Coldwater Revival: A Novel (18 page)

Breath pushed through Granny’s lips in mewling whimpers. She paused, brushing tears from her cheeks. But I knew from experience that she’d never succeed at brushing them from her heart.

I sat on the couch like a waterlogged sponge, unable to soak up another teaspoon of Granny’s pain. It seemed I was in the flood, along with the part of Granny’s heart she left behind, and both of us were drowning. I had to do something to keep my head above water. ’Twas then my heart backed itself into a far corner of my mind, and from that point on, every moan and word Granny uttered came to my ears as though spoken by a stranger. Pretending was the only choice I had in the matter.

“There was no place to bury me family. The island was too saturated to dig graves, and I wouldn’t allow those men—those horrible burying gangs—to touch my loved ones. To stack ’em on barges and cart ’em out to sea like a pile of stinky fish. I know I should have been kinder to the workers. Most had been commandeered at bayonet point, forced into the gruesome job of disposing of the dead. But I couldn’t help meself. I got Johnny’s shotgun and cocked it at anyone who came near me family. Guarded them day and night, but in the end I had to burn them after all. There was no other way. The newspaper reported that up to eight thousand souls died in the storm, but I believe the count went much higher. The burning went on for weeks and weeks.”

Granny’s eyes glazed over at a remembrance I couldn’t see, her hands lying limp atop her apron. “There was a man, a kind man who lived down the street. His family died, also. Together we built a burial pyre for our loved ones over at Offat’s Bayou. He paid to have his family carted over there, and together we set the fire. I guess I went a little crazy when the flames caught. How could I not, when the last sight of me children was through the smoke and flames of a roaring fire? I ran to the bier and tried to drag them from the pile, but my skirt caught fire. If not for Mr. Panduso, I would have burned up with Johnny and the children. He pulled me clear and rolled me in the sand. I remember screaming for him to let me go … let me go … but he paid not a bit of heed to my ranting. Just kept a firm hold on me and told me over and over that everything would be all right.”

My eyes sought Granny’s. She must have perceived the look on my face as shock or disbelief. But what knocked around in my head was something more revealing. Etched on my mind was a vision of Granny—doing in the fire what I had tried to do in the sea.

“’Tis true, Emma Grace.” Granny reached for the hem of her skirt and raised it to midthigh, then rolled her stocking to the ankle. “’Tis true, child … I’ll carry the scars for the rest of me life.”

I grunted and heaved, my chest rummaging for air as I took in the sight of Granny’s leg. With eyes that surely bugged like frog eyes, I stared at patches of hairless skin, shining like glazed pottery. I’d not been exposed to Granny’s nakedness before, nor had I eavesdropped on the tale of her one brief flight from reality. I sat fixated, my heart cud-geling my breastbone as I viewed mahogany ropes of puckered skin, climbing the muscles of Granny’s leg. Despite her disfigurement, I knew the wounds of my gawking were the sort that one could forget—if but for a moment. ’Twas the invisible ones that could not be shaken loose. They clung to the heart like viper fangs. Granny and I shared kindred bruises, so deeply embedded that even the gloaming couldn’t fade them from our view. Our scars would never go away.

I reached out my hand and glided it across the soft fabric of Granny’s muslin skirt. I grappled for her hand, and then clutched it to my heart. A parcel of the wall I’d built around my heart crumpled in that moment. I felt the shift within, as though a mighty chunk had fallen away. Perhaps it was but a single stone, sliding loose from the mortar. However large, or small, I felt the separation and knew it signaled a new beginning for me. Tragedy had thrust Granny and me together weeks earlier, but it took another tragedy—one occurring fifteen years before my birth—to set the gears of my healing into motion.

I crawled into bed that night with a heavy heart, which in itself was not a departure from life as I knew it. What was oddly out of place, and what seemed most peculiar to my self-centeredness, was the cause of my sadness. I hurt for someone other than myself. Tonight I ached for my grandmother.

Perhaps I could learn to live with Granny after all … despite her persnickety ways.

Twenty-five

I tramped to the sea, not in search of Tate, but neither would I turn tail and run if he happened near. I strode with purpose, for in the early hours of sunrise, Granny’s words had found the open door of my heart and walked right in. If she could learn to live in the wreckage of sorrow’s despair—so could I. The truth bubbled in my heart like an underground spring, seeping into the deeper flow of my life, filling the dry creek beds of my heart. ’Twas true that sadness and I remained consummate companions, but I no longer yearned to slink off in the dead of night and drown my sorrow in the sea.

Learning to abide in pain might take a lifetime to perfect, but in time, perhaps the darkness would press less firmly upon my heart and my pain would lessen. Granny had one crucial advantage over me: She had the Almighty to shore up her heart when pain tilted it beyond the limits of endurance. I would have to find such strength within myself.

I made additional plans beyond the decision to live. And with the plans came the first pricking of hope since Micah’s death. I would bury my shame; hide its ugliness from the world so I would never have to deal with it again. It might die a slow death, but it
would
die. I would entomb it so deeply in my heart that no one would suspect its existence. And then I would shovel tons of smiles atop it and cement the seams with laughter. My family would stand in awe of its disappearance, and in time, forget to remember I was the one who had ushered that perpetual season of winter into their hearts. I believed the plan would work, for I was, above all else, an actress at heart.

As I angled toward shore, warm breezes brushed my skin like Old Jack’s snorts during a good nuzzling. As was the way with gulf northers, the frigid winds of three days past had blasted off to other locales, leaving behind the mellowness of springtime. Two-Toe Creek had called to me on days such as this; toasty temperatures tempting me to spend some splash time in the water.

I thought of home more often these days, missing my family and the open meadows around our house. But I no longer listened for a whippoorwill’s call at daybreak or the predatory hoots of a barn owl at night. Now my ears quickened at the yappy chortle of a seagull, or an egret’s low-throated whistle.

I told myself the tin of cookies pressed against my ribs was for the wee children, should I be so fortunate as to happen upon them again. I supposed I could share a few with Tate, though I’d not baked them specifically for him. As I ambled past Murdoch’s Bathhouse, I recalled Granny telling me that the storm of 1900 had demolished every structure on the beach, including all the bathhouses.

I saw him in the distance, standing atop a stunted dune. His body angled toward the sea, but even at such a span, I spied his sightliness. I had misplaced in my memory the height he had achieved, and had forgotten the slender profile he presented. He turned then, recognition registering on his face. Did I only imagine his smile as he stooped and picked up his jacket and loped down the dune toward me?

“Been looking for you for three days. Where’ve you been?”

“Waiting for the weather to warm up.”

“Surely, you’re not referring to that little bit of wind that blew in.”

“No … I’m referring to the nasty siege of arctic air that dumped freezing temperatures on our bougainvilleas and impatiens, killing ’em dead.”

The width of Tate’s grin rivaled the Gulf Stream. He slouched a knee and rammed a hand into his pants pocket, his headshake implying a disbelieving spirit. “You must be a stay-at-home kind of girl. That little spell of weather wasn’t cold enough to sneeze at. Come on, got something to show you.” And away he went without saying another word about where we were going, or why. Tate didn’t mention my crutch. If he noticed it, he kept the knowledge well hidden. He grabbed the tin of cookies from my left hand and adjusted his pace, perhaps an inch slower per hour. That is to say he strode about three feet ahead of me, his emboldened gait impossible to match. Giving the top half of his body a slight turn, he looked back at me.

“What’s in the can?” Before I could answer, his proprietary hands pried off the lid. He grabbed a handful of snickerdoodles and wolfed them down as though he’d not eaten since Sunday. “Did you bake these? They’re good. Real good. Want one?” His stride slowed not a bit as he stuffed his mouth full. When he turned his head to gather my reply, I noticed that cinnamon crumbs had sprinkled his black bristly chin—mere stubs of hair—and flecked his mouth with reddish-brown powder.

“Not right now,” I said around a smile. Something about him reminded me of Elo. Perhaps it was the way he took what he wanted without first securing permission, and did so with great ease.

Tate slowed his pace until we walked side by side. I decided he was a reader, also, for he spewed facts and information as though he’d been born with an encyclopedia glued to his tongue.

We halted farther down the shore. Tate bent his knees, squatting over the sand, peering into a hole of irregular shape.

“I think I found a turtle clutch, but I can’t be positive. Look … see those pieces of shell?” Tate cupped his hands, lifting a pocketful of sand with archeological prudence, as though sifting through the remnants of an ancient ruin. Sunlight fanned across the arch of his back, casting incendiary sparks onto his midnight mane. ’Twas a snapshot that would most likely stay fixed in my mind for a long and pleasant spell.

“Ridley turtles?” I asked, leaning over and viewing the soil with a gemologist’s eye. As I studied tiny particles of shell mixed with sand, I felt Tate’s gaze on my face. Warmth flooded my cheeks, for I knew my scrawniness was a pitiful sight to behold.

I looked at his face, inches from my own. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips to one side, as though his thoughts dwelled in a faraway place. “Yeah … if this is turtle shell, it’s got to be Ridleys. Who knows, maybe it’s a just a stupid old bird nest, or snake incubator.” I breathed in Tate’s closeness, a faint trace of hair balm reminding me of Papa and my brothers.

Tate turned from the hole and trained his gaze on the glistening sea. He sighed and shook his head. “I wonder if they made it … or did something get to them before they hatched?” We stood side by side, our gazes melded on millions of white diamonds, dancing across a tabletop of light. Did we think to catch a glimpse of baby turtles—tiny flippers stroking for safety in the choppy bay?

He’s got a tender side … and a good heart.

“I imagine they made it to the sea.” My voice rang with reassurance. “Maybe not all, but surely most of them made it. They didn’t have to crawl very far … and they would’ve been almost invisible on a moonless night.”

Tate turned to me and smiled, then nodded his head in affirmation. “My thoughts, exactly.”

We passed Murdoch’s Bathhouse on the walk back and found a ridge of sand on which to sit. Wind had carved the dune into wavy layers, but the weight of our feet ravaged the perfect patterns into volcano pits that caved in on themselves as we ascended the knoll. Tufts of sea grass sprouted at the sides and top of the peak. Tate claimed the thatches of green looked like the crest feathers of a cockatoo. I viewed them as sparse clumps of hair on a bald man’s head. Both comparisons were so absurd they birthed within me my first genuine laugh in more weeks than I could remember.

“Hey, it’s good to hear you laugh. For a while there, I thought maybe you’d never learned how … oh, look … there’s Mr. Panduso.” Tate nudged his head toward a solitary figure walking on the sand. The man appeared to be of significant age.

Mr. Panduso … Mr. Panduso. Where did I hear that name? Oh … yeah … the man who helped Granny bury …

“Comes here at the exact same time every day. Lays a flower on that dune, right over there.” Tate pointed to a ridge of sand near the seawall. I watched as the stooped-shouldered man walked to the dune and removed his hat. He stood for several minutes, then bent over and placed a flower on the sand. “They say he lost his wife and four children in the big hurricane. I suppose his family is buried beneath all that sand.”

“No … they’re not.” I regretted speaking the careless words before they were through spilling out of my mouth.

“How do …”

I picked up my crutch and hoisted myself to my feet, gathering the cookie tin to my chest like a battle shield.

“Who are you—Cinderella? Why do you just up and disappear like that? Will you turn into a pumpkin or something if you stick around for a while?”

“Cinderella didn’t turn into a pumpkin. Her coach did.”

“Come on back. Surely, you don’t have to go right now.”

I snatched a quick glimpse at the sun and knew I had hours to spare before Granny’s curfew. Still—I didn’t cotton to Tate’s questions, innocent though they might be. I knew that one question could lead to another and I didn’t want to make thoughtless remarks that might reveal secrets I wasn’t ready to share. I’d snuggled within my shell of pain far too long to open myself to the likes of a near stranger.

“I had hoped you’d tell me a little about yourself. Like, for instance, why you’re not in school.”

Tate awaited my answer with seemingly inexhaustible patience. After a time I slumped down to my sand cushion, stewing over my predicament while my eyes tracked the retreating form of Mr. Panduso. I truly desired to be Tate’s friend, unless being his friend required me to reveal confidences I kept under lock and key. I flicked my thick braid over my shoulder with as much nonchalance as I could muster. Moisture had popped out on my face, plastering annoying spit curls to my forehead. I probably looked like a Kewpie doll. I retucked my skirt beneath my knees, away from the wind’s fickleness.

“So … do you like the orphanage?” Tate twisted a blade of sea grass by the roots, wiped it clean on his trousers, and shoved the white stem between his teeth. “I mean—do you mind living there?”

I turned and glared at the young man beside me. Under other circumstances, he might have been the boy of my adolescent dreams. He was intelligent, strong, and breathtakingly handsome. But he was, nonetheless, a busybody of whom I knew little, and a stranger to boot.
Why do you want to know about me? Why do you even care?
As sunlight spun golden threads in his dark eyes, my insides took a deep breath and held tight. Did Tate think to play cat and mouse with me? Sneaking his nose in here and there until I had answered questions I had not planned to answer? Tate—whatever his name was—didn’t know how stubborn I could be.

“I think it must be a very nice place,” I said, tilting my head back to gaze at a clump of birds. Seagulls hung in threes; faces to the wind as they hovered on invisible currents that ruffled their wing tips and froze them in midair.

“What do you mean? Don’t you live there? Don’t you know for sure?”

“What makes you think I live there?”

“You were playing with those orphan kids the other day like you knew them. Don’t you remember playing in the water with them?”

My heart jumped into my throat.
The children live in an orphanage. They have no mothers and fathers to care for them.
Why hadn’t I realized it before? My heart felt near to bursting for the wee ones whose lives were in the hands of that willow-whip woman—that witch who seemed to possess not a morsel of compassion in her pecan-sized heart.

“Where is the orphanage?” Panicky and desperate, I demanded an answer. I had to do something for the children. Make amends, somehow, for the blow life had dealt them.

Tate studied me hard, the lines of his mouth taut and unbreachable. “If you don’t live at the orphanage, where
do
you live?”

Looking into Tate’s eyes was like trying to stare down Elo. If I thought myself stubborn … what in the world would I call the look in Tate’s eyes? The unflinching brute force of an unconquerable warrior?

“You didn’t know they were orphans, did you?” Tate’s brows constricted again, his dark eyes studying my face as though it was one of life’s great mysteries. He flexed both hands into fists. I pictured an ax in one hand, a sword in the other. “Where do you live, Emma? Tell me about your family.” Tate’s gaze softened as he molded his hand to my shoulder, warmth sizzling beneath his fingertips. His was a chivalrous touch, as foreign to disrespect as joy was to my life. When he kneaded my flesh, I felt no alarm in the contact, insistent though it was.

“Right now … I’m staying with my grandmother. She lives over there.” I pointed my hand toward the eastern end of the island, aiming it in the vague direction of Granny’s house, but away from her specific location.

“Well, go on. Tell me about yourself.”

My thoughts tumbled along various pathways to the truth, pursuing a middling-of-the-road that would satisfy Tate’s thirst and stopper shut his jug of many questions at the same time. Like a miser distributing coins, I chose my words with care. “I was somewhat sickly. My family thought sea air would be good for me.” I darted my gaze to Tate’s studious face. While he took his sweet time replying, I toyed with the ends of my braided hair and wondered if he’d accept my weaseled-down version of the truth.

“Sorry to hear about your illness. First time I saw you, I knew you had been sick. Either that—or something mighty bad had happened to you. But you’re looking better now. Truth is … you’re looking prettier than a girl has a right to be.”

I hadn’t recalled a look of embarrassment filing across Tate’s features before. But I saw one now. I believed we both felt the awkwardness of the moment. Tate removed his hand from my shoulder and shifted farther away on the sand. I lowered my gaze, knowing without the aid of a mirror that my complexion was as rosy as Granny’s rouge powder, probably all the way from my toes to the roots of my hair. Maybe Tate would think it was the work of the sun.

A cold draft swept across my arm where Tate’s hand had rested. I would have preferred the warmth of his touch a moment longer.