Where the River Ends (3 page)

3

M
ost said it was a match made in heaven. Those who didn’t were just jealous.

William Barclay Coleman had been born with “presence.” Tall, handsome, well-spoken, he commanded attention and even those envious of him treated him like E. F. Hutton. His gentleman’s pedigree was flawless. The Citadel, Harvard Law, European summers abroad. A young political up-and-comer, he grew up with a speaker’s gavel in his hand and was the youngest candidate ever elected to the South Carolina legislature. But that was just the beginning.

Ellen Victoria Shaw was the poster child for Emily Post and Gloria Vanderbilt. A fifth-generation Charlestonian, she attended Ashley Hall and then, as a freshman at Randolph-Macon women’s college, no less than eight suitors asked her to accompany them to Fancy Dress—Washington and Lee’s annual formal. By her junior year, most every Kappa Alpha in a hundred-mile radius invited her to the Confederate-themed Old South Ball where the whispers and jealous mutters of the Hollins, Sweet Briar and Mary Baldwin girls voted her the unofficial belle of the ball.

She graduated—a double in French and Art History—returned home and then a chance meeting at the Hibernia Society ball.

He was twenty-five. She, barely twenty-two. They courted, appropriately, for nine months and then married in a wedding that shook most of Charleston with jealousy and unending speculation and gossip. For a wedding gift, he gave her a convertible Mercedes 450 SL Coupe.

After an Austrian alpine honeymoon topped off with a Tanzanian safari and a trek up the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro, they returned to his family home on the Battery in Charleston where he strategized for a run at the governor’s mansion. Eighteen months later, she bore him a daughter, Abigail Grace Eliot Coleman—the sixth generation. During the inauguration ceremony the following January, Abigail Grace smiled through her bonnet at every camera flash and drank up the attention like chocolate. Even then she had a knack.

But life took a turn.

Abigail turned two, and Ellen fell ill. Bruises that wouldn’t go away. Tests confirmed ovarian cancer run rampant. It didn’t take long. The widowed father placed Abigail Grace in Miss Olivia’s arms, put the car in cold storage, hid his mourning and focused his aim. He gave himself to “the people,” and after two terms as governor, he ran for Senate—where’s he’s been ever since.

When Abigail was ten, the then junior senator remarried. Like her predecessor, Katherine Hampton was everything Charleston. She could trace her lineage to one of the founders of Charleston and signers of the Declaration. In his search, he had done the unimaginable—he had found a woman who could dance on glass. She was strong enough to step out of Ellen’s shadow while not dishonoring her memory.

A
BBIE GREW UP A DEBUTANTE,
a graduate of Ashley Hall, the only daughter of the senator from South Carolina and the poster girl for the social elite. She had more class in five minutes than I had all day. Or all week. While I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, stepped in dog crap or spilled mustard across my white button-down, she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a lacy napkin, made friends with stray dogs and levitated down sidewalks like Mary Poppins. We were as different as two people could be, and why she chose me is still a mystery. If you could see me, I’m scratching my head.

Christmas break my freshman year at the College of Charleston. I was working the late shift at the Charleston Place Hotel bar, located just off the Gone With the Wind double staircase that led upstairs. It was near midnight, I was bussing a table and four girls walked in. Everything about them said “Charleston.” Their walk, their clothes, the way they held their mouths. It’s not a snobbish thing, it’s upbringing. Sure, it could get snobbish, but in that moment, it was a seamless fusion of culture and class.

They ordered cappuccinos, lattes and a sampler plate of finger desserts. I screwed up the espresso, burned the milk with the steamer and squirted runny whipped cream across the top of their cups only to have the canister erupt and splatter my apron—which at the end of the day is a pretty good description of me.

They whispered and laughed ’til nearly 1 a.m. It used to be that when I saw a group of girls like that, my mind would sort of lump them all together. I’d see the group while no one person really stood out.

Except her.

She was one part Julie Andrews and two parts Grace Kelly. She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen, and trust me, I’ve spent some time studying pretty faces. With her, it wasn’t the high cheeks, the lips, chin or nose. It was her eyes—and something behind them.

At Charleston Place, we catered to a lot of famous people. From Arab sheiks to Hollywood A-listers, the only thing uncommon is the absence of commonality. I knew she was famous, I knew I’d seen her face before, but I’d been on my feet for fourteen hours and things were a little fuzzy.

Finally, the most giggly girl in the group waved me to the table. I tried to act all waiterly, refilled their water glasses and stood back, towel hanging across my forearm. Her friend, Elizabeth I would later learn, raised both eyebrows and said, “You keep looking, and I’m gonna charge admission.”

Busted.

I stammered, “Do I…do we…have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” she said quietly, “but sometimes I’m mistaken for someone else.”

I should’ve quit before I shoved my foot down my throat. I nodded, tried not to smirk, couldn’t and walked back to the bar where I wiped it down—again. They left cash on the table and walked out into the lobby of the hotel.

I thought to myself, I know her from somewhere.

When the four of them walked past the Scarlett stairwell, she ran up the stairs—her long legs covering two at a time—and then straddled the railing like a horse and flew down on her butt. It was as out of place as McDonald’s in Japan, yet as I watched her, I witnessed a rarity—a woman who had taken what she wanted of Charleston, and not let it take her.

They disappeared out the front door under the amused chuckle of the doorman. His white-gloved hand tipping his hat, he said, “Night, Miss Coleman.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Night, Mr. George.”

I leaned on the bar and poured myself some club soda. Ten seconds later, George sauntered into the bar, palmed off a table and said without looking at me, “Don’t even think about it.”

I pointed. “Who was…”

He shook his head and turned his back on me. “You’re not even in the same universe.”

He was right. But that’s just the thing about those stars that light up the universe. They reach you wherever you are.

4

JUNE 1, 4 A.M.

T
he rain let up so I stuffed the article back into my pocket, climbed back into the driver’s seat and eased off the clutch. At 4 a.m. we pulled into the parking lot of the St. Marys Sportsman—a combination pawnshop and river supply store for every paddler, fisher, skier and hunter in a sixty-square-mile area. Gus wouldn’t open for a couple of hours but chances were good that my key still fit the gate and warehouse, so we pulled around back and I left the car running. Gus, the owner and my former boss, had told me to make myself at home whenever I came back to town, so that’s what I intended to do.

One of the great things about small South Georgia–Norman Rockwell towns was how little things actually changed from decade to decade. Gus had never been too big on alarms or changing locks because the crime rate in St. George was usually limited to cow-tipping kids or truckers attempting to avoid agricultural inspection stations, so I slid my key into the lock and turned it, unlocking the gate.

I grew up in a trailer park not far from here. From midway through the eighth grade to the year I left for college, I worked and guided for Gus. Conservative estimates would suggest that I logged more than three thousand kayak or canoe miles on the St. Marys—more than anyone I ever knew or heard of. Including Gus.

I decided I’d try the honest approach. I knocked on the door of Gus’s trailer. A few seconds later the light clicked on and Gus cracked the door. One eye was shut, the other barely open. “Hey, Doss.”

“Hey.”

“Gimme a second.”

Gus was maybe fifty now. Sun-battered and river-weary but he was fitter than most college kids. He stepped out looking more weathered and pruney, yet his smile was unchanged. Gus knew me, my story and had been the first to sign his name to the documents that got me through high school. I extended my hand, said, “Gus, I need to do some shopping.”

He glanced at the car. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever you need. Make yourself at home.”

I backed up to the door—the engine running—while Gus unlocked the bolt and rolled open the door above me. I pulled down two eighteen-foot Mad River canoes—one tan and one mango-colored—off the rental racks, three paddles and a couple of life vests and we tied them to the roof racks atop the Jeep. Gus noticed Abbie asleep inside but said nothing. I walked through the warehouse cramming a duffel bag with whatever I thought I needed.

Inside the store, I threw some food and canned goods into a cooler, along with a stove and some small green propane tanks, two large blue tarps, a tent, a spinning reel along with a few Beetle Spins, and whatever else I could carry. Opening the glass of the display case, I lifted a small waterproof handheld Garmin GPS unit. The GPS used satellites to locate position. I didn’t grab it to tell me where I was, although it would do that within about three feet. I knew the river well enough. But I needed it to tell me how far we’d traveled and distance to future points. It would help me plan breaks, overnights and help me anticipate shelter. The problem with the river, even for someone like me, is that it is constantly changing. And in changing, it can look different with little notice. Also, with the tidal influence we’d encounter at Trader’s Hill, it would be nearly impossible to judge how fast we were traveling and, as a result, how far we’d traveled. Two miles an hour makes a world of difference. Lastly, the more tired I became, and I was sure I would, the less I’d be able to judge speed or distance. The GPS would guard against that.

Gus picked up on my shopping and began laying a few things on the countertop that he thought I might need. He scratched his chin. “You going to the sound?”

I nodded.

“You going alone?”

I looked at the car and shrugged.

About that time, somebody knocked on the front door. Gus frowned, and spoke to himself. “It’s the middle of the night.” He stared through the door and saw two men standing in the shadows. He hollered through the glass, “We’re closed.”

The first man spoke up. “Don’t look like it.”

Gus smiled. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning? We’re doing inventory.”

The second man pressed his face to the glass. “We’re going gigging and just needed a few things. Wondered if you could help us out.”

Gus glanced at the computer screen where the radar showed Annie swirling herself into a spinning red mess. He looked at me. “If they knew what they were doing, it’d be a good time to go gigging, with the change in the barometer and all, but I got a feeling these guys don’t know the first thing about gigging.” He shrugged and waved. “Sorry fellows. I just work here. Good luck to you.”

Gus turned and walked into his office. One fellow gave him the finger while the other limped to their Tahoe. When he opened the door and stepped into the driver’s seat, it looked like two other guys sat in the backseat. We were entering hurricane season and it would not be uncommon for four down-on-their-luck losers to see opportunity in the aftermath of a hurricane.

They disappeared out the drive while Gus reappeared from his office. He laid two items on the counter. Gus had never been an alarmist, but he’d lived in these woods a long time. This was not his first rodeo. He was a realist, and as a result, I suppose I was, too. “You’re liable to bump into more than just snakes out there.” The first was a Smith & Wesson model 22-4. A revolver with fixed sights, chambered in .45 ACP. The second was a Remington 870 twelve gauge with an eighteen-inch barrel. Which needed no explanation. I grabbed both along with a few boxes of shells.

“Thanks.” On the wall of his office hung an oil on canvas piece that I’d made nearly a decade ago. It was a Christmas gift—a way of saying thanks. I’d painted it from the perspective of someone just poking their head up through the water, looking up. Gus was sitting in a kayak, smiling, paddle in hand, mid-stroke. He was at home there. I suppose we both were. The picture depicted movement and the creases in his cheeks suggested a deep-down easiness that came with a paddle. I had named it
The Paddler’s High.

He nodded at the picture of himself. “People ask me about that all the time. Want to know if I’ll sell it.”

“What do you tell them?”

“Not yet.”

“What’re they offering you?”

“Let’s just say I could pay cash for one of those new Ford diesels.”

“Take the money.”

He stared into the painting. “No. I think I’ll hold on to it awhile.”

Arms full, I tucked the holstered pistol behind my back, threw everything into the back of the Jeep, then made one last pass through the store. Gus’s computer homepage had been set to the local Doppler radar screen of the Weather Channel. He did this to keep an eye on river conditions for his clients and people wishing to rent equipment. It showed everything from the Okefenokee Swamp to the Cumberland Sound. At the bottom of the screen, like a running stock ticker, ran double-digit numbers depicting river level heights sent by automatic sensors placed along the river’s 130-plus-mile length. Between the two I had a pretty good picture of river conditions. He pointed at the ticker. “If the storm turns this way, that will change a good bit.”

“I remember.”

Several sizes of waterproof map cases hung along the checkout counter. Guides use them to keep the maps dry until their minds knew the river better than the map—which occurred after a few seasons on the river. I needed the map less than I needed the bag, but it had been a while so I took both. The map would confirm the GPS readings and vice versa. I pulled the newspaper article from my shirt pocket, slid it into the map case and sealed it shut.

With the car loaded, I turned to Gus. I owed him a bit of an explanation. “How you been?”

“Well, I’d prefer to be standing in an eighteen-foot Hewes flats boat somewhere in the Keys where cell phone reception was nonexistent, but”—he waved his hands across the store—“stores don’t tend themselves.”

“Sell the painting. Buy the boat. Take a vacation.”

He nodded. “Maybe one day.” He shook a pebble out of his Teva. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“The doctors sent us home.” I pulled a paddle tether off a hook on the wall and began playing with the slipknot. “Whatever you hear in the coming week, it’s probably only half true.”

I tore a sheet of paper off a pad I kept in the car, listed everything I’d just loaded into the Jeep and wrote my credit card number on the bottom. “It’d be better—for me—if you’d wait a week or so to run my card.”

“You need some money?”

“No, it’s just that there will be some people paying attention and I don’t want them to know where I am yet. They’ll know soon enough.”

“You in trouble?”

“Not the kind you’re talking about. Least, not yet.”

He folded the invoice and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Next month.”

“Thanks, Gus.”

I stepped into the Jeep and buckled my belt. Gus hung on the door and stared down the highway. “I was thinking about your mother the other day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“That was one lovely lady. I ever tell you I asked her to marry me?”

I shook my head and laughed. “No.”

“Said she’d been married and it didn’t take. Besides, she liked me too much. Said once I got to know her, I’d take off.” He was quiet a minute. “I think she done right by you.”

“She tried.”

Gus used the parking lot as a staging area for all the folks that rented from him. After outfitting everyone with life jacket, paddle and kayak, we’d load the kayaks and canoes into the river from the side of the parking lot. A short walk downhill to the beach and put in. It was shallow enough to launch but not so deep that if someone tumped or capsized they couldn’t stand up. He stared down over the water. “She loved this river. Thought it was something special.”

“That, she did.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “It is, you know.”

“Some would say it’s nothing but a low spot in the earth’s crust—where all the junk drains out.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“You got another?”

He nodded. “Yup, but you’ll remember soon enough. She can remind you far better than I.” He shook his head. “The river never changes. It may alter its path a bit, but it never changes. It’s us who change. We come back here and we’re different. Not it.”

“When I was a kid, Mom told me that God lived in the river. I used to lay on the bank, real still, waiting for him to surface.”

“And when he did?”

I laughed. “Jump on his back and choke him until he answered a few questions.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

A breeze rattled through the treetops bringing a coolness with it. “Gus, I’m sorry to come to you like this.”

He shook his head and picked at his teeth with a toothpick. “This river’s taught me a good bit. Probably why I don’t leave here. It winds, weaves, snakes around. Rarely goes the same way twice. But, in the end, it always ends up in the same place and the gift is never the same.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s the journey that matters.”