was entirely alone in a strange town, in a strange state, in a strange apartment, surrounded by strangers. What she didn’t lose, she left behind. She was awake most of the night wavering between despair and confusion knowing that peace and a sense of belonging were intermingling waves being tossed into the open ocean, tumbling, circulating, and rolling with no shore in view. Do the stars and the sun have any pull on the tide? Because the moon might not be enough.

  Chapter 17

  Fistful of Sand

  Memory is an unfolding force tucked away in the leaves of summer trees. With the slightest breeze or provocation, memories stir and reveal themselves, become more wide open and exposed. The world, tight and locked from the grip of winter relaxes fully in the heat, sits still with its memory, almost stagnates, and when life slows down, the world becomes magnified.

  For Father Allen, it meant that he spent more hours in prayer. He spent more time walking on the beach and gazing out into the blue sea. He spent more energy organizing tours and volunteer work at the sanctuary and less time harboring in the divine light that called to him. At the parish, he sometimes sat in one of the pews, leaned forward, and rested his head on the back of his hands that were propped on the solid and sturdy wood of the pew in front of him. Every now and then, when he felt empty, he would look up and see the life he had built and remember that it couldn’t always be glorious.

  For Denver, the color of the sea grew bluer and the sea grass and the herbs growing in pots at the sanctuary became more green and lush. The sweet songs of the crickets in the dunes became louder, and she realized that Aunt Rosemary was right when she said that we can hear everything we need to know if we stop and really listen. In some ways, it is disconcerting, when everything stops and you are as aware of all the birds and insects that have always been fully aware of you. But that’s not exactly what Aunt Rosemary meant.

  There was very little chaos at Isabel Beach. Even when storms blew through, it seemed to be more of a cleansing, or an opportunity for the sea to stretch its muscles or work out its kinks. The morning after a storm always brought with it tranquility and a flood of fresh seashells still intact.

  There are those who are drawn to the beach only when it storms, only when the wind has something fierce to say and when the ocean responds with upheaval and agitation, when the sunbathers with their thick novels and long blankets have been escorted back to their summer homes and hotel rooms by heavy rain. And when the sky pushes its rolling black clouds in some other direction, the stormy beach people walk away in their slick, shining raincoats back to the world that was interrupted.

  The days got better for Denver. She studied the beaches with an interest she hadn’t felt in a long time. She helped take care of the birds, and she saw Iris and Father Allen almost every day. When she wasn’t at the sanctuary, she spent her time exploring the Outer Banks and White Crystal Coast. She learned to feel the water race between her fingers and to enjoy its soft body in the palms of her hands. But she was still a person walking without skin, a bundle of exposed nerves trying to stay warm even on the hottest of days. The wind is always blowing by the sea and some days she grew tired of its gritty rawness. If only she could let herself be a feather and allow the wind to lift her and move her into a direction of patient surrender.

  She was reminded of her disquieting past in Pennsylvania one night when a call came to the sanctuary about a wounded dog that was found on the beach a few miles south of the sanctuary. When she arrived at the beach with Father Allen and Iris, she saw something she hadn’t seen in a while. There was a party nearby where a crowd of people stood and laughed around a small beach bonfire shooting its orange, yellow, and blue flames into the night sky with a plume of smoke rising into the dark. She thought beach fires were illegal, but maybe they weren’t. It didn’t matter. She never saw the dog, never got the chance to help, and that was a guilt she had to deal with on top of her morbid fear of fire, which caused her to run down the beach as fast as she could, as far as she could, without looking back, without stopping, until she got back to her apartment where she collapsed. An hour later, Father Allen knocked on her door.

  “Denver? Are you there?”

  She reluctantly opened the apartment door, but she wouldn’t look at him, or at anything, except the floor. She finally told him everything about Adena and her parents, and Josh, and Helena. She told him about Aunt Rosemary, and she even told him about Mr. Pilner and the river. They talked long into the night, and Father Allen listened to every word.

  They were both silent for a while. At some point, it became apparent to her that Father Allen had his own pain that he carried with him. Maybe it was the way he gazed out the window as if looking at something other than darkness. Being at Isabel Beach gave him a life where he could serve both the sea and God. Although she knew he had struggles of his own, she didn’t know what they were. He kept them so carefully protected, like a pearl he once found still in the shell on a remote part of the beach. When he opened the shell carefully, and exposed the shell to the world of light, it was as if his very soul was hanging from his fingertips. What was the sorrow when it was just a grain of sand? And is it the harboring of that grief that makes it grow into something so much more precious, so much more costly? What good is a pearl that is never moved by an ocean wave?

  He broke the silence to say that a group of people from the church were going camping at Bear Island, and he asked Denver if she wanted to go. She quietly said, “Okay,” and he left. The room was still. Sometimes she wanted to tell him that she had always hated Catholicism, that words like “confession” and “repent” made her want to cast her image of God into the sea so that it would sink into one of the deepest trenches in the Atlantic. But he had his grain of sand deep inside the soft shell of his body, and she had hers, so she said nothing.

  One day, she wrote down the names of people and places and events that she wanted to forget onto small slips of paper and burned them in a hole she dug on the beach. Then she covered the ashes with a heavy wave of cool, damp sand. If the ashes were ever uncovered, they would mix imperceptibly with the freckled sand and simply wash out to sea with the high tide. Even these small flames made her a little uneasy as she watched the red e
mbers rapidly consume the white pieces of paper. What could Adena be to her now but an image? It had ceased being a reality to her. When she walked home, a small pain was working in her chest like a sculptor carving into a stone, chipping away in tiny shavings so she couldn’t quite see a shape, but she knew that one was forming nonetheless.

  Father Allen was still somewhat of a mystery to her and had been inquiring more about her religious beliefs of late, but he did not press. He wasn’t like the priests she had known in her life, which did not add up to many. He had a long stride that seemed effortless, even when he walked through the peaks and valleys of billowy soft sand. He would sometimes socialize with Iris, Denver, and the other beach people, joking as if his calling was no more lofty than theirs or as if he was no more “found” than the rest of those who ended up at the sanctuary lost or maimed or called to duty.

  She knew of Catholics in Adena who believed that priests were not entirely human, that they managed to transcend the wants and desires of humanity to live on a level closer to God, or to something certainly more holy, if not ethereal. But she didn’t believe this about Father Allen, even with his symbolic black attire that represented the death of his interest in worldly things. He was much younger than other priests she had met, and he had a curiosity about the world that never waned. She thought priests were only supposed to wonder about God and his will and how to best serve his purpose at all times. Still, she chose to think of him as a spirit who could walk to the edge of the water and step into a place something like heaven, while he kept the other foot here on earth to nurture the languishing mortal souls.