The sun was just lowering, setting the sky afire over the water. Against this backdrop, he felt a thrill of awe at seeing the progress of the new bridge being built practically on top of the two older ones. The enormous steel structure seemed to grow at an amazing pace, faster and higher toward the clouds, like Jack’s fabled beanstalk. And like Jack in the fairy tale, he felt certain the structure would change the lives of all Charlestonians forever.
The enormity of the new diamond-shaped bridge dwarfed the delicate truss bridge he’d come to love over his lifetime. So many milestones were marked by crossing that narrow two-lane bridge to and from the coast and the city. It was difficult to imagine the Charleston horizon without it.
He sighed, confused with the warring emotions that always came when he tried to reconcile the fast pace of change along the Southern coastline. His parents and their friends were like the old Grace Bridge, he thought, looking dispassionately out the window. They spanned the same years, they were old and rusty, and they were part of a Lowcountry that was fast disappearing.
He reached the high point of the old bridge and looked out over the Cooper River. The port was overflowing with containers piled high, waiting to be loaded onto the enormous ships that would carry goods across the ocean. All healthy signs of growth, expansion and progress. Beneath the bridge, the waters teemed.
He remembered the submarines that used to slide under this bridge back during the Cold War. Some of those babies were nuclear subs with enough warheads to ignite Armageddon. You could bet that put Charleston high on the enemy list for bombing, he thought. Of course, it was all hush-hush. They weren’t supposed to know they were even here. His brother used to tease him when a sub rolled under them as they drove over this bridge. It was damn scary for a young kid to see. Those things were enormous and they slunk under the bridge like deadly monster sharks. Hamlin wasn’t scared of them, though. Ham wasn’t afraid of much.
He reached for the bottle of bourbon in the brown paper bag and took a gulp. His brother’s ghost was riding shotgun in his truck. He could feel his presence all afternoon, breathing down his neck. Ham was making up the rules again, same as always.
So when the sun set and darkness fell, it didn’t surprise him when he found himself driving down the dirt road that led to Blakely’s Bluff. Cypress, tupelo, live oak and countless shaggy pines and palmettos loomed high around him like a jungle. He could barely see ten feet ahead of him in the starless, moon-deprived blackness, and he cursed out loud to his brother as he gripped the wheel and leaned forward, squinting hard. The road twisted like a snake through the swamps. A couple of times he almost landed in a ditch, food for the alligators.
He was already food for the mosquitoes. The windows were rolled down to fend off the sweltering heat and the mosquitoes were feasting. The sound of frogs swelled around him, bellowing with a chorus of crickets, cicadas and katydids.
A breeze carrying the scent of the sea warned him that he was nearing the bluff. Then, suddenly, he broke through the tunnel of foliage into a clearing. A sliver of moon cut through the velvety blackness allowing him the miserly silhouette of a large, bold house against an eerie vista of dark, swiftly moving clouds.
Bluff House. He felt a shudder rack his body. The house loomed against the horizon, its secrets clinging close in the shadows, daring him to approach. So many conflicting memories assailed him at the sight.
He stopped the truck and stared, his heart pounding in his chest. The old engine rocked the truck while countless, nameless bugs, attracted by the headlights, slammed suicidally against the windshield. Morgan cut the engine and instantly all was still. The only sounds he heard were the steady, rhythmic rolling of the surf and the soft wing beats of insects.
Morgan knew he had come, literally, to the end of the road. He had a choice to make. He could stay here for the night and face the ghost of his brother, or he could turn the truck around and leave Blakely’s Bluff forever.
He leaned against the steering wheel and lowered his head against his arms. He couldn’t fight this any longer. It wasn’t the drink talking, or the fatigue, or the malaise that was settling into his bloodstream as thick and brackish as silt-laden water in a swamp ditch. He heard his brother howling, calling his name in the wind.
“All right, you son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I’m coming.”
That night, Morgan screamed.
He was in the boat again. In Shark Hole. The sky was threatening and the clouds were boiling. From somewhere in the miasma, thunder rumbled. Morgan was afraid. He didn’t feel safe. He wanted to go home.
“We’ve got to go home!” he kept saying in a panic, over and over. “We’ve got to go home!”
Hamlin was in the boat with him. He was bigger and powerful and he was laughing. “We’re okay,” he kept answering. “Don’t worry.”
The thunder grew louder, deafening, and the wind picked up, causing whitecaps to form on the open water. Morgan felt his body seize, knew that they should’ve gone home before the skies got ugly. He’d said so!
But Hamlin only laughed. “We’re okay. Don’t worry.”
The wind hadn’t been so bad at first, but then, suddenly, it freshened and began to blow a little harder, and a little harder still. It felt like they’d sailed right into a black wall of cold. Whitecapping was bad news for a flat-bottomed boat. They had to pass through open water before they reached the relative protection of the tall marsh grass.
The sides of the boat were low. As he clutched them, Morgan’s knuckles turned white. The boat took a beating. The engine started losing power and water began coming in over the rim.
Hamlin stopped laughing then. “Put this on!” he called out, and tossed Morgan the life preserver. There was only one.
“You take it!” Morgan screamed.
“I’m okay!” he called back. “Put it on, squirt!”
Morgan did as his older brother ordered. He always did what Hamlin told him to do.
Hamlin clutched the motor with a strange gleam in his eye and turned into the wind. The waves took his measure. They were bullies, broad-shouldered and granite-jawed as they rammed against the boat. Hamlin gritted his teeth and guided them across the whitecaps in the moaning flat-bottomed boat. They bucked high and hit the waves hard, heading toward the marsh in a zigzag pattern. But the motor was weak and began to sputter. They just didn’t have enough power to ride the top.
The boat kept getting smaller and smaller and the waves bigger and bigger, until they appeared to Morgan as a primeval beast ready to devour them. Over the howling wind he heard a horrible crack as one of the boat’s braces, worn from the pummeling, broke clean in half. Water gushed in, spewing high, victorious. Morgan felt the cold water as pure terror and cried for his big brother.
“Ham! Ham!”
Time altered. With a sudden thrust Morgan felt himself somersaulting in the air in slow motion. He saw feet and legs and hands and wood and darkness, then suddenly—bam—he was underwater. All was quiet, peaceful. For a split second, he wanted to stay. But he bobbed to the surface, gasping for air, his arms and legs suspended in the cold water. But there was nothing to hold on to.
Where was Hamlin? He saw his brother’s head not too far away. He opened his mouth to call but the wind whipped a spray of salt water across his face. The droplets stung like pellets and he coughed. He closed his eyes just for a moment. Just long enough to stop the stinging. When he opened them again, his brother was gone. Panic’s aim was true. Morgan thrashed and cried and screamed. “Ham! Ham!”
He felt himself being pulled under. His mouth was filling with water, he couldn’t breathe, but he told himself he couldn’t go under. Would not go under. He had to keep his head above water. He had to find his brother. He clawed at the waves, desperate, angry, crying, reaching, screaming.
Morgan jolted forward, gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror. He was bathed in sweat. He looked around the room, ready to bolt at any strange noise. It took a few minutes for him to awaken from
the nightmare enough to recognize where he was. The moonlight seeped into the room like a stain, giving his skin a surreal pewter sheen.
He collapsed back against the bed and raised his arm to cover his eyes. He’d had this same nightmare many times before, though not so vividly in years. When he was a kid, he’d had it over and over again. He’d always wake up screaming and crying. It got so he hated to fall asleep.
He ran his hands through his hair, waking up a little. Though his mind was hazy with fatigue and drink, he compelled himself to bring the details of the accident to mind again, this time while he was awake. He had to come to terms with what had happened that day. He sensed his brother lurking, demanding that he face it. He heard his voice in his head.
He rubbed his eyes and stared out. Enough of this crap! He was done with this. “Come on!” he called to his brother. “I know you’re out there. Let’s get this over with once and for all!”
Think, squirt! What were you doing when the storm hit?
He dragged his thoughts back to that fateful day. It didn’t start out as anything special. It was just a summer day like so many others. They were at Bum’s Camp, as usual. He’d seen the bad weather coming and he’d told Hamlin that he thought they should go home. But his brother was working on something and didn’t want to. He’d teased him, calling him a worrywart and a baby—stuff like that. When the thunder began rumbling, though, Hamlin checked the sky and figured it was time to head back. But by then, even though Morgan was only eight, he knew it was already too late. They had to cross open water in a small boat. It was Hamlin who’d taught him not to take chances with the weather.
You were scared.
“Damn straight I was scared.” He’d clung to the sides of the boat like a baby. When he looked into his brother’s face, however, he saw the dare that could spark in his eyes without warning. Hamlin held tight to the engine, his coarse, sun-kissed hair slicked back by the wind and the golden, chiseled muscles of his athletic body angled forward, as hard and unrelenting as the mast of a ship. He was laughing.
Hamlin was ten years older than Morgan, a snot-nosed, know-nothing kid. To him, his brother was a god. Hamlin was more of a father to him than his own father was. He’d taught him most everything he knew. But he had a wild streak and took a lot of risks. He laughed at danger. He’d laughed in the dream. Morgan heard him laughing now.
His laughing had made Morgan feel angry. But when it had stopped, he was scared. He didn’t believe Hamlin when he said they’d be okay.
Did you think I made a mistake?
Morgan could sense his brother’s presence very near.
“You did the best you could. It wasn’t your fault the engine gave out.”
But then I gave you the life preserver.
Morgan nodded, tightening his lips. “You should have put it on yourself!”
So you think it was my fault that I gave you the life preserver?
“Not your fault. But if you’d been wearing the life preserver, you wouldn’t have died.”
But you would have.
“No,” he ground out. “I would have held on to you. I wouldn’t have let go.”
He heard Hamlin laughing again. Oh, yeah, sure, squirt.
“I would have!”
The laughing stopped and the voice grew gentle. You did try to reach me.
“I knew it was bad. I kept trying to grab hold of you. To save you.”
I was your older brother. I should have been looking out for you.
“You did. You were.”
You’re right, pal. I gave you the life preserver.
“I kept reaching for you! I couldn’t find you.” Morgan’s eyes filled with tears and he began weeping openly. “I couldn’t do anything. I was just floating there, getting farther and farther away. The waves kept hitting me and I was choking. I couldn’t do anything.”
You survived.
After a few moments he calmed and could answer. “Yes. I must’ve swum. I can’t remember. I just know I ended up in the creek. The tide was lowering and I hugged the grass line for all I was worth. I got cut up pretty bad by the oysters, but I hung on until someone came.”
Who came? Who rescued you?
Morgan paused and it was as if the fog rolled back. He saw a boat coming. Hearing his name being called he’d cried out, “I’m here! I’m here!” He clawed through the fog, trying to see who was calling his name. Suddenly the mist cleared and he saw a man’s hand reach out to grab him and haul him close, calling his name over and over, “Morgan! Morgan!
Not Hamlin. Morgan.
“It was my father who came for me. He pulled me out of the water.”
That’s right, brother. Never forget that.
Morgan choked up. He couldn’t reply.
Never forget me.
Outside the window, the wind rattled the marsh grasses and brought the long, drooping fronds of the palmettos scratching against the house. Morgan closed his eyes tight, reached out to the empty darkness and wept.
Mama June was awake before her husband. She’d come to Preston’s room the night before to climb into his bed. She’d craved his warmth and needed his strength, both of which he’d freely offered, wrapping his good arm around her and holding her close against his body. They lay like spoons while she wept and told him all that had transpired.
She was terribly worried when Morgan didn’t return home. She’d wanted to rouse the family to go out searching for him. But Nona’s words had held her back. He’s not a boy. He’s a man! You and Preston both have to face that.
So she waited for the dawn in her husband’s arms, gathering strength. When the first pink rays tinted the walls, Mama June crept from Preston’s bed, careful not to disturb him, and went stealthily to her room. She dressed in the dark, putting on whatever she grabbed first, and slipped her bare feet into tennis shoes. She knew in her heart where she was going. There was only place Morgan could be.
The morning air was cool when she stepped outside, and she lifted her face to the dawn. She felt her resolve crystallize as she crossed the damp lawn to the old woodshed. She pulled out her old red bicycle. The paint was rusted and the old wicker basket was ratty, but the tires were full. She didn’t want to wake the family with the roar of a car engine, so she hopped on her trusty Schwinn and began pedaling down the dirt road that led to Blakely’s Bluff.
Her legs pumped as her tires skimmed along the edge of the marsh. Dragonflies, as brilliant a green as the marsh, darted among the tangles of vines and shrubs devouring mosquitoes. She recalled another time she’d pedaled with the same sense of urgency toward Bluff House. History repeated itself—she personally experienced this—and it struck fear in her heart.
“Please God, let me find him safe. And when I do, help me to find the courage to speak.”
As she pedaled, her mind carried her back to the days she’d spent at Blakely’s Bluff, not with Tripp, but with his son, Hamlin, and Morgan and Nan, and most of all, with Preston. She could think back on those happier times now and not shrink back. She and Preston had created a good family. From the ashes, they had forged a strong marriage. How happy they’d been! They couldn’t know tragedy would strike twice.
She’d been stuck in a sorrowful pattern for too long. Not that she’d ever forget or expect the pain to be gone completely. But she wasn’t afraid of the pain anymore. She supposed that meant she was healing. And getting old. Perhaps with age you didn’t get all the pleasures you had when you were young, she reasoned, but at least you understood them better.
Her legs were tiring and her heart pumping hard as the road curved and she broke through the tunnel of heavy foliage. Straight ahead the blue-gray waters of the ocean stretched far out to where the deep water become cobalt and boldly met the sky at the horizon. It was a cloudless sky and the sun was still rising. Already light dazzled like diamonds on the water.
She’d forgotten how beautiful it was at the bluff. Or how much she loved it.
Mama June pushed back a lock of sw
eat-laden hair from her forehead, then heaved her weight against the pedal to ride the final yards to the house. As she approached, she saw that the weather had done a fair job of splintering the house’s gray wood and peeling back the white paint from the front porch. It would have looked more dilapidated were it not for the house’s strong, uncompromising lines and the cheery hanging pots dripping with blooms of geraniums and petunias on the front porch. She rested the bicycle against the porch railing and stepped foot on the stairs of Bluff House for the first time in more years than she could remember.
Inside, the airy, sparsely furnished rooms of the house were surprisingly tidy. The floors and cobwebs had been swept clean, and new candles were ensconced in shining hurricane lamps. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw that the old, chipped porcelain sink had been scrubbed. Small clay pots of herbs lined the windowsill. It had to be Kristina, she thought, and felt a gush of tenderness toward the woman for her thoughtfulness.
“Morgan!” she called out. “Morgan, are you here?” There was no answer. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t here. She’d been so sure. The windows were wide open. Unnerved, she went to the window and called out again, louder, “Morgan!”
“Out here!”
Her heart pumped with relief as she followed the sound of his voice back outdoors. A motion caught in the corner of her eye and she turned her head toward the long, weathered dock that extended far out over the marsh to deep water. She spied the unmistakable shape of her son standing at the end of the dock, barefoot, his shirttails flapping in the breeze and his pants rolled up above his calves. She waved. He didn’t wave back.
The dock seemed to stretch forever as she made her way along the splintered wood toward her son. He turned his head to look out to the sea, a gesture of pique, but she pressed on. She’d always thought he looked so much like Preston, but in profile, she saw her own outline in the narrowness of his jawline.
Sweetgrass Page 32