Where the River Runs

by Patti Callahan Henry

  The cramped living room was empty as I crossed the hall to the kitchen in the back of the house. The backs of Tulu’s braids were visible as her head rested on the kitchen table. Relief spread through my body and I took a deep breath. She’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table just like she fell asleep in chairs when she talked to me. I touched the back of her head.

  “Tulu?”

  A chill ran up my arms, through my body. Tulu was gone. I stumbled backward, tripped on a broken chair and fell to the hardwood floor. I curled in on myself. “No!” I screamed into my legs. This was what happened when I cared too much about someone. The old fear of loss I’d once buried on my swim into the sea rose again. “No,” I said again. This was where the river met the sea, where life met the heart in chaotic currents. My heart reached for Tulu and found her love.

  I scooted backward to the wall, grabbed the phone off the counter, dialed 911 for an ambulance. Then I sat next to Tulu and took her hand off her lap. I grasped her cold fingers and rubbed them.

  “I came to tell you I understand. I see.” Tears started as if the sorrow I’d held back through all the years gathered here, in Tulu’s kitchen. “You pointed the way for me, but now you can’t go with me.” I held her hand and waited. “You see, I’ve been looking and looking for all the right things to do—as if something will wake up my heart to feel again if I find just the right thing to do. But it was never anything I could do. I’ve spent so much time trying to do everything so damn right. When you told me about the river . . .” I choked, tears flooding my words.

  The paramedics arrived and filled Tulu’s kitchen with squawking radios. A man knelt before me, attempted to take Tulu’s hand from mine.

  “How did you find her, ma’am?” the paramedic asked in a soft voice.

  “Just like this.” I didn’t let go of Tulu.

  “What were you doing here?” He gently took her hand and nodded at the other men to take Tulu. They lifted her as if she weighed no more than one of the baskets on her shelf, placed her on a stretcher.

  I dropped my useless hands into my lap. I felt the paramedic still kneeling before me. “Ma’am, I know this is hard, but I need a couple statements from you. Like your name.”

  My tears flowed of their own volition without sound. “I am Meridy McFadden Dresden. I came to visit Tulu this morning, and when no one answered, I let myself in the unlocked door and found her exactly as you saw her.”

  The man nodded. “Thank you. Do you know how to contact her next of kin?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t. But I know the sheriff will—Tulu told me her children kept in close contact with him.” I headed toward the front door, loss overwhelming me: Beau, Tulu. The love I’d offered both of them combined with a dangerous current, threatening to take me under, drown me in its power. My heart didn’t know which grief to allow in first or second.

  In my car I followed the flashing lights of the ambulance until it took a left toward the hospital and I took a right to Mother’s home. I had so many things to say to Tulu. I needed to hear so many more things from her. I longed to call Beau and tell him about this death, my grief, but I wouldn’t have been able to bear his cold anger.

  I was gasping for breath, falling farther and farther below the rapid waves of grief. When I arrived home, Mother stood on top of the stairs as I walked in the front door. I stood still, a hovering sensation drifting past me, as if I were rising above the scene. She descended slowly, as though she floated down the stairs in her white gown.

  “Oh, Meridy.” She came to my side.

  “Tulu is dead, Mother.”

  “I know. The sheriff called me, told me you found her.”

  The curved staircase spun before me in a dizzying pattern. “These days with her have been the most unusual gift I’ve ever received. She showed me so many things—I ran to tell her I saw, that I really saw what she’d been trying to tell me. And she was gone.”

  Mother made the clucking noises of pity and wrapped her arms around me. “Tulu was a mighty fine woman.”

  “And more,” I said, walked up the stairs to my bedroom, where I would allow the fast-moving current to carry me away for a few hours.

  The news of Tulu’s death washed over Seaboro like the rain flooding the roads after the marsh has been saturated. An undetected blood clot in her brain had caused a stroke and instant death. Grief consumed all those who had known her and needed more of her, who regretted the time not spent with her. A day and a half had passed since I’d found Tulu in her home. As her family and the town planned her burial, I’d buried myself—as I’d taught myself to do—in the dutiful busyness that kept pain at bay.

  Sissy and the girls had moved into Mother’s house for the time being, but I hadn’t seen much of them, as I’d secluded myself in the darker places of mourning and confusion. My neck popped as I stretched and attempted to release the muscles that had been scrunched as I’d bent over the computer. The bedside clock blinked obnoxious numbers in red: 4:07 p.m. It couldn’t be right—I’d sat down after breakfast to work on the curriculum. The clock’s batteries must be going. It clicked over silently to 4:08.

  I lifted my hand and stared at my watch. I had been working on the Gullah curriculum for over six hours and noticed neither pain nor hunger. When was the last time I had been so absorbed in anything? It always seemed that when I was doing one thing my mind was rushing on to the next. Move on—move on, was usually the singsong voice in my head. You’re wasting time. And somehow this work had silenced that voice long enough for me to lose track of time and forget the emptiness waiting to grab me.

  I stood and stretched. The work was good; I felt it. The curriculum was damn good. In my mind I saw the kids absorbing the information, writing Gullah stories, weaving baskets, learning about a cherished heritage. God, I wished Tulu could see it finished, that Beau could read it. The makeshift wall of duty fell—the grief rushed in, washed over me.

  I forced my mind back to the task at hand. The printer, which seemed to date back to the days before I wore spandex, grounded out the pages slowly, noisily. Mother had dug the printer out of Daddy’s office and I’d attached it to my laptop. I was anxious to hold the pages—read them outside the flashing screen.

  Watching the document printing wouldn’t make it go any faster. Hunger had its say now; I went down to the kitchen. I peered into the refrigerator, grabbed a cold piece of chicken left over from last night’s dinner, and ate standing up.

  “Meridy, sit down when you eat.” I looked over my shoulder at Mother. She stepped into the kitchen wearing a pale blue linen suit, a jeweled bag in the crook of her arm. “And you’ll ruin your dinner that way.”

  “I’m famished. I haven’t eaten all day,” I said as I sat at the table.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “I finished the curriculum: I think it’s good. I really do.” I took a huge bite of the fried chicken and glanced around for a napkin.

  Mother grabbed a paper towel and handed it to me. “Slow down.”

  “I’ll mail it off to Williams Prep tomorrow and be done with it.”

  Mother sat, placed her purse on the chair next to mine as if the bag deserved a seat too. “If it’s that good, why don’t you see if some of the schools around here want to use it too? Seems Seaboro would be much more interested in the Gullah culture than your private school in Atlanta would be.”

  I only nodded, stunned that she thought something I’d done was worthy enough to show. “Okay, I’ll send it off to them. That’s if you don’t mind.”

  “Or I could drop it off at the school board offices when I go into town today,” Mother said.

  “If the printer is finished this century.”

  Mother rose to her feet, ready for duty. “Do not talk with your mouth full,” she said, but she smiled. “I know you’re preoccupied and upset right now, darling. But the historic society is meeting about the arts festival again tomorrow, and they called last night to see if you’d come.”

 
“No problem,” I said.

  Then Mother’s heels clicked as she walked out.

  My heart ached like an old bruise and I needed to talk to Beau. I took a deep breath—I’d try one more time to find that connection, that thin thread that might still exist.

  I dialed my home phone number. “Dresden residence.” A woman’s voice answered the phone.

  “Who is this?” I said. My skin prickled in warning.

  “This is Ashley Murray. May I help you?”

  “Ashley?” My fingers went numb; I fumbled the phone; it fell and banged against the wall. I grabbed at it, placed it back to my ear.

  “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?” A purr lay underneath Ashley’s voice—like a contented cat.

  “Ashley—where is Beau?” My lips were now numb.

  “May I tell him who is calling?”

  “His wife.” I stuttered into the phone, blood now leaving various parts of my body.

  “Oh, well, hi there, Meridy. I hope you’re having a good time at the beach while we’re all here working.” She laughed, but the sound contained no humor at all.

  “Where is Beau?”

  “Oh, he’s in the shower. Can I have him call you when he gets out?”

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’m working on this case too. . . .”

  “I know that. What are you doing in my house?” My voice rose.

  She laughed again. “Working . . . didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well, someone has to take care of Beau. Poor man.”

  “Will you please have him call me as soon as he’s out of the shower?” I leaned my forehead against the wall—weak and nauseous.

  “Sure thing . . . and—”

  But I didn’t hear what she said as I hung up the phone and collapsed into a chair. I reached for some kind of assurance in my mind and heart that Beau wouldn’t pay me back for not telling him about Danny—he wasn’t that kind of man. But I found only a white hissing sound of panic.

  Was this how it had started for Cate? How it had ended? With a static of white noise and another woman’s voice?

  Within minutes the phone rang and I yanked it from the cradle. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Meridy. You just called?” Beau’s voice sounded overeager.

  “Yes, I did and it appears that you’ve moved your business into the house.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What is Ashley doing in my house, answering my phone, when I’m not there and you’re in the shower?” My voice rose in a crescendo with each question.

  “Could you excuse me for a moment, please?” Beau’s words were muffled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I was talking to Ashley . . . Hold on,” he said.

  The sound of footsteps and the shutting of a door came through the line. Then Beau came back on the phone. “Meridy, calm down. Ashley dropped off some files and I didn’t hear her come in. We go to trial tomorrow and I’ve done nothing but work. . . . Just relax and let me explain.”

  “Relax? You did not just tell me to relax.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself at all.” He spoke so low I was having trouble hearing him.

  “Or maybe I do sound like myself—just not the me you’re used to hearing. If you only want the perfect wife, the one who does everything right . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Beau, if you wanted to go home to—”

  He interrupted me, his voice tense and low. “You want to stay there to see some old friends and raise some money for a cottage—but you know what? Bringing back that cottage will not bring back your old boyfriend.” His bitterness and anger were palpable, as if I could reach out and touch them, taste them.

  “No.” I took a quick breath. “I’m not trying to bring Danny back. I’m trying to bring myself back.”

  “Then come home.”

  “I have Tulu’s funeral tomorrow.”

  “What? Your old housekeeper—I thought you said she fell.”

  “She died, Beau. She died the morning I sat on the back porch with you trying as hard as I could to explain how I felt, how much I love you. But you needed to run back to . . . ?” I told him the horrid story of walking into her house, finding her.

  Silence fell around me and for a moment I thought Beau had hung up. Then he said, “I’m sorry. That is terrible.”

  “It was horrible. Tomorrow is the funeral. And . . . I know you’re angry and want me to come home. . . .” Exhaustion overwhelmed me and it seemed irreversible.

  “I’m sorry Tulu died. I am sorry.”

  “No, I am. I’m sorry you had to run back to . . . Ashley and the case that will make your career . . . and whatever is there for you that you couldn’t stay with me for a day or a minute longer.”

  A knock resonated in the background, a muffled voice. Beau hollered, “Hold on,” then returned to the phone. “Meridy, I am late for this dinner with the firm. We’ll be up all night preparing for trial tomorrow.”

  “I know . . . you have to go. So do I.”

  I hung up the phone and ran, in the instinctive memory of other times when life had become too much to bear in Mother’s home, to Tim’s house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Empty sack can’t stand upright alone.”

  —GULLAH PROVERB

  I knocked on Tim’s door before my head told me exactly what action was appropriate. Tim opened the door in a pair of jeans and no shirt, a towel in hand. His wet hair dripped onto his shoulders.

  “Oh, I’m sorry . . .” I backed up. “I interrupted you.”

  “Nope.” His smile was wide. “Just getting ready to go out.” He opened the door wide and made a sweeping gesture. “Come in, Meridy. What’s up?”

  I shook my head back and forth, unable to find words for my anger—yet.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “My God, this is like traveling back in time. Look at you. I can tell you’re mad as hell. What’d you get in trouble for this time? What did your mother say to you?”

  “It’s not Mother. . . . It’s Beau.”

  “Damn, I’m such an insensitive idiot. I already warned you about that.” He spread his hands open. “Come in . . . now.”

  I walked into the foyer, ran my hand across the wood table, plopped down on his leather recliner in the living room. I looked around the room. “Tim all grown up,” I said, and glanced at the evidence of a man I’d known only as a boy with Danny. “Who do you think he would’ve grown up to be? What do you think he’d have been . . . like?”

  “Beau?” He pulled a T-shirt over his head. “I’ve never even met him.”

  “No . . . Danny.”

  “You changed subjects on me there, changed men on me.” Tim sat on the arm of the chair. “I think he would’ve been amazing, would have done all the things he said he’d do. Been smart, funny, still our best friend. Wise. Good-looking . . .” He tousled my hair. “Or maybe not. Maybe not any of those things. That’s the advantage he has over us. . . . He gets to be frozen in that perfect time.”

  I nodded. “That perfect, adorable time. I guess I still envision him as eighteen, full of promise.”

  Tim nodded. “Promises he might or might not have been able to keep.”

  “I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have kept them . . .”

  “He probably would have. But that’s not why you ran here. What’s up?”

  “I called home. A woman answered my phone.”

  Tim put his hand on my shoulder. “Did you know her?”

  “Yep, she’s the new junior partner in the firm, helping with this huge negligence case along with Alexis, who’s been plugged into my best friend’s spot.”

  “Alexis is your best friend?”

  “No . . . absolutely not. You met my best friend, Cate . . . she was Harland’s wife. Then he lost twenty pounds, bought a vintage Mustang convertible and decided that his paralegal was much more interesting than
his present wife. So he swapped cars and wives. Just plugged a new one in each slot. And I’m supposed to let the new one be my substitute friend. You know, like in school when a teacher comes in because your teacher is out sick, and you’re supposed to treat the substitute with as much respect? Just like that. Now I call my house and this other woman answers my phone. I guess she wants to plug into being—” I groaned, slumped in the chair.

  “Could you be jumping to conclusions, my dear?”

  “Maybe . . . but Beau was in the shower and she was purring.”

  Tim jumped up, clapped his hands together. “Get up. This is crazy. We’re going out. Now.”

  “Out?” I looked down at my shorts and rumpled T-shirt. “No way. Not looking like this.”

  “Where do you think I’m taking you? The Seaboro Yacht Club? No, we’re off to an oyster roast and some cold beer. Weatherly’s husband is running for office and is having an oyster roast down at the public beach. We’re going. No more moping around.”

  “I’m not moping,” I protested.

  “Oh, you’re moping all right. In fact if you don’t get your mopey butt out of my favorite chair, you’ll win moper of the year.”

  I laughed and he joined in. “There is no such thing,” I said, jumped up, thinking that oysters and beer sounded like the absolutely best thing I could think of. “But there is one thing I want to do before we go.”

  “No, you may not go home and change into nicer clothes or do your hair or—”

  “Do you have a computer, Internet access?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind if I use it real quick? Mother doesn’t have it and I wanted to look something up.”

  I followed Tim to two closed wood doors. He hadn’t shown me this part of the house and as I drew closer, I realized it was his office. He pushed the door open. An oversized pine desk filled the center of the room; three carved chairs covered in leather scattered around it. Papers, books, framed pictures and rolled blueprints filled the space.

  A flat-screen computer sat on his desk. “How come you never showed me your office?” I asked him.

  “It’s a mess.”