by Rhett DeVane
Willows and an occasional stand of color-popping hardwoods dotted the banks of the wide river.
“Hard to believe we’re out here, and it’s November,” Mary-Esther remarked.
“I’ve taken the boat out in January. You never can tell when a patch of fair weather will hit. The beauty of being here during the week is we practically have it to ourselves.” He glanced away from the river and gave her a nod. “I’m glad you could come along.”
“Me too. Bill was happy to let me off. I’ve worked a lot of extra hours, paying off the van repairs. Besides, it’s easier on them when it’s a weekday.”
“How’s Miz Rose doing?”
“She’s perked up these last few days. She’s still very sad. No way can a person lose someone they’ve been married to for so many years and bounce back. If that is even possible.” Mary-Esther paused. “Though, she often refers to Eustis as if he’s still here, maybe away on one of his trips. She slips back and forth between realties.” She spotted an alligator sunning on a bank. Even the critters were enjoying the unseasonable weather. “Elvina Houston stopped by and picked up Rose for an outing a few days ago. She’s had other friends visit too. I try to be available when I’m not at work.”
Jerry pulled his cap snug and clipped a narrow elastic tether to his collar. “Let’s open her up a bit. I need to run the motor a little faster for a while. I’ve not had her out in a couple of months. Hang on.” Jerry throttled up. The engine labored for a few minutes. Jerry adjusted the tilt of the motor, and the boat leveled off and skimmed easily down the wide brown river.
“Used to be a lot of barges on the Apalachicola.” Jerry raised his voice to overcome the sound of the motor and wind. “At one time, there were paddlewheel steamboats too.”
“We going to fish today?”
Jerry shook his head. “Fish won’t bite much when the wind’s from the east like it is today. Figured we could joyride. I want to show you one of the prettiest sights around these parts.”
The river remained broad with long, slow curves. At several points, Mary-Esther noted series of granite jetties.
“Corps of Engineers has kept the river dredged for barge traffic.” Jerry slowed the engine and motioned toward the jetties. “And the river’s course has been altered. Unfortunately, that’s affected the natural balance of things over the years. An environmental group’s working to get legislation passed to stop the dredging so the river can return more to its natural course.”
Jerry pointed to a wide sandbar. “When they dredge, the bottom sand is thrown to the side. At one time, you could walk along and find Native American pot shards and the occasional arrowhead. I still have a box of them somewhere at my mama’s. A lot of people use these sandbars to hang out and ski, and picnic. When I was a teenager, my buddies and I used to camp out overnight.”
“Sounds like fun, but weren’t you scared?”
Jerry chuckled. “Only of an occasional skunk or thieving raccoon. Or of being toted off by the bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Those were simpler times. We didn’t worry about the two-legged animals that preyed on kids, or deadbeats running drugs.”
The hum of the outboard and warmth of the sun filtering in the cabin windows lulled Mary-Esther. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of the river’s scent, a blend of fishiness and wet earth. “I’ve missed this.”
“You used to boat in New Orleans?”
“You kidding?” Mary-Esther gave an incredulous harrumph. “We were lucky to own a car that ran, much less a boat. No, I miss the smell of water. This is a little different than the salt marsh, but still . . .”
“I love it too. Almost as much as the smell of the deep woods.” He pushed the throttle, and they rode in silence. In a few minutes, they were miles downriver, and Jerry pointed ahead. “When we make the next bend, you’ll see something spectacular.”
As if some giant hand had pushed the land into a ridge, the riverbanks went from low to over two hundred feet on either side.
“Wow!”
Jerry throttled back and they idled along. “If you look up to that crest, you can make out a wooden fence on the overlook. There’s a piece of Nature Conservancy property with a great hiking trail that comes out right over the bluffs.”
Mary-Esther craned her neck to see the top of the cliffs. “What is this place?”
“The Apalachicola River Bluffs. We call it the Garden of Eden. You might not know this, but this area is part of the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.”
Jerry steered the boat to within inches of the bank and pointed to a small stream of clear water pouring into the muddy river. “That’s a natural spring. Sweetest water you’ll ever taste.” He cut the engine and walked to the bow. After jumping onto a small spit of dirt, he held the bow rope and motioned for her to follow.
He secured the line to a root, took her hand, and led her to the source of the water, a small trickle flowing from inside the limestone rock.
“Is it safe to drink?” she asked.
“I read somewhere that there’s no spring water on Earth pure enough to drink. That all of it has been tainted. I’ve swilled this water for years, and I’ve never gotten ill.”
He cupped his hands, allowed the small stream to fill them, and drank. Mary-Esther followed.
“Got to die of something,” she said. Water dribbled from her chin.
Jerry stepped forward and took her wet face in his hands. The kiss was soft and gentle at first, before morphing into something deeper. When he pulled away, Mary-Esther wobbled.
“About time, Officer Blount.” She initiated the contact this time, and he offered no resistance.
*
After she changed from her river-dampened jeans, Mary-Esther scurried down the stairs and dashed to Rose’s house like a young girl after her first date, brimming with giddy excitement.
She and Loretta had never enjoyed the kind of relationship that encouraged sharing heartfelt secrets. Nana Boudreau had been the first person Mary-Esther raced to when she was a grappling preteen. In the short time she had known her, Rose Herring filled a space long vacant.
“Rose, guess what!” Mary-Esther called out as she closed the back door. “He finally kissed me! Can you believe it?”
She dashed into the dimly lit living room. The television blared. Mary-Esther grabbed the remote and lowered the volume. “There. No need to have to yell. I had the most amazing time. We had a picnic on this wide sandbar and talked about everything.”
Rose’s silence caused her to pause. “How can you sleep through me telling you about the most flipping wonderful day I’ve had in forever?”
She peered through the blue flicker from the television, then reached down and turned on the reading lamp next to the recliner. The old woman’s head slumped forward.
Rose’s chest was still.
Mary-Esther probed the side of Rose’s neck for a pulse. The papery skin felt cool to the touch. She knelt in front of the chair. Tears fogged her vision. She gently smoothed a lock of white hair away from the old woman’s face. “Oh, Rose . . .”
When she could trust her voice enough to speak, Mary-Esther picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The next few days blurred together.
Joseph Burns immediately stepped in and followed Rose’s detailed prearrangements. To Mary-Esther, the visitation played like a surreal rerun of Eustis’s final time. Except for the tattered rag doll in the coffin. Rose had made that clear. Little Lucy had to be with her. Flanked with wire stands of fresh flowers, the coffin rested in the same corner of the Herring’s small living room.
Friends came and went, bearing gifts of food. Once again, the kitchen filled with casseroles, cakes, pies, platters of fried chicken, ham, and cooked vegetables. Who could possibly eat all of that food? The only person who didn’t come was Elvina Houston. From all reports, Elvina was bedridden with a horrible case of laryngitis, one of the few times anyone could recall her being unable to speak.
Strangely, people treated Mary-Esther as the long-lost and honored daughter of Eustis and Rose Herring. In the days following the simple arrangements, she heard story after story of the lives of her deceased landlords. The snippets only added to her grief.
Mary-Esther cried.
She wept for everything and everyone she had ever lost, as if the collective sadness had broken from a secret, wax-sealed spot. Each night, when she finally rested her head on her pillow, tears flowed. Great, shaking sobs. Several times, she cried so hard she rushed to the bathroom and lost whatever small amount of food she had managed to eat.
Every night, Mary-Esther dreamed of Nana. Different variations, same theme.
Tonight, she appears in front of the wooden house in New Orleans, anticipating the joyful reunion. Once inside, she walks directly to the kitchen.
Nana stands in front of the stove. Mary-Esther rushes in, anxious for one of her grandmother’s smothering hugs, but Nana motions for her to sit. Mary-Esther opens her mouth to speak, to tell Nana about her new life, about losing Rose, about Jerry. Nana holds one finger to her lips. Then she points to the cross on its chain.
Nana, I don’t understand.
The dream faded and Mary-Esther awoke. The ghost aroma of gumbo lingered in the air of her darkened apartment. She tossed the covers aside and got up. Boudreau complained.
Peaceful sleep never came after the dream.
*
A moving van pulled into the back yard one evening, six days after the funeral. Mary-Esther heard the low rumble of its engine and peered from Rose’s kitchen window. She had wrapped and frozen most of the food—what she hadn’t given away. The floors shone, and all of the soiled clothing and linens were washed and stored.
She met the Watsons at the back door.
“We certainly didn’t expect to find you here,” Sue Ellen Watson said in a frosty tone.
“I was cleaning up.” Mary-Esther stood aside. The Watsons pushed through the door, followed by two muscular, young white men.
“That’s nice,” Sue Ellen said, offering a saccharine smile. “But your services are no longer required.”
Jonathan Watson motioned the workers toward the back of the house. “Start in the bedrooms and work forward. Sue Ellen and I will pack up the dishes later. I’ll be back shortly to show you what to leave in place. A house shows better with a few pieces of furniture.”
“You’re taking Rose’s stuff?”
“My dear,” Sue Ellen answered, “We are the legal heirs of this house and all of Cousin Eustis and Rose’s belongings.” She looked around, her lip curled as if she stood in a rat-infested trash heap. “We need to get this place sold as soon as possible.”
“I suppose that means you want me out of the apartment too?”
Sue Ellen’s smile appeared so phony. Mary-Esther wished she could slap it from those collagen-puffed lips. “You must understand our position. We simply don’t have the luxury of time. I’m afraid you’ll have to find other accommodations.”
Mary-Esther propped her hands on her hips. “Just like that?”
“Well . . . ,” Sue Ellen drawled the word out to three times its length, “it is our understanding you lived in a van before you imposed on the kindness of our dear Eustis and Rose.”
“Imposed? I paid rent! I have a contract!” She didn’t, but this bubble-haired witch didn’t need to know.
“You had a contract, with Eustis and Rose,” Jonathan interjected. “We are the rightful owners now.”
Sue Ellen’s expression reminded Mary-Esther of a plaster Mardi Gras mask: huge, with plump curlicue lips, and just as false.
“Nothing personal, dear. We have business to conduct. A couple of days should be adequate time for you.” Sue Ellen looked toward her husband. “I’m going to see about renting a hotel room in this God-forsaken town. I simply cannot start on this dreadful chore until tomorrow.”
“Yes, my love. I’ll give the movers instructions. Call me on the cell, and I’ll have them drop me off at the hotel of your liking.”
Sue Ellen heaved a sigh so prolonged, Mary-Esther figured she had superhuman lungs. “Must I take care of everything?” She turned for the door. “Don’t you dare let them touch any of those dolls, Jonathan. I want to pack them myself. Some of them are antiques.”
With barely a nod in Mary-Esther’s direction, Sue Ellen spun on her designer heels and walked away, a cloud of sinus-clogging perfume in her wake.
Mary-Esther’s mind raced. Rose’s dolls! “Suppose I’d best start packing, myself.” She shucked the soiled apron and folded it on the counter. “It won’t take me long. I don’t have much.”
Jonathan Watson’s face shifted to a veneer of condescending compassion. “I regret the short notice. Really, I do. It can’t be helped.”
If only she could vomit on demand, have it land on his shiny loafers.
As soon as Mary-Esther was out of sight of the back porch light’s pool of illumination, she broke into a run. The first things she loaded into the back of the van were four plastic bins containing Rose’s doll collection. She added clothing, a few Mule Days’ mementos, her rocks, and a carrying cage corralling an aggravated Boudreau.
The urn containing Loretta sat on the front passenger seat. No need to fasten her seatbelt.
Except for a few soft drinks, sandwich meat, and condiments packed in a Styrofoam cooler, she left the food. The leftover shrimp spread would be perfectly ripe in a few days.
“Let that butt-lip witch clean it out.” She slammed the refrigerator door. “Heaven help she screws up her thirty-dollar French manicure.”
Too much. The entire day had been over the top. First her “brother” stopping by to meet her, officially. What a disaster. Now this. Maybe the whole find your roots thing had been another of her stupid, impulsive mistakes.
Mary-Esther grabbed a stack of unopened mail from the kitchen counter, took one long look back at the small space that had been her haven for a time, and locked the door.
The keys, she shoved under the mat.
*
Mary-Esther’s life moved like a crab—sideways instead of in a straight line. One step in any direction. Two steps in another.
Here you are again, dearie, she told herself. Sitting in the van in a space barely big enough for yourself and the cat.
Back in the same camping spot by Lake Seminole, with the sun setting over the water.
As if the past few months had never happened.
The only testaments to change were the cherished dolls entrusted to her care. What would happen when that Watson harpy discovered their absence?
“We’ll have to figure out something, won’t we?” she said to Boudreau, pulling a soft drink from the cooler. Coffee would be preferable, but she didn’t have the energy to crank up the propane camp stove or build a fire. She poured out a handful of kitty kibble and watched Boudreau eat.
Mary-Esther’s body ached as if someone had crept in and beaten her to mush. To think she had slept in here for months after the hurricane. The thin padding serving as a mattress did little to cushion her back, and the previous night’s Nana dream had been particularly vivid and unsettling. What was up with that cross pendant?
Frigid air crept in from every crack around the doors. Definitely, she would have to find a place to live. Not only for her, but for Boudreau. When she jostled one of the cardboard boxes, an official-looking letter fell from mail she had cast into a pile. Mary-Esther pulled a blanket around her shoulders and opened it.
“It’s from the FEMA people,” she told Boudreau. He purred and butted his head against her arm. “Says I need to contact them about Nana’s house.”
*
“Did you check the mail yesterday?” Hattie rinsed out her coffee mug and loaded it into the dishwasher. “I totally forgot when I came in from the grocery store.”
Holston and daughter Sarah shared in their morning ritual of mutual devotion over bowls of oatmeal.
“No, I didn’t. Sorry. Suppose I take it fo
r granted that you always do it.” He wiped a clot of apple cinnamon oatmeal from Sarah’s chin.
“Not like anything earth-shattering comes in, anyway. Mostly bills and junk mail. I’ll get Spackle to go with.” She delivered drive-by kisses to them. “Back in a few.”
Hattie stepped from the front porch and pulled her sweatshirt hood up. “No small wonder people stay sick this time of year. Hot, then cold.”
Spackle bounded toward her, sniffed and licked the tips of her fingers, and fell into step. “C’mon. Let’s go get the mail. The walk will do us both good. You’re beginning to put on a little pudge, boy-dog of mine.” He answered with a quick woof.
Her shoulder ached, but not as much as it once had. As long as she didn’t lug a heavy purse and didn’t try to move her arm behind her back, the joint didn’t complain.
Halfway down the lane, Hattie noticed a red-tailed hawk perched on the upper limb of a spindly pine. It watched her and Spackle with golden-eyed interest.
“Don’t tell me. Not another life-altering message,” she said aloud. “Really, can’t you go find another clueless human to torment?”
The hawk’s wings ruffled once, then it continued to peer as she and the dog passed. Hattie glanced back when they were a few feet farther down the lane. The hawk had disappeared.
“Why can’t I have an animal totem that portends a lottery win?”
Spackle sprinted to the mailbox and plopped down next to the post. Finally, the canine had learned not to dash across the highway.
She plucked the stack from inside the box and read the return address on the top envelope. “Jeez-O-Pete! It’s the DNA test results!”
Spackle barked in reply. Hattie trotted up the dirt lane to her brother’s house, knocked twice, and let herself in. “Bobby! Leigh! Hey, where are y’all?”