Where the River Ends (33 page)

“Do you have an attorney?” I shook my head. “Can you afford one?”

“I don’t think so.”

He studied me. “Given your popularity over the last two weeks, I doubt you’ll have trouble finding one. And do you know that I have personally received calls from both the governor and senator this morning—neither of which like you very much.” He turned to the bailiff and was about to open his mouth when the senator stormed through the doors. “Your Honor, may I see you in chambers?” He didn’t wait for a reply but walked through the swinging wooden half-door and around the bench, where he and the judge disappeared through the judge’s office door. We waited while the whispers grew louder up and down the bench.

The judge reappeared by himself, sat, swung his gavel and said, “Set bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Nervy whispered beneath his breath. “He def’ny don’ like you.”

I sat down, my nose bobbing in the air.

The tape rewound. Two years. Then three. Ten. Fifteen. I walked back through the moments. Some good. Some not. All hurt. I looked around and found myself flying somewhere between Central Park, the Battery and Cedar Point.

50

THE THIRD DAY

T
wo days had passed. They’d moved me to the Duval County jail while I awaited trial. Because most of my “crimes” occurred on the border between Florida and Georgia, and because Florida has a death penalty and is pretty good at using it, the senator pushed for Florida to retain jurisdiction. Which it did.

Jesse was the guard assigned to cell block E. Mine. We didn’t cause him too much trouble. Sometimes, late at night, he’d slip past the cameras and he’d tell me of his wife and kids. He was about six foot two, weighed probably two-twenty, and, I think, got a job working in the penitentiary when his college football days ran out and the pro scouts didn’t come calling. He’s never told me, but my guess is that he was too slow. Beneath his muscles—of which he had many—was a man who sketched animals on cafeteria napkins. Maybe he figured I was safe.

Spend any time at all down here and you learn to differentiate people by the sound of their walk—the weight of their step, the length of their gait, the type of shoe they wear. Jesse tapped on the door with his stick, but that’s only because he’d seen it done in movies. A hand grenade wouldn’t knock that door off its hinges. He nodded to the guard behind the glass at the end of the hall, who punched a button numbered “217” and my door slid open. Jesse motioned with his stick. “Picasso, some people here to see you. Come on. You got twenty minutes.”

The senator walked in first, followed by three men in suits. Attorneys, I guessed. They set a tape recorder on the table. He spoke without looking at me. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer. If you don’t, you can go to hell.”

“You really think that matters to me?”

He laid a single-page printout on the table. “That’s my daughter’s toxicology report. There was enough narcotic in Abigail Grace’s blood system to kill each man in this room. Based on that alone, I can build a prison on top of you.”

“I happen to agree with you.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“You walked in here with your mind made up. I can’t change that. You’re a pollster politician. Unlike you, Abbie never paid attention to the polls.”

“I’m suggesting they lead with the euthanasia charge.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Senator.”

He pointed at the recorder. “You could expedite this entire process by making a statement.”

“You mean a confession?”

“If that’s what you choose to call it.”

“I don’t really expect you to understand, but let me put it this way…For four years, I watched my Abbie shrink, grow, lose her hair, grow hair, get sick, vomit, bleed from her gums, bloat and gain fifty pounds on steroids, then vomit it all off. I saw her get stuck with more needles than I care to think about. And half of those needle pricks came under my hand. I watched more poison drip into her veins than any one person should have to endure. So, bring your threats and your lawyers. You could bury me under this place and it wouldn’t touch the hurt I feel inside.” The pain comes in waves. It, too, is tidal. I turned my wedding band around my finger.

A long silence.

“Cancer can do a lot. It can wreck your life, steal that which you hold dear, shatter dreams, crack your confidence, sever your soul and leave you wasted and wrung out. It can rob you of hope, whisper lies you learn to believe and dim the lights along the river. It’ll rob your voice, your health and your image of yourself. It’ll feed you with nausea, and cause you to know the difference between tired and fatigued. And when you think you can’t cope, and can’t think, it pours despair in like a blanket. Soon, it covers and colors everything. It’s an absolute bona fide hell. But—” I found myself standing, pounding on the table.

I sat down and spoke softly, “Hopelessness is a disease, more powerful than the one that stole Abbie’s life. Because it affects the heart…There is no vaccine, no one is immune. And only one weapon can battle it.” He looked up at me. “It is the weapon that says I will walk through hell with you—no matter what.” My echo settled across the room. “In the end, cancer only steals what you give it. I may die right here or in some prison not too far away, but I’ll die knowing this: I never gave it Abbie. And I never gave it us. Senator, there are worse things than dying.”

He laughed, the anger palpable. “Like what!”

“Like…living dead.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shook my head. “Abbie didn’t die knowing her pain alone. The seat beside her was never empty. You may be angry at me for taking her away. Tough. Your loss. I’d do it again.” I met him eye to eye. I had said enough. I was finished talking.

He stood up and walked out.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
he returned. This time alone. No tape recorder, no tie, a blue sport coat unbuttoned and a PVC tube tucked under his arm.

He sat down, slowly folding, unfolding and refolding his handkerchief. Finally, he spoke. A painful admission. “I’ve doubted you for a long time. The…” He shrugged. “The discovery at Mayo…cemented in my mind your betrayal of Abigail Grace.”

“Sir, her name is Abbie. And no matter how it looked when you walked in, I never betrayed her.”

He nodded slowly. “Your friend, the flying priest, came to see me. Shared with me your confession.”

“Is that what he called it?”

“He did.”

“Whatever happened to confidentiality?”

“He said that since he’d been defrocked, that no longer pertained to him.”

“Funny, he didn’t say that to me.”

He tapped the table with his fingers. “I thought I could make…Abbie…see, but she knew you better than me.”

He set the tube on the table. “We found your canoe. This was wedged beneath the seat.” He unscrewed the cap and rolled the canvas across the table. He stared at the drawing several seconds. “I always thought she’d beat it.” He let go and it curled itself into a loose scroll. He shook his head. “No man is good enough for another man’s daughter.” Staring at the ceiling, a single tear cascaded off his cheek. “After I lost her mother, I decided no man would ever be. Then she met you. And you were…” He laughed, shrugging. “Not what I had in mind.”

“Sir, may I ask you a question?” He raised an eyebrow. “What’d I ever do to you? I mean, just what did I do to hack you off?”

He wiped his eyes. “You gave Abbie what I never did. You gave her yourself.”

“Yes, sir. Every day.” For the first time ever, I saw him as a man. Even a father. “Sir, with all due respect, the fact that her second transplant didn’t take had nothing to do with you. You did what you could.”

He glanced at me and almost nodded. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed a number from memory and waited until somebody picked up on the other end. He cleared his throat and said, “You sign it?” He nodded, waiting. “I’d be obliged if you faxed it to me at this number.” He gave the number and hung up. A few minutes later, a guard walked in, laid a single sheet in his hands and walked out. The senator read it, placed it on the table and stood. “The murder charges have been dropped. I can’t do much about the narcotics charges, but if you plead guilty, we can get your sentence reduced to probation. Maybe some community service. Like…teaching old, stubborn politicians how to paint.” He stood—his back to me—pulled a wrinkled letter from his coat pocket and laid it gently on the table. His fingertips slowly skimmed the surface of the letter like a blind man reading braille. He swallowed, managing a whisper. “You’re free to go.”

He walked out, slowly, almost limping. I unfolded the letter. Her New York perfume flowered into the room and laid across me like a blanket.

May 30th

Dear Dad,

It’s late and my morphine is wearing off, which is both good and bad. Hospice is downstairs, shuffling around. Doss is up in the crow’s nest. I can hear it creaking under his weight.

In the last several years, I’ve learned to listen to my body. Right now, it’s telling me that by the time you get this, I’ll be gone. Whatever cancer is going to do to me, it’s done it. New treatments, specialists, opinions, and medications along with all the power of the Senate won’t change that. Only one thing remains. Don’t cry. Pressed between the memory of Mom and now the thought of me, I can see those big broad shoulders beginning to shake. Crocodile tears welling up. Dad, don’t hold it back. Even senators cry. As for me—I’m a big girl now. Of course, it’s not my choosing. If I had anything to do with it, I’d stick around another fifty or sixty years, learn to cook like Rosalia and run my fingers through Doss’s handsome gray hair. I’d like to have seen that. I think he will age well.

If you’re thinking Doss stole me away, don’t. He didn’t. Few respect you more than he. This trip is my idea. I have one thing left to give him and I need the river to do this. Please understand. He is gifted unlike any I’ve ever known and I don’t want that gift to die with me. So please leave us to the river. Remember this when you get mad, hire lawyers and start scheming. Just let it go. Doss didn’t kill me. Cancer did. Blame it. Sending Doss to prison won’t bring me—or Mom—back. I have lived well. Now let me die well.

When I was a little girl, you held my hand and walked me down to the Dock Street on the opening night of Annie. I was so scared. But once in the theater, you pulled me aside, knelt and pushed the hair out of my eyes. You said, “Abigail Grace, you weren’t made to sit in those seats.” Then you pointed my eyes at the stage and the spotlights. “You were made to stand up there…under them. Go take your place.” Dad, Doss is a lot like me. Remember that. He’s worth it, he needs you and we all need him. Trust me on this one.

I’m leaving you a present. But there’s a catch. It’s held for safekeeping in the chest of my husband. Unwrap him, and you’ll find me. I gave him my heart a long time ago and I don’t need it where I’m going. If you swallow your pride long enough to see past your own private pain, you’ll find that you two are more alike than you think. And that you can learn from him.

I know this will be hard for you to hear. If you read this letter and think I’m just trying to have the last word, don’t. I’d gladly trade it.

I love you.

Yours,
Abigail Grace

AFTERWARD

I went home, climbed up into my studio, unrolled my scroll and started at the beginning. My life with Abbie. I let the tape roll, walking down each sidewalk of pain—each anchor line—and when the hurt got to be too much, I stopped the tape and dove in—sketching that one single frame. I’ve cried more in one year than the rest of my life combined.

Tears on the canvas.

The only difference now is that I no longer paint the world I wish I lived in. I paint this one.

T
HE SENATOR STARTED
coming to see me on the weekends. At first, he just followed his toes around my studio. We didn’t talk much. But slowly the words came. He’d ask questions about style, form, process. Good questions, too. I think in another life, he might have had an artistic bent. Finally, I set up an easel for him and taught him how to work with charcoal. Not too bad, either. Surprisingly, the senator had a soft side. He hated the Yankees but after a few weeks, he ran his fingers along the frame of my Nat Fein print. He shook his head and said, “I suppose it’s coming for all of us.” I reached into my closet, pulled out my dusty attempt at Babe’s face and handed it to him. While the photo evokes emotions of sadness few words can create, my picture shows Babe, eyes staring up through baggy eyelids, cheeks fallen, staring out across the house he built. Yet beneath the shell of the skin he once trotted around the bases, he’s smiling. He’s still Babe. The senator liked that. I handed both to him. “Please. They’re yours.”

A single tear trickled off his cheek. Finally, he said, “Abbie once told me that nobody paints like God, but”—he waved a hand across the studio—“you get pretty close.”

Not a week passed that we didn’t sit in my studio, quietly making art. It was what we did. Together. You’d think Washington might miss him, but he could slip out when wanted.

A year passed.

H
E HAD BEEN THERE
all morning, the two of us easy with each other’s company and lost in the smell and color of paint. Not talking had become easy. Which told me a lot about us. At lunchtime, he was walking out. I’m not sure why, other than time, but he finally stopped to ask me the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for almost a year. He pointed at
Indomitable.
I’d finished her several months ago and let her hang there, staring down at me. He said, “May I…please?”

It was his olive branch. The senator had forgiven me. More important, he had forgiven himself.

“Yes.”

A deep breath, big enough to fill his barrel chest. “You sure?”

“Senator, our trip downriver was not my gift to Abbie. It was her gift to me—and I have a feeling that she’d been planning it a long time.” I studied my work. “I didn’t paint her to imprison her. I painted her…to set us free.”

Abbie’s death had shattered his tough exterior. Now he lived with his emotions close to the surface. Sewn on his sleeve. “She teach you that?”

The hurt reminded me of what was, and is, beautiful. Of what I’d known, and lost. Of love given. And taken away. The more it hurt, the deeper the ache, the sweeter the memory. So while I mind the hurt, I live with it.

I smiled.

The senator hung
Indomitable,
and many others, in Abbie’s design studio, which he turned into my gallery. Or rather,
our
gallery. We call it “Abbie’s.” He named it. He hung the Fein print in his bathroom, where it’s his alone to see. He stares at it when he’s shaving. The interest in my work has been overwhelming. It’s funny. Now New York is coming to us. Two weeks ago, he called to say we’d gotten six figures for something I painted a few months ago—a picture of me walking back across that lawn at the Bare Bottom with Abbie laughing so hard it hurt. The buyer said something about that laughter, something about Abbie’s face, how it tugged at him and wouldn’t let him go. How it spoke to him.

That pleases me in places that words don’t reach. The senator told me that a philosopher named Ludwig Wittgenstein once said, “That which we cannot speak about, we must pass over in silence.” I’ve known silence my whole life. I’m okay with that, too. Only difference now is that my hands are screaming at the top of their lungs.

Last week, I pulled my cap down, slid on my sunglasses and mingled around the gallery. Sort of eavesdropping. Nobody knew me. I got to talking to this lady and she said she’d been there for four hours. Said she’d been doing that once a month for six months. She tapped her chest and said, “Something about is satisfies me.” I asked her which one was her favorite and she quickly pointed at this little eight by ten. It was the picture of me and my mom on the river, sitting on that bench. I pulled off my hat, slid off my glasses, lifted the piece off the wall and gave it to her. When I left she was still crying. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe some people just need to dive in and drink deeply. Maybe we all do.

T
HE SMELL OF PAINT
filled my studio. The painter’s high. The light over Fort Sumter was gentle, even golden. I stared at the vase on the shelf to my left. She’d been there every day, watching. Reminding me of my last promise.

The eleventh wish.

It was time.

I set down my brush, picked up the phone and dialed the number. When he picked up, I asked, “Can you land that thing on a dirt road?”

I could hear him move the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “’Pends on the road.”

I put in a call to my probation officer. While the district attorney had dropped all charges against me related to Abbie’s death, they couldn’t let the drug thing slide. In truth, I did steal a rather large amount of drugs and transport them across several state lines. I admitted it. The evidence would have been difficult to hide. But given that they found none in my system, they gave me twenty-four months’ probation. Any time I leave the city, I need to register it with a guy behind a desk in Columbia who likes my painting.

I made a stop at the senator’s house. He was in his study. Yesterday, he’d made the announcement that he would not stand for reelection. He saw the vase in my arms. “You decided to keep your promise?”

I nodded. “I can put you right alongside her.”

He smiled. We’d come a long way. Abbie would have liked that.

He nodded and began unfolding and folding his handkerchief. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

B
OB PICKED ME UP
outside of town and we flew south, hugging the coastline. When we reached Cumberland Island, he banked hard west and we buzzed the town of St. Marys. We circled it once and Bob landed on a dirt road not far from the point. I walked down the dirt road, hopped the ditch and slogged through the marsh. I held Abbie in a backpack slung over my shoulder. I stepped out onto Cedar Point, talking. “Won’t be long now.” I walked through the cedars, the knee-high grass, around what was once our campsite.

It was a tough place.

The river moved by, sliding across the earth’s surface like sheet of polished slate. I stepped in and it tugged on me. I waded in waist-deep and pressed her to my chest. I missed her. And standing in that water, I missed her a lot.

An osprey glided above me and a pelican floated by some hundred yards away. Downriver a shrimp boat’s horn sounded. I lifted the lid, held her, turned her over and watched as Abbie took a swan dive.

A
FTER ELEVEN DAYS
on the river, we had reached Cedar Point and, unbelievably, we had checked off all but one. Nine out of ten. I pulled her halfway up the shore. A helicopter sounded in the distance. “Honey…Abbie…” Her eyes fluttered. “We’re here.” I could hear men running toward us in the marsh. Her father’s voice in the background.

She swallowed and tried to catch her breath. I didn’t know what to say. She nodded but didn’t open her eyes. “We’ll save the dolphins for another day.”

I patted her cheek with my hand. “You should have wished for more?”

She lifted her hand and touched my face. “I got all I ever wanted.”

I was stalling. “Hey, you…you said you wanted to give me something. Didn’t you? An anniversary present?”

She nodded. “Already gave it to you.”